The Quiet Ones

by Theresa Talbot

  Oonagh wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for. Sarah had claimed not to know any of the working girls or boys, but had a rough idea where they came from. Kids plucked from care homes, groomed from an early age with no one to fight their corner. Runaways lured into taking drugs, then prepared to do anything to feed their habit. Kids who had no one to come looking when they went missing. Oonagh knew the more vulnerable the child was, the easier they’d be to abuse, and the less likely they’d be to go to the police. The thought of these kids being beaten and abused for a couple of quid made her sick.

  The meteoric rise of Harry Nugent wasn’t difficult to plot. What Oonagh struggled with was understanding it all. This guy had the Midas touch, make no mistake. Everything he came in contact with was pure gold. A promising young footballer, he’d been injured out of the game before he’d hit the big time. For most that meant fading into obscurity. But for Harry that had seemed to be the making of him. He’d started the Caledonian Boys’ Club with little more than ‘a dream to help other kids, and a burning ambition to stay in the game that was his life’. The last sentence was part of his biography, the part, no doubt, he’d written himself.

  There was no shortage of inspirational quotes from or about Nugent, but nothing quite summed up how he’d managed to achieve the astounding success. The CBC was only a fraction of his business interests; where he’d made his big money was Pitch Perfect. Despite her revulsion for this guy, Oonagh had to admit to being impressed.

  He’d not only secured contracts to supply the strips for most of the clubs across Scotland, he’d also won a lucrative contract to supply almost every school in the Central Belt with their sports kits and uniforms. In an era where uniforms were falling out of fashion, Harry had somehow managed to clinch the deal to supply polo shirts, sweatshirts and anything else that needed a school emblem. This had been a multimillion pound operation, with Harry at the helm. No wonder Mrs Harry hadn’t really cared if he preferred the away games.

  What Oonagh couldn’t get her head around was the fact there had seemed to be very little competition for Harry. It was a pretty standard operation, nothing high tech or specialised about the business. How complicated was churning out a few polo shirts with a bit of fancy embroidery on them? Oonagh had passed loads of stalls selling similar stuff at Christmas markets. How the hell had Harry managed to keep his grip on the contracts for so long?

  Going through the paperwork was the stuff of nightmares, well, the stuff of Oonagh’s nightmares. Her concentration refused to play ball when faced with reams and reams of paperwork, all with seemingly endless lists of names. She now had two sets of accounts. The official ones, and the ones Sarah had passed on.

  Getting the official company accounts had been the easy bit. As far as Harry Nugent’s business interests were concerned, everything was above board. This little piggy was squeaky clean. On paper at least. He’d won contracts for at least three local authorities, the biggest being the old Strathclyde region before it was disbanded in 1996. But in its day it had sprawled across the west of Scotland with a population of almost two and a half million people. Its administrative headquarters had been, as one would expect, in Glasgow. So Nugent netting this contract really had been back-of-the-net stuff as far as his business interests were concerned.

  It was all on public record as a PLC. Pitch Perfect had been a fledgling company back in 1994 when Nugent had first tendered for the local authority contract. Oonagh couldn’t see much competition and there was no record, as far as she was aware, of any other companies bidding for it. Even so, how did a relatively new company manage to secure a deal worth millions? A company that until that time had no track record.

  The business accounts were getting worse. The main factory had started off at a small industrial unit in the south side. But prior to that Harry Nugent had had no premises. She couldn’t get her head around it. The biggest region in the country had awarded a multimillion pound contract to a little known ex-footballer, with apparently no business experience and no premises. Oonagh was no expert, but she was sure this wasn’t the normal way of things. The sea of documents was overwhelming. She didn’t know just how to decipher all this, but she knew someone who could.

  *

  The call came through at about eleven. Oonagh had been in the office earlier than usual that morning. It wasn’t that she was trying to make a good impression on Alan, although she let him think that, but they were digging up the road outside her house and her Internet was down.

  ‘Hello, missus, how’re you?’

  In all the time Oonagh had known Ash, he’d always referred to her as missus. It had taken four years for him to confess he didn’t know how the hell to pronounce Oonagh and by the time someone had put him right – he’d thought it was Yoon-Ig – he’d just stuck with the preferred moniker. They were at uni together, or rather he’d been a PhD student and had taken a few tutorials. He’d only seen her name on the attendance list so had never heard it said out loud.

  ‘I’m great, Ash, long time no see. Thought you were dead and buried.’ That wasn’t strictly fair as it had been Oonagh who’d missed calling him on more than one occasion. He’d been kind enough to come to her dad’s funeral and had called frequently to make sure she was OK. He was good that way, but Oonagh had been so wrapped up in her grief, preferring instead to lose herself in work rather than share her pain with one of the few friends she had. If she was truthful she’d felt a sense of shame in her grief. Something she’d never been able to fathom. But something she’d never been entirely able to shake off either. That feeling that grief was something that happened to someone else. Death was something that happened to other people’s dads, not hers. Hers had been warm and funny and vibrant. Not the type to die. What she’d hated most at the time was the pity. It had taken her quite a few years to realise care and pity were two different things.

  ‘Naw, they’ll not bury me. I’ve left strict instructions that I’m to be cremated…’

  A smile spread across her face. One of Ash’s more endearing qualities was that he took everything that was said literally. In one of her happier moments as a student she was telling him about something really funny, and of how she almost died laughing, when he looked horrified and asked if it was actually possible to die from laughter. She missed her student days. Days when she’d thought she had all the time in the world and when the prospect of turning forty had seemed like a death sentence.

  ‘Anyway, missus, what can I do you for?’ Ash was one of the best number crunchers in the country. Forensic accountants were now in very high demand.

  ‘Ash…’ she hated saying it but needed to reassure herself ‘… I need you to look at something in the strictest confidence, yes?’

  Oonagh struggled to make much sense from the accounts and documents that she’d got from Sarah Nugent. Other than to see Harry Nugent was loaded and owned a whack of upmarket properties, it didn’t give her much to go on. And she only had Sarah’s word that he was running them as brothels.

  ‘Oh, I’m intrigued now. Nothing dodgy, though, eh?’

  She gave Ash the brief details, assured him there was nothing illegal about any of the transactions. She kept her fingers crossed under her desk for good measure.

  ‘Aye, OK.’ She gave a little punch in the air, then felt the immediate burst of that particular bubble when he added, ‘I’m booked solid for the next few weeks but—’

  ‘Shit, Ash, I need this soon as.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘Since it’s you.’

  ‘Yess! You’re a pal, Ash, I owe you.’

  ‘Oh, you betcha.’

  ‘You betcha’ wasn’t usually on Ash’s list of preferred phrases and Oonagh guessed he had a new friend from out of town. Someone with whom ‘you betcha’ rested easier than it did with Ash.

  Oonagh put the phone down and copied every single strand of information, then made another copy of the pen-drive and had them sent over to Ash by courier. She was about to pack up and head off fo
r an early lunch when the email came through on her phone with a document attached. There was always a poor signal in the office and it seemed to take an age to download. She’d almost forgotten about this. She scanned her eyes across it, taking in the basic information, nothing earth-shattering, until she got to the crucial two lines at the bottom. ‘Bloody hell.’

  24

  The police tape cordoned off the lane at either side, the white tent covering the crime. The night sky was devoid of stars and lit by the sodium glow of the street lights. Industrial-size bins, overspilling with bottles and card, lined part of the lane; a few doorways created an inky-black relief against the soot grey buildings. Back exits to more salubrious surroundings. Police cars, angled nose to nose so they looked more abandoned than parked, cut off the view from the street. An ambulance, back doors open, sat with its engine off, in no hurry. Inside, the paramedic gently patted her passenger on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing well.’ He sat hunched with his elbows on his knees, a regulation grey blanket draped over him. He looked up, clearly unconvinced. The red rings around his eyes said he was doing far from well, that, coupled with his grey pallor. This guy looked like shit.

  Closing time was bleeding into the clubbing hour and a few late night stragglers had gathered at the far end of the adjoining street, obligatory fish suppers or kebabs in hand, craning their necks to see what was going on; ushering them back gave the uniforms something to do.

  Alec Davies eased his way through, breaking the crowd shoulder first, flashing his warrant card. ‘So?’ He wasn’t much on small talk. Just wanted to know the details. All he had at this time was the body of a man found hanging in Bath Lane. Just off Hope Street. The irony of the street name wasn’t lost on him. Uniform had confirmed that Forensics were on the scene. He tipped his head in the direction of the guy sitting in the back of the ambulance. ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In a bit of a state…’ Uniform was trying to big up his part, but Alec held up a hand to cut him off and made his way over to the waiting vehicle.

  The paramedic smiled at him. ‘Go easy on him, Davies, he’s in shock.’

  Up close Alec could see this was little more than a kid. Late teens, maybe twenty something at a push. It was a mild night but his teeth chattered. Alec sat opposite him. He didn’t yet know the full facts, but this wasn’t the face of a killer. This was a scared kid. ‘What happened, son?’

  The boy was called Peter, Pete to his pals. He’d left his friends at the taxi rank and nipped down Bath Lane for a pee. Alec noticed the stain on the front of his trousers – Peter or Pete to his pals had clearly been caught short before he’d managed the deed.

  ‘I thought it was just part of the doorway or something…’ His voice broke; a line of snot dripped from his nose and fell onto the blanket. ‘I didn’t know… I was just… I can’t really…’ He wasn’t making much sense. Hardly surprising really – the kid had just found a body hanging from an iron bracket in a back lane in Glasgow’s city centre and was scared. The old brackets were strong, previously used as a pulley system to hoist up goods and furniture and the like in days gone by. They’d hold the weight of a body, no problem at all.

  ‘Take your time, Pete.’ Alec would get a full statement later down at the station, but he knew these first few minutes were vital, before witnesses had a chance to distort the truth with what they thought they’d seen, or tried to blot out what they’d actually seen. ‘Was there anyone else in the lane?’

  Pete shook his head.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Pete shook his head again.

  ‘What? You’re not sure about that or there was no one else in the lane?’

  This time he nodded. Alec tried not to lose his patience but let out a sigh. Pete picked up on it. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘So tell me again, in your own words, what happened. What you saw.’

  It was the same story. He’d nipped down Bath Lane for a pee, paid no attention to what he’d thought was part of the building, but as he was about to relieve himself the object next to him had given way and he’d stumbled and grabbed hold of it for balance. It had only been as his arms were fixed firmly round it that he’d realised he was holding onto a body which had been strung up and bound tightly with rope. Thick wetness had covered his hands and when he’d focused on the face he realised it was blood, drying now, but coming from the gaping wounds in the mutilated head.

  ‘I pushed it away, it battered off the wall…’ the lad struggled to swallow back the tears. ‘I didn’t know it was…’

  Alec eyed Forensics coming out of the tent in the lane. He told Pete to give a full statement to Toria Law, who had just arrived at the scene, full of vim and vigour by the looks of it. She’d obviously been out on the razz, judging by her clothes. Alec initially thought her legs were just really cold, he had no idea they made tights that colour. There was some weird looking glitter on her hair and she pulled long silver earrings from her ears and slipped them in her pocket as she drew near.

  ‘Where’s McVeigh?’ he asked. She shrugged her shoulders and looked slightly flushed, panicky almost, as though she were supposed to be responsible for his safe arrival and had let the side down. But he’d already turned his back on her, desperate to get more from Forensics. He felt instantly calmer when he saw the police surgeon. Rosemary was good. Shit-hot at her job.

  ‘Alec.’ She nodded in greeting as she peeled the plastic gloves from her hands, folded them together and stuffed them into the pocket on the front of her white paper suit. Alec waited for her verdict. ‘We’ve a load of tests to run, but looks like asphyxiation.

  ‘Time of death?’

  She let out a laugh. ‘This isn’t CSI, Alec, it takes more than prodding the body with a thermometer to even make a rough estimate.’ Alec knew better than to push her for too much at this stage – Rosemary was a stickler for protocol. Wouldn’t make a call without the full evidence. But he’d give it a go anyway.

  ‘Was he alive when they strung him up?’ Alec didn’t have to look around to see if there were CCTV cameras in the vicinity. This was Glasgow city centre. Impossible to fart without it going on camera.

  Rosemary gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Hard to tell, but probably.’

  ‘And the injuries? Pre or post-mortem?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Judging by the blood, the injuries are consistent with the victim being alive at the time.’

  ‘What’re we looking at here?’

  ‘Sliced his ears off.’

  Fuck. He couldn’t fail to make the hear no evil connection, and with that the connection to Harry Nugent’s murder. That was all he needed, some mad vigilante with a Stanley knife roaming the streets of Glasgow and stringing up their victims. He could see the press gathering at the far side of the lane. ‘This goes no further, Rosemary. Yeah?’

  She gave him a look. A look that told him he was questioning her integrity. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘I’m just up to my neck in it right now.’

  ‘You look as though you could do with taking your foot off the gas, Alec.’

  He was sure she meant well. ‘Any other bits of him missing?’

  Rosemary shook her head, as though it was a routine job to her. ‘No, seems to be otherwise intact. Oh, and we’ve found his ears, by the way.’

  Alec raised his eyebrows. ‘And?’

  ‘Stuffed into his mouth. Think that’s what choked him. The hanging was just a bit of street theatre.’ She pulled off her paper cap. ‘Tell you something, it was a clean cut.’ Davies got the distinct impression Rosemary admired the handiwork of this particular maniac.

  ‘Shit.’ He was trying to process this information when he spotted his partner’s red hair in the distance above the gathering crowd. Where the hell were these people coming from? Did they not have homes to go to?

  ‘Boss.’ McVeigh waved over to Davies as though he’d spotted him in Asda. Christ, I wish he wouldn’t do that, he thought as McVeigh walked towards him, bru
shing what looked suspiciously like glitter from the shoulder of his jacket. It had better bloody not be. ‘What’ve we got, then?’ McVeigh rubbed his hands together, unaware of the potential trouble he was in. Alec filled him in on what Forensics had told him.

  ‘Shit. Can you imagine dying with the taste of ear wax in your mouth.’ They’d hardly noticed Toria coming up behind them. Davies had to admit she had a strange way of looking at things, but she was shaping up to be a good cop.

  The adrenalin flooded through his body, which was just as well as he hadn’t slept for the best part of twenty-four hours. He needed a decent sleep, a shower and a shave, in no particular order. None of which was likely given the fact there was a killer on the loose, casually roaming the city choking people with their own body parts. What kind of fucked-up world were they living in?

  They needed to identify this victim, and fast. It didn’t take his detective badge to make the connection with Harry Nugent. This was no random murder. This had all the markings of a gangland killing. A revenge attack on a rival drug dealer, or money-lender who’d pushed his luck once too often. Or maybe another paedophile. Perhaps he should have felt a slight pang of professional shame at the comfort that brought him – not because the victim had been served a particularly savage type of rough justice, but rather because it was unlikely that the killer was a danger to the general public at this immediate time. He’d bet his pension that he was unlikely to strike again any time soon.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he answered it with his thumb as he pressed it to his ear. ‘Fuck.’

  He could see Rosemary get into her car; she looked as tired as he did. Poor soul. She’d be getting no sleep tonight either.

  ‘We’ve got another one,’ he said, making his way back to his car and expecting the others to follow.

  25

  It hadn’t taken long to identify both victims; they’d had their driver’s licences and credit cards on them and one had even had his Tesco Clubcard on his body when they’d been found. Clearly the killer didn’t give a shit about the cops knowing who they were.