‘Well, I’m just saying,’ Fran continued, holding her glass towards the waiter, ‘if ever you do want to bring someone special home, then it’s fine by me.’
Oonagh glanced at Owen to see if her apparent new-found status was the consensus of opinion, but he wasn’t looking. Instead he put his hand over his champagne flute and gave a slight shake of his head to say no bubbly for him. Instead he raised his glass of sparkling water, ‘Slange.’
‘You the designated driver tonight?’ Oonagh was glad to steer the conversation away from her imaginary lesbian love affair and onto safer ground.
‘No, well, yes, I am driving, but, well…’ he faltered very slightly ‘… I don’t.’
Oonagh raised an eyebrow; despite her own habit, she liked the thought that her mum’s boyfriend would never be drunk and incapable. ‘Good for you,’ she said, and meant it. Oonagh sipped on her drink, letting the bubbles smooth over her tongue. ‘Have you ever drunk?’ It was none of her business, she was just making conversation to stop her mum coming out with any more of her theories.
‘I’m in recovery, Oonagh.’ She was about to ask from what when the penny dropped. There wasn’t a trace of shame in Owen’s voice, and to give him his due he looked her straight in the eye. Fran gave his hand another squeeze, then stroked the side of his face. It was a small gesture, but so intimate that Oonagh felt a lump in her throat at the closeness between them.
‘I had no idea.’ Oonagh was genuinely shocked. She’d known Owen for the best part of two years now, but suddenly realised she knew very little about him.
‘No reason why you should.’ His eyes had a little sparkle. ‘It’s not like being a vegan. I don’t need to keep going on about it.’ He raised his glass and Oonagh laughed. She was warming to this man, and felt comfort in the fact there was still so much good in her world.
34
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because I could.’
Hazel Andrews had requested another visit. Oonagh had met some right hard cases in her time but this one took the biscuit. Killing people entrusted to her care came as second nature to her. Oonagh was desperate to talk about Harry Nugent and his time at Breakmire, but Andrews had steered the conversation onto her killing spree. As though she was proud of her record. Oonagh went with it, hoping to gain a bit of ground, then move in with her own agenda.
‘There are lots of things we can do, but we don’t all act on them.’ Oonagh had to keep focused here. ‘Something must have triggered your… your actions.’
Andrews stood and up and wandered over to the window – didn’t take her more than two strides. Her room was comfortable enough but could hardly be described as spacious. Bijou was probably the term used by the Scottish Prison Service. The tabloids were full of stories about cons having flat-screen televisions, access to the Internet and the life of Riley. Despite the attempt at giving them some sort of home comforts that tiny wee door to the cells was locked shut at night and Oonagh felt sick at the thought of being trapped here.
‘You ever saved a life?’ Andrews was leaning against the wall, craning her head slightly to look through the small window at head height.
‘Can’t say I have. No.’ Oonagh thought back to the time at Pollokshields East railway station when a young guy had looked dangerously close to the edge. It looked as though he’d been crying. Couldn’t have been more than twenty. It had been a winter’s morning, still dark, they’d been the only two there and he’d walked down to the end of the platform just as the train had come into view. He’d gone too far and would have had to walk back to reach the train doors. Oonagh felt the panic in her gut as the train thundered down the tracks. This one wouldn’t stop here and was going at full pelt. She ran towards the guy and grabbed him round the waist and they both fell backwards as the train thundered past. She cracked her elbow on the ground; he was heavier than he’d looked. Turned out he’d just been going to the edge of the platform for a quick smoke, and the red eyes had been down to a bad cold that he couldn’t shift. Oonagh had been mortified.
‘It’s the best feeling in the world,’ Hazel added, unaware Oonagh’s mind had wandered. ‘Better than drugs, better than sex.’ For the first time Oonagh detected a note of sadness. ‘Better than anything.’ Hazel folded her arms; there were none of the clichéd characteristics that one might expect from a convicted killer. Hazel wasn’t coarse, there was no harshness in her voice and no haunted look as she recounted her past. From here Hazel Andrews looked like an ordinary, everyday person. The type of woman one could easily pass on the street without a second glance. The person who maybe lived next door, or who exchanged a bit of idle chit-chat with fellow passengers on the train each morning. Or she would have been had she not been banged up.
‘Ever tried drugs?’ Her question came from left field and caught Oonagh unawares. She shook her head.
‘Coke? Weed?’
‘Nope.’
‘You liar.’ Andrews smiled; as usual it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and she kept her voice soft. ‘Posh girl not like being caught out, eh?’ She was either really good at reading people, or Oonagh was a lousy liar. She did get it wrong about her being posh though.
‘Well,’ she said, reaching for a cloth and wiping a leaf on the plant on the window sill, ‘it’s a bit like getting high.’
It took a few moments to register that she was talking about the thrill of saving a life.
‘So that’s why you did it, then? The feel-good factor?’ Oonagh was aware that last comment sounded as though she was trying to excuse Hazel’s killer instinct.
A smile played on the other woman’s lips. ‘That’s what the social workers liked to think.’ The smile was now a full-blown grin. Oonagh couldn’t work out if she was taking the piss or not. She stood up, tugged the bottom of her sweatshirt and made to leave. ‘Listen, love.’ She was getting pissed off with this woman. ‘I don’t have time for this. If you’re lonely and need a visitor I suggest you contact the Women’s Institute.’
‘What’s wrong? Can’t you take a joke?’ Hazel let out a laugh, but it had a hollow ring to it.
‘I’m not known for my sense of humour. Not when innocent men have been killed. No.’
Hazel Andrews had a back story that read like a Ted Bundy biography. She’d been in and out of care homes from the age of eight. Her dad died in a road accident when she was six and her mum gave Hazel up two years later saying she couldn’t cope. It was assumed she meant after the death of her husband, but it had transpired that the whole family had struggled with Hazel from the get-go. According to court reports, she’d never felt the need to belong the way other kids did, and didn’t seem to care that she had no pals. Social workers noted too that she barely shed a tear for her dad. A series of foster families inevitably ended up with Hazel being dumped back at the care home. When she was twelve, she’d attacked a boy in the care home with the leg of a chair and he’d lost an eye; she’d claimed it was in self defence and that the boy had struck the first blow. How the hell she’d ever got into nursing beggared belief. But she did and that was when her reign of terror really began.
‘You know your problem?’ Oonagh had many problems, but was interested to hear Hazel Andrews narrow it down to just one. ‘Everything’s black and white to you. Everything’s all cosy in your world and you don’t understand how the real world works.’
Oonagh let out a sigh, stifled the need to laugh, wishing that truly were the extent of her problems. ‘Very astute of you, Hazel.’
Hazel sat back down on the bed, assuming Oonagh would stay. ‘Them boys, they were thick.’
‘They were patients, Hazel. Vulnerable people in your care.’ Oonagh sat back down; at least they were back on track.
Hazel Andrews scratched the cover of her duvet. The gesture seemed oddly familiar. She chewed on a loose piece of skin around her thumb and spat it out. ‘I was just a kid myself.’
Oonagh struggled to see that this woman had ever been a kid. To her it seemed as though
she’d been born rotten; a murderous psychopath in a child’s skin just waiting to grow up and unleash herself on the world.
‘So, Breakmire?’ Oonagh was almost scared to ask the question. ‘What was your role in Nugent’s empire?
Andrews crossed her legs, mimicked Oonagh’s pose slightly, looked her up and down, dropped her eyes. She was trying to flirt with her.
This was beginning to wear Oonagh out.
‘Nugent was an idiot. Would do anything for a wank.’ Hazel genuinely looked disgusted. ‘So is it true?’
Oonagh said nothing.
‘Did they really find him with his balls cut off and stuffed into his mouth?’
It clearly hadn’t taken long for the rumour mill to be working overtime on this one. Not bad enough that his tongue was sliced off, the gore-mongers wanted a different pound of flesh.
‘Hazel, this is a chance for you to at least do some good.’ Appealing to this woman’s better nature might not be Oonagh’s smartest move, but she had nowhere else to go with this one. ‘You mentioned the last time that Nugent was abusing some of the patients there. Passing them around his friends. Can you name any of the men involved?’
‘Those girls were well taken care of.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘None of them were forced to do anything they didn’t want to do.’
‘They were vulnerable young women in a psychiatric unit. How the hell can you even justify this? Or make out they were happy with the situation?’
‘Your wee world is just so cosy, Oonagh O’Neil, isn’t it? You’ve no fucking idea how desperate these girls were for a bit of love. Friendship. Affection.’
‘Passing them around a bunch of abusive creeps like the last pint before closing time doesn’t constitute love, friendship or affection.’
‘They were well rewarded.’
‘Please, just tell me what the hell went on there. How the hell did Harry Nugent manage to run this brothel without anyone blowing the whistle?’
‘You really are a stupid bitch.’
‘Yes, Hazel, we’ve established that, love. But let’s face it, I’m a stupid bitch that’s had the good sense never to have been banged up.’
‘It had been carrying on from before Nugent came on the scene. But it was small scale. He’d caught one of the volunteer porters touching up one of the girls, and came in one night and discovered him letting a few friends in to shag the girls who were up for it.’
‘You mean rape mentally ill girls.’
‘You say potato. It was no big deal. He’d take the girls down to the basement, and then… anyway, once Nugent knew what was on offer, he wanted in on the act, but cranked the whole operation up a few notches. It didn’t take him long to realise the cottages attached to the hospital could be put to better use. And it was as though he’d already had his own clientele. Fuck’s sake. The place was going like a fair within a fortnight.’
‘Where did you fit in with all this?’
‘Me? Don’t know what you mean.’
‘You were clearly across the whole operation. What was your role? Did you cover for him?’
‘How did you manage to get such a good job when you’re such a dummy?’
‘Let’s just say I got lucky, Hazel. Now, when you’re done firing insults in my direction, d’you want to cut me some slack and tell me who the hell was working with him?’
‘I’m not doing your research for you. This is all so you can get your wee story together and look good. And what do I get out of it?’
‘Nothing, Hazel. I have nothing to offer you. I don’t suppose you can remember the name of this porter?’ Oonagh guessed that even if Andrews did remember, she’d be unlikely to share the information with Oonagh.
The silence between them was deafening and Hazel picked up a copy of Take A Break that was lying on the bed, flicking through the pages. The gesture told Oonagh the meeting was over.
Oonagh stood up. ‘I’m done here, Hazel,’ she said, trying to sound as though it had been her decision to call this to a close as she walked towards the door.
‘Petrie.’
Oonagh stopped dead. What felt like a bolt of electricity crackled through her body. ‘What?’ Unsure at first if she’d heard correctly. ‘Hazel, please. What did you just say?’ She fought the rush of adrenalin, desperately trying to conceal her exhilaration. Refusing to let Andrews know how important this information was in the chain of events. If Petrie was the volunteer porter at the asylum, that would explain exactly the hold Nugent had over him.
‘What?’ Hazel Andrews pinched her brows together, shrugged her shoulders as though she didn’t know what Oonagh was talking about.
Oonagh wanted to grab this woman by the throat and throttle her and kiss her at the same time. But given they were in a prison with a team of guards in the next room she thought better of it, that and the fact Hazel Andrews was a crazed killer with at least three stone on Oonagh. She lingered for a few moments more, but Andrews was lost in the tacky magazine.
35
He’d agreed to meet her in a café out near Helensburgh. That wasn’t always a good sign – public places usually indicated a reluctance to open up – but at least he’d agreed to meet and that was more than she’d had from any other leads so far.
Oonagh drove north on the Erskine Bridge, one of the country’s most notorious suicide spots, flanked either side now with preventative barriers in a bid to stop those poor unfortunates jumping off. Then headed west onto the A82, passing the snow topped Kilpatrick Hills, before taking the left fork in the road. The Firth of Clyde opening out and bleeding into the mouth of Gareloch always left her breathless. She was familiar with Helensburgh; she’d often take a drive out just to sit looking out at the water. But today was different.
The café was modern but mocked up to look as if it were fresh from the fifties, intimate booths, chrome edged counters and low hung lights. As usual she was slightly early. That suited her as she’d prefer to be sitting ready, given that she had no way of recognising who she was supposed to be meeting. She stirred the insipid tea, already wired from too many early morning coffees. Yesterday had been her first full day without alcohol in as long as she could remember, but it meant she hadn’t slept well and was desperate not to come across as jittery. She knew him as soon as he came through the door. Oonagh wondered if it was because she found it easy to recognise another damaged soul. He nodded and slipped into the booth, sitting opposite her. He looked younger than she’d imagined, not much more than sixty.
‘So, what is it you want to speak to me about?’ Peter Gray folded his arms across his chest. Oonagh wasn’t quite sure where to start.
‘Your daughter, Peter. Hannah.’ He dipped his eyes, fidgeting with the sugar sachets bunched in the small bowl on the table. ‘And her time at Breakmire.’
‘What about it?’ It was hard not to notice the grief and pain in this man; it was etched on his face, wept from his eyes, forced heavily down on his shoulders. She’d ordered him a coffee, and they both paused momentarily as the waitress placed the steaming mug on the table in front of him.
‘I’m looking into the deaths of otherwise healthy mental health patients in Scotland and…’ Oonagh had already rehearsed her story. There was no way she could dive straight into this one. He gave her a slight nod, enough to let her know to continue.
‘It must have been a terrible shock. Hannah dying like that. Can you tell me, Peter, why was your daughter in Breakmire?’
‘She was anorexic.’ He said it as though that explained it. He seemed to read Oonagh’s mind. ‘That’s why she was committed,’ he added, then took just a slight pause. ‘Oh, the treatment was very different in those days. We thought she was going to starve to death. It was… it was just horrible to see her so thin and in so much pain.’ He took off his watch, smoothed down the leather strap and worried it between his fingers.
Oonagh didn’t bother to ask what Hannah Gray’s clinical treatment would have been. ‘
That must have been awful for you.’
He folded his arms tight across his chest and breathed heavily through his nostrils. ‘She didn’t seem to be getting better. Oh, she was putting on weight, but she was just turning into a different person before my eyes.’
‘In what way?’
‘She was delusional, hallucinating. Talking crazy stuff.’
‘Did you speak to anyone, talk to anyone about your concerns?’
‘Doctors, you believe them, don’t you?’ Oonagh nodded; she knew exactly what he meant. ‘And it was always a different doctor I spoke to and they just said the same thing. She was putting on weight so that was good, but her increasing paranoia and erratic behaviour meant she couldn’t come home.’
Peter Gray painted a pretty bleak picture of his daughter’s time at Breakmire, a picture Oonagh knew was all too familiar. A family struggling to understand their daughter’s illness, desperate for her to get better, the reluctant acquiescence to unknown medication. ‘Trying to get an appointment to see her consultant was a nightmare. I don’t think I ever spoke to the same doctor twice.’
‘When you say she was hallucinating, what kind of stuff was she…?’
‘Said monsters, demons, were coming into her room at night. She was scared to go to sleep and the night time terrified her.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘What kind of monsters? Did she describe them?’
He looked at Oonagh in disbelief. ‘What? She was losing her mind. There were no monsters. At one point she even thought the devil had visited her.’
‘I’m so sorry, Peter.’ From what Oonagh could gather, Breakmire was nothing more than a brothel run in one of the country’s most secure hospitals for vulnerable patients. What Hannah Gray had been describing was most probably men visiting her at night; the systematic abuse of her and other patients. With her history of delusional behaviour no one believed her, so instead they upped her meds to shut her up. Oonagh was sick to her stomach with this one.
The Quiet Ones Page 18