As usual there were road works on the Kingston Bridge, down to one lane northbound. The fumes from the lorry in front wormed through the car’s ventilation system and caught the back of his throat, and the rain smeared the muddy city atmosphere across his windscreen.
‘Where we going anyway?’ McVeigh asked.
Davies double-checked the text message, a wee smile played on his lips. He hadn’t exactly been a rookie cop when their paths had first crossed, but nor was he the embittered old sod he was now. She’d been different too… well, had looked different anyway. The sparkle, the shine had always been there but none of the polish. Not in the early days.
He glanced at his phone again, he knew where he was supposed to meet her, but it gave him something to do with his fingers, helping him resist the strong temptation to poke them in McVeigh’s eyes.
Despite the weather, once they were off the bridge it didn’t take long to ease through the morning traffic into the West End. The rain was now falling in bucket loads. It created rivers along the blocked drains in the gutters, and battered off the car roof so fiercely that McVeigh raised his voice an octave in case Davies couldn’t hear him. ‘Oh, Maryhill.’ He pointed to the road sign. ‘That’s my old patch!’
At least he hadn’t said, you can see my house from here, and for that Davies was truly grateful. He swung off the main road and into the side street just as Oonagh O’Neil was locking her car. He pulled over and grinned, watching her dodge the puddles as she ran towards the pub and out of the rain. She waved when she reached the door, letting him know she’d get the drinks in.
McVeigh’s jaw hung open when he saw her. ‘Bloody hell! Punching a bit above your weight there, are you no’?’
‘Ach, just shut up, eh.’ Davies slammed the door and walked away, leaving McVeigh to babysit the car.
3
Glasgow, 2000
Father Patrick Joseph Kennedy left his home in Galway in the fifties to cross the water to Glasgow. He was a grumpy old sod, whose face was aye tripping him. Sadly, his ambition outweighed his achievements and he was stuck being a crappy old Parish Priest for the whole of his sorry wee life. He was a miserable, twisted, self-promoting, sanctimonious old bastard, who rammed his beliefs down the throats of people too close to meeting their maker and thus too petrified of eternal damnation to question them. But no one could deny he was a tireless fundraiser for the Church. Each week he’d rub his hands in glee as his poverty stricken congregation dug deep into their pensions to fill the collection plate, in order that he might live rent-free in a Victorian villa and stuff his fat face with the best of scran…
Tom guessed he’d need to tweak a few of the details before the obituary would be ready to email to the Catholic Press Office. He’d been working on it all morning and still that was the best he could come up with. He pushed back in his chair and flicked through the top few pages of the pile of admin on the desk beside him. It was all the usual crap. The diocese was raising funds and desperately needed cash to send a terminally ill father of four to Lourdes. The budget for his drop-in centre was being slashed, and a notice from Glasgow City Council warned that unless he got a special catering licence the Health and Safety Executive would fine him for serving hot food to down and outs. He stuffed the whole lot in a drawer and went back to the obituary. It was getting to be a bitch of a week.
Everything was a struggle these days. The obituary should have been a doddle. Father Kennedy was a news editor’s dream. Despite his age, he had been well on the way to becoming a media darling. A moral crusader, popping up at every pro-life rally, every anti-abortion demonstration, and every let’s get my face in the papers photo opportunity. He never missed a trick. No point in doing good, if no one knows about it. But to die on the altar, to drop dead in front of his congregation… Well, he had to hand it to the old bugger; it was the ecumenical equivalent of being killed in action.
Tom thought of the last few months before Father Kennedy died and grabbed at his clerical collar throwing it onto the desk. It was starting to choke him, like a noose round his neck.
‘Two gentlemen to see you, Father.’ Mrs Brady was at his back, and Tom slammed both hands down on the keyboard, deleting the incriminating evidence and almost rebooting his computer at the same time.
‘Eh, would you be able to knock first in future please?’
Mrs Brady ignored him and shuffled out of the room, glancing over her shoulder at the computer screen, and then shifting her eyes to Tom before closing the door.
‘DI Davies’ – the older of the two men held out his identity card – ‘and this is DS McVeigh, Govan Police,’ he added without looking at his partner. Tom noticed Davies was wearing casuals, though the Doc Martens, buffed to a high polish, would have given him away. McVeigh had a shock of ginger hair, which frizzed at the temples. His jacket hung limply from his shoulders. Too many late nights walking home in the rain?
‘Police? What’s wrong, what is it?’ There was nothing Tom could do to stop the nerves that had risen from his bowels, turning his stomach into a knot. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back to stop them trembling.
Shiny Shoes took charge. ‘Right, Father Findlay.’
‘What? Oh please, call me Thomas… Tom.’ He ushered the pair to sit. Davies remained standing, and drew a look at McVeigh, who by this time was crouched on a footstool, his elbows resting on his knees. Tom supported himself on the oak desk and nodded at Davies to continue.
‘Nothing to worry about, Father. Just routine. We always do a follow-up in the event of a sudden death.’
‘You’re here about Father Kennedy?’
‘Aye. Known him a long time?’
‘Right. Let me see.’ Tom crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look bloke-ish. ‘I’ve been assigned here for the past four years, so I suppose I know… knew him reasonably well. Why?’
McVeigh was picking at a loose thread on the fabric of the footstool. Davies leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘Anything about his behaviour over the past few weeks that seemed, well, odd in any way?’
‘No, no. I don’t think so, I mean, what do you mean odd?’
‘Did he have a lot on his mind, for instance? Anything troubling him?’
‘I’m not really sure. No. No, he didn’t. Look why are you asking questions about Father Kennedy? This doesn’t sound very routine to me.’
‘Know anyone who didn’t like him?’
Tom stole a sideways glance at his now benign computer and rubbed the palm of his hand over his mouth. ‘No, no, he was… he was really quite well liked actually.’
‘No enemies that you knew about?’
‘Enemies?’ A flutter stirred in Tom’s chest. ‘No of course not. For goodness sake, he was a Catholic Priest.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Davies continued, ‘he was a bit… Well, let’s face it, he made few friends on the outside with his extreme views.’
Tom used the back of his hand to wipe the beads of sweat that were forming on his top lip. He felt duty-bound to defend his dead colleague and his own need to wear the collar. ‘They may seem extreme to you, but they are the views of the Church.’
‘You all right there, Father?’ said Davies.
Tom wasn’t touched by his mock concern. ‘I’m just a bit y’know… surprised at all this.’ He gave up on the bloke-ish stance and sank back into his chair. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Nothing. Honestly. Look, are you sure you’re all right? You’re looking a wee bit pale.’
Tom nodded his head and bit the inside of his mouth.
‘Right you are then.’ Davies gestured for McVeigh to stand up.
Tom was glad to see the back of them.
*
The obituary lost its importance after that. He tried to start again, promising himself wee treats and rewards if he finished, but the words just swam on the screen in front of him. He felt panic swell in his throat. And he felt sick.
He cooled his head on the window just in time to see Oonagh O
’Neil get out of her car. He’d forgotten all about their meeting. She waved as she jogged up the steps. She looked as Irish as her name suggested. Small, slim, with chestnut hair and deep blue eyes. He was sure if he went to Dublin, the streets would be lined with thousands of Oonagh O’Neils, and all just as pretty. He ran into the hall and opened the door before she had a chance to ring the bell.
‘Hi Oonagh, good to see you, come in, come in.’ He tried to sound light-hearted, and hoped she couldn’t see him shaking. He was fooling no one. She walked under the arch of his arm and flashed him a smile. He breathed in her scent.
She winked at him, reading his thoughts. ‘Old Spice.’ His face turned scarlet, and he rubbed the burning colour from his cheeks. He always looked forward to seeing her. She flirted with him outrageously, despite the fact he couldn’t be interested in her, wouldn’t be interested in her. But in her he felt he had the closest thing to a friend. His biggest sacrifice when he’d joined the priesthood hadn’t been giving up sex; in fact, in Tom’s case that had been relatively easy. No, giving up on friendship had been the biggest single hardship, and there were times when the loneliness crushed him. But fortune had looked down upon him the day it had sent Oonagh O’Neil. And all because he’d been assigned by the press office to work as an advisor on a documentary she was making about the Magdalene Institutions.
‘Tom, I’m really sorry about Father Kennedy. It must have been a huge shock to you…’
He was about to answer when she interrupted him.
‘Good God, you look terrible, has it really affected you that much?’
So she had noticed too. He knew his blushing had long since subsided and that a yellow, waxy pallor had taken over.
‘Christ, Oonagh…’ He let his guard down and dropped his head to his hands as a wave of despair washed over him. Sometimes he forgot she was a journalist, and that he needed to be careful of how much he told her. Sometimes he forgot he was a priest.
‘Look, we don’t have to go through this lot just now,’ she said, waving her hands over her research notes. ‘Have you eaten?’
He shook his head. She took charge.
‘Good. Get your coat, Sunshine. We’re going out.’
*
The restaurant was fashionable and expensive. The waiter recognised Oonagh immediately, and nearly fell over himself to reach them.
Once they were seated, Oonagh reached across, held his hand and looked directly at him.
‘Tom, if you’d rather not talk about it, that’s—’
‘I’m fine.’ He eyed the name written in gold on the window and smiled. ‘You know who St Jude is, don’t you?’
‘Patron Saint of Lost Causes.’ Her grin beamed from ear to ear.
‘Is that why you brought me here?’
He took refuge behind the ridiculously large menu and swallowed hard as he clocked the prices. He gave a weak smile and tried not to let her see how out of place he felt.
Pride, Envy and Avarice had already reared their ugly heads, now Gluttony crooked a finger and beckoned him to take the plunge. Tom knew when he was beaten and gave in gracefully. He looked at her and smiled.
‘Right, let’s order,’ she said, ‘I’m ravishing.’
‘You mean ravenous,’ he replied.
‘No, I don’t,’ she grinned, without looking up.
At least they’d escaped Wrath and Sloth. With Oonagh, Lust always appeared to be waiting in the wings.
*
Oonagh topped up his glass as they started to eat. Already he could feel the wine relaxing him.
‘Tom,’ she said, once the waiter was out of earshot, ‘can I tell you something?’
‘Go on.’ he said, easing back in his chair, finally feeling comfortable.
‘It’s about Father Kennedy.’
‘Yes?’ Tom paused before placing his glass on the table. ‘What about him?’
She gave him an awkward grin. ‘Look, promise you won’t laugh.’
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well’ – he watched her bite her bottom lip – ‘it’s just that I think… well, I think there’s something… something not quite right about his death.’
Tom did as she asked. He didn’t laugh.
4
Glasgow, 2000
Oonagh walked barefoot down the aisle of a derelict church to find Father Kennedy’s parched corpse waiting to give her communion. When he placed the host in her mouth, his fingers crumbled and turned to dust. He tried to open his mouth to speak. But his lips had been sewn together with rough black thread.
She woke up terrified, remembering the ghost story her dad had told her, about a priest dying on the altar and coming back to finish mass. ‘Honest tae God, Oonagh,’ he’d cross his heart to give the story authenticity, ‘and whoever had the misfortune to see the ghost of a priest…’ he’d draw his finger across his throat in a theatrical movement then nod his head. Her mother, of course, always backed him up.
‘Sure, hadn’t the very same thing not happened to a friend’s cousin? Why, hadn’t he fallen asleep during mass and woke in the pitch black to see the ghost of some old priest praying on the altar. You know what happened to him, don’t you?’
Oonagh would sit on his knee, eyes like saucers, already knowing the answer. The story scared the living daylights out of her. When she was at mass she’d sit nipping her thigh in case she dozed off. She was at least twelve years old before she realised that not all of her dad’s stories were true.
She’d left the church behind a long time ago, along with other childish things, but in the hours before dawn that story still had the ability to terrify her.
Oonagh drifted in and out of a fitful sleep until it was time to get up. Then it was a struggle even to open her eyes.
At least the morning brought some degree of normality: the traffic building up outside on Hyndland Drive, and the cat driving her mental by scratching at the kitchen door to get out. She slid out of bed and pulled on a shirt before heading downstairs. By this time the cat was head-butting the back door, obviously desperate for a pee. He’d belonged to her dad. She’d thought it would be nice to have a wee cat around, but all he did was eat, sleep, shit and make her face itchy and blotchy if he got too close.
She carried her mug of coffee into the front room and fished the colour-coded inhalers from her bag. The brown once a day. The blue four times a day if she was feeling breathless. She had a green one too, but just kept it shoved in the back of a drawer and kept her fingers crossed that her asthma would never get that bad. She took two puffs of the brown and waited a few minutes before lighting her first cigarette of the day.
Ordinarily she’d switch on the television. Catch the early news, watch the events of the day unfold. But not today.
She took a last long draw on her cigarette, squashed the butt flat into the ashtray, then switched on the video to take another look at the previous night’s airing of The Other Side. Although she’d seen the finished version before it had gone on air, she’d been too nervous to watch the transmission. Seeing it again now, she had to admit it was good. Bloody good. She looked forward to today’s production meeting. Usually they were a waste of time – a group of navel gazers eating trays of deli sandwiches and getting high on showing off. But today’s would be different.
The doorbell rang and she pressed Pause. The screen froze on the sunburnt face of a startled woman coming out of a tanning salon to find a film crew peering at her.
Jack stood on the step, jangling his car keys against the side of his leg. He was pale and looked like he’d lost weight. ‘Can I come in?’
She opened the door a little wider, and nodded her head. He hesitated before skimming a kiss on her cheek as he walked past. The cheeky bastard gave her bare legs the once over. A mixture of anger and emptiness flooded through her.
‘What do you want, Jack?’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Look, can we just get this over with? I assume you didn’t come for a chair.’
/> ‘Straight talking as usual.’ He gave a reluctant, half-hearted grin. The hint of a nervous laugh at the end of his sentence. She said nothing.
‘I don’t want you thinking—’
‘Jack, you have no idea what I think.’
They had first met when he was a guest on a debate programme she’d hosted. He’d been charming but had made little impact on her; she was used to being chatted up. And by bigger and more powerful men than him. It had been months before she saw him again, at a charity ball to raise money for some good cause or other – cash for kids forced to wear last year’s trainers, or something. It had been eight months since her dad had died, nine months since she’d had sex, and he’d been wearing a tuxedo. Inevitable really. Lame excuses for sleeping with another woman’s husband, but the only ones she’d ever been able to come up with.
Cat came through and snaked his way round her legs. She reached down to stroke him. ‘Funny animals, cats,’ she said, tickling the soft fur under his belly. ‘They start off fluffy and kittenish. After a few months, they play less and start clawing at the door, demanding freedom. That’s their hunting instinct kicking in – they always prefer the chase to the catch.’
Jack was looking out of the window at his car parked on the double yellows. She could have throttled him.
‘Jack, I think it’s obvious what’s going on here. There’s no need to give this whole bloody thing a post mortem and drag it out any longer than necessary.’
‘Oonagh, please.’
‘Don’t ‘Oonagh, please’ me. I haven’t heard a word from you for three weeks. Three weeks! You haven’t even had the decency to call me, or even send an email. Jesus Christ, Jack.’ He kept trying to cut in, but she’d rehearsed this speech for a fortnight. ‘You could have been man enough to face up to me. Don’t treat me like a bit on the side.’ In the dry runs she was calm and sophisticated. But now she was yelling and when she stood up she remembered she wasn’t wearing any knickers. She tugged her shirt down over her thighs. ‘And then you turn up at my home. Unannounced. I’m not allowed anywhere near your home, yet you think it’s all right to just march through my life whenever you can be bothered.’
The Lost Children Page 2
