‘So? I don’t.’ She didn’t turn round.
‘Well, why did you call him on his cell phone just a few minutes ago?’
‘I think you’re mistaken, constable.’ She breathed deeply.
‘I know you phoned him. I took the bloody call.’
He was well and truly pissed off with being mucked about. He picked up the receiver of the telephone that lay on the glass coffee table and pressed the redial button. It was answered after just two rings. ‘Glasgow cabs?’ a voice asked. Davies slammed it down without a word. He glanced round the room, spotted her handbag and picked it up with both hands, turning it upside down and scattering the contents onto the leather settee.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Her attempt to push him out of the way was useless. He picked up her mobile and again pressed the redial button.
‘You need a fucking warrant to do that,’ she spat, as her fist flew in front of his face. He held onto both of her emaciated wrists with just one hand.
He kept her at arm’s length, as she struggled to grab the phone.
‘I suggest you shut your mouth,’ he said. ‘You’re in enough trouble. You don’t want an assault charge on top of everything else.’
It rang once, twice, three times before an answering machine kicked in.
‘Charlie Antonio here. I can’t speak at the moment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you, or try me at home on—’
Davies had heard enough. He squeezed hard on her wrists, watching the skin turn white beneath his fingers. ‘Listen, lady, I ain’t kidding on here. You start telling me the truth. Now. Okay?’ He deliberately twisted her skin, pinching her hard before releasing his grip and throwing her onto the settee.
‘Bloody animal,’ she yelled, and rubbed both her wrists. She looked to her husband, who was standing in the doorway, apparently dumbfounded. ‘Can’t you do something here, you useless bastard?’ she screamed.
Jack Cranworth shook his head. ‘You disgust me,’ he said under his breath as he turned and closed the door.
‘Well, don’t expect me to lose any sleep over that little bitch! I hope she dies and then rots in hell!’
Davies perched himself on the glass coffee table in front of her. He tried not to look at the marks forming around her wrists and convinced himself he’d acted in self-defence. He fought to catch his breath. The struggle had taken more out of him than he’d realised.
Jean Cranworth’s hands shook as she lit a long pink cigarette. Instinctively she picked off a piece of filter tip from her tongue with her thumb and ring finger.
‘Right, let’s get down to business.’ Davies craned his neck round towards McVeigh. ‘You stay outside, check he’s all right. I don’t want him going walkabout.’ Then, turning back to Jean Cranworth, he said, ‘Charlie Antonio. I want the hows, the whys, the wherefores… the lot.’
She let out a snort, and tossed her head back, refusing to answer.
‘You’re on a conspiracy to murder charge at least. So a wee bit of co-operation is as much for your benefit as mine.’
She pushed her candyfloss hair behind both ears, still holding the cigarette between her fingers. The contents of her bag were scattered on the seat next to her.
She rattled her tongue around in her mouth before she spoke. It irritated the hell out of Davies. His ex-wife had done the very same thing when explaining why he wasn’t good enough for her. Without leaning forward, Jean Cranworth pointed to the ashtray next to Davies with a bony index finger. He held it out for her and she tapped the inch long ash into it.
‘How did you come to know Antonio?’
‘I’d hardly say I know him. He did a job for me, that’s all.’
‘Go on.’
‘Look, I don’t know what that little shit has told you.’ She stood up and walked over to a lacquered table by the window and poured herself a Scotch. She didn’t offer Davies one. She swirled the amber coloured liquid round the glass as she sat back down.
‘Antonio came to me a couple of days ago. Tried to sell me some… information.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘The kind that lets you know your husband’s screwing another woman.’ She made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
‘I thought you didn’t care about your man’s extracurricular activities.’
She stubbed the cigarette out. ‘He told me that Oonagh O’Neil was pregnant, and that by all accounts, Jack was the father. Said he could sell that one on to the tabloids. Wanted a couple of grand for it.’
‘And you paid him?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know he sold it to the papers anyway?’
The colour rose in her already tanned cheeks. ‘Bastard, wait until I get my hands on him.’
Davies ploughed on. He had no intention of interrupting his flow to bring her the breaking news.
‘Did you pay Antonio to go back the next day?’
‘No.’ She finished off the whisky, throwing her head back as it slid down her throat.
Davies leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands. ‘To kill her?’
‘What? No!’ She put the whisky glass down on the table and mimicked his pose. ‘I don’t know what this Antonio fellow has told you, but that’s the extent of my involvement.’
‘Dr Cranworth, Charles Antonio is dead.’ He noticed a flicker of a smile cross her lips.
‘How?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he stabbed Oonagh O’Neil, and I think you paid him to do it.’
Her smile was extinguished, and with it any hopes of an alibi. Her face turned pale and ashen beneath the leathery suntan. She shook her head quickly from side to side, wringing her hands together. ‘No. No. No.’
‘I think you wanted her out of the way once and for all.’
‘That’s not true…’ her voice cracked ‘… just ask—’
‘Ask who? Antonio? Can’t, I’m afraid, he’s dead.’
He couldn’t muster any sympathy as he watched her cry. He yelled out of the door for McVeigh to bring Jack Cranworth back into the room.
He’d cleaned the blood off his face, leaving just the raw scratch marks.
His wife stared at him for just a few seconds, then picked up the heavy whisky glass and threw it straight at his head. It skimmed past his ear and smashed against the wall behind him.
‘You psychotic bitch,’ he yelled. ‘That could have killed me.’
‘It’s all your bloody fault. If you hadn’t been screwing the little bitch none of this would be happening.’
‘Sit down,’ Davies told Jack Cranworth. Then, turning to Jean Cranworth, he said, ‘And we can do without the hysterics, okay?’
Jack did not sit beside his wife. He pulled up a hard backed regency chair beside the fireplace. McVeigh sat on the settee beside the upturned contents of Jean’s handbag, keeping a safe distance between the couple.
Jean Cranworth pulled a tissue, then a vanity mirror from her make up bag and wiped her eyes clean. She was beginning to re-apply her make up when Davies coughed loudly.
‘If you don’t mind?’
She let out an exaggerated sigh and put the mirror and eye shadow back down, but kept hold of the tissue.
Davies turned to Jack. ‘Did you know your wife knew Charlie Antonio?’
‘Not until you found his number on her mobile.’
‘What were you two fighting about when we arrived?’
Jean Cranworth started to speak, but Davies interrupted her. ‘I was asking your husband.’
‘Three guesses.’
Davies was in no mood for guessing games. ‘Just tell me.’
‘She was in a blind rage about Oonagh.’
‘Was this the first time she’s brought the subject up?’
‘Well, yes.’
He turned to Jean Cranworth. ‘Why didn’t you speak to your husband about it before now? After all, you’d known about it for days.’
‘Setting me up, more like it.’ Jack turned his back to them. His arms were folded tight across his chest, and from his reflection in the window, Davies could see a muscle twitching on the side of his jaw.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. I had no idea that little bitch had been attacked when they took you away for questioning. I only heard it on the news later that night – much later.’ She drained what was left in her glass and wiped the lipstick from the rim with her thumb.
Jack Cranworth shot Davies a look that told him he wasn’t convinced.
‘What about the money?’ Davies asked.
‘What money?’
‘We found a bundle of notes in the church after Charlie Antonio took his tumble.’
Jean Cranworth shrugged her shoulders as if she couldn’t care less.
Jack Cranworth pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. It seemed that he could no longer bear to look at his wife.
44
Glasgow, 2000
Oonagh was left reeling from her encounter with Jack. Slap bang in the middle of her Magdalene research here he was suddenly revealing that he’d been the innocent by-product of an incestuous rape. Was she being too cynical or was it all too convenient?
They were in a wine bar because she didn’t want to be at home. She looked across at Tom, who was warming a glass of blood-red Cabernet Sauvignon between both hands. He’d told Oonagh he was glad Antonio was dead. He was glad even before he’d realised it was him who stabbed Oonagh. His face flushed pink with shame as he recalled the pleasure caused by his tormentor’s painful, horrific demise. The picture in his mind of Antonio’s body broken over the back of the pew didn’t so much haunt him as fill him with relief.
‘Ten Hail Marys for you, Father.’ Morbid curiosity got the better of her. ‘His body… what was it like? Was it just…?’ Oonagh pulled a face.
‘Why d’you always need to know the gory details about everything?’ Tom grimaced at the memory. ‘Oh, it was really smelly. That was the worst part. It was just… eurgh.’ He pushed her hand away from him and a shiver ran violently down his back as he tried to shake off the stench.
‘Has, eh, Mrs Brady said anything?’ Oonagh still couldn’t shake off the sickening guilt at having dragged her into everything. ‘I’d no idea this was going to grow arms and legs, Tom. But when she told me about seeing those letters. Well…’
‘You flipped?’
She nodded her head, wondering how long she could protect Anna Brady and her rotten wee life that hadn’t had a moment’s happiness.
The place was filling up. It was attached to a Greek restaurant and the smell wafting through from the dining area reminded Oonagh that she hadn’t eaten properly in days. ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ she asked, already having given the menu the once over.
‘Oh God, Oonagh, how can you eat at a time like this?’
‘You know what they say: starve a cold, feed anxiety.’
The waiter sashayed past, balancing three plates on one arm. He gave Oonagh a wink, then pouted his lips and blew a kiss at Tom before she had a chance to feel flattered.
They ordered and allowed the atmosphere and chatter from the neighbouring tables to wash over them as they waited for the food to arrive. Neither spoke much.
Eventually Tom told her about his meeting with Davies. But she was only half listening. Too many other things were rattling around in her mind.
‘Don’t let him bully you, Tom. He’s actually really nice. I get on dead well with him.’ She crammed a meatball into her mouth.
They judged the passing of time by the amount left in the wine bottle.
‘So,’ Oonagh said, as she laid her knife and fork on her plate, ‘you haven’t answered my question. What did Mrs Brady say? How much did she tell you?’
Tom told her that Mrs Brady had scarpered upstairs when Davies had arrived. And as far as he knew she was still there. He’d speak to her soon. Soon, but not yet. This whole business had scared the shit out of her. Dead or not, Charles Antonio still petrified her.
‘Why?’ asked Tom, ‘how much did she tell you?’
‘To be honest, she really just glossed over the facts. Told me she was sent away ’cause she was pregnant. Must have been years ago. But we got onto other things, then… well, you know what I’m like, once she mentioned seeing those letters, then the fact that they were gone after Father Watson came… Anyway, she was only with me for a wee while. We planned to meet again, to chat more.’ She looked into her glass. ‘I’m going to write a book,’ she said. ‘On the Magdalenes.’ She avoided his eye. ‘Anyway, the last thing I remember about that day was Mrs Brady leaving. You know, it’s funny, I gave her a hug, and she just felt limp in my arms. No, not limp… empty’. A big lump had been swelling in Oonagh’s throat and she swallowed hard. ‘Life’s shite sometimes, eh?’ She pressed her thumbs into the corners of her eyes. ‘Anyway, I never really got the chance to get her story, but she needs to talk to someone, Tom. So I’ve asked her to come round again. Even if I never use it, she needs to talk. She’s so fucking lonely.’
He nodded his head. ‘Yeah, I know. She had a baby girl taken away from her.’
A slight shiver ran down Oonagh’s spine. ‘No,’ she said, squinting her eyes at Tom, ‘she had a son.’
‘You sure? I thought… Never mind. I must have got it wrong.’ Tom swigged back his drink, draining the glass.
Oonagh gestured to the waiter, who brought another bottle. Tom made a lame attempt at saying he’d had enough, but didn’t protest when his glass was filled. Oonagh fished in her bag and put a computer disk on the table between them. She pushed it towards Tom with her index finger.
His face fell. ‘Is that it?’
She nodded, and told him she’d put two letters on it. Letters supposedly written by Father Kennedy. It didn’t matter that they weren’t word for word accurate – it was enough that the main gist was there. The only person who could possibly know they were fakes would be Father Watson, and he could hardly come forward and say he’d seen the originals. ‘Look, upload this onto your PC at home, then all you have to do is say you’ve just found it and pass it onto Alec.’
He didn’t look convinced by her Nancy Drew, home-spun detective idea, and sat biting his cheek. He was going to wimp out. She just knew it. He’d find some excuse why it couldn’t work, and another excuse as to why he should have nothing to do with it. Disappointment edged its way into her chest and she was about to put the disk back into her bag when Tom snatched it from her hand.
‘You know they’ll never be able to prove any of this.’ He waved the disk under her nose, ‘but if it gets the wind up that bastard Watson, even for just a minute, it’ll be worth it. He can stuff it. Fucking stuff it, that’s what.’ His courage had obviously been buoyed by alcohol and he was attracting too much attention from the other diners.
Oonagh stifled a giggle as she shooshed him. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, feeling happy for the first time since her attack, ‘this is great, Tom.’ And at last she felt a bit of relief that Mrs Brady could just be left out of the whole sorry mess.
Outside, there was a steady stream of traffic towards Shawlands. Oonagh stuffed her hand into Tom’s pocket and they linked arms as they walked back to the chapel house. In the distance a row of shops lit up the night. Mostly takeaways: a kebab shop, Kentucky Fried Chicken, a drive through MacDonalds. All offered the finest cuisine. The chippy had closed down years ago.
They passed a late night newsagents, picking up a first edition of the morning’s paper and reading the headline: Little Angels in Church of Death. A grainy picture of Charlie Antonio was splashed across the front page. She groaned as she read the story, which focused on the children who had witnessed his horrific fall.
‘Typical bloody tabloids,’ Oonagh said, and then reminded herself that she was part of the same food chain.
> Church of Sorrow sang the sub-headline as the story continued on page five.
Oonagh flicked back to see if there was anything else. Nothing. Page three was dominated by Ranger’s latest signing, who apparently had a Catholic grandmother, and who claimed not to give a toss about religion. And who could blame him at twenty grand a game?
She was relieved that there was no mention of herself in the story about Charlie. It had all been a tragic accident. A loving husband. A hard working journalist who’d been in St Patrick’s to watch the children rehearse their hymns for Father Kennedy’s funeral, and do a wee write up. The link obviously hadn’t been established yet. That would all change with tomorrow’s editions. By then the police would have made an official statement. By then Antonio would be an evil bastard who had plunged a six-inch blade into an innocent woman. Oonagh guessed the official statement would say Charlie Antonio had been wanted for questioning by the detectives investigating her attempted murder. That the case was now closed, that they weren’t looking for anyone else in connection with the attack. End of story.
45
Glasgow, 1958
When Lochbridge House closed down Irene Connolly had nowhere to go, so she teamed up with Sally and Bridie Flanagan. Her new best friends. All three stayed in a single end in the Gorbals; with Bridie’s granny, who was glad of the company. There was only one room, with a wee scullery off. And only one bed. The old woman slept in that. The other three lay on layers of newspaper on the floor, with old coats on top of them. Bridie’s granny had a clothes stall at Paddy’s Market, so there was always a selection of thick, crusty, hairy old coats to keep them warm at night.
By day, Irene, Bridie and Sally would sell the flea ridden rags, which allowed the granny to stay in bed, keeping warm and reading week old newspapers. For it could be bitter outside. She told the girls she remembered the days when the Irish actually sold the clothes from their backs as soon as they got off the boat. Hence the name of the market near the docks. But Irene never knew whether to believe her or not.
The three promised to stay friends forever. Sally, Bridie and Irene. But three months after they moved in, Sally died. They found her dead on the floor one morning. Stone cold and stiff she was, lying between them. Probably pneumonia, the doctor said, but he wasn’t entirely sure. It didn’t seem to matter much to anyone but them. Bridie’s granny went three months after that. Probably pneumonia, the doctor said…
The Lost Children Page 23