The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘What happened then? Was he not meant to get too heavy with her? Just sent him there to give her a wee fright? All go wrong, did it?’

  Davies was conscious of Cranworth’s enormous frame visibly shrinking.

  ‘That’s nonsense, it’s just not true. Why don’t you ask her?’

  Davies ignored the question. ‘Well, why the hell did you arrange to meet him? Give yourself a break here, Cranworth. You’re not doing yourself any favours.’

  ‘I’m not saying another word until I see my lawyer.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Davies turned to McVeigh. ‘Get a couple of uniforms in here. Let him stew in his own juice for the next five hours before we charge him. And if he so much as farts I want to be told.’ He turned back to Cranworth. ‘Then you’ll be able to speak to your lawyer. And by Christ, for your sake, you’d better hope he was trained in Philadelphia.’

  *

  Oonagh reached over and held Anna Brady’s hand, seeing the same scared look she recognised from the eyes of the other women she’d interviewed. She held the woman’s gaze for a moment, seeing only misery and torment in her yellow watery eyes.

  ‘Look,’ said Oonagh, ‘if ever you need someone to talk to, or—’ She wasn’t sure what else she could offer, and instead just squeezed her hand. She wanted to be caring, loving even, but worried that she was coming across as patronising.

  Mrs Brady pulled her hand away when she heard someone come through the back door. Tom’s jaw dropped when he saw them both at the table.

  ‘Oonagh. I take it you’ve heard then? Did Davies call you?’

  Oonagh fell back against the chair, winded by her relief that it hadn’t been Tom who’d taken the tumble at St Patrick’s. She shook her head. ‘No. What happened at the church?’ She fished her mobile from her bag and saw that she’d missed two messages, both from Davies.

  ‘Charlie Antonio,’ said Tom. ‘He fell off the balcony.’

  Before the shock of this news had properly hit her, Tom was pulling an audio cassette tape from his pocket and putting it on the table between herself and Mrs Brady.

  Oonagh instantly recognised it as one of her own, from a pile she had at home. All with her Magdalene interviews recorded on them.

  ‘Where the hell did you get this?’ said Oonagh, kicking her chair back hard enough to send it crashing to the floor. ‘That’s private material. Confidential.’

  ‘Sorry, Oonagh. I picked it up by accident. I didn’t mean any harm, I only realised I had it this morning and I was about to give it back to you when I noticed the date.’ He pointed at it as though she might need reminding. ‘Oonagh, it’s from Wednesday the eighth. The day you were attacked.’ Tom slotted it into the battered ghetto blaster on the dresser behind them. In an instance a voice they all recognised filled the kitchen. ‘Losing a child…’ said the voice, cracking with emotion, ‘… it’s torture. You never forget, you know. It was torture, and it still is.’

  Oonagh slammed her hand onto the off switch. But Tom seemed nonplussed.

  ‘I’ve heard it, Oonagh. I listened to it in the car.’ He looked weary as he took the tape from the machine and stepped over to Anna Brady. ‘That’s you on that tape isn’t it, Mrs Brady?’

  ‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish, Tom,’ Oonagh butted in. Wouldn’t let the older woman answer. Anna Brady dropped her eyes and rolled the red hot end of the cigarette between her fingers until it went out.

  Tom wouldn’t let up. ‘Mrs Brady, I know it’s you, it’s your voice.’

  Oonagh tried to grab the tape from his hand, but Tom held it just out of her reach. ‘Stop this, Tom. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’ But he was defiant.

  The last few days had taken their toll and Oonagh was no longer in the mood to be reasonable. She clenched her hand into a fist and punched Tom square on the face. His legs buckled and he dropped the tape as he slumped onto the chair holding his jaw. Oonagh ignored his wounded expression, snatched the tape and pulled it clear from its casing. She uncoiled yards and yards of black shiny ribbon until all of it lay in a useless heap on the floor. Her voice hiccupped with emotion and she immediately felt guilty for having lashed out at Tom. He was too easy a target on whom to vent her anger.

  She needed to justify herself. ‘You had no right – no bloody right to listen to that tape.’ A big angry mark was forming on Tom’s cheek, just below his eye. ‘Shit.’ She was annoyed at him for bruising so easily. She opened the freezer. ‘Here.’ She pressed a packet of frozen broccoli against Tom’s bruise. ‘Sorry. I just freaked. I’m a bag of nerves since… you know.’

  Tom held onto the ice pack and moved his jaw from side to side, as if mimicking something from TV. ‘Alright, does someone want to tell me what the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. Right.’ Oonagh was still in a huff and busied herself scooping up the discarded tape and stuffing it into a black bin liner.

  Mrs Brady’s chin seemed to dissolve into her chest, but she didn’t cry.

  ‘Oonagh, leave that just now, eh?’ Tom stood up with his back to Mrs Brady, as though that would stop her hearing him.

  Oonagh tied a knot in the top of the bin bag and carried it to the back door. ‘So what happened with Antonio then? How the hell did he fall off the balcony?’ She didn’t like the look on Tom’s face. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she walked back to the table.

  Tom made a big play of his sore face and held the frozen food against his cheek with both hands. Oonagh lit another cigarette and sat down beside Anna Brady, who seemed to be in a world of her own and was stubbing out the already dead fag in the ashtray. ‘Here,’ said Oonagh, and handed her a fresh one.

  Tom sat opposite them, trying to catch Mrs Brady’s eye, but the housekeeper wasn’t really focusing on anything. ‘So. If you were at Oonagh’s house that day, well, you should really go to the police.’

  Oonagh felt pig sick and sat on her hands in case she belted him on the other side of his face. ‘For the love of God will you shut the fuck up about that? What difference does it make?’

  Tom folded his arms, seemingly mortified at being told off in front of his housekeeper.

  Anna looked at the clock. ‘I need to get on.’ She squeezed the end of her cigarette and put it in her pocket for later.

  She got up to leave and Oonagh tried not to make her smile concerned rather than condescending. ‘Take care,’ she said, giving her fingers a squeeze. But she didn’t respond and her hand hung limp at her side.

  Oonagh watched her shuffle away and waited until she’d closed the door before turning to Tom. ‘How much did you listen to?’

  ‘Not much.’ He seemed eager to be talking about the tape again. He explained that he’d been on his way to her house to drop it off when he’d stuck it on out of idle curiosity and had recognised Anna Brady’s voice immediately. ‘That’s not the point, Oonagh. It’s when it was recorded that’s the important thing. I mean she must have left your house just minutes before you were attacked.’

  Oonagh picked at the skin on the side of her thumb. ‘Leave her out of it. It was tough enough to get her to talk at all without dragging her into this.’

  Tom didn’t know when to shut up. ‘But she might have seen something, maybe noticed someone hanging around outside. As soon as I realised I doubled back over to the church. I thought she’d be there this afternoon. But God, see when I got there… Jeezo. It was pandemonium.’

  It was Oonagh’s chance to steer the conversation away from her attack and back onto Tom’s big adventure. ‘So what’s the deal with Antonio? Were you there when it happened?’

  Tom waved his hand as though he was sorry he’d missed all the action. ‘No. Got there just as the police and ambulance arrived.’

  ‘So what’s the score then? D’you think he fell or jumped or what? Did you see Davies? Did he say anything?’

  The frozen broccoli was beginning to thaw and melted ice trickled down Tom’s face. ‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said.

  ‘Like
what? What is it? Tell me.’

  So he told her. And he was right. She didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  36

  Glasgow, 2000

  Davies didn’t believe in coincidences, and the chances of two proddies turning up at the same Catholic church at the same time were slimmer than slim. By the time they drove back to St Patrick’s, Charlie’s body was long gone, and a minor clean-up operation was underway. Three women and a man, all in white overalls, were scrubbing the pews and pouring disinfectant on the floor. The excrement, blood and body fluids had already been cleaned away; only the stench lingered. The decision had been made to keep the church closed to the general praying public for a day or two. And, as a mark of respect, or perhaps because the Church was afraid the odour of death would linger, the venue for Father Kennedy’s funeral had been switched to Saint Luke’s in the Gorbals.

  Inside, Davies went straight to the seat Cranworth had occupied just before Charlie had taken his tumble. He sent McVeigh upstairs. ‘Can you see me from where you are?’ he shouted up.

  ‘No, not unless I…’ McVeigh leaned over the wooden railings.

  ‘For crying out loud, get back,’ Davies yelled. ‘Those guys haven’t finished cleaning up after the last one!’

  It seemed obvious Charlie had been leaning over the banister to check if Cranworth had arrived. He must have been there for a payoff. Why else would he still have had the weapon with which Oonagh had been attacked? He’d have dumped it otherwise.

  Instinctively, Davies felt under the seat. Nothing. He pushed up the padded knee rests and lay on the floor. No sign of anything stuffed down the seat in front either. The row backed onto a wall and the wooden beams of the pew were screwed firmly in place. A pile of hymn books were stacked in a corner at the end of the seat. Davies didn’t exactly keep his fingers crossed as he slid along the wooden bench, but knew he’d find what he was looking for if God was in his heaven. Tucked behind the pile of books was a bulging manila envelope.

  ‘Gotcha.’

  *

  Back at the station it took just minutes to match Cranworth’s prints with two big fat thumb prints on the inside of the envelope, which turned out to contain five grand. A team had already been dispatched to go over Charlie’s house with a fine-tooth comb. This would give extra impetus to their work.

  Stepping outside, Davies stretched his arms and gently teased his aching back muscles out of the crick they’d formed. Rubbing the side of his neck, he put his face upwards, this time grateful for the splashes of rain that temporarily revived him.

  Something wasn’t right. Call it sixth sense, call it intuition, call it experience, but something wasn’t right. Why the hell would Cranworth hire Charlie to kill Oonagh?

  Cranworth was no fool. If he wanted Oonagh out of the way he’d have made sure the job was done properly – and wouldn’t have hired someone who knew her. Although perhaps he had no idea that Oonagh already knew Charlie Antonio. It could have been a coincidence. And he’d always known Charlie Antonio to be an ignorant wee shite, but he’d never had him down as a contract killer. So how did he fit in to the case?

  Davies shook his head. He also had an inkling that Oonagh wasn’t telling him everything. He felt a sting of betrayal.

  McVeigh was suddenly in front of him, holding two steaming cups of coffee, fresh from the machine.

  ‘Milk, two sugars, is that right?’ he said, handing one over.

  ‘Aye, and the rest,’ Davies replied, taking a hip flask from his back pocket. ‘The only thing that makes this stuff bearable,’ he said, pouring in a good measure. It wasn’t clear – even to him – if he meant the coffee, the job, or Oonagh. He blew on the liquid before taking a sip and tried to shift the weight he felt was bearing down on him.

  ‘It just disnae make sense,’ he said aloud.

  ‘But surely now you’ve found the cash it makes perfect sense. You said so yourself. Cranworth obviously hired Antonio to kill Oonagh, but Antonio bungled it. Maybe he was disturbed before he could finish the job. Bloody hell, we found the weapon on him and Cranworth’s fingerprints on the cash. What more do you want?’

  Davies rested his cup on the windowsill on the inside of the entranceway as he topped it up again with Glenmorangie from his flask. He screwed the top back on slowly as his mind ticked over. ‘If you hire a plumber, he brings his own tools, right?’ McVeigh looked lost, so Davies didn’t wait for a reply. ‘And you wouldnae expect to lend a carpenter your screwdriver, would you?’

  ‘Eh, no…’

  ‘Well, why the hell would a hired killer turn up at a job without a weapon and instead use an antique letter opener that the poor unfortunate victim just happened to have on her hall table? Like I said, it disnae make sense.’

  But he knew that shouldn’t surprise him. He’d seen a seven stone pensioner who’d been kicked to death for a couple of quid; he’d watched a dealer walk free from court after selling a dodgy E to a fifteen year old kid who’d ended up on a slab; and he’d seen a father of two who’d had his throat slit for wearing the wrong colour scarf on a Saturday afternoon. So no, it didn’t make sense, but sometimes things just didn’t.

  ‘What if it was all planned,’ suggested McVeigh. ‘A double bluff.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, if he went along and tried to make it look like another break in… planned to use a knife or something… as though he’d been disturbed… so it wouldn’t look like a professional job…’

  Davies pondered the idea, nodding his head slowly. ‘Aye, but using Charlie Antonio? He’s no killer.’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said McVeigh. ‘But if you wanted someone to break in then he’s your man. He’s well known for his wee uninvited visits to people. Especially those who’d rather keep their private lives private.’

  Davies stopped drinking and looked at his partner. ‘Aye, and it’s no’ as if he had his pick of jobs. He was always scrounging. Maybe he decided to branch out, stretch his wings.’ He drank the rest of the coffee in a oner. ‘You might have just earned yer keep, son.’

  ‘What?’

  Davies liked that he’d stunned McVeigh. But then for once he’d spouted a theory that made sense.

  ‘Do you honestly think that’s actually what happened?’ McVeigh checked.

  ‘Well, put it this way, I don’t think you’re too wide of the mark.’ Davies scrunched up his plastic cup and threw it towards the bin beside the door, scoring. Then, turning to McVeigh, he said, ‘Right, I need to speak to Oonagh again. But I’m telling you, she won’t like it when she finds out we’ve got Cranworth in here.’

  37

  Glasgow, 2000

  It was like a game of hide and seek. Oonagh raced to St Patrick’s, but Davies had already gone. A policeman at the door told her Davies was back at the station, but by the time she reached the station, the desk sergeant told her Davies had been and gone.

  ‘Well, can you at least tell me if Dr Cranworth is being held?’ But no, he wouldn’t budge.

  Oonagh couldn’t believe it when Tom told her he’d seen Jack getting into the back of a police car. She’d been holding the packet of frozen broccoli against his battered face to stop it swelling when he’d broken the news. She knew he hadn’t told her as any act of revenge for the punch to his jaw.

  There was an angry red mark forming on her knuckles and it stung like hell. She wondered if kicking Father Watson and then hitting Tom in the space of a few hours counted as Church bashing. She returned to the futile attempt to extract even a morsel of information from the desk sergeant.

  ‘Has Dr Cranworth called his lawyer? Can you let him know I’m here?’

  He eyed the space on the third finger of her left hand. ‘You his wife?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not his fu—’ She held back, realising it was a rhetorical question. The guy obviously knew who she was. He’d greeted her by name as she’d walked through the swing doors. Probably watched her on the box nearly every night. She gulped down a mouthful of
air. It tasted stale. Like old training shoes and pee.

  She was scared, scared and sick, and had to keep her hand over her mouth to stop from retching as she left the station. Everything was moving too fast.

  Back in the car she punched she steering wheel in frustration and was almost glad of the pain that shot through her already tender knuckles. She was desperate to speak to Davies, but his phone was switched off. Tiredness crept through her, turning her legs to jelly. She toyed with the idea of going back to see Tom, but that notion proved no match for her exhaustion, which led her back home. She wanted her mum, with her cold red wine and shrunken cashmere.

  *

  Davies watched Cranworth’s wife through the door glass as she slowly made her way down the stairs. She pulled her skirt taut with both hands and smoothed her hair before opening the door. Davies and McVeigh held up their cards.

  ‘My husband’s not here,’ she said, already closing the door.

  ‘I know, we’ve got him down at the station. Anyway, it’s you we need to speak to. May we?’ His foot was already inside.

  She held the door just eighteen inches wide, forcing them to enter in single file. Her face held its familiar startled expression, her eyes wide beneath the high, solid arch of her thinly plucked brows.

  A suitcase stood near the stairs. Rich burgundy leather, her initials embossed on the side.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ asked Davies. She ignored him and led the way into the sitting room.

  ‘Right, get on with it.’ There was no sign of the dutiful wife routine Davies had noted on his previous visit. She stood by the roaring fire, tapping a long, thin pink cigarette against the back of her hand before lighting it with a silver lighter.

  ‘Dr Cranworth, we’re questioning your husband in connection with the attempted murder of Oonagh O’Neil.’

  ‘So?’ she scraped a piece of stray filter tip from her tongue with her finger nail.

  ‘You don’t seem very concerned.’