‘I’ll come back and get you, Darling. I promise.’
Irene felt the backs of her knuckles being kissed, and then her sister was running from the room.
Irene lay her head back on her pillow.
*
When she awoke the next morning, she assumed the whole thing had been a dream, but when she came down the stairs and saw the red rims round her mum’s eyes – and the tightness of her father’s lips – she realised something was seriously wrong.
*
Galway Times
The body of a young woman has been recovered from the River Liffey in Dublin. Gardai Officers say they are not treating her death as suspicious but are keen to trace her relatives. The woman is described as being between the ages of fourteen and seventeen years, five feet five inches in height with long dark brown hair and wearing a navy raincoat. Following a post mortem examination, doctors have confirmed she was approximately three months pregnant.
29
Glasgow, 2000
The morning was a long time coming. Oonagh woke up gasping for air and was glad to see the sun rise over the city. The night had been full of demons wanting her dead… and dead babies with white eyes crawling up through open graves.
Outside, things sprang into life as the day took hold.
The nurse had already been in to tug the catheter free from between her legs and clear her hands of the needles that wired through her veins. Now she was waiting for the doctor to do his rounds – to give her the all important nod to go home.
The stark white hospital room that had almost given her snow blindness the day before was now filled with flowers, cards, cuddly toys and bottles of champagne. She was dying for a cigarette, some decent coffee and her own bed.
*
Davies came in around eleven, his head obscured by a ridiculously large bunch of bright yellow sunflowers. She slid out of bed, not trusting her legs, and wobbled over to greet him. He steadied her as she staggered on her final step.
‘How’s the invalid?’
She drew him a look. ‘I’m not an invalid, Alec!’ she raised her hand to slap him ‘although you might be if I get any more of your lip.’ She hoped the quip would prove she hadn’t undergone a sense of humour bypass while having her dead baby scraped from her insides.
‘Not the face, not the face,’ he joked as she grabbed the flowers from his grip.
‘Here, give me those before you start getting in touch with your feminine side.’ Oonagh buried her nose in the bouquet and read the message on the card tucked inside.
‘If you’re ever in a jam – I’m your man!’
She looked up from reading it and saw that Davies was mortified, his face scarlet. She nodded. ‘Thanks, Alec,’ then gave him a hug. He squeezed her so hard that it hurt her ribs.
‘Christ, you’re popular,’ he said, taking in all the gifts. ‘So, it’s D Day then? You can go home?’
‘Yip! Mum’s due soon. She’s under strict instructions to bring decent gear and my war paint of course.’ She paused. ‘I take it you’ll want to question me sometime?’
‘Aye. But there’s no rush.’
Oonagh knew there was every rush – that the first twenty-four hours after any crime were vital if you wanted to catch the perpetrator, and they’d already missed their deadline by a day.
‘No, Alec, I’m fine. Let’s get this over with, eh?’
‘Okay. Well, we need to work out what the hell happened, Oonagh. Now, we know you met Charlie Antonio in The Rogano just before you hooked up with Cranworth the night you were broken into.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a detective,’ he said, without a trace of irony. ‘Anyway, we need to find out if the break-in and the attack were related. I spoke to those two bloody clowns who interviewed you in the hospital—’
She wondered if Good Cop, Crap Cop had felt the infamous wrath of Alec Davies. He did not suffer fools gladly.
‘Alec, I don’t think they took me overly seriously, but I didn’t quite tell them everything that happened…’ She related the crank phone call she’d received, what the perpetrator had said about her being a murdering whore. ‘I was too ashamed to tell them at the time. But now… Well.’
He cut in, obviously fired up with this new information. ‘Who knew you were pregnant, Oonagh?’
She didn’t have to think for long. ‘No one really. I told Tom the other day. And of course, Jack.’ She caught the look in Davies’ eye. The skin round her scalp tightened. ‘No, Alec. No! It wasn’t him, okay? Jack would never—’ She faltered. What would he never do? Never hurt her? A month ago she would have bet her life on it. But paranoia was setting in, and with it uncertainty. Now she wasn’t so sure. She nibbled on the back of her knuckles. ‘I just don’t think it was him.’ Oonagh stood up and unwrapped one of the bottles of champagne from its decorative cellophane wrapper.
‘For medicinal purposes,’ she explained, and twisted the cork, but her arms were weak from the wound on her shoulder and Davies took it from her while she fetched two plastic tumblers from the bedside cabinet. He clasped his hand over hers to steady her trembling as the liquid frothed over the side of the cup. ‘I’m a bloody wreck,’ she said, downing hers in one go then holding the cup out for more.
It was warm and bitter, but hit the spot quickly and gave her an instant calm.
‘Want to carry on?’ Davies asked.
She nodded. ‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘Obviously whoever called you, knew you were pregnant. That leaves two people. And whoever broke in also knew you’d be out that evening. Again, that leaves just two people. Now, you left Cranworth at what time? Ten-ish?’
‘Yip.’
‘Did you go straight home?’
She thought back to that evening. Storming out of the restaurant. Furious with Jack, she’d decided to walk through town and had grabbed a taxi at Charring Cross. If he had been parked nearby he would have had plenty of time to drive to her house and be in and out before she was home.
‘I was home within minutes, Alec’, she lied. ‘I got a taxi straight away. There was no way he could have got there before me.’
‘Cranworth’s got a key to your house, hasn’t he, Oonagh?’ It was one of those questions that were statements that she knew he liked to use. She looked to the bottom of her cup to find a reply that would take Jack out of the frame. It wasn’t there, so she said nothing, immediately aware that her silence was loud enough to let Davies know what she was thinking.
‘I’m bringing the bastard back in for questioning.’
‘No, just stop this, right. If you do that I’ll drop all charges, okay? Just leave it.’ The thought of Jack being her attacker was more than she could cope with right now. But Davies wouldn’t – couldn’t – leave it. He opened his mouth to speak, but a soft tap on the door stopped him in his tracks.
McVeigh loitered in the doorway. ‘There’s a bit of a welcoming committee outside,’ he said, nodding towards the window. Oonagh and Davies looked out onto the car park three floors below and saw a dozen or so journalists and cameramen huddled by the entrance. Every time the automatic double doors swooshed open they sprang to life before settling back down when they saw it wasn’t Oonagh.
‘We can arrange to have you smuggled out the back way. Maybe get you an ambulance home? You know what that shower can be like.’
‘No bloody way. I’m leaving here with my head held high. I’m a survivor, Alec, not a bloody victim. Anyway, don’t forget, I’m normally part of that shower. It’s a big story you know. They’ve been on the blower all morning.’ She stopped for a moment, chewing the skin around her thumbnail. ‘Apparently they’re asking if it’s true I was pregnant.’
Alec Davies reached out his hand and guided her back onto the bed. ‘You all right?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. I feel sick, Alec. Sick and pissed off with’ she looked around trying to put into words how she felt ‘pissed off with… well, everything really.’
<
br /> Davies beckoned McVeigh. ‘I want you to get downstairs and tell that bunch of vultures to get lost. And if one of them even hints at asking about Oonagh being pregnant, I want them huckled down to the station for breach of the peace and obstructing an investigation.’
McVeigh stared at Davies. ‘Are you sure that’s an offence? I mean journalists can actually ask what they like, you know. Under the Freedom of Information—’
Davies didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘Fuck’s sake. Just go downstairs and tell them to piss off, eh? Does everything have to be a big fucking “under regulation kiss-my-ass I cannae dae that” routine with you?’
McVeigh was about to turn on his heels and go when Oonagh stopped him. ‘Hang on, Jim, give us a minute, eh?’ As McVeigh held back she turned to Davies. ‘Listen, I want to talk to them. It’ll get them out of my hair if I play ball.’ Davies raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. She put on a mock Deep South accent. ‘Ah’s dealing wit’ ma own kin folks here, John Boy.’ She dropped the accent. ‘Honestly, Alec, I know how to handle the press. It’s better all round. Believe me.’
She had no intention of shuffling out of the hospital, wounds patched up, wobbly and shaky, nodding to waiting reporters, trying to force a smile. Playing to the crowd was her bread and butter and she had no plans to let the audience down now. She might have been left for dead having had her throat cut in her own home, but every cloud had a silver lining. She leaned over to McVeigh. ‘Tell them I’ve left already. But make sure you say I’ve not gone home or they’ll be camped on my bloody doorstep. Tell them I’ll be doing a press conference tomorrow, and if they phone the studio later they can get the details.’
Davies still wasn’t convinced, but she cut him off as he started to speak. ‘Ah ah, let me explain. If I arrange to sit down and answer their questions – to play the game – they won’t print any shitty stuff about me being pregnant. And Alec, I need people to see I’ve not become some dithery wreck.’ Her eyes filled with tears and she knew she’d won him round. Her livelihood depended on her public image. On being in control. And this way she could take the lead, put her own spin on things and come out without being the helpless victim. It would all be good column inches.
*
She called the newsroom and spoke to Alan Gardner. He thought a press conference was a great idea and told her that van loads of cards and flowers and cuddly teddies and all sorts had been arriving for her since the news broke. And everyone at the studio was rooting for her and she didn’t have to hurry back. The most important thing was that she got well again.
Oonagh had known Alan for years and knew his bullshit when she heard it. Oh, the bit about the cuddly get well messages would be kosher. But the rest? Well, it wasn’t a risk she was prepared to take. She planned to be back at her desk and in front of the camera before they had the chance to line up a replacement – before they could jump at the opportunity to find someone who could do the job half as well for a quarter of the price. She thanked Alan and ended the call.
‘Jim, slight change of plan. Tell them I’ll be doing a press call and photo shoot in Devonshire Gardens.’ It would be the perfect setting. Five Edwardian town houses turned into a West End hotel where Gordon Ramsay once cooked for the rich and famous. It would be a nice jolly for all the journalists who turned up. Ply them with plenty of posh nosh and booze and they’d write exactly what Oonagh wanted them to write.
‘Christ, Oonagh, this is all a bit quick is it no’?’
‘Oh, stop being such an old woman, Alec.’
McVeigh didn’t move until he got the nod from Davies. ‘Well, I suppose. Yeah, all right.’
She hugged his neck and kissed his cheek. Already pumped with adrenalin, desperate to get moving.
‘What time?’ said McVeigh.
‘Tell them to call the duty press officer at the studio later. They’ll give them all the details.’ She hoped this would give her an excuse to cut short the questioning.
‘Right,’ Davies said to McVeigh, ‘what’re you waiting for? Next week’s wages?’ He let out an exaggerated audible sigh as his partner left the room.
‘You can be a right misery guts at times,’ Oonagh said.
‘No wonder. The man’s bloody useless,’ Davies said. He shook his head. ‘Right, let’s get back to business. What can you remember about the attack itself? Your cleaner says she popped in around one and you told her to come back later. That right?’
No pussyfooting about, Oonagh noted. ‘Yeah, I wasn’t long back from the hospital and wanted a bit of time to myself. To be honest, Alec, I don’t really remember much of what happened after that. It’s all a bit of a blur.’
‘Did you open the door to anyone? Try to think. The door was open when Tom found you and there was no sign of a break in. Were you expecting anyone? Did you ask Cranworth to come round? Do you remember seeing anyone else?’
She just shook her head. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘Oonagh, do you know of anyone who would try and hurt you?’
Once again Davies was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Bloody hell, McVeigh, what is it now?’
It wasn’t McVeigh who slowly opened the door, it was Tom Findlay, who avoided Davies’ interrogative eye but couldn’t avoid the, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ that Davies fired in his direction.
‘I just wanted to see if you were all right,’ Tom said to Oonagh.
‘Well, she’s fine,’ Davies said, ‘so just close the door behind you, eh?’
Oonagh pushed her hand across Alec’s chest, shutting him up. ‘Come on in.’
Tom faltered before pulling up a chair. He gave a nervous cough and cleared his throat before speaking. ‘I’ve remembered something about yesterday,’ he said.
Davies jumped in before Oonagh had a chance. ‘What?’
‘Well,’ this time he did look at Davies – ‘it might not even be important, in fact it’s maybe nothing, probably a waste of time, but—’
Oonagh watched Davies’ face redden as a vein pulsed in his temple and a muscle twitched at the side of his jaw. He drummed his fingers against his thigh. She was glad when Tom got on with it.
‘Well, it’s something I saw in your kitchen yesterday, Oonagh.’
‘Go on,’ said Davies.
‘Well, you know that woman… Susan?’
Oonagh felt a flutter in her stomach.
‘What about her?’
‘Well,’ continued Tom, ‘she put two cups in the dishwasher – they’d been lying on the table – and a couple of plates, too.’
Davies looked at Oonagh, who shrugged.
‘And?’ Davies urged Tom to get to the point.
‘Well, that would suggest someone must have visited you just before you were attacked. Why else would the dishes be lying out?’
‘Tom, I probably left them there from the day before. Or maybe Susan ate something while she was there.’
But Tom wouldn’t let up. ‘No. Oonagh, listen to me. I handed her the tea cups myself. They were still warm. Someone must have been with you just before you were attacked.’
Davies jumped in. ‘Doesn’t mean it was her attacker though.’
Tom continued, as though Oonagh had left the building. ‘I’m not saying she made this guy a cup of coffee before he stabbed her, but maybe whoever was with her saw something. Maybe they’re too scared to come forward. Maybe they’re—’
Davies held up his hand for Tom to stop and Oonagh was glad of the break. Her head was beginning to spin.
‘Right, can you just leave the detective work to me?’ Davies looked at Oonagh. ‘It’s a long shot, but we’ve nothing else. Might be able to get some prints off the cups or something.’
‘Or even DNA off the saliva,’ added Tom.
‘So let me get this clear: you reckon I made someone a coffee, then they attacked me?’
‘I’ve tasted your coffee, Oonagh! No, seriously,’ Davies continued, a little embarrassed by his attempt at a joke, ‘Is there anyone at your house just now?’
Oonagh picked up the phone and dialled her own number. ‘Hi Mum, it’s me… No, not yet, they’re just getting my discharge letter ready. Listen, a couple of things. First, can you pick up a packet of sanitary towels?’
She hesitated. Davies and Tom were staring at the floor. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Guys, can you give me a couple of minutes?’ She waited while they shuffled out of the room, then spoke to her mum again. ‘Okay, secondly, can you switch on the dishwasher… No, I don’t care if it’s not full, just do it, please Mum. Right away. And can you make sure you put it on the hottest cycle. Thanks. See you in a bit.’ And with that she hung up.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Alec and Tom, who were a few yards down the corridor. They both walked towards her. ‘Too late, Mum’s just put the dishwasher on.’
Davies put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘Thanks for telling us anyway.’
Tom knew he was being patronised.
‘Listen, Alec,’ said Oonagh. ‘Don’t say anything to my mum about this, eh? She’ll be devastated if she thinks she’s washed away vital evidence.’
30
Glasgow, 2000
Tom pottered about in Oonagh’s kitchen. The curate was taking care of things back at the ranch, and the second day of kids’ rehearsals for Father Kennedy’s funeral would tick along without him. He switched on the kettle, then immediately felt guilty about picking on Mrs Brady for her unsuccessful tea and sympathy routine.
He switched on the mini hi-fi, which sat on the worktop with a few tapes on top. He put one on, expecting to hear Billie Holiday or some other of Oonagh’s jazz favourites. Instead Oonagh’s voice flooded the kitchen, soft and reassuring. ‘Take your time, we can stop if you want… You know it’s a brave thing talking about it after all this time…’ And all the while he could hear the quiet sobs of a woman in the background. Some poor demented victim of the Magdalene Institutes.
Looking at the rest of the tapes he realised they too were mostly of interviews Oonagh had done as part of her Magdalene research. The labels gave little away. Just the first names of the women: Megan, Anne-Marie, Maureen, Theresa.
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