The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  At that moment, the policewoman walked back in with the tea, and placed the cup down on the table in front of him. ‘Milk, two sugars,’ she said, daring Tom to argue.

  He didn’t. Tom hated sweet tea, but nodded his head. And he was grateful for her interruption, however grumpy. He’d been about to cry, he knew it.

  Davies knew it too. ‘For crying out loud, pull yerself together.’

  Tom scalded his lips trying to sip the tea.

  ‘Now on top of all this, ah’ve just found out you were hauled intae Maryhill polis station six months ago for hawkin’ yer mutton in Kelvin Way! You’re in the shit, Father, right up to yer rosary beads. So how about ye dry yer eyes and tell me what the fuck’s going on.’

  Davies pressed down two buttons on the tape recorder and the machine whirred into action. He stated the date and time for the record, said his own name and that of the policewoman, who had remained in the room. It was only when he said ‘Father Thomas Findlay’ that the penny dropped.

  ‘Hang on, am I under arrest? What’s going on here?’

  ‘Father, put yer Catholic guilt to one side just for a few minutes. You’re just helping us with inquiries, okay.’

  Tom felt anything but okay. ‘Should I be contacting a lawyer?’

  ‘Do you feel you need a lawyer?’ Even sitting down Davies towered above him. ‘Look, this is just an interview, if you feel the need to call your brief, then—’

  ‘No, no, I’ll co-operate any way I can.’ He meant to sound helpful, but his voice came out in a pathetic, desperate whine.

  ‘Right, Father, do you want to tell us why you went to Oonagh O’Neil’s house this afternoon?’

  Tom got the distinct impression this wasn’t a question, more of an order. ‘Has there been any word from the hospital yet? How is she? Please, I need to know.’

  Davies relented. ‘They’re still working on her – as far I know. She’s in surgery, that’s all they’ll tell me for now. Now, why were you in her house this afternoon?’

  ‘Well, she called me and asked me to come and see her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She wanted to talk to me about something.’

  Davies breathed in heavily through his nose, his hand rubbed over the stubble on his chin. ‘What did she want to talk about?’ His voice was slow and deliberate.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit delicate actually.’

  Davies stood up, leaned both palms on the table and held his face just inches away from Tom’s. ‘Delicate? I’ll give you delicate.’ A pinprick of saliva shot from Davies’ mouth and landed on Tom’s cheek. Tom decided not to wipe it away.

  Davies was struggling not to yell. Tom was suddenly glad of the machine recording their every word.

  ‘Wise up, Findlay, this won’t go away. It’s not some doddery old priest who mixed up his medicine bottles. This won’t be swept under the carpet so easily. Oonagh O’Neil was attacked in her own home, in broad daylight. As soon as she’s fit, she’ll tell us who did it. At best we’re looking at an attempted murder charge. Now, I think you know more than you’re letting on, so unless you want me to arrest you for obstructing the course of justice, I suggest you be a bit more helpful. And don’t forget, a charge sheet for indecent behaviour with your name on it could still find its way into a pile of paperwork at Maryhill Police Station.’

  ‘I swear it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Why did you delay calling the ambulance?’

  ‘It was only a few seconds. I couldn’t get a signal. And, well… well, she wanted the Last Rites.’

  ‘Am I meant to keep a straight face when you’re talking shite? Do you honestly expect me to believe a woman like Oonagh O’Neil would want the Last Rites?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what people do when they think they’re dying. A lot turn to God in their final hours, you know.’

  ‘Well, fat lot of good it does, eh?’

  ‘You don’t know that, not for sure.’

  Davies refused to be drawn any further on this and sat back down.

  ‘I didn’t attack her,’ Tom said. ‘I never touched her, I swear to God.’

  ‘No, you probably didn’t.’

  Tom looked at him, confused.

  ‘No weapon,’ Davies said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We didn’t find a weapon on you, or in the house for that matter. Anyway, from what the cleaner said, it’s unlikely Oonagh would have been as calm as she was with you if you’d just plunged a bloody great big blade into her neck. Look, didn’t she say anything, give you any clues as to who did this to her?’

  ‘I told you before, she was slipping in and out of consciousness… She wasn’t really making sense.’

  Tom slumped back in his chair. He bit his bottom lip hard, but it wasn’t enough to stem the tears from rolling down his cheeks. Not that they had any effect on Davies.

  ‘She was pregnant,’ said Tom, more to break the silence than anything else. It was bound to come out sooner or later anyway, so what the hell. ‘She’d planned to have an abortion, but called me this afternoon to say she’d changed her mind.’

  ‘You know this is easily checked?’

  Tom nodded.

  Davies opened the door and had a few brief words with the officer in the corridor.

  ‘Who was the father?’ he asked a moment later.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Tom shrugged his shoulders.

  Davies immediately lost what little patience he had. ‘From the sounds of it you two were fairly cosy. Wasn’t you by any chance?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, I’m a priest.’

  Davies raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and a snigger escaped from his nose.

  ‘And gay. Obviously,’ added Tom. ‘All I know is his first name: Jack. That’s all she told me. Oh, and he’s married. Look, she went to meet him yesterday in The Rogano, I dropped her off. You can check if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘Interview terminated seventeen twenty-seven.’ Davies switched off the machine and turned to his female colleague, who had remained silent throughout. ‘Get someone down to The Rogano. Find out what time she arrived, who she was with, the usual, and tell McVeigh to get his butt over to my office ASAP.’

  Davies returned his attention to Tom. ‘Right, we’ll need to speak to you later, so don’t go joining any strange cults in faraway places, or taking a vow of silence or nothing. You’re not off the hook yet, ye’ know.’

  25

  Glasgow 2000

  Tom grabbed a taxi on Maryhill Road. He was almost at the chapel house when he remembered his car was parked outside Oonagh’s and had to ask the driver to double back to the West End. It was dark by the time they got there, but the press were out in force. Photographers, reporters, television crews. Tom suddenly realised this really was headline news.

  He took his dog collar off before getting out of the cab and opened the top two buttons on his shirt. Priests always attracted more attention than he could be bothered with right now.

  The police cordon was still round her house, but his car was parked just outside the boundary. A ticket was stuck on the windscreen. He swiped it off as he opened the door and got just a faint look of interest from the uniformed officer outside, but he soon recognised Tom and nodded him permission to drive off.

  He drove back to the South Side in a state of shock. He’d been warned by Davies not to go anywhere near the hospital, but hunger for news on Oonagh gnawed at his stomach. He couldn’t take it all in and began to suspect Davies was right. He was involved in something, up to his neck in it. The only trouble was he didn’t know what. He was too close to see what was happening, as if in the eye of a storm. Like Davies, he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He stopped at the off licence on the way home and selected a bottle of dry white from the chiller cabinet. There was probably some already back at the chapel house, but he decided he had less risk of bumping into Mrs Brady if he bypassed the kitchen and went straight to his room.

  He turned into the tre
e lined avenue just in time to catch Charlie Antonio walking quickly away from the house. There was no sign of his car, he must have parked it in the next street. Tom’s heart sank. What did he want now?

  Antonio disappeared round the corner, and once Tom felt sure he was out of sight, he drove into the driveway and parked at the rear of the house. He let himself in through the back door, ignoring the red flashing light on the answering machine. He dragged himself upstairs, staying as quiet as possible. The curate was next door, in Father Kennedy’s old room; Tom couldn’t be bothered with any words of comfort or kindness. And he couldn’t face the following day’s preparations for Father Kennedy’s funeral; he’d take a back seat and let the curate take control. The whole thing was a mess.

  *

  It was already evening when they arrived at Kendall Hall. Yes, the nurse confirmed, Oonagh had been booked in as a day patient on Tuesday, and no, it was no trouble to give them Dr Cranworth’s home address. She didn’t seem to have much loyalty to her employer, and McVeigh wondered if she’d fallen for his charms once too often and this was payback time.

  They drove towards Pollokshields. The only time their police colleagues were called to Hamilton Avenue was to investigate a break in, or to answer a call about a suspected prowler in the grounds of one of the mansions.

  They parked outside the gates and walked up the driveway. Even by Kendall Hall standards, this place was pretty impressive. Security lights sprang into action with every footstep up the long gravel drive. The house itself was well lit, and as they neared the door they could see Cranworth through the window. This wasn’t the land of the net curtain.

  The door was opened by a woman clinging onto her forties for all she was worth. Despite it being Glasgow, despite it nearing winter, despite her relaxing in her own home, she was wearing a cream wool suit, edged with navy blue trim. Cream glossy tights failed to give her stick thin legs any shape.

  She balanced on four inch spikes that disappeared into the plush carpet. Her blonde candyfloss bob had been relentlessly teased to form a massive globe around her head, far too big for her tall but emaciated frame.

  ‘We’re looking to speak to Dr Cranworth,’ said Davies, holding out his badge.

  ‘I’m Dr Cranworth,’ she said. ‘Is there a problem?’ She held onto the edge of the door. Her long painted nails clawed their way round the frame.

  ‘I think it’s your husband we’re looking for Mrs, er, Dr Cranworth.’ He’d been tempted to pretend it was her son they were after, just to piss her off, but he thought better of it. Her nails looked lethal. ‘Can we come in?’ His foot was already on the hall carpet.

  ‘What’s this about, please?’

  ‘If we could just have a quick word.’

  They followed her until she opened a door to a room where Cranworth was sitting. He turned round with a confused look. It was hard to tell if he’d genuinely forgotten who he and McVeigh were or whether he was making an elaborate gesture in front of his wife.

  ‘It’s the police, Dah-ling, they want to speak to you.’ His wife stood by the door, obviously waiting for some sort of an explanation.

  ‘The police? Oh right.’ The penny dropped. So he had seen them before. He looked at his wife’s puzzled expression.

  ‘We had a bit of trouble at the clinic, nothing serious, just a break in. Can you leave us alone for a few minutes, eh?’

  She obeyed and left the room, her shocked expression unchanged. Davies realised the high arch of her brows owed more to a surgeon’s knife than the surprise visit from Strathclyde’s finest.

  ‘What the hell do you mean coming to my home?’ Cranworth demanded once the door was closed.

  Davies sat down, unfazed, while McVeigh stood by the door. Cranworth had none of the air of control he’d displayed at their earlier meeting. His face was flushed and his short grey hair was clinging to his head. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and two dark patches under the arms of his shirt. Even from across the room Davies could smell the sour odour of whisky from his breath.

  ‘I don’t remember inviting you to sit down.’

  ‘You didn’t!’ Davies retorted.

  ‘What do you want? What’s this about?’

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil.’

  Cranworth looked genuinely shocked. He glanced at the door to make sure his wife had closed it properly. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil. You must know her, she’s booked into your clinic next Tuesday.’

  ‘I can’t discuss that with you. Have you never heard of patient confidentiality?’

  ‘Look, you trumped up little arse hole. Thirty years ago, you’d be plying your trade up a tenement close with a knitting needle. So don’t come the high and bloody mighty with me. Answer the fucking question… or do you want me to speak to your wife?’

  Cranworth, shocked by the outburst, checked the door again, as if looking at it would reveal if his wife had heard anything. He ran his fingers through his hair, then brought his hand down and ran his palm over the stubble on his chin, partially covering his mouth with his fingers. He spoke quietly to encourage Davies to follow suit.

  ‘What have you come here for? What’s going on?’

  ‘How well do you know Oonagh O’Neil? Are you having an affair with her?’

  ‘No, I’m bloody not! What the hell are you talking about?’

  Davies gestured to McVeigh, who handed over a copy of the photograph that he had found in Oonagh’s bedroom. Davies threw it down in front of Cranworth.

  ‘Not exactly standard practice to carry out an abortion on your lover is it? What kind of butcher are you to abort your own baby?’

  ‘Is that what this is about? Has she made a complaint? Some malpractice suit?’ He shook his head. ‘If this picture is the only evidence you’ve got of an affair, then I’m afraid you’ll need to do better than that.’

  Davies looked down at the picture. ‘It’s a very good likeness. The waiter recognised you right away. Pair of you are regular customers by all accounts. Said you were together last night, arguing, going at it hammer and tongs. She threw a bottle of wine over you. Does your wife know about that?’

  ‘So what, not exactly a police matter, eh Taggart?’

  Cranworth raised his whisky glass to his mouth, but Davies leaned across and stopped him before it reached his lips, his voice soft but deliberate. ‘Oonagh O’Neil was attacked this afternoon. Someone tried to kill her. Damn near succeeded and all. Now that, buster, is a police matter. Right!’

  Jack Cranworth slumped back in his chair, the colour draining slowly from his face.

  Davies took the glass from his hand and placed it on the table. ‘Now, it seems you two had quite a bust-up. What happened? Did she threaten to tell your wife about your wee set-up? I also hear she refused to go through with the abortion. Don’t imagine that would go down too well with the missus either.’

  The beads of sweat were now running down Cranworth’s forehead. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘This isn’t what you think. That picture means nothing. She’s very highly strung you know. Probably a bit infatuated with me if truth be told.’ He attempted a smile. ‘The baby’s not mine. She came to me for help, and of course I tried to do what I could, but—’

  Davies felt sick. ‘Jesus Christ, you really are the lowest of the low. We know it was your baby. We know you were having an affair. She told her bloody priest for God’s sake.’

  ‘Her priest? Oonagh would never confide in a priest. She isn’t even a practising Catholic.’

  ‘You obviously know her pretty well then, eh?’ He took no pleasure in catching Cranworth out. ‘That poor girl is lying in hospital with more tubes coming out of her than Ibrox Park. Her poor mother near enough lost the plot when she was told. Had to be sedated.’ Davies knew this to be true because he was the one who’d had to break the news to her that someone had tried to kill her daughter.

  His anger rose as he looked at Cranworth. ‘Can’t you do the decent thin
g for once in your life and just admit you were having an affair, instead of making out she was some sort of bunny boiler? At least admit it was your wean? Makes no difference now anyway – she’s lost it.’

  Davies thought he detected a slight look of relief flash across Cranworth’s face.

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cranworth said. ‘I mean I’m sorry and all that, of course I am, but I can’t help you. I don’t know anything.’

  Davies wasn’t convinced.

  Cranworth scrambled to dig himself out of his hole. ‘How is she? Which hospital is she in? Is there—’

  ‘… anything you can do? No thanks, you’ve done enough. Oh, and by the way, attempting to go and see Miss O’Neil would not be one of your better ideas. Stay away, ok?’

  The sweat was now clearly visible on Cranworth’s top lip.

  McVeigh chipped in. ‘Where were you this afternoon?’

  ‘The clinic, then I played golf.’

  ‘I suppose you can prove that, can you?’

  ‘Look, I refuse to carry on with this until I see my lawyer,’ Cranworth blurted out.

  ‘Well, you’d better give him a ring then, ’cause I’m like a bad smell, Cranworth: I refuse to go away. I think it’s best if we carry on our wee chat down at the station.’

  ‘The station? What… what’ll I tell my wife?’

  ‘You can go tell her to whistle Dixie for all I care, now get moving, Crippen!’

  26

  Glasgow, 2000

  Slowly Oonagh came to. She felt like she’d downed a full bottle of gin before being kicked up and down Sauchiehall Street. The sedation was wearing off. She felt nervy and insecure, with that jittery feeling of not quite being able to remember what had gone wrong. Her head throbbed. A thick square of bandage was taped across the wound on the left side of her neck. On her right shoulder was a horseshoe shaped bruise. Plastic tubes fed in and out of the back of her hands, and the clear bag by the side of her bed dripped with amber liquid from the catheter that snaked from under her sheets. She knew she’d be sick if she looked at where it was coming from.