The Quiet Ones

by Theresa Talbot

  She didn’t have to say anything else. Estaban was up and off, taking his ample thighs with him, before Jim had a chance to choke on his drink.

  ‘Perhaps he just doesn’t like redheads,’ she said, and turned round to see if Alec was laughing too, but he was already making his way out of the door.

  31

  This was crazy. No matter how many times she looked at this it just didn’t make sense. Harry Nugent had been given the keys to one of the most secure hospitals in Scotland, and access to some of the country’s most vulnerable people. There was no proof that Harry was up to anything sinister at Breakmire, but it didn’t take a huge leap of faith to guess that he’d been abusing young patients. Somebody somewhere had made a major cock-up, but sadly she doubted they’d ever have to pay for it.

  Nugent’s initial access to the hospital had by all accounts been in the guise of his sporting achievements and charitable works. Oonagh had seen it time and time again. The celebrity halo. The cloak of invisibility that ensured the rich, the famous, the do-gooders could do no wrong. Blinded by the pervert’s fame, society went weak at the knees, rolled over and had its tummy tickled whilst the abuse continued unchallenged. This wasn’t just an oversight by some overworked NHS staff too knackered to see what was in front of them. This had been rubber stamped by authorities far higher up the food chain.

  Despite Oonagh’s revulsion of the man, Nugent was a shit-hot businessman and knew how to exploit an opportunity. He’d gained the confidence of the hospital trustees by outlining a plan to streamline the operation. Suggesting he could blow the whistle on staff who were on the make. Looking at the expenses sheet, Oonagh could see there had been at least six birthdays a week at Breakmire, with enough goodies to sink the Titanic. And Harry had kept copies of everything. Oonagh guessed whoever was signing off this amount of grub would have their Tesco Clubcard rendered redundant through lack of use.

  Over and above this was the overriding threat of fraudulent use of hospital accommodation. There had been three separate cottages attached to Breakmire. Pretty basic in themselves, but they had allowed staff to sleep on the premises when necessary. Despite the lack of luxury in these cottages, it appeared that certain members of staff with certain privileges had either been living in them whilst renting their own gaffs out, or simply using them as boltholes to conduct their own affairs. Oonagh couldn’t imagine how goddamned awful someone’s home would need to be to prefer living in a magnolia box in the grounds of an asylum. It was like ‘Butlins meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

  But if it took a thief to catch a thief, then Harry Nugent knew the ropes better than anyone, and could spot gaps in the system big enough to drive a coach and horses through, bringing that certain wee gravy train to a standstill. Not that this was enough to reign supreme over the existing staff, but his approval by the board had lent him an unfair advantage, which he’d used to hang the threat of power over anyone who’d questioned his motives.

  The press coverage of his good works was astounding. His contacts ensured that every week a fresh celebrity paid the hospital a visit, and with that came the obligatory photo opportunity. It was well worth it. It gave him the pass key he needed. The access-all-areas lanyard. His golden ticket to wherever the fuck he wanted to go.

  Some of the pictures made her feel sick. Him grinning away good-style with a group of patients, Blessed Harry of the vulnerable. This was getting increasingly murkier, but still there was no concrete proof that he was a dodgy pervert abusing the vulnerable and getting a major slap on the back for his trouble.

  She’d gathered as much information as she could, sifting through what records she could find. It astonished her how many had been destroyed. There had been a list of every member of staff at the hospital, but it didn’t include agency nurses or locums, and of course there would have been frequent visitors as well as official visitors, similar to Harry Nugent but without the malicious intent. This would be a bugger to prove, but so far it was looking as though Nugent had used Breakmire as his own private pleasure palace, the pleasure having been distinctly one-sided.

  Her back was starting to ache from leaning over the laptop. She’d been there for hours just scanning the names, trying to find something that would leap out and tell her exactly what Harry Nugent had been up to. If she was honest with herself, she wasn’t that concerned who had actually carried out the deed, but no one carried out such an elaborate murder because they were a bit pissed off. The wife had been pretty much ruled out early on – that wasn’t the punishment doled out for leaving the loo seat up.

  Oonagh felt as though she were drowning in a sea of paperwork. Harry Nugent had had his fingers in so many pies it was a wonder he’d had time for anything else.

  Sophie had agreed to come in and help her for a few hours. It was her evening off and Oonagh knew she’d only offered to make a good impression. She hated taking advantage of Sophie’s good nature, but she was really struggling here and this would take hours on her own. Besides, Sophie was shit-hot at this kind of thing. Could rattle through reams of information, key in important dates, key events and people and come up with a pattern. Oonagh glanced at the clock: just gone seven-thirty. She heard Sophie panting as she ran towards her down the corridor into the newsroom.

  ‘Hey, thanks for coming in.’ Sophie’s face looked redder than usual, more so than just being pink from her exertion. ‘How’s the face?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sophie rubbed her cheekbone, blushing more. The bruise bursting across her cheek had faded to a pale yellow tinged with green. ‘Fine.’ She faltered for a moment. ‘Fine, it’s just… it’s almost…’ She let the sentence fade into nothing as she pulled off her jacket and Oonagh noticed a fresh bruise on her wrist. Sophie caught the look and tugged her sleeve, grabbing it into the palm of her hand.

  ‘Sophe?’ She wasn’t sure she had the right to ask. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’

  Sophie nodded, gave her a grin, logged in and got to work. Oonagh was far from happy with her answer. She’d worked beside her on a temporary placement for less than three months, and during that time Oonagh noticed she’d had more than her fair share of minor injuries; enough to keep a small cottage hospital busy. The black eye being the most recent, if she didn’t count this evening’s wrist injury. Subtle things at first, small bruises on her arm, which, looking back now, could have been finger marks, a swollen lip that was put down to an abscess and dodgy dental treatment. Oonagh knew classic signs of abuse when she saw them.

  ‘Thanks for helping out this evening, Sophie. I promise I won’t keep you very long. An hour at the most.’

  Sophie gave Oonagh a little smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  ‘I hope I haven’t got you into trouble with…’ Shit, she couldn’t remember her boyfriend’s name.

  ‘Charlie,’ Sophie chipped in to save Oonagh’s blushes.

  ‘So, Charlie’s OK with you working tonight?’ Her head was telling her to shut it, butt out, but her mouth seemed to be working independently. If some creep boyfriend was knocking her about then Sophie needed to know that she had somewhere to turn to. But Sophie just nodded, giving very little away other than, ‘It’s fine. Really.’

  Oonagh got up and stretched her back. ‘Coffee?’ she asked, making her way to the ridiculously futuristic machine in the corner of the office. She didn’t wait for an answer, and set about making them both a cup. Normally it was the trainee getting the presenter a coffee, but Oonagh knew that Sophie was best employed knuckling down with the stats. Oonagh reached into the fridge and fished out the milk.

  ‘Have you and Charlie been…?’ She tried to sound casual, but wanted to delve slightly more into her private life, but the hissing from the machine swallowed up her voice and she decided it was best to just let Sophie get on with things. The girl hardly looked up when she placed the mug of steaming liquid beside her on the desk.

  Oonagh left her to it, hunched over, eyes hardly leaving the screen. On her own desk she sifted thro
ugh the growing list of people who might or might not have had a grudge against Harry Nugent. What she needed to establish was how he could have been left to carry out so much abuse without being challenged. An archive picture of him handing over yet another comic-sized charity cheque, this time with the captains of two rival football teams shaking hands with him in the middle. Harry Kicks Scotland’s Football Bigotry into Touch. As headlines went it was hardly the most imaginative, but in a country where tribal and clan warfare was part of the collective DNA, religious bigotry was just another notch on that particular bedstead.

  Sophie’s phone rang, making Oonagh jump. ‘Yeah. Just coming.’ A slight pause as she glanced at the clock. ‘No, I’ll be right there.’ An hour had passed and Sophie sounded as though she was being given a hard time from the other end. ‘Right, I’ll be right out.’

  ‘Hey,’ Oonagh shouted across the room, ‘tell Charlie to come in.’ She had no idea if this would be a good or a bad thing for Sophie, but reckoned the fact she looked as though she was getting seven shades of shit kicked out of her every couple of weeks meant she’d hardly be able to make it worse. Sophie swung round, the phone still pressed to her ear, giving Oonagh that stare usually reserved for parents which said shut it! ‘No, please don’t,’ she pleaded into the mouthpiece. ‘I’ll be just a few…’ She looked at the phone for a moment before pressing the red button.

  ‘Charlie coming in?’

  Sophie sighed and nodded as she made her way to the printer. Oonagh could almost see her eyes rolling from the back of her head. There was a slight pang of guilt for interfering, but she pushed it aside as Sophie passed her the list she’d made and pulled her coat on, clearly desperate to get out of the door before her boyfriend arrived.

  ‘I’ve made a list of every staff member who worked at Breakmire during the five year period when Nugent was there. I’ve split them into permanent as well as locum or agency.’

  ‘I didn’t think the agency staff were listed?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sophie pulled out the sheet of paper, putting it to the top of the list, ‘It’s not definitive, doesn’t say exactly what shifts they worked. It’s just the agency used and the staff registered with them. I had to do a bit of digging for that. I can’t find a patient list, I’m afraid, and official visitors are pretty sketchy too.’

  ‘Wow, thanks, Sophie,’ and she meant it. The lists had all been cross-referenced by dates, to see who exactly had come into contact with Harry Nugent. ‘I’ll mention to Alan how invaluable you are to this newsroom.’

  Sophie nodded, ‘Thanks,’ and made her way to the double doors to the corridor. Oonagh followed and caught up her step, realising that if she wanted to see the brave Charlie who seemed to be handy with his fists she’d need to venture to the reception desk. Sophie stuffed her hands into her pockets, and, despite the corridor being fairly narrow, Oonagh got the distinct impression that she was keeping as much distance between them as possible.

  There was no sign of him at Reception. The security guard on duty was talking to a rather bored looking girl with chestnut hair piled high on her head. There was something odd about her mouth and it was only as they got closer that Oonagh realised she was wearing dark blue lipstick, which went perfectly with her spray on jeans and denim-blue Doc Martens. Sophie gave a slight wave, then turned, giving Oonagh a half-hearted ‘cheerio’ before going through the barrier. The girl with the blue lips and matching boots gave Oonagh a thunderous look before reaching down to give Sophie a very quick, but very definite, kiss on the lips. She draped a territorial arm around Sophie’s shoulder, only separating as they took turns going through the revolving door. Admittedly Charlie hadn’t quite been what Oonagh had pictured, but she tried not to look too shocked and waved in a way that suddenly made her feel very old and somewhat matronly.

  Back in the office she bundled together the papers that Sophie had printed off. Sophie had already emailed her a copy, but Oonagh liked hard copies to look at too. She automatically let her eyes scan the lists as she slipped them into a polythene folder, suddenly she stopped at the last name and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Bloody hell!’ She looked at it again, taking it in, and thought she could just kiss Sophie in gratitude – had she not been scared of Charlie.

  32

  Oonagh had arrived early. At least thirty minutes before her allotted time, which afforded her a bit of time to collect her thoughts and once again rehearse in her head what she was going to say. There would be no recording equipment permitted inside, not even a mobile phone, and she was already prepared for her pencil and notebook to be confiscated at the front door. Didn’t matter much, her shorthand was rotten. She’d toyed with the idea of wearing a hidden video-cam – a wire, as it was often referred to in movies and TV shows. She didn’t know any journalists in real life who actually called it a wire, but then she didn’t know any journalists who carried secret recording equipment full stop. She’d already driven through the main security gates, number plate recognition allowing her to pass through before the guard at the second set of gates had made a rudimentary search of her car. She couldn’t have looked much of a threat, judging by the time he’d taken. She’d be searched again, no doubt, when she walked through the doors.

  She’d taken more care than usual getting ready that morning. Normally she’d put in a bit of effort for a visit, but today was different. Purposely free from make-up, she’d scraped her hair back in a ponytail and, although she wasn’t one for wearing much jewellery, had left her earrings at home. It wasn’t the fear that they’d be stolen, but Oonagh knew they’d be the first things to be grabbed in the event of a personal attack. Her clothes too, had the hallmark of nothing to see here. Dark grey fleece, navy joggy bottoms and a pair of trainers, nothing flash; she’d bought them from Asda the day before and had walked round the park a few times trying to rid them of their new-shoe naffness.

  Oonagh stood as directed, feet apart and arms outstretched. A prison guard ran a probe across her body, down each leg and over her arms confirming she wasn’t wired – well, not in the way they’d meant. An overdose of coffee that morning had left her as high as a kite. Everyone around her seemed strangely happy. She hadn’t been sure what to expect, but prison staff being this jolly unnerved her slightly. She’d been expecting a few grumpy buggers at least, but they appeared to be somewhat normal. It must be a nightmare working there – the only difference between the cons and the screws was that they needed to buy their own lunches and got to go home after eight hours, but then had to keep coming back until something better turned up or their mortgages were paid off.

  Once through the initial barriers she was led past Reception and through a double set of security doors. A guard came out to meet her, hand outstretched, a smile as wide as the Clyde, and introduced herself as Nadine. ‘Have you been briefed about what to expect?’

  Oonagh nodded. ‘I take it someone will be with us the entire time?’ A flurry of butterflies stirred in her chest; she swallowed hard and was suddenly aware of a thin band of sweat along her top lip. She took a tissue from her pocket and made a huge play of blowing her nose, getting rid of the telltale sign of nerves at the same time.

  ‘She’d prefer to meet you in her cell but the door will be unlocked and there’ll be a guard on the floor the whole time.’

  Oonagh wanted to ask how long it would take the guard to wade in if Scotland’s most notorious serial killer took a dislike to her, but didn’t want to sound as scared as she felt. Hazel Andrews had been jailed for life, with a recommendation she serve thirty years before being considered for parole, for the murder of at least five patients in her care. A senior ward sister, she’d gained the admiration of her colleagues by saving the lives of several patients who’d gone into cardiac arrest. It was only after this had happened three times in as many days that others became suspicious. There seemed to be an abnormally high number of incidents when she’d been on duty, and a subsequent investigation had revealed a higher than usual number of deaths too.

/>   She’d worked on the rehabilitation ward of former service personnel. Wounded in the line of duty. Andrews had been convicted of five murders, but it was feared the number could well be double or even treble that. Patients dying in hospital wasn’t that unusual an occurrence and that was why she’d managed to get away with it for so long. Turned out she’d been injecting her patients with epinephrine, a heart stimulant which was practically untraceable. The ones she’d liked she’d saved and got loads of glory; the others she’d let die. That seemed to be the only way that Oonagh could get her head round it.

  She followed Nadine the Nice along the corridor. Her bag, along with her mobile phone, had already been taken from her and secured in a locker at the front reception desk. A locker that, Oonagh noted, she needed a pound coin to access. The most immediate thing that struck her was the noise. Or lack of it. She’d expected shouting, doors banging, the jangling of keys. But there was none of that. The soft carpet underfoot swallowed up the sound of their steps, and Oonagh thought the neutral grey wallpaper and matching border would look more in place at an old folks’ home than a prison. Although there seemed to be little difference. She reckoned the food would be better in here. Couldn’t imagine many hardened criminals putting up with the slop that was dished out to vulnerable pensioners.

  Another set of double doors, locked of course, and Nadine the Nice was still smiling. Still chatting. ‘We have a no shouting policy here,’ she explained as someone on the other side punched the numbers into the keypad on the wall to allow them through. ‘Not from the staff and not from the inmates,’ she continued as the door eased open where another guard was waiting. Just a brief nod, then, ‘We find it creates an altogether more peaceful and calming atmosphere and everyone benefits from that.’

  Oonagh tipped her head in agreement, secretly wondering how the hell you convinced a ruthless killer not to raise her voice. Nadine the Nice certainly had hidden depths. Most of the women behind bars in Scotland were on remand. And most of those for drug related offences, non-payment of fines and prostitution. It didn’t take a PhD in criminal psychology to see that they all stemmed from one thing. Poverty.