The Quiet Ones

by Theresa Talbot

  44

  Either Oonagh was losing her skills as an investigative journalist or someone was telling porkies. But whatever was happening, this just didn’t add up.

  They’d agreed to meet at the café in the park. Oonagh thought it best not to spend too much time at Sarah Nugent’s home in case it aroused suspicion. Alec was already asking too many questions and she knew he was on to her; it would only be a matter of time before he issued a warrant for her research notes. But until he did she was grabbing the ball and running with this.

  ‘You’re looking well, Sarah.’ Oonagh pushed the condiments to the side of the table to let the waitress settle the tray between them. A few mothers with pushchairs took up most of the other tables; soft leather sofas were dotted around the edge of the café underneath signs telling nursing mums they were welcome to feed their babies here.

  ‘Thanks.’ Sarah Nugent sipped her coffee. There wasn’t a hint of the trauma that she’d been through. Two weeks after the death of her husband and the police appeared to be no nearer to finding his killer, or that of Graham Petrie or Andrew Cruickshank. But there had been no other mutilated bodies found swinging from lampposts in Glasgow, so that was one less headache to deal with. What Oonagh had uncovered was getting murkier by the day; she was also aware that as soon as the programme was aired the police would be on her for as much information as possible, and it could also mean the end of her friendship with Alec.

  ‘Ever considered going back to nursing, Sarah?’ A very slight hint of something, perhaps awareness, perhaps a knowingness, flashed across her eyes. They both knew it was a ridiculous question. According to Sarah Nugent, she’d left the profession almost twenty years ago, and the woman was loaded. There wasn’t a whole lot of incentive for her to roll her sleeves up and wash bedpans.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been tempted, of course…’ There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice, but she looked directly into Oonagh’s eyes, daring her to say more. This was one tough cookie. Oonagh allowed herself a brief smile. She couldn’t believe she’d missed it first time round. Sifting through the records, desperate to compile names of staff who’d worked at Breakmire, and make the connection with Harry Nugent. She’d been so anxious to find names, she’d overlooked the obvious. The one name that was missing.

  ‘Tell me, Sarah, how long were you a nurse for?’

  ‘A year, maybe eighteen months. Listen, I really can’t remember.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I thought you said you had some important information.’

  Oonagh leaned forward. ‘Sarah, I’ve checked and double-checked. You never worked at Breakmire. And as far as I can see you’ve never been a nurse either.’

  The colour rose on Sarah’s cheeks, making the rest of her face seem unnaturally pale. ‘It was a long time ago… I never really completed my training. As I said, Harry stopped me working as soon as we started going out together.’

  ‘I’m about to put this fucking programme together. Featuring one of the most high profile murders that Glasgow’s seen for a long time. Has it not occurred to you that someone could actually put two and two together? Someone may recognise you?’

  Sarah shrugged her shoulders, looked shocked by the apparent accusation. Perhaps she’d lived the lie so long she’d forgotten what the truth actually was.

  ‘Sarah, come clean. There’s no shame. You were never a nurse at Breakmire.’

  She drummed her nails on the table, the beat getting faster. ‘I was… I told you, that’s where I met Harry.’

  ‘You better stop bullshitting me, love. You were never a nurse. Never have been. I’ve checked – there’s no record of you ever being a nurse anywhere in Scotland.’ A crying baby in the background gave them some cover to the fact their conversation was getting heated. ‘You might have met Harry at Breakmire, but you weren’t a nurse, Sarah, you were a patient.’

  She let that linger between them. Refusing to say any more, letting Sarah speak first.

  ‘Are you going to tell anyone?’

  ‘Well, unless you’ve actually been donning your Nurse Nancy uniform and performing clandestine enemas to unsuspecting patients in the west end, you’ve not done anything illegal.’ Oonagh thought for a few seconds. ‘Well, you’ve lied to me, and probably the police, but unless they can prove you did it with criminal intent they’re unlikely to do much about it.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Oonagh thought that was pretty bloody obvious, but humoured her nonetheless. She explained how she’d been scanning the list of people who’d worked at Breakmire when she’d suddenly realised Sarah Walker, as she’d been then, was conspicuous by her absence.

  ‘It was Harry – he sort of re-invented how we met and I just went along with it.’

  ‘So, what was the truth, then?’

  Sarah had been in and out of care as a kid. Staying with various foster families; often split from her brother and sister. ‘Mum was on her own, couldn’t really cope, so we used to get farmed out every so often.’ As a teenager she’d shown signs of depression, then went on to self-harm. ‘I even tried to kill myself once. To be honest, I’d no idea if I actually wanted to die, but I’d taken an overdose and after that I got admitted to Breakmire.’

  ‘And that’s where you met Harry?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Were you one of the comfort women, Sarah?’ Again she nodded.

  ‘Guys would come in.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘We thought we were special at first. Enjoyed the attention.’

  Oonagh touched the side of her arm. ‘It’s OK, Sarah, that’s how these grooming rings work. Make their victims think they’re getting better treatment than everyone else.’

  What Oonagh needed now were facts, names, dates.

  ‘I wasn’t a kid, though. I was nineteen.’

  ‘Sarah, please, you were a vulnerable adult. You were supposed to be getting cared for. Not being raped by some creep that thought if he threw money at you it made it all OK.’

  ‘’Suppose. Harry singled me out and we actually started dating. She made little air quotation marks with her fingers. That usually annoyed the hell out of Oonagh but she reckoned under the circumstances she’d let this one go.

  ‘So what was all the pretence of you being a nurse?’

  ‘Harry didn’t want people prying into my background or judging me. So he just told me to say I’d worked at Breakmire.’

  Oonagh guessed that was a better back story for him than the fact he’d abused a vulnerable patient with a history of self-harm, plucked her from the ward and decided to dress her up as a bride. This guy really was despicable.

  ‘Did you have much contact with Hazel Andrews?’ Again, Sarah nodded. ‘And?’

  ‘Honestly? She was actually really nice.’

  *

  ‘You have lovely hair, you know that?’ Sarah turned and looked up, but Nurse Andrews just smiled and gently eased her shoulder back round to the front to face the mirror and continued brushing. She placed the brush on the dressing table and took a tiny silver locket from the uniform of her pocket. ‘Here,’ she said, pulling back Sarah’s hair and fastening the clasp around her throat, ‘just a wee present…’

  Sarah fingered the locket between her fingers, feeling the smoothness of the little heart in her grip. Thank you Nurse Andr—’

  ‘It’s Hazel, remember? We’re friends, after all.’ Hazel switched off the main light as she stood by the door. The bedside lamp cast soft shadows around the room. Sarah had it all to herself, a reward, Hazel had said, for doing so well. It was so much nicer than the ward she’d been in when she’d first arrived. That was stark and cold and the sheets had scratched her bare feet at night.

  ‘You look lovely, Sarah. So pretty.’ Sarah felt the warmth of that remark flood through her body, feeding every part of her. She smiled as the emotion reached her face, causing a blush across her cheeks.

  ‘You up for receiving a visitor this evening?’ Hazel must have caught a look from Sarah. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to. I was
only trying to—’

  ‘No,’ she said, offering a little smile. ‘It’s fine. Yes, yes, of course, Hazel.’

  ‘Well, get yourself dressed and ready, sweetheart.’ And with that she closed the door.

  *

  ‘She’d given every one of us one of those cheap little lockets.’ Sarah had shown little emotion as she’d recounted her time at Breakmire and her relationship with Hazel Andrews. ‘It probably seems odd to you that I wanted to please her, but she was just so nice to me.’ Sarah’s relationship with Hazel Andrews had been one of classic victim grooming, but even now Sarah couldn’t quite see it like that. ‘I was nineteen. I was an adult. I knew what I was doing.’

  *

  She tugged at the hem of her dress tunic, which was too short and too tight and kept creeping up her thighs. Hazel had said she looked nice, but she felt stupid wearing this – she was too old for a school uniform, and it made her look like a kid again. Sarah smoothed her hair down as she glanced at the clock on the wall, but that had stopped a long time ago; now it was forever six-fifteen in her room. He’d be here shortly though, and she’d need to be ready. They didn’t like to be kept waiting; besides, she didn’t want to upset Hazel.

  *

  ‘At the time I thought she was being nice to me because she liked me. She was always ready for a laugh.’

  This didn’t surprise Oonagh. Things were never as black and white as they seemed, and neither were people. Even killers, as it turned out, enjoyed a bit of banter at work.

  ‘So she was behind the brothel?’

  ‘Don’t judge me here. All I know is she was nice to me.’ Sarah caught the waitress’s eye, and she came over. ‘You licensed?’

  ‘Sure. Just wine though – is that OK?’

  ‘Yeah, large glass of house white.’

  The waitress looked at Oonagh who faltered for a moment, then, ‘Oh, on you go, I’ll have the same.’ Her car was parked just a short walk away in a residential street, but stuff it, she’d take a taxi.

  ‘So?’ Oonagh was desperate to get back to Hazel Andrews and her part in all this. ‘I’m still not getting the link with Andrew Cruickshank.’ As much as Oonagh had delved into the background, there was no mention of Cruickshank, but he must have been involved. His was no random murder.

  ‘The taxi driver.’ Oonagh initially thought Sarah had posed that as a question, then realised she just had that strange upward inflection at the end of her sentence. ‘He was used as the driver so the men’s vehicles were never seen in the hospital car park late at night. Sometimes he’d ferry the girls back and forth when the men couldn’t come to Breakmire. He was well paid, and could be trusted.’

  Oonagh felt sick. Men like Harry Nugent and Graham Petrie could never operate in a vacuum. They relied heavily on other sick individuals. The waitress came back with the wine. It was surprisingly good, and, after an initial few sips, Oonagh gave up the pretence and downed the glass in one go.

  The waitress’s eyes widened.

  Oonagh fought the urge to tell her to fuck off, but Sarah beat her to it. ‘Perhaps,’ she said pointing to the wall behind them, ‘they should add a sign beside the nursing mums saying, “Boozing Women Welcome” and then we could all just have a guilt free lunch.’

  The waitress smiled, ‘Respect,’ she said, giving them a thumbs-up before walking away. ‘Nice one, Sarah.’

  She shrugged. ‘Fancy another?’

  Oonagh nodded, but was keen to get back to the point. ‘So, how did you start dating Harry?’ She resisted making the air quotation marks with her fingers.

  Oonagh was starting to see how things were at Breakmire. The grooming, the compliance, the subsequent abuse. It was how these things worked.

  ‘He used to buy me things, you know?’

  Oonagh nodded. It wasn’t too hard to see Harry working his charm.

  ‘But he’d never visited me at night. Harry wasn’t like that. Then one day he asked me if I’d like to leave. With him. Said I’d never need to do anything like this again. Never have to have men visiting me and said he’d take care of me.’ She dropped her chin onto her chest, forcing her gaze deep into her glass.

  Oonagh guessed for the teenage Sarah, being treated for mental health problems, Harry Nugent had been the nearest thing to a knight in shining armour. It wasn’t hard to see what the attraction of Sarah had been. She was a good looking girl, carried herself well and would make a perfect front for his sordid lifestyle. A vulnerable young girl from a broken home, she was an identikit bride, with no family to step in and realise what the hell had actually been going on. For Sarah, Harry had represented a life she could probably only have dreamt of.

  ‘Is that why you weren’t too perturbed at Harry’s lack of…’ she paused, not quite knowing how to put this ‘… the lack of intimacy between you?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Dunno. Never really thought about it, to be honest.’

  Oonagh guessed that Sarah would have been so grateful for whatever lifestyle Nugent was offering, she hadn’t spent too much time analysing it.

  ‘Sarah, this doesn’t bring us any closer to who the killer was, but if this goes to air the police will be back banging on your door. They’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.’ There was one thing that Oonagh didn’t quite get. ‘Why now? Why’re you telling me all this now?’

  ‘I’m scared. Scared they’ll come for me next. And I can trust you.’

  Oonagh knew by the look in her eyes that this time she was telling the truth.

  45

  ‘You know who did it, don’t you?’ Oonagh couldn’t quite see the lovely side of Hazel Andrews that Sarah Nugent had alluded to. It was obvious now that she’d almost been like a mother figure to these girls. Or a big sister, taking them under her wing, always there for them, ready with a laugh, the only one to listen to their problems. When all the while she’d been grooming them for her own personal gain. Collecting their hearts and minds the way other people collected stamps.

  ‘Did what?’ Hazel pretended not to know what Oonagh was talking about. Gave her a blank expression when she asked again about who killed Harry Nugent, Graham Petrie and Andrew Cruickshank.

  ‘Did they try to block your release? Is that what it was?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have you got any biscuits?’ She was ripping the piss. Obviously knew that the last time Oonagh had visited she’d come armed with a load of bribes. Cakes, biscuits, cigarettes. Oonagh didn’t even know if Hazel Andrews smoked, but she knew smokes were valuable currency in most prisons. Only she’d never got them past the front door. They’d all been confiscated at the front desk. Visitors weren’t allowed to pass on stuff like that to the inmates.

  ‘What’ve you got to lose, Hazel?’ Appealing to this woman’s better nature didn’t come easily to Oonagh, but she too, had very little to lose at this point. ‘I don’t care who killed them.’ Andrews raised an eyebrow, didn’t believe her. ‘Seriously, I don’t. I have no intention of passing the name on to the police.’

  ‘If you don’t care, why the fuck are you so interested, then?’

  ‘Like I say, wraps up my investigation. From what I know just now? I’m glad they’re dead. They were evil. They preyed on the innocent and the vulnerable. But I need to know – did you pay someone to kill them, a professional hit man?’ Oonagh knew she sounded like a tit saying that. She wasn’t sure if real people used phrases like hit man, but Hazel Andrews didn’t miss a beat.

  The prisoner opened the little cabinet in the corner of her cell. ‘See this?’ She clasped the bundle of letters she’d shown Oonagh on her last visit. ‘In here are dozens of people who’re prepared to do anything for me.’

  Oonagh struggled to believe this, but couldn’t discount it straight away. She already knew the way Sarah Nugent spoke about her. That strange adoration. There might well be others who felt the same. Andrews threw the bundle down on the small table by the bed. ‘Forget dying for me. I’ve got fans that would kill for me.’r />
  Oonagh felt sick; the bile in her stomach started to rise. This could be the ranting of a madwoman, but a trickle of fear in her spine said she might well be wrong.

  ‘And why would they do that, Hazel?’

  She shrugged. ‘Because I’d asked them to.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  She was dragging this out. ‘Did you ask any of your wee pen pals to kill those men?’

  Andrews sat back on her bed, suppressing a smile.

  ‘You don’t half talk a lot of shite, Hazel, d’you know that?’ Andrews stiffened slightly at this change of tactic. ‘Every prison letter is scanned and read and checked. D’you think they wouldn’t be on to you if you were issuing orders for people to be killed?’

  Andrews folded her arms hard across her chest.

  ‘I knew you were bonkers, Hazel, but if you believe your own shite then this takes it on to a whole new ball game.’

  ‘You think you’re smart, Oonagh O’Neil. D’you know that? But you’re not. You’re as thick as the rest of the do-gooders who come to see me. D’you not think by now I’d have developed a code?’

  Oonagh didn’t know if she was telling the truth, or this was just a sick fantasy. ‘Hazel, I think you’ve watched The Silence of the Lambs once too often. You’re stuck in a crummy prison cell in Falkirk, for fucks sake. Half the people who write to you can hardly read their own bus ticket, let alone work out some elaborate code issuing orders to carry out three executions.’

  The room was stifling and the walls were closing in on Oonagh. She’d had enough. Enough horror and enough bullshit.

  ‘The letters between me and my legal team aren’t read.’

  ‘Oh, so now your lawyer’s involved, Hazel.’ Oonagh was exhausted with it all and stood up to go. ‘Give it up, love, eh.’

  ‘I don’t want to see you any more.’