The Quiet Ones

by Theresa Talbot

  Sarah grabbed her wrist; there was no mistaking the look of fear in her eyes. ‘Please.’ She held onto Oonagh’s arm. ‘They’ll kill me. And if you go to the cops…’ She paused, shook her head. ‘Let’s just say I can’t see them rushing to investigate this properly.’

  Oonagh eased herself back down onto the chair. She wasn’t quite buying Sarah’s theory, but at this stage she knew she didn’t have enough evidence to identify the brothels. ‘OK. Who were his clients, Sarah?’ What she needed now were hard facts. ‘And addresses of the properties.’ As far as she could tell most of it was written in code.

  ‘I’ve given you as much as I can. That’s as much as I know.’

  Oonagh drummed her fingernails on the table. Any sympathy she once had for Sarah Nugent was wearing thin. This woman had enjoyed a lavish lifestyle off the back of human misery and Oonagh’s patience was exhausting itself.

  ‘I know what you think of me. That I’m trash, as bad as he was.’ Sarah faltered for a moment, took a deep breath, the tip of her nose tinged with the red threat of tears. ‘D’you think I’d ever have been allowed to speak out? He’d have killed me.’

  ‘The police would have…’

  ‘Oh, please…’ She laughed in her face. ‘D’you know how many high ranking officers and politicians use services like this?’ Sarah sat back, folded her arms and shook her head, seemingly appalled by Oonagh’s apparent naivety.

  ‘You need to start naming names, Sarah. You’ve ridden on this gravy train for long enough.’ Oonagh was getting pissed off now.

  ‘The truth is I don’t actually know.’ Oonagh guessed Sarah Nugent and the truth weren’t the most comfortable bedfellows. ‘It’s complicated,’ she added.

  ‘You don’t say.’ This was going nowhere and Oonagh needed to get her back on track. ‘If I’m going to make a programme, a feature length documentary, then I need you to be as open with me as possible.’ Oonagh was bluffing – slightly. She already had the makings of a good doc on her hands, but with the high profile names she could blow the lid on this one.

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Sarah looked directly into Oonagh’s eyes. ‘I swear, I wouldn’t have given you this much if my plan was to hold out on you.’ Her voice cracked slightly. Oonagh reached her hand across the table, touching Sarah’s arm.

  ‘Oh, hello, love.’ The voice was instantly recognisable and seemed to come from nowhere. Oonagh quickly pulled her hand away from Sarah’s arm and sat upright. ‘Mum. What are you doing here?’

  Fran smiled and gave Oonagh what could only be described as a knowing look. ‘Mum, I’m actually working, can you…?’ Fran switched her smile and knowing look to Sarah, then walked off. Oonagh spotted Owen come out from the toilets; he waved and was on his way over when Fran intercepted him and bundled him out of the door.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about that, it’s just…’

  It broke the ice. Sarah gave a soft laugh. ‘’S OK.’

  That sick feeling stirred in the pit of Oonagh’s stomach. She no longer had the guts for this. She’d covered many stories over the years and liked to think of herself as hardened. The tainted blood scandal had nearly broken her at the time. Talking to victims of the biggest peace-time tragedy in the UK. But child abuse, this was killing her. Try as she might she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was glad Nugent had suffered at the end. Hoped it was as slow and painful as it sounded.

  ‘When did you first know that Harry was, well, that his tastes lay elsewhere?’

  Sarah looked off into the middle distance. ‘Harry was never what you’d call a pushy boyfriend. It was quite nice at first, but after we’d been married for about a year it was obvious he wasn’t interested in me. He made all sorts of excuses not to have sex with me until eventually he couldn’t even look at me.’

  Sarah claimed that she had initially thought Harry might have been gay, something that would never have been admitted by a sports personality twenty years ago. Even now it could toll the death knell of their career. For some professions, homophobia and toxic masculinity were a given. An acceptable part of the culture.

  ‘And how did you feel about that, Sarah? Most young brides would want some sort of physical contact with their husbands.’

  Sarah pulled her jacket from the seat beside her and draped it around her shoulders. ‘We don’t all want the same things. Let’s just say Harry was different from the men I was used to, and that…’ She let it trail off.

  ‘When did you realise there was… more to it?’ Oonagh was surprised at how much she struggled to vocalise what Harry Nugent had been, what he’d done to those boys, what he’d facilitated other men to do.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘It’s strange; there was no one single moment. It was just something that became sort of obvious as time went on.’

  Oonagh struggled to get her head round this. ‘It’s amazing what we can normalise.’ She didn’t really mean that. She hoped to God she’d never be in a position where that was the norm.

  ‘I didn’t look too much into Harry’s business affairs in the early days, then, by the time I delved a little deeper, well, it was too late.’

  ‘What about Breakmire? What was going on there?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Oonagh recapped some of the obvious corruption she’d uncovered from Nugent’s documents. ‘It was a joke. The staff were either on the make, or someone was creaming off a whole load of expenses.’

  ‘Harry got me out of there pretty quick. I gave up my job just weeks after meeting him.’

  Oonagh’s heart sank, but she tried not to show it. ‘Come on, Sarah. You worked there. You must know something of what went on?’

  Sarah looked down at the table between them. She did that thing she’d done when Oonagh had first met her – scratched away at an imaginary stain. ‘All I know is that Harry pretty much seemed to have the run of the place.’

  ‘And no one questioned this?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘But part of it was a secure unit. How can that be?’

  ‘I told you before, Harry had a lot of friends in high places. It was like he had an access-all-areas pass to whichever part of the hospital he liked. He’d come and go as he pleased, whatever time of the day or night.’

  ‘And no one questioned that? Some failed footballer swans about a hospital with vulnerable patients and no one checks him?’

  ‘You need to understand – one of Harry’s main skills was spotting a weak link and exploiting it. I told you he had friends in high places. And when he realised some of the staff were on the make, he used that as a threat to get them sacked.’

  ‘Why not just blow the whistle on any corruption?’ The whole concept seemed ludicrous to Oonagh. Just how many latex gloves and plasters could one person blag? There didn’t seem to be anything else worth nicking from a hospital.

  For the first time Sarah smiled, almost let out a laugh. ‘Are you kidding? Once Harry got wind of a few dodgy overtime claims, excessive food and drink orders that were never reaching the patient, well, that was like a gift from the gods. Harry liked to have one over on people. It was his way of staying in control.’

  Sarah Nugent stood up to go. She had the worried look of someone who had said too much. ‘I need to head off.’ She slid from the booth and was making her way to the door before Oonagh had a chance to stop her.

  She hurried after her, throwing a tip down on the bar, smiling at the waiter who’d saved her blushes on the way in. ‘I hadn’t even had a drink when I took that tumble.’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,’ he said, passing to serve another table.

  Oonagh trotted back up the stairs, which led to the main concourse of Central Station. As usual it was thronging with people, the noise of the tannoy system competing with the Salvation Army band singing Christmas carols.

  Something had been scratching away at her, playing on her mind for days now. Harry Nugent. She’d had to fork out for a forensic accountant to d
ecipher his books, which he’d kept hidden from prying eyes. That man was careful to cover his tracks, yet someone like him would drop the ball and leave his laptop at home full of dodgy images. It didn’t make sense.

  Oonagh turned to catch Sarah Nugent getting into a black cab on Gordon Street. She was struggling now to believe a word that woman said.

  30

  Jim McVeigh was sitting at the far end of the bar, the victim of yet another haircut. Oonagh walked over and ruffled his head affectionately. ‘Nice one.’

  He flushed slightly and ran his hands over the top of his head. ‘D’you think? Not too short?’

  Oonagh, who had long suppressed a desire to take a pair of clippers to Jim’s hair and relieve it from active duty, decided to lie. ‘No. That’s a good cut. Precision.’

  ‘That new Turkish barber at the bottom of Hyndland Road.’ Jim was lapping up the praise. ‘He’s really good.’

  ‘What is it about Turkish barbers, eh? They’re popping up all over the place.’ Oonagh tried to steer the conversation away from Jim’s hair. She felt she’d gone as far as she could with this one.

  ‘This one’s actually from Uzbekistan…’ he took a sip of his drink ‘… but he couldn’t afford to have that put on the sign.’

  Oonagh burst out laughing. ‘Seriously?’

  Jim raised an eyebrow, gave her a look and shook his head. ‘What’re you having?’ He stood up and glanced at his watch. ‘The boss’ll be here in five minutes.’

  ‘What’s that you’re drinking?’ Oonagh nodded towards his glass, which had a slice of pink grapefruit bobbing about in it.

  Turned out Jim’s poison was rhubarb and ginger gin which he assured Oonagh was most refreshing and she just had to try it.

  She could have done with staying in tonight, she’d planned on an early night and had been in her jammies when she’d texted Alec on arriving home from meeting Sarah Nugent. She needed to pick his brains about something and suggested lunch the next day. Truth be told she also wanted to see him. They’d been friends for a long time, but recently she felt something had changed between them. He’d turned down lunch, explaining that all leave was cancelled for the foreseeable future, but mentioned that he’d be grabbing a quick pint with Jim on the way home if she fancied joining them. It was a manky night but she’d pulled on some clothes and headed down to Byres Road before she had a chance to change her mind.

  Alec came through the door while Jim stood at the bar. He tipped his head, apparently agreeing to whatever it was that Jim said, made his way towards the table and sat opposite Oonagh. There was something different about him. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He’d also had a haircut and Oonagh wondered if the barber was doing a special two-for-one on local coppers. It wasn’t that though – he seemed less tired, looked better. Maybe even a bit younger.

  ‘You’re a bit spruced up.’ He looked pleased that she’d noticed and Oonagh’s stomach shifted slightly as she wondered if the extra effort was for her.

  Jim negotiated his way back to the table, the three drinks squeezed between his hands, and set them down. ‘I was just saying your boss is looking very dapper.’ She was fishing to find out why before she went in for the kill.

  Jim was clearly delighted to be given the free rein by Oonagh to gossip about his boss. ‘Think he might be trying to impress someone.’

  Alec knitted his eyebrows, tightened his lips slightly, telling Jim to shut it. He did and Oonagh took this as her cue to change the subject – to the one thing she really wanted to know about.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘come on, you guys, give me what you know.’ They both looked at her, pretending not to have a clue what she was on about. She raised her eyebrows and folded her arms.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Alec was holding out on her. She was sure of it.

  ‘You must have some kind of lead.’ Alec shook his head and Oonagh knew she was being stonewalled. ‘It’s gangland after all, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oonagh, bugger off. There’s nothing to tell.’ Alec sipped his pint, but it was obvious that somewhere along the line Harry Nugent had crossed the wrong person, and the cops knew it. Otherwise they’d be going mental to find his killer, not sitting in a bar sipping pink gin. Oonagh decided not to share this last hypothesis with them.

  ‘Anyway,’ Alec changed the subject, ‘why’re you not at work? You’re getting almost as lazy as him.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Because it’s almost nine o’clock?’

  ‘Shit. Is it?’ Alec laughed and Jim got up to go to the loo. She waited until he was out of ear-shot. ‘Alec, can you just tell me one thing?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Those images on Nugent’s laptop…’

  ‘Christ, Oon. Not this again. Please, you really need to give it a rest.’

  ‘Your tech guys should be able to trace when they were uploaded, yeah?’

  ‘Who’ve you been speaking to?’ He came back too quickly. It was obvious something didn’t add up.

  ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Those images, they’d been uploaded recently. Just tell me.’ Oonagh could tell by his face and the fact he refused to answer that she was on the right track. She ran her fingers through her hair and leaned back on the chair. Alec tipped his head, looking over her shoulder, Jim was making his way back to the table.

  She opened her bag, looking for an excuse to change the subject. ‘Right, I’m on the bell, same again?’

  But Alec stood up. ‘Not for me. I need to get off.’

  ‘Oh?’ Oonagh tried not to sound, or feel, disappointed. She’d somehow hoped they’d be making a night of it and couldn’t tell whether he genuinely had to leave or she’d pissed him off with her questions.

  She turned to Jim, who was giving her the thumbs up. ‘I’m happy to get pissed on ginger gin and grapefruit.’

  She was about to try to persuade Alec to stay a while longer when she saw him come through the door. Instead she tugged at Alec’s jacket. ‘Look,’ she said, head tilted, chin tucked, but eyes pinned on the dark haired guy who’d pulled up a seat by the window.

  ‘What?’ Alec instinctively twisted round, as did Jim.

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Oonagh. ‘Well, don’t stare. Don’t make it obvious.’

  ‘Make what obvious? And what the hell am I supposed to not be looking at?’

  Jim shrugged, looked clueless. Oonagh was going to have to help them out.

  ‘The guy who’s just come in. Ian Rankin.’ The guy in question sat near the window with his back to them and most of the other punters in the bar. Jim craned his neck slightly. Alec looked none the wiser.

  ‘What, the Rebus guy? What’s he doing in Glasgow?’ Jim was bobbing his head about, trying to get a better look. Oonagh slapped the back of his hand. ‘Stop making it so obvious.’

  Oonagh was a huge fan, but had never met Rankin in person. She toyed with the idea of going over, but what if he thought she was a crazy fan-girl stalker, or didn’t know who she was, or, worse, did recognise her and still thought she was a crazy fan-girl stalker?

  ‘Go and say hello.’

  ‘No! He’ll think I’m really…’ she thought for a second ‘… trivial, or thick. People always think newsreaders are thick.’

  Alec was clearly losing patience. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He left the table and wandered across the crowded bar, stopping to tap Mr Rankin on the shoulder. Oonagh saw them exchange a few words, Alec tipped his head in their direction a few times and she could see the crime writer twist round in his chair, but there were too many people to make out his face, so she couldn’t tell if he looked pleased or hacked off about being disturbed. Alec strode back over to where she and Jim sat. ‘Is he well known?’ Clearly no lover of crime fiction, Alec looked decidedly unimpressed with it all.

  Oonagh nodded. ‘What did you say to him?’ She didn’t imagine Alec did a great line in introductions.

  ‘
Just said my friend really likes you, would you like to join us for a drink?’

  Oonagh’s mouth hung open. Oh, shit, it was one step away from the ‘my friend fancies you’ line from school, and she suddenly noticed Rankin weaving his way through the room towards them. Probably to threaten her with a restraining order.

  ‘I wasn’t a fan before,’ said Alec, making to leave for the second time, ‘but, bloody hell, writing all those books and the poor bloke can hardly speak English.’

  Oonagh was trying to digest this last piece of information when a total stranger, who just moments before had been masquerading as a famous Scottish crime writer, arrived at their table. He grinned at them with perfect teeth, nodding his head, before sliding onto the seat beside Oonagh. Pressing his thigh against hers. Shit. It was the wrong guy. He held out his hand; limp handshakes were never Oonagh’s thing, but she felt she’d given him enough encouragement to offer anything more.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a very thick Mediterranean accent; either Italian or perhaps Spanish, she couldn’t tell which.

  ‘My name is Estaban.’ Spanish, then, she decided. Estaban went on to say he was a professor at the university. He didn’t say which university, and was rather vague about the faculty he taught in, but he seemed to be on a roll and his English appeared to be far better than when he was speaking to Alec. ‘Your friend said you liked me?’

  She was drawing Alec daggers, who still didn’t have a clue what was going on. Jim was now snorting into his ginger gin, having sucked the life out of the pink grapefruit, and Estaban had the confident air of a man who’d just saved himself a month’s subscription from Match dot com. This wasn’t going to end well. Oonagh had to think on her feet, and quickly. ‘Estaban, I’m delighted to meet you too, but I’m afraid you rather misunderstood.’

  He raised one eyebrow, inviting her to explain. ‘It’s not me who likes you,’ she took a sip of her drink to buy a few vital seconds. ‘It’s my lovely friend, Jim, here…’