But both Davies and McVeigh were already walking out of the door.
40
Glasgow, 2000
It was soft underfoot and her feet sank into the wet sand, making every step an effort. Her dad held the baby in his arms, just out of reach and beckoned her to join. The sun was blinding and her legs didn’t have the strength to pull her feet up through the wet ground. The tide was coming in and the sea lapped up against her ankles, then her thighs, until she was pulled under. Her dad seemed to drift further away until he and the baby were just a dot in the distance. Her own arms ached with loneliness and she allowed the water to come up over her head.
When she awoke the water was stone cold and her mum was frantically banging on the bathroom door. ‘Oonagh! Oonagh! Are you all right? Can you hear me?’
She sat up, dazed and confused. Then all hell seemed to break loose.
Davies came crashing through the door, shoulder first, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions. Her mum quickly followed and rear-ended him. McVeigh wasn’t far behind, and rushed in like the last of the Mohicans.
‘God Almighty!’ was all he said at the sight of Oonagh in the cold bath, struggling to cover her naked body with a face cloth.
‘I’m fine,’ she screamed.
Her mum immediately shoved both men out through the broken door ‘Ok boys, show’s over’ and held up a towel for Oonagh as she climbed out of the bath. ‘You ok?’
Oonagh nodded. ‘I’m fine, Mum. I… maybe dozed off.’
‘Thank goodness. I got quite a fright when you didn’t respond. Sorry about the…’ She nodded at the damaged door. ‘Right, I’ll go down and finish lunch, make sure those two aren’t scarred for life!’
Oonagh pulled on a robe and staggered downstairs. Her legs were wobbly and she clung to the banister to steady herself.
She joined the other three in the kitchen, scraping her wet hair behind her ears. She shot McVeigh a look that warned him never to conjure up the sight of her naked again. Davies at least had the decency to look mortified as he was poured a cup of tea and quizzed about the goings-on at St Patrick’s.
‘You might have at least let me know, Alec,’ she said, pulling up a seat at the table. ‘Mum, can you give us a few minutes here?’
She waited until her mum had left the room before she spoke again, though it was hard to restrain herself even that long.
‘What the flaming hell’s going on?’ she finally burst out. ‘Is it true? Was it Charlie Antonio who attacked me?’ She didn’t give him time to answer. ‘And what’ve you taken in Jack Cranworth for? He’s got nothing to do with this. I’ve told you already, Alec; if you go down this path I’ll drop any charges. You can’t force this without my co-operation.’
Alec blew on his tea before taking a sip. ‘Oonagh, can you come down off your high horse for just a few minutes? I did call. I left a message, for God’s sake. Two actually.’
She nodded. He was right, she was just pissed off.
‘And before you start blowing on about Cranworth,’ Davies continued, ‘it’s not quite as simple as that.’ He told her about Jack being in St Patrick’s when Antonio took his tumble. And about finding the cash. Oonagh was miffed at the thought of her life only being worth a measly five grand. ‘Cranworth might have paid him to attack you. We just don’t know yet. Nonetheless, we’re still questioning him over Antonio’s death.’ Alec held up his hand to stop her interrupting. ‘Yeah, I know it was probably an accident, but until that’s proved, like any sudden death, it’s being treated as suspicious.’
Alec had his copper’s hat on and wouldn’t let up. He dropped his voice, so her mum wouldn’t hear, and told Oonagh about her pregnancy kit turning up at Antonio’s house. ‘It looks like it was Antonio who pulled the break in stunt and staged that bleeding phone call the night before you were attacked. But, whatever happened, he obviously thought it worth his while to go back the next day. My bet is someone put him up to it.’
Oonagh’s flesh crawled at the idea of him going through her house. Touching her things. She instinctively wiped her hands on her dressing gown.
‘And that someone is Jack, eh?’ She got no answer. ‘Alec, apart from anything else, I just don’t think Jack would risk it. It’s not his style.’ No, it wasn’t his style. But no matter how much she struggled, she couldn’t come up with a single plausible explanation as to why Jack would be in a Catholic church with a fist full of dollars, waiting for that shit Antonio. Well, there was a single plausible explanation, but she refused to even countenance it, afraid that if the seed was sown it would take root and never leave. She had to speak to Jack herself.
Davies reached across the table to touch her hand. ‘You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you? You looked pretty battered up there.’
Never one to mince his words. And he was right. The bruise from Charlie Antonio’s heel might have faded to a yellow and red sunburst across her shoulder, but the stitches holding together the wound on her neck were black and crusty, and her arms and legs still bore the scratches and bruises from when she’d run barefoot and screaming from her house the night Charlie Antonio had broken in. Free of make up, she knew her face was pale and drawn. She could almost forgive Alec for patronising her; she knew she looked small and vulnerable.
‘Can’t you remember anything about the attack, Oonagh?’
She shook her head.
‘Are you sure?’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Oonagh had known Alec for long enough. He’d get to the bottom of this sooner or later. She could tell by the look in his eyes that he didn’t quite believe her. She rubbed at her forehead, and tried not to ham it up too much.
‘Now that you mention it… I do remember something about Charlie Antonio. I think I remember seeing him. But it all happened so fast. Honestly, Alec, it was over in a flash. And if you hadn’t mentioned him… I don’t know if I would ever have remembered it was him.’ That bit of it was true. Every time she thought about it the back of her head throbbed and her wound stung.
‘What about that clown, Watson? Have you thought to question him at all? I bet it was him. Tried to shut me up to stop me blabbing about that flaming baby racket. Instead of wasting time keeping Jack under lock and key you should be after him.’
She was aware that she was trembling now, her voice croaking.
‘Oonagh, you give me proof that Father Watson has a letter Father Kennedy intended for you and I’ll investigate, but until then…’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You say Watson was gobsmacked when you told him you had a copy of the letter.’
‘Yeah. So?’
She resented that he looked embarrassed for her.
‘You know I’m on your side,’ he said.
‘But…?’ There was always a but.
‘But – don’t you see? If what you’re saying is true, then he didn’t know you even had an inkling about the letter until after you were attacked. It just doesn’t tie in, Oon. Sorry. Anyway, my hands are tied here. I can’t just start accusing him of things with no evidence. But I promise I will look into it.’
‘Listen, Alec, I need a favour.’
‘Just the one?’ He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
She gave it her best shot. ‘I really need to speak to Jack. Alone. Can I visit him at the station?’ He shot her a look that said no way as he pulled his jacket on. She reasoned with him. ‘Let’s face it, without me you’ll have a job on your hands getting a conviction, so you’ll need to let him go, and then I’ll be able to speak to him anyway.’ Alec said nothing, but the muscle twitching in his jaw told her she was making headway. ‘If it was him who put Antonio up to this then I’ll know immediately. And if that’s the case we can press charges. Deal?’ She held out her hand. He took it in both of his.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘If you come down to the station in a couple of hours – then maybe. Do you want McVeigh to come back and drive you?’
Oonagh l
ooked at McVeigh, who’d been watching her like an excited puppy since seeing her in the bath. ‘No, I’m all right,’ she said.
*
Oonagh was dead beat and bleeding heavily as phantom contractions squeezed her empty womb. The lump on her head pounded, and her aching limbs begged her to take them to bed. She wanted to crawl under the covers and stay there for a month. Instead she took two Ibuprofen with her coffee and lit a cigarette, but immediately felt queasy and stubbed it out.
Upstairs she set about getting ready.
Despite Alec’s theory, she needed to prove that Father Kennedy had written her that letter. And, according to Anna Brady, he’d written a full confession too, only to be opened on the event of his death. The old man had known he was dying. He must have wanted to make his peace before the end. No wonder Father Watson had insisted on clearing out the old man’s personal belongings himself.
She put on the back-up tape she’d made of her interview with Anna and took some notes. The housekeeper explained that Father Kennedy’s letter to Oonagh claimed healthy babies had been sold regularly to places all over the world; that those who were sick, or needed specialist care, were often left to die; and that the adoption racket had continued long after the Glasgow Magdalene had closed its doors.
Oonagh almost wept as she tried to piece the information together from what Anna Brady could remember. By all accounts the birth certificates had been doctored from the start, with the adoptive parents registered as the birth mother and father. And it had been easy enough. Lochbridge House had kept its status as a private nursing home; all that was needed was for the resident doctor to sign the document and the birth could be registered with the names of the new parents. The poor girls had probably been so browbeaten and institutionalised that they never even knew that what was happening was illegal.
But how to prove it? Without the letter there was only anecdotal evidence and that would never be enough to take the case to trial. Even with the letter she would be on shaky ground. Oonagh didn’t care. But she at least had to try. She picked up the phone and called Tom.
‘Hi, it’s me. Eh, how’s the face?’ She thought she’d better ask. If the pain in her knuckles was anything to go by, he’d be pretty sore.
‘Oh, I’ll live. Tougher than I look. It’s the scars you can’t see that hurt the most.’
She guessed he was making a sarcastic reference to her not telling him about Mrs Brady sooner. ‘Tom don’t be petty about this. It would have been completely unprofessional of me to tell you Anna Brady’s story. I promised her full confidentiality.’
‘I suppose.’
‘She’s had a rotten bloody life, Tom. She deserves a bit of peace.’ Oonagh felt a wave of guilt at having exposed Anna to such scrutiny in the first place. ‘If you want to be more involved, Tom, then this is your chance.’
‘My chance? Eh, leave me out of it.’
It wasn’t quite the response she’d been hoping for.
‘Tom, I can’t ask Mrs Brady to go to the police. She’s not a reliable witness.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well, she’s been through a lot.’ She paused before she continued, already feeling like a traitor. ‘Anna Brady had a breakdown not that long ago. She’d go to pieces if she were quizzed. You’re the only one who can really do this.’
He sounded shocked. ‘A breakdown? Well, is she all right? I mean, is she fit to—’
‘Don’t worry, she’s not mental, she won’t come at you with an axe in the middle of the night if that’s what you’re worried about.’
He tutted. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant… Och, right,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I’ve to do.’
She knew he was only agreeing to get her off his back, but she didn’t care. ‘Oh Tom, you’re a star.’
‘It said on my school report card I was easily led.’
‘That’s a good thing,’ she reasoned. ‘There’s always a chance you’ll be led somewhere nice.’
‘Aye, knowing my luck it’d be Saltcoats rather than Sicily!’
41
Glasgow, 2000
He ignored the ‘No Entry’ sign and cut through Nithsdale Road into Kenmure Street. It was late afternoon and already dark, with thick angry clouds overhead. Still, a few mothers with prams were risking the rain. The only space outside the cafe was on a double yellow; Davies reversed in easily, and winced as he locked the car, rubbing the space between his ribs.
The cafe buzzed with life. Steam hissed from a stainless steel coffee machine at the counter. Davies squeezed past a table where two elderly women were arguing over the bill and took a seat by the window, opposite McVeigh. The pane was thick with condensation that blocked out the dismal street outside. The white Formica table shoogled between them. A row of workmen laughed and joked as they stood in a line waiting for a carry-out in their dirty white t-shirts and ripped jeans. No jackets, of course. Puddles gathered at their feet as the rain dripped from their boots. The radio crackled in the background, barely audible above the din. Two men served at the counter, using tried and tested banter as they stuffed hot food into paper bags and twirled each one round to close it, before passing it to the customer.
‘All right, Alec.’ One of them waved over to Davies. ‘Usual?’ he yelled above the noise.
Davies shook the excess water from his anorak before putting it on the back of his seat. ‘Aye, please.’
‘And what about your pal?’
‘He’ll have the same,’ Davies answered for McVeigh. ‘And a couple of coffees. Large ones.’
McVeigh looked relieved when ‘the usual’ turned out to be two full Scottish breakfasts. The waiter plonked them down on the table. ‘Mind those plates, they’re pure roasting,’ he said, twisting his head to eye up the rear view of the damp workmen. He worked the room like a pro. Moving onto another table, mothering an old woman with twisted arthritic hands, cutting up the food on her plate. ‘You’re a wee darlin’, Jez.’ She beamed up at him. He winked at her, ‘Anything for you, doll’ and she giggled as she pulled at her wig, which had slipped down her head to come to rest at a jaunty angle over one eyebrow. Two albinos sat at a table near the counter, black Ray Ban sunglasses protecting their pink eyes from the artificial light, their platinum white hair cropped into identical crew cuts.
‘Y’all right, Mohamed?’
‘Nae problem, Jez,’ replied the older of the two.
McVeigh smirked at what he thought was Jez’s sarcastic humour. It was only when the two men started talking Urdu to each other that he realised they were in fact Asian.
‘Thanks, Jez,’ yelled Davies. Two fried eggs, square sliced sausage, three rashers of bacon, two potato scones, black pudding, a portion of mushrooms and a slice of fried bread. The pain in his gut eased after just the first mouthful. He savoured the second, holding it in his mouth to enjoy the taste. Soon he no longer felt such a grumpy old bastard.
‘You really should get that seen to,’ said McVeigh, mopping up his egg yolk with his bacon and sausage. Davies ignored him, concentrating on the job in hand, but McVeigh persisted. ‘It could be an ulcer. Sounds like an ulcer to me.’ He crammed a ridiculously large forkful of food into his mouth. Again, Davies ignored him, and changed the subject to what was on his mind.
‘I’m letting him go.’
‘Who?’ McVeigh washed down his food with the steaming coffee.
‘Cranworth, I’m letting him go.’
McVeigh stopped, mid chew. A piece of bacon dropped back onto his plate as his mouth gaped open.
‘Aw, come on, boss. Letting him go? But—’
‘Look, we’ve not got enough to charge him just yet. I need more time. I’m no’ going into this half arsed. You could run a team of horses through the case we’ve got just now.’
‘But the money? For God’s sake, it had his prints on it. Proves he was involved.’
‘Ach,’ Davies shook his head, ‘his solicitor’ll tear that to shreds. We’ve already got Findlay admitting Antonio was a b
lackmailer, Cranworth could easily say the same. It’s just not right. There’s something we’ve missed. An’ his wife knows more than she’s letting on.’
‘Think she set him up?’
‘Dunno. But I think we’ll get more from him if we let him go.’
‘You know best,’ said McVeigh.
‘You’re learning fast. Right, finish up now,’ Davies was already pushing his grease smeared plate away. McVeigh was only halfway through his.
‘Ouch!’ A high-pitched scream came from behind the counter, then laughter. Jez was flicking a tea towel off his partner’s bum, encouraged by the workies’ banter.
‘Eh, do you come here a lot?’ McVeigh asked, looking like someone who had just happened upon the yellow brick road and realised he wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
‘Aye, food’s great,’ said Davies, a burp escaping, choosing to ignore any other reference. He banged his chest with his fist, encouraging just a bit more wind. They got up to leave. The two old dears at the next table were still fighting, sliding two one pound coins back and forth between them.
There was no let-up in the rain. Davies held his anorak above his head as he ran to open the car door, taking a leap to avoid a puddle. McVeigh pulled the lapels of his suit jacket together, and was soaked by the time he sat down in the passenger seat.
‘Can you no’ get yourself some decent clothes? Jesus Christ, you’re always wringing wet.’ Davies tutted as he shook his head, and flicked the heater onto full blast.
‘Thanks,’ said McVeigh, as he rubbed his hands together, then held his damp trousers away from his legs and towards the hot air.
‘It’s to clear the windows,’ Davies said drily, before putting his foot down.
*
They got back to the station and marched straight through to the interview room. Cranworth was resting his head on his folded arms, which were on the table. A uniformed officer was swinging back on his chair until it touched the wall behind him. They both jumped up when Davies and McVeigh entered.
The Lost Children Page 21