True Crime Story(85)
ANDREW FLOWERS:
What do you call a group of teenagers who are let loose in the wild? A murder? A bastard of teens? Well, whatever it is, there was one in the shop that day, five or six of the fuckers, all dicking around making the computer screens sticky, typing “gay sex” into the search engines and being extremely amusing. When you have all that stuff on display, the gadgets and tablets, I suppose it’s inevitable. My job was essentially to move the mouth breathers along long enough to let an actual customer get a look in edgeways.
What was strange was that these kids were looking at me like I was their long-lost dad or something, and I don’t mean lovingly. More like I’d left their mother with a fake phone number and a tear in her eye, then never bothered to stump up for child support afterward. It’s a look I get occasionally. Whenever the story’s in the news again or the foundation launches a new appeal, the picture of me with scratch marks on my face inevitably floats to the surface somewhere, and I find myself on the receiving end of all these lingering hostile stares. That, coupled with all the Christmas decorations up in the shop, was making me pour a little heavier than usual when I got home. I think my liver was going gray faster than my hair.
KIMBERLY NOLAN:
When I got Fintan on the phone, we both said hello, probably both felt the temperature drop a few degrees, then he got right down to business. He said I could probably expect some press enquiries over the next few days, that it might get rough, and he wanted to offer me his full support. I said, “Press enquiries about fucking what, Fintan?”
EMMY MOSS, Zoe’s Angels alumna, 2015–18:
I was seventeen years old, so it would have been 2015. I didn’t know much about Zoe Nolan, but we—me and my mum—were struggling to work out how I’d pay for university. The course I was applying for was structural engineering. The fees alone were too much, and after that, I’d still need somewhere to live. My tutor at sixth form suggested I apply for a grant from the Nolan Foundation, and I did, not really thinking much of it. A few weeks later, I got an email from Fintan Murphy that felt like a miracle. He said they were prepared to pay my full fees for that first year in exchange for some nominal work for the charity. Once I’d read up about Zoe and the work they were doing, it sounded like a really good thing, something you’d want to be involved with anyway. I took a train to Manchester to meet Fintan and Zoe’s dad, Robert. They explained where they were coming from and what they could do for me. When they got some sense of how serious I was about my studies, it seemed perfect. Everything was agreed, and they followed through on their end, absolutely.
But then Robert Nolan started texting me…
I knew I needed to show up to some functions, and I did, and they were usually fine. I met some of the other girls they’d helped—Zoe’s Angels—and we all got along well, although it was weird. We all looked the same. All of us were blond, we had similar builds, similar smiles and eyes. We all looked like Zoe. And then Robert started calling and texting me when there weren’t even any events to go to, sometimes making things up that I had to attend. I’d get there and it would be just the two of us, sometimes in bars or restaurants, sometimes for whole evenings. And a part of me thought, Well, if this is what he wants, some stake in your life, then what’s the harm? It just got a lot over that first year, and it got personal. He’d want to know where I was and who I was with. He was always warning me about drugs and “bad guys.” He’d send me selfies and encourage me to reply the same way, saying, “I just want to see where you are.” There was always this undercurrent, this constant suggestion and mention of money when I resisted. He’d say, “Well, I really hope we can continue to help you, Emmy. I really hope we can support you into your second year, LOL, smiley face, kiss, kiss, kiss,” all this passive-aggressive, sweaty stuff. And Mum was so grateful to them, I didn’t know who to tell.13
MARCUS LEE:
Nolan was using a position of power at the head of his dead kid’s charity to insinuate himself into the lives of these young women and with varied results. I mean, at first, I think he really was taking an interest, trying to help out. It’s just that he started to feel entitled to something more, an emotional connection these kids couldn’t really give him. The ones I’ve spoken to were all sweethearts, but they wanted good deeds under their belts, not fifty-five-year-old men.
So when Nolan couldn’t get his paternal hugs and kisses, what was the next best thing? Well, spoiler alert, of the four girls who came forward, all had received overbearing, harassment-style overtures from him. Two had met with him alone, both reporting inappropriate behavior, one actually filing charges of sexual assault. We had sworn statements, times, dates, screenshots. We had a whole story ready to go. And all this a few days out from the anniversary of his daughter’s disappearance. That was never part of the plan, really, just a happy accident. Nolan knew something was in the air, because I called him in the first instance. He hung up then switched his phone off, went to ground and left Murphy holding the baby.
KIMBERLY NOLAN:
What can I say to those girls except how sorry I am? When Fintan told me, it made my vision go blurred. I had to sit in the lay-by for five minutes while I got my breath back.
ROBERT NOLAN:
Well, look. Look, I can say sorry until I’m blue in the face. I have said sorry until I’m blue in the face. And I can dispute some facts, some versions of events, but at the end of the day, it’s something I have to live with. I was given a kind of chance I’d always wanted, a platform, and I abused it. I didn’t set out to hurt anyone, not knowingly, but I know how it looks and sounds. I found out the hard way I wasn’t one of those people I’d always admired. I wasn’t an artist. I wasn’t Zoe. I couldn’t handle it, and I freely admit that.