The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  She didn’t get the reply she’d hoped for when she told Davies about her meeting with Father Watson. ‘Bloody hell, Oonagh. Please tell me you didn’t?’

  ‘Well, thanks for the support, Alec. Whose side are you meant to be on? I’ve just had my throat slit in case it had escaped your notice.’ She stabbed the air, pointing at the wound, giving him no chance to forget.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid, Oonagh. It’s not about sides. But you can’t just barge into folks’ offices and accuse them of all sorts. You should have come and told me. Don’t go charging head first into stuff like this, not on your own.’ He gave her a pitying look, then said, ‘Can I see this letter you’re talking about?’

  She handed him the folded pages.

  His face fell as he read that as a valued customer she could get free balance transfers and interest free purchases for up to six months if she switched credit cards.

  She chewed the skin on the side of her thumb as the colour on his cheeks rose.

  ‘What is this?’ Davies clenched the paper in his fist.

  ‘I was calling his bluff, right. So what? His reaction proves he’s as guilty as sin. And, what’s more, after this morning I’m convinced he got rid of Father Kennedy and then attacked me – to shut me up.’

  Davies held the pages up in front of her and spoke very slowly, as though she were an idiot. ‘Oonagh, can I see the actual letter that Father Kennedy wrote you?’

  She was incredulous. ‘If I had the letter I would have shown it to you, not taken it round to that creep Watson.’

  He slumped into a kitchen chair, heavily enough to scrape the legs along the floor. ‘Have you lost your marbles? What in God’s name am I meant to do with this? First you accuse a priest of murder, and then you accuse him of attacking you… on the strength of what? How do you know he stole your letter from Father Kennedy? And anyway, how do you know there even was a flipping letter in the first place? First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Can’t tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, how do you know what was in the letter?’

  Again she shook her head. ‘Listen, Alec, go with me on this one. I’ve only just found out myself that Father Kennedy wrote to me before he died. But the letter’s now missing and I had to see Watson’s face to gauge his reaction. It’s obvious he took it. I can’t reveal my sources yet, but they’re kosher, okay?’

  Davies rubbed his eyes. ‘Bloody hell, Oon, this isn’t a game. You know I’ll leave no stone unturned, but I can only bend the rules so far. And I don’t need to tell you of all people about the laws of defamation in this country. Watson could hang you out to dry if you start spouting stuff like that.’ He let the point sink in for a few seconds. ‘So, did he actually threaten you?’

  She thought for a moment, searching above her head to find the memory. Now that she was back on home turf she didn’t feel quite so scared. Had she exaggerated the whole thing?

  ‘He didn’t actually threaten me, but he was standing this close,’ she said, holding her thumb and forefinger together so that only a merest hint of light could be seen between them.

  ‘How did you leave it?’

  She hesitated for a few moments. ‘I…’ She looked at him, swallowed hard and tried to portray a picture of innocence. ‘I kicked him and then ran away.’

  Davies groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

  Oonagh was about to speak when she heard a key in the lock and put her finger to her mouth. ‘Shh. Mum’s the word.’ It was an order rather than a request.

  Davies’ mobile rang before he had a chance to respond. He answered at the same time as her mum carried in a shopping bag of eats and treats. Oonagh kept the same finger to her mouth to silence her mum while Davies answered the call.

  ‘Staying for lunch?’ her mum asked Davies as soon as he hung up. ‘I’ve bought loads. And I’ve popped some red wine in the fridge.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ Davies said, putting the phone back in his top pocket. ‘I need to go. Someone’s just thrown themselves off the balcony at St Patrick’s.’

  33

  Glasgow, 2000

  Davies screeched his car to a halt outside St Patrick’s, next to the waiting ambulance that was blocking half the street. A small crowd had gathered outside the church.

  He met Tom Findlay walking up the steps and grabbed his arm. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a church.’ Findlay seemed bemused. ‘And I’m a priest.’

  Davies shot him a look that said later and pushed open the double doors.

  Inside was mayhem. Children huddled together in the vestibule in groups of a dozen or so, some sobbing, some staring trance-like at the floor, others shaking uncontrollably. Four teachers, who themselves looked shell-shocked, fussed round the pupils trying to calm them down. This didn’t look good.

  ‘What the hell are they still doing here?’ Davies pointed his thumb toward the children. ‘Get them out. Now!’ He pushed open the double doors leading into the main body of the church.

  Charlie Antonio’s body lay on a pew. He’d landed on his back, and was almost bent in half. His front hung over the back of the pew; his head was twisted to a forty-five degree angle on the seat. His neck bulged, hideously stretched, and his feet reached the floor of the pew behind him. A thin trickle of blood seeped from his mouth and traced a line towards his eye. His blue trousers were black where his bowels had opened and spilled out onto his shoes below.

  A man was crouching by his side, feeling for a pulse, but the paramedics were already packing up.

  The curate ran over and covered the body with a white linen cloth, one normally used on the altar. Spots of blood seeped through at the head and chest. The smells of excrement and incense hung in the air.

  Davies held his badge out to the paramedics and tipped his head at the body. ‘What happened?’

  One of them shrugged his shoulders. ‘Took a tumble by all accounts.’ He looked up at the balcony. ‘He was long gone by the time we arrived.’ He picked up his kit, ready to head to his next emergency. ‘Anyway, he’s been declared dead by the doctor, so—’

  ‘The doctor?’

  The paramedic nodded to the figure near Antonio’s body and Davies suddenly realised who it was.

  ‘Good God in Govan, what is this?’ Davies’ voice boomed throughout the church. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing. I… I tried to save him but he was—’

  ‘Shut it.’ Davies pointed his finger. ‘And don’t move. I’ll speak to you in a minute.’

  As Davies turned briefly to speak to the paramedics before they left, Findlay came running down the aisle.

  ‘Who is it?’ he cried.

  Davies pulled the sheet from Antonio, bringing a gasp from Findlay, who thrust his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Ach.’ Davies didn’t wince, just tutted and shook his head as he looked at Charlie Antonio’s swollen face. ‘No’ a nice way to go, is it?’ Blood had crusted round the dead journalist’s lips and nose. His skin was already blue because of the angle of his head, and his blackened tongue protruded from his mouth. ‘Anyone actually see him fall?’

  ‘I think two of the teachers saw it,’ the curate answered. ‘Shall I—?’

  ‘Aye, aye, bring them in.’

  Davies covered Charlie’s face before the two women came back inside.

  The two young women – who Davies thought looked like kids themselves – fought to remain composed, careful not to let their eyes drift towards the body.

  Davies indicating the man beside him. ‘Father… em…?’

  ‘Cameron, it’s Father Cameron,’ said the curate, taking one step forward, then stepping back again.

  Davies nodded. ‘Father Cameron thinks you may have seen what happened.’

  Both women nodded, tiny movements. One sniffed, then spoke up.

  ‘Well, the children were still lined up, two by two at each aisle…’ She swept her arm up and down, showing Davies where the kids had
been at the time. He nodded quickly to spur her on. ‘They’d just started singing, and I was facing them, with my back to the altar, when I saw a man standing on the balcony. He was acting a bit strange.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Yeah, he was leaning over it.’ She stood on tiptoe to demonstrate. ‘I thought he might have been a photographer, but he didn’t have a camera, or not that I could see anyway. So, as I say, one minute he was hanging over the banister, the next he just seemed to lose his footing and… It was awful.’ Her chin quivered and her colleague wrapped a protective arm round her.

  ‘Was anyone with him?’

  The other woman took her cue. ‘No, he was alone.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  She nodded.

  Davies pointed to Cranworth. ‘What about this man? Did you see him?’

  ‘Now just a minute…!’ Cranworth stood up, horrified at the suggestion.

  Again she nodded.

  ‘Where was he?’ Davies ignored Cranworth’s protests.

  She pointed to the empty pew on the last row at the side.

  ‘The whole time?’

  She nodded. ‘Yeah, until the fall… then he ran over to help… But I don’t really think there was anything—’

  Davies stepped in. ‘That’s fine for the moment. We’ll maybe need to speak to you again. Leave your names and details with one of my colleagues out front, and then perhaps you should get the kids home.’ The hubbub from the pupils was grating on his nerves and ruining his concentration.

  The curate led the two women back outside, and Davies followed. The event had caused a bit of excitement. The crowd outside on the pavement was getting bigger and spilling into the doorway, heads twisted and stretched as they tried for a glimpse, just one peek inside.

  On Davies’ instructions, Father Cameron stood guard. Instinctively he took on a bouncer’s pose: chin up, legs apart, hands clasped in front of his groin.

  McVeigh had arrived. Davies strode back and joined him next to Antonio’s body. ‘Two deaths in one church in a week, boss,’ Davies nodded. ‘It’ll take a miracle of PR engineering for the Church to come out of this one smelling of roses.’

  ‘No wonder he wasn’t answering his door,’ McVeigh replied, as Davies pulled back the cover.

  ‘Get someone over to his house to break the news to his wife.’ He winced at the smell as he patted the sheet covering the corpse. ‘I knew your luck would run out one day, big man.’ Davies’ hand stopped at a bulge in Charlie Antonio’s chest. He slipped on a pair of gloves before pulling back the sheet and jacket. A silver blade had ripped through the lining of the dead journalist’s inside pocket and had embedded itself in Charlie’s flesh ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Davies took a step back.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ It was Cranworth, craning his neck towards the body.

  The blade was partially wrapped in tissue, but the handle was clearly visible. There was no mistaking the tiny silver leprechaun. ‘Now,’ Davies turned to Cranworth, ‘d’you want to tell me what the hell’s really going on? And don’t bother telling me you came here for a wee pray or I’ll book you for taking the fucking piss.’

  *

  Within minutes St Patrick’s was full. A uniformed officer was on his hands and knees searching the balcony, just in case Charlie had been carrying a camera.

  The police casualty surgeon stood over the body.

  ‘Too early to say, Alec, I’ll need to do a full post mortem examination, but I don’t think the blade’s hit any major organs. Looks superficial to me, not enough to kill him. Now, falling at that angle…’ She looked up to the spot Charlie Antonio had fallen from, then back down onto the pew where his body lay. ‘Well, that’s a different story. That would have been enough to kill him, and most likely did.’

  ‘Right, fine. I still want this guy to have the works. I want a full toxicology report. Let me know if anything turns up. Anything. Was he drugged beforehand? Did he take anything that would have affected his balance? If he’s had an aspirin in the past twenty-four hours, I want to know. And I want blood samples taken from that letter opener, go over it with a fine tooth comb.’

  ‘You mean you want me to do all the things I would do as a matter of course?’

  Davies caught himself almost smiling at her ballsy reply. ‘Yes. And some,’ he said.

  He turned his attention to Cranworth. ‘Right, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘Good God, man, I don’t think—’

  ‘Doctor Cranworth.’ Davies paused to exhale a long slow sigh. ‘Just get into the car, okay?’ He handed him over to McVeigh.

  Tom Findlay was sitting at a pew a few rows back. Davies strode over to him and said, ‘At the front door, when I arrived… Were you coming in or going out?’

  ‘Coming in. Why?’

  Davies shook his head. ‘Nothing. No reason.’ Then, after he’d taken a step away, he added, ‘Turning into a right wee angel of death, aren’t you?’

  Tom Findlay said nothing, but Davies could have sworn the priest was trying his best not to smile.

  34

  Glasgow, 1958

  Irene Connolly woke with the rope cutting into the flesh on her ankles and wrists.

  The blood had dried between her legs where the doctor had examined her, and had left a hard red stain on her nightdress and the sheets. A deep cough rattled in her chest. It tore through her lungs and out of her throat.

  ‘Oh, yer awake, Irene.’

  Irene twisted her neck. She was still aching from her night on the chapel’s stone floor. Sally sat by her bed. ‘Sally, get me loose. Untie me, eh? Please.’

  Sally leaned across the bed and began to loosen the ropes that were tearing her skin. ‘Sister Agatha told me no’ tae do this. Said you were tae stay tied up till you went to Leverndale. That’s where they’re putting you, Irene. Leverndale. Honest to God.’ She stopped untying the ropes just for a second to cross her heart with her index finger.

  ‘Leverndale?’

  ‘Aye, Irene. I heard her talking with the doctor. Said I had to watch you. Make sure you wurnie tae get loose.’ She turned her head from side to side, making sure no one could hear, but they were alone in the room. ‘Hey, Irene…’ Sally started to snigger through her teeth, making a farting noise and spraying saliva all over her. ‘Is it true you tried to touch the doctor’s willy?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know, probably,’ Irene groaned, as she twisted her hands round, now free from the rope. Sally was at her feet undoing the knots at her ankles.

  ‘Sally, this Leverndale… what is it?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Irene. It’s the loony bin. Everybody knows that.’ She tutted and sighed at Irene’s apparent stupidity. Her tongue poked out from the side of her mouth as she tried to unpick the knot in the rope. ‘They’re putting you in the loony bin, cause yer mental, Irene.’

  Sally was her usual matter of fact self. By now she was tugging at the knot with her teeth.

  ‘Oh. Dear God, no.’

  The horrors of the electric shock treatment came flooding back. And a sense of urgency swelled in her breast. ‘Sally, hurry up, hurry up. Get the ropes off.’ Irene struggled and kicked her feet, desperate to be free. She jumped out of bed as soon as the last knot was undone, but her legs immediately buckled under her and she crumpled to the floor. Crawling on her hands and knees, she dragged herself the length of the dormitory, then collapsed at the doorframe, sobbing. ‘Help me please, Sally. I can’t go back to hospital. Please, Sally!’

  Sally marched towards her… but walked straight past and ran down the stars without even catching her eye.

  ‘Sally. Please.’ Irene felt the hot sticky blood seeping from between her legs once more.

  Within minutes she heard the voices, and footsteps running up the stairwell. Sally led the way, with four, maybe five others following.

  ‘You all right, Irene? I’ve brought help.’

  Irene grabbed Sally’s cardigan, clinging the way she’d grabbed at her sister’s c
oat all those years ago. ‘Oh Sally, thank you, thank you, thank you.’ She buried her head in the stale wool and began to sob.

  They carried her back to bed, trying not to touch the red angry welts on her skin, or the raw open sores weeping on her ribs and hip bones. Careful not to rub the bruises that blackened her legs and arms.

  ‘Oh God, Irene, what’ve they done tae ye, hen?’ Bridie Flanagan wrung out the wet flannel in the washbasin by the bed and held it against her head. The others kept watch by the door, while Sally pulled blankets off the other beds to keep Irene warm.

  ‘Quick, someone’s coming,’ one of the girls hissed from the doorway. The footsteps grew louder on the stairs. ‘Shite, it’s Sister Agatha. She’ll kill us!’

  Irene’s eyes pleaded with Bridie. Please don’t leave me. Bridie stretched under the bed and pulled out the metal potty, which was full of blood stained urine and stinking faeces.

  ‘I’ll tell her I’m just here to empty this, don’t worry, Irene.’ She kissed her fingers and pressed them against Irene’s lips.

  ‘But she’ll see I’m not tied up any more.’ Irene was panicking.

  The other girls backed off as the black nun approached the doorway. Standing with their hands clasped in front of them, heads down. Ashamed they were caught helping a friend. Sister Agatha had a thick leather belt wrapped around her hand, the heavy, polished brass buckle hanging at her side. To most of the girls, the threat of the belt was enough to keep them in line. A few, including Bridie Flanagan, had been on the receiving end of at least one beating from it.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the nun demanded as Bridie walked towards her, down the narrow corridor between the beds.

  ‘Just emptying the pot, Sister,’ she explained, ‘keeping the smell out of the place.’

  ‘Who untied Irene Connolly? I thought I said she—’

  Bridie interrupted. ‘She’s awful sick, Sister. The ropes were cutting her flesh and—’

  ‘She’s dangerous. Deranged.’ The nun’s pale blue eyes gave nothing away, but a single vein bulged on her forehead. As she walked away she stopped and turned at the doorway, ‘tie her up again. Immediately.’