The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t seem very surprised either.’

  She shrugged her shoulders as she perched on the arm of a cream sofa. She crossed her legs and leaned over to flick her cigarette into the ashtray on the glass table.

  ‘Does the name Charlie Antonio mean anything to you?’ Davies thought she faltered, just for an instant, as she dragged the ashtray closer with a long painted talon. ‘Dr Cranworth?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t seem too sure.’

  ‘No.’ She took a long draw, held it for a moment then blew it out through the side of her lips. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil. How well do you know her?’

  ‘I don’t. Oh, I know she was screwing my husband if that’s what you’re referring to.’ The grey ash crept its way along the pink cigarette. A thin plume of smoke spiralled up from the tip. She tipped her chin upwards as she exhaled. Her expression was unchanged. It was obvious Jean Cranworth had no intention of helping in any way. And she took great pleasure in letting Davies and McVeigh know as much.

  They had very little on her, nothing more than a copper’s hunch, and it was clear that she knew it.

  A remote control lay on the coffee table next to the ashtray. She picked it up, and pointed it, not at the television but at the blazing fire, killing the flames with one click of a button.

  ‘It didn’t bother you that your husband was having an affair?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘And you didn’t feel jealous?’

  She let out a shrill laugh. ‘Of what? That media pop-tart?’ She stubbed her cigarette out, grinding the tip hard into the ashtray.

  Davies saw the veins bulge on the back of her tanned, leathery hand and recognised an ageing process locked onto fast forward by years of sun beds and foreign holidays. She wore a black V-necked cardigan. The tendons on her neck stuck out like over stretched guitar strings, her tanned, crepe paper skin hanging in a fold over her chest.

  ‘You don’t have any children do you, Dr Cranworth?’

  She shot him a quizzical look. ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘How old are you, Dr Cranworth?’

  ‘Forty…’ she hesitated, ‘I’m forty-two.’

  He knew she was lying. Either that or she’d had a bloody hard paper round as a kid.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You think I might have flown into a jealous rage because this O’Neil girl was pregnant.’ She tossed her head back as she let out the same shrill laugh as before. ‘Look around you, Sergeant,’

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ he corrected.

  She held her arms aloft, palms upwards. Davies imagined she’d spent hours in front of the mirror perfecting that pose.

  ‘I have everything I want. There is nothing this O’Neil woman has that I could possibly want or need. I even have my very own husband.’ She tried to raise her eyebrows, but they were as high as they were ever going to go. Her smile was smug and self-satisfied. She stood up and walked to the door.

  They were outside, nearly at the car, when Davies turned round.

  ‘Dr Cranworth, what makes you think Oonagh O’Neil was pregnant?’

  A smile struggled its way to her lips. Davies saw her face twitch – as much as it could – as her tongue licked her dry parched mouth. Her lipstick bled through a mass of tiny vertical lines onto her face.

  ‘Isn’t it common knowledge? I mean, wasn’t it in the newspapers?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Davies spun the wheels on the drive, cutting through the gravel to leave a fine spray of mud in their wake. He watched Jean Cranworth in his rearview mirror as they departed. She didn’t close the door for as long as they could still see her.

  *

  Oonagh gently lowered herself into the bath. The hot water lapped up past her shoulders. Every bone in her body ached. The lump on the back of her head throbbed with the effort of trying to make sense of everything. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift off in the warmth. Thoughts of Anna Brady and her sorry miserable life flooded through her, and the wound on her neck wept in sympathy.

  38

  Glasgow, 2000

  Davies and McVeigh got back to the station in time to witness a great comic spectacle. It was a bit of a treat for McVeigh, he’d never seen him before.

  ‘What the hell is he all about?’

  Despite the rain he walked slowly through the car park, head held high, swinging a silver topped walking stick. It was purely for show. From the look of his jaunt, his legs were in perfect working order. He was wearing a three piece navy tartan suit, with broad lapels and a high buttoned waistcoat. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-one, thirty-two at a push, but his hair was brushed back, and huge sideburns crept down his face, developing into a massive handle bar moustache. There was no beard, his chin was conspicuously bald. It accentuated his pixie like features. The whole ensemble was made complete by a pair of black and white spats.

  ‘Wearing an outfit like that in Govan is the equivalent of wearing a sign with “please kick me” round your neck,’ Davies pointed out.

  ‘Do you think he’s a nutter?’ asked McVeigh.

  ‘That, son,’ said Davies, ‘is Cranworth’s solicitor.’ It was the first time he’d laughed in days.

  ‘What’s with the get up? Is he kidding on?’

  ‘It’s his idea of being a rebel. His family are loaded, but he’s not got the balls to give it all up and become an urban poet. Quite sad really. Dresses in that flamboyant way to make up for his rather dull personality. Thinks if he acts like a mad old eccentric, it’ll make up for his lack of character, which is hilarious considering most of his peers are just recovering from the rave scene. Don’t let him fool you, though. He’s shit hot at what he does. Come on, hurry up, he’ll be giving the desk sergeant pelters.

  Inside, the tartan clad solicitor tapped his cane on the ground until he got the attention of the policeman behind the desk. His behaviour did not go down well.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I believe you’re holding my client.’ He took a pinch of snuff from a lacquered box.

  Davies intervened before the policeman charged him with being an arsehole. ‘Mr Henderson, I’m afraid you can’t speak to your client at the moment. We really are in the middle of a very delicate situation.’

  Henderson started his tried and tested speech about the outrageous fascist regime of Strathclyde Police. He was small – five foot four – and slightly built. Davies placed both hands on his shoulders to calm him down. It made him look all the more ridiculous, like a demented pixie.

  ‘Now, you’re welcome to wait.’ Davies held up his hands, ignoring Henderson’s protests, and walked straight to his office, closing the door behind him. He pulled down the blind on his window just in time to see Henderson flap his handkerchief onto the wooden bench before sitting down. If there was ever a man who’d missed his thespian calling…

  Davies collected his thought for a few moments.

  Finding the cash in St Patrick’s gave them enough to link Cranworth to Oonagh’s attack, even if it didn’t put him at the scene of the crime. Still, they had little else to go on – Antonio’s wife hadn’t come up with much; but then she was undoubtedly still in shock after having to identify the body. No, he’d have to stick with it for now, despite his nagging doubts.

  McVeigh knocked and entered, clutching a paper bag, PC Amy Law was at his back.

  ‘Before we go any further,’ said Davies, ‘get someone to keep an eye on Cranworth’s wife. And for God’s sakes be discreet, I don’t want us hit with a harassment suit.’

  Amy passed the order onto the uniformed man in the hallway, before following McVeigh into the room.

  ‘Right, what have you got?’ McVeigh passed him the bag that contained the discarded pregnancy kit. ‘It’s got Oonagh’s fingerprints. We found it in Charlie’s bin.’

  Davies rubbed his face. ‘Find out when the bins get
emptied in Hyndland.’

  ‘Tuesday,’ McVeigh told him, looking a little smug at having already checked. ‘And Oonagh said she did the test on Tuesday morning. Which means—’

  Davies finished his sentence, ‘… that Charlie must have taken it from the bin inside Oonagh’s house. So it was him who staged the wee break in the night before. Good. We need some definites.’ He put his hand on the phone, preparing to dial, but looked at McVeigh first. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye, you.’ Davies shook his head. ‘What the hell was Antonio doing at Oonagh’s? She couldn’t stand the little prick. Do you think maybe it was Cranworth’s wife who got Charlie to pay Oonagh a wee visit?’

  ‘Maybe. But that doesn’t explain what Cranworth was doing with the cash at the church.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But I don’t believe Cranworth and his wife would both hire the same man to do a break in and a murder in the same house within the same twenty four hours, do you?’

  ‘Seems unlikely. D’you think the money was a set-up? D’ye think he was round there and something happened, maybe it all just got a bit out of hand?’

  Davies had been in this job long enough to know it didn’t take much for things to get so out of hand that a woman could end up with her throat slit. ‘Don’t know, but five grand’s not a lot to kill someone, not nowadays.’ Davies had his own theory spinning inside his head. He looked at Amy. ‘What about you, what’ve you got?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ she unclipped the pink carbon paper from her clipboard and put it down on his desk, ‘we found this.’

  Davies felt the colour rise in his cheeks as his eyes scanned the details of the six-month-old arrest form. He slammed his hands down on the desk. ‘Get me that wee shite Findlay on the phone.’ Davies watched McVeigh crease his eyebrows together. ‘No, on second thoughts don’t bother. We’ll pay him a visit.’

  39

  Glasgow, 2000

  ‘How much did you listen to?’ Her voice was so quiet that Tom struggled to hear.

  ‘Not much really. Just enough to twig it was you.’

  Anna Brady picked up a few fragments of the destroyed tape, which lay dotted around the lino. She gathered them into the palm of her hand and then dropped them in the bin.

  ‘Mrs Brady, why didn’t you let on that you were with Oonagh the day she was attacked?’

  The housekeeper slumped onto the chair and wiped her tears away with the heel of her hand. ‘You don’t understand. This never goes away.’ She banged her chest with her fist.

  He looked at Anna Brady, perhaps for the first time. Her grey hair gathered in wisps around her forehead. Creases formed round her eyes, but he noticed there were no laughter lines. None of the characteristic features of a woman her age.

  ‘Mrs Brady, were you there when Charlie Antonio attacked Oonagh? Did you see anything? Did he threaten you?’ Tom remembered seeing Charlie Antonio leave the chapel house on the day Oonagh was attacked. He’d assumed at the time that it was him he’d come round to see. He wondered now if Mrs Brady had been his target.

  She didn’t answer him. Just stared blankly ahead. Her fingers traced lines on the table and her lips continued to tremble. Oonagh had refused to admit Mrs Brady had seen anything. Claimed it was why she hadn’t mentioned it to the police. But was it just Mrs Brady she was trying to protect?

  ‘Mrs Brady, did you see anyone else at Oonagh’s that day?’ She looked at him for a moment. ‘Was there another man? A tall man, maybe, with grey hair?’ He described Jack Cranworth, from what he remembered from their single meeting in St Patrick’s. ‘Mrs Brady, please try and think.’ Tom clasped his hands tightly together. He was pleading with her.

  ‘I don’t want to have to speak to the police. I don’t want everything getting dragged up.’ She spoke in little more than a whisper.

  Tom grasped at this fragile link and stood over her. ‘No, no, Mrs Brady.’ He tried to restrain his excitement. ‘I promise. The police have their man. They don’t care about anything else now.’

  She looked unconvinced.

  ‘Why did you go to Oonagh’s house that day?’

  ‘She called me, asked me to come over. At first, I thought it was you she wanted. I know you two are, well, y’know, friends like.’

  Tom jumped in, eager to put the record straight. ‘It wasn’t anything like that. There was nothing in it.’

  She gave him a who cares look. ‘Hardly likely with you being gay.’ She wiped her nose, and folded her tissue before tucking it back inside her sleeve.

  The colour rose in Tom’s face. ‘How the hell did you know? I mean who told you that?’

  She tutted. ‘It’s easy to recognise troubled souls. We stick out like sore thumbs.’ She gave another blow into her handkerchief.

  Tom felt like a complete shit for not recognising the troubled soul trapped inside Anna Brady.

  ‘Anyway, I went round to see her. Turned out she recognised me from the picture.’

  ‘The picture?’

  ‘Yes, the one with the Glasgow Magdalene girls. She showed it to you once, remember?’ She looked so scared that Tom didn’t have the heart to tell her he had no more than a vague recollection of the picture. ‘She’s a smart girl, Oonagh O’Neil,’ she continued. ‘I knew she’d work it out eventually.’

  ‘So what happened? Was Charlie Antonio in her house when you got there? Did she call him?’

  ‘You’re sure the police won’t come round asking questions. I couldn’t bear that.’

  ‘No, Mrs Brady. The police won’t come anywhere near—’, a bang at the door shook the entire house, ‘here.’ He peered out of the window towards the door. ‘Shit.’

  *

  Tom saw the rage in Davies’ eyes.

  ‘I want a wee word with you,’ the detective said. He prodded Tom hard in the shoulder, almost pushing him over as he stepped in out of the rain.

  ‘Eh? Yeah, of course.’ Tom glanced back at the kitchen door, to where Mrs Brady was sitting. ‘We’ll go into the living room. Just let me organise some tea.’ He wanted to warn Mrs Brady to stay out of the way, but Davies blocked his path.

  ‘Fuck the tea, sunshine, we need to talk.’

  Tom winced as he was frog marched into the room. McVeigh just shrugged his shoulders as though to say, ‘what did you expect?’

  Davies paced the floor like a caged animal. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were at it with Charlie Antonio?’

  ‘At it?’

  ‘Aye – canoodling like a pair of loved-up teenagers in Kelvingrove Park.’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Davies let out an exaggerated sigh, and pushed his hands through his hair. He breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, the corners of his mouth turned downwards. His voice was slow and deliberate.

  ‘I didn’t ask? I didn’t ask? So it’s my fault?’ He turned to McVeigh, pointing his finger. ‘Take this as a valuable lesson in police work, son. The next time you uncover a dead body in a church, don’t forget to ask the priest if he’s shagged the corpse. Sweet Jesus, give me strength.’

  ‘I didn’t shag him. I just… Anyway, I thought you knew. You knew that I’d been picked up in Kelvin Way. I naturally assumed you knew who I’d been with at the time.’

  Davies calmed down somewhat and sat down on a footstool near the window. Tom took this as a sign that he was being believed.

  ‘And what happened after that? After the pair of you were picked up?’

  ‘Nothing. I never—’

  Davies stood up again. ‘Right, up you get. I’ve had enough farting about. I cannae be arsed any longer. I’m arresting you for withholding information and taking the bloody piss.’

  Tom realised his only option was to play ball. ‘Okay, okay,’ he took a deep breath, wringing his hands together. ‘He was blackmailing me.’

  Davies sat back down. ‘Go on.’

  And the events of the past four months tumbled out like so many confessions he’d heard over the years. E
very sorry, grubby, wee humiliating detail.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to us?’ Davies eventually asked.

  ‘Are you kidding? The papers get one whiff about a priest being gay and right away he’s a pervert, a paedophile, touching up young boys. You know that’s how it is. I was terrified.’

  ‘What about Oonagh? Does she know about this?’

  ‘Yes, I told her. Just last week actually. We had a bit of a heart to heart.’

  ‘D’you think that’s why Antonio was round at her place. Think she maybe tried to get him to back off?’

  Tom slumped back in his chair and stared at the window. The rain wasn’t letting up. Little puddles were gathering at the bottom of the frames, on the inside.

  ‘No, no I don’t,’ he said. And for the first time he considered the possibility that he might have been an unwitting accomplice in what had happened. He pictured the scenario, Oonagh inviting Charlie round to discuss the situation. It all going wrong. He felt the lump rising in his throat, clenched his teeth and bit his lip; he didn’t want to cry in front of Davies, not again. He stood up, stuffing his knuckle in his mouth, biting down to stem the tears. ‘Dear God!’ he screamed, ‘don’t tell me I’ve caused all this. Shite, I could have had her killed.’

  Davies and McVeigh were visibly taken aback.

  ‘Ach, sit down and don’t be so bloody hysterical,’ Davies said. ‘She’s not dead, and nobody’s saying it’s your fault. But if she can’t remember, then I need to try and piece together exactly what happened.’

  Despite all his efforts, Tom blubbed into his sleeve. He was aware that Davies had at least turned his back and was staring out of the window, arms folded tightly across his chest.

  McVeigh was left to do the reassuring, mouthing platitudes about things sometimes just happening and it being unlikely to have been because of anything he’d done or said.

  Davies turned again, looking at his watch. He seemed anxious to leave.

  ‘Right, Father, you think of anything else we should know and you’re on the blower to us straight away. Right?’

  ‘Anything else?’ said Tom. ‘Like what? You know who did it, what else do you need to know?’