The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘So who made the call? Antonio?’

  Cranworth shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘And you went along with this?’

  He nodded as he upended his glass and finished his whisky.

  The room was stifling. A thin trickle of sweat made its way down Davies’ back. ‘Listen,’ he said, unzipping his jacket, ‘I’m just not quite getting all this. What exactly were you paying the money for? Having an affair isn’t enough to be blackmailed over.’

  Cranworth wiped his hand over his mouth and refilled his glass. ‘Maybe not for you,’ he said. He held the glass to his lips and said nothing for a few moments. He took a deep breath and sighed, putting the glass down hard on the table. ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘I knew Jean had paid him. I wasn’t prepared to take any risks and have my wife’s name dragged into this. Anyway, I was told where to leave the money, and told that after that I could just leave. I didn’t know he was waiting in the gods, did I?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’ Davies’ patience was wearing thin again. ‘Jee-sus, you could have saved us all a lot of hassle.’

  Jack was looking deep into his glass. ‘As you said yourself, these things have a habit of coming out in the wash. And I didn’t think you’d believe me. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble. Believe it or not, Inspector Davies, I do try to do the right thing when I can.’

  ‘So did your wife pay Antonio to attack Oonagh?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Oh no. At least, I don’t think so.’ He didn’t look too sure. ‘Just wanted him to break in and get a bit of evidence. Something to tie Oonagh and me together.’

  ‘Your wife’s version’s a bit different. Claims Antonio brought her the evidence off his own back. Says she never asked him to break in.’

  ‘Believe what you like. All I know is that I wanted her kept out of the whole mess. And if that meant paying some sleazeball to keep his mouth shut, then so be it. My conscience is clear. I didn’t stab her.’ He seemed to perceive a look Davies wasn’t aware he’d given him. ‘And neither did my wife,’ he added, without much conviction.

  Davies stood up to leave. ‘Take my advice. You know, you don’t do yourself or your wife any favours by playing detective, keeping things from us.’ He zipped up his padded jacket, which he’d left on during the whole of his time in the house.

  They walked through to the hall, and stopped by the front door. Cranworth picked up a small brown bottle sitting on a table. He handed it to Davies. ‘And you don’t do yourself any favours playing doctor. This is only a temporary measure. You really have to go and see someone about that.’ He nodded to Davies’ gut, ‘it’s quite urgent.’

  Davies put the bottle in his pocket. ‘Thanks, I will,’ he promised.

  ‘What about my wife?’

  ‘Look, I know you’re just being loyal, but… well, I wouldn’t wait up for her if I were you.’

  *

  As Davies arrived back at the station, McVeigh was running down the steps towards his own car, keys in hand. ‘Hey,’ Davies called, struggling to make his voice heard over the night rain. ‘Where are you going?’

  McVeigh looked up. ‘Mrs – I mean Doctor – Cranworth disnae like the tea out of the machine,’ he yelled, as though that explained things. ‘I’m going to Asda, to get her some Twining’s.’

  Davies’ mouth hung open in disbelief. ‘Asda? Are you fucking kidding me on?’

  ‘Aye, I know. Pure mental, isn’t it? But don’t worry,’ he shouted, missing the point entirely, ‘the one along the road’s open all night. I’ll be back in five minutes, tops.’ And with that he started up the engine and was gone.

  Davies needed no more convincing that the world truly was a madhouse.

  He braced himself before entering the interview room. He was in no mood for Jean Cranworth. Even if her husband had worked miracles with his gut.

  Inside she sat with her legs crossed on a padded, swivel office chair that was normally out at the front desk. Her left shoe dangled on the end of her toes, swinging a few inches from the floor. She was filing her two broken nails with an oversized emery board.

  ‘Quite comfy are we?’ asked Davies.

  ‘Hardly,’ she snorted and then looked over his shoulder as the door opened again.

  McVeigh rushed in, shaking the rain from his frizzy hair, rustling an Asda carrier bag.

  ‘Kettle’s on,’ he assured her, then fished out a packet of cotton wool pads and a bottle of Evian water. She took them from him and began dabbing her face with the pads, after soaking them in the bottled water. McVeigh’s smile beamed across his face. ‘You want a wee coffee, sir?’ he asked, heading back out of the door.

  ‘Aye, son. Got any decaffeinated double mocha delight with extra shite?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, what is this, Mrs Cranston’s bloody tearoom? Get someone else to get the bloody drinks and get yer arse back in here.’ His voice bellowed through the room. He could feel the colour rising in his face. When Jean Cranworth rolled her eyes, he looked at her directly and said, ‘Right, you. Cut the crap. Were you in Oonagh O’Neil’s house the day she was attacked? We know she had a visitor. I think it was you.’ He didn’t wait to hear her protests. ‘That means either you stabbed her, or you watched while Antonio did it. Fancy sharing that wee precious moment with me?’

  ‘You’re out of your mind.’

  Davies dragged a chair out from under the table and sat down. ‘Did you go round there to confront her about the affair?’ He took the bottle of medicine from his jacket pocket and took a quick swig. ‘Well, your husband was prepared to pay Antonio to keep his mouth shut about you.’ He was trying to gauge her reaction when there was a knock on the door and what looked to Davies like a twelve-year-old uniformed officer came in with two machine coffees and an Earl Gray in a china mug, all on a tray. Davies noticed it was his china mug, but decided to say nothing. He couldn’t be bothered. Jean Cranworth blew on the steaming tea before taking a sip. He pictured her sitting at Oonagh’s table, drinking her tea, planning her death. The thought made him feel sick.

  Jean Cranworth wiped the lipstick from the rim of the mug with her thumb each time she drank from it. Shite, he could imagine her doing the very same thing with Oonagh’s cups.

  ‘Well, were you there? Were you there when Antonio stabbed Oonagh? Or had you left by that time?’

  ‘Honestly. Don’t you ever give up? You’ve got your man. Leave it at that.’

  Davies had seen some cool customers in his time but she took the biscuit. ‘Look, it’s only a bloody miracle that Oonagh O’Neil wasn’t killed.’

  ‘Oh, fucking hell. I don’t know why the little bitch got done in!’

  ‘Why was your husband paying Antonio five grand?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, examining her newly filed nails. ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Told me it was to keep your name out of things.’

  ‘Then he’s a lying bastard, isn’t he?’ Jean Cranworth folded her arms across her non-existent breasts. ‘You don’t look like a stupid man.’

  Davies sat back, waited for her to continue. He knew a statement like that always carried a punch line. A ‘you’re not a stupid man but’ type of a punch line.

  ‘My husband can be a very charming man. He’s obviously convinced you that I’m the guilty party.’

  ‘No, actually he tried to convince me otherwise.’

  ‘Really?’ A mocking smile played on her lips. ‘Yes, he’s very clever with words, isn’t he? Listen sergeant, detective, whatever they bloody call you. I’m not exactly weeping buckets over this Molly Malone character.’

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil,’ Davies corrected.

  ‘Yes, right. Nevertheless, I didn’t pay to have her killed. If I had, she’d be dead by now. Anyway, do you think if I had, I’d have trusted a loser like Charlie Antonio? And for what? Five thousand pounds. Hah!’ She let out a laugh. ‘For God’s sake. I spend more than that a year on tights.’

  D
avies didn’t doubt that she was right about the tights.

  ‘Can I have a cigarette?’ She fished into her handbag before he had a chance to answer. She lit the by now familiar pink stick with a slim silver lighter. She sucked in hard, then licked her lips. ‘Listen,’ she said after her first draw, blowing the smoke high up into the air. ‘I called Antonio after you guys left because I wanted to know how the hell you connected him to me.’

  Davies let her speak.

  ‘I didn’t know he’d stabbed her. I just thought he’d broken into her house. And I was happy to pay him for what he told me. End of story. So obviously when the police turn up asking questions, well, I want to know the reason why.’ Before Davies could respond she said, ‘That’s the extent of my involvement.’ She sat back, and exhaled.

  ‘Sorry, love. Not good enough. You paid him to go back the next day, didn’t you? You wanted proof that Oonagh O’Neil and your husband were having an affair.’

  ‘Prove it.’ She tipped her chin upwards, daring him to take her on.

  ‘What about the money?’

  It was her turn to lose patience. She leaned her skinny arms across the desk. ‘I’ll say this for the last time. I’d already paid Antonio two thousand pounds. I don’t know why Jack was giving him any more. All I do know is that if someone was being blackmailed, it wasn’t me. I’ve done nothing that would interest a blackmailer.’

  She leaned forward, cigarette between her fingers. McVeigh almost fell off his seat as he quickly shoved a tobacco stained ashtray under her hand, just in case any of her precious ash got ruined among the filthy fag ends on the floor. Davies feared that if there hadn’t been an ashtray nearby the idiot would have held out his bare hand. Some men were more easily impressed than others. She flicked the ash in without giving him a single glance.

  47

  Glasgow, 2000

  The chapel house was in darkness by the time they got back. The glow from the streetlight guided Tom as he struggled to fit his key in the flimsy lock. The now soggy newspaper was wedged under his arm. At the crack in his elbow Charlie Antonio gazed up at Oonagh from a black and white front page photo.

  Tom felt the lock give and pushed the door open. A good hard nudge from a strong shoulder would probably have done the job equally as well.

  They left the lights off as they made their way into the kitchen. It seemed that Mrs Brady had gone to bed and Oonagh wasn’t entirely surprised when Tom told her Father Cameron had given up the ghost and gone on retreat. His nerves were in tatters after witnessing Charlie Antonio’s body.

  Oonagh adjusted her eyes to the gloom. And it really was gloomy. No place to call home. There was a brief moment of illumination as Tom opened the fridge and took out milk for the coffee. He left it open as he put the kettle on. ‘You should shut that,’ Oonagh told him. ‘You’ll send the motor into overdrive.’ Tom rearranged the food inside before he did so. He stepped back to make sure things were evenly placed.

  ‘How the hell did you manage to survive in Milton for so long?’ Oonagh imagined Tom roughing it out during his teenage years in the grim mining village, and realised why he’d have been so keen to join the priesthood. In another life he might have taken an altogether different path.

  ‘Mm, too anal, eh?’

  She nodded and smiled as they walked through to the living room. They were just at the bottom of the staircase when they felt the carpet soft and soggy underfoot. Their shoes squelched in a shallow puddle on the floor.

  ‘Oh, not a burst pipe!’ said Tom. ‘This is all I bloody need.’

  Oonagh felt a flush of panic in her throat as her eyes drifted up the staircase and she realised the water was pouring down from the first floor landing. Her cup crashed to the floor as she took the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Mrs Brady! Mrs Brady!’ she screamed.

  Tom overtook her before she was halfway up. He too yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Mrs Brady, are you all right? Mrs Brady!’ He tried the bathroom door. Locked. He banged on the old wooden panels with his fist. Nothing. Silence. He grabbed the handle and shook it violently. The water flooded out beneath the door, soaking his feet. He slammed both hands onto the door. ‘Mrs Brady! Can you hear me? Are you in there?’

  Oonagh was at his back. ‘Tom,’ she gasped, trying to get her breath, ‘just kick it in.’

  He stepped back and raised his foot, kicking with his heel until the door gave way. It burst open, quicker than he’d expected and he staggered forward, landing on his hands and knees in the pool of water on the tiled floor.

  Oonagh saw her first. Anna Brady’s grey, naked body in the bath of overflowing water. Both wrists expertly opened with single vertical slices. The pure white tiled walls stained red with her blood. The mirror above the sink was smashed, one long shard still clutched in her hand.

  Shaking, trembling, Oonagh reached into the deep pink water, pulled out the plug and turned off the tap. Tom grabbed Mrs Brady under both arms and dragged her out, her legs banging hard against the edge of the cast iron bath. She slipped from his grip. Her head cracked off the floor. Oonagh pressed her fingers against her neck. A faint pulse. Very faint. ‘Where’s your phone?’ Tom nodded towards the hall.

  Oonagh grabbed the phone and dialled for an ambulance as she charged back up the stairs, handset to her ear.

  She watched as Tom tried to stem the life flowing from Anna Brady’s body. He dragged her across the floor, nearer to the door. Oonagh helped him keep her arms above her head as they wrapped her wrists in towels. He bound her wounds as tightly as he could, then reached towards the door and grabbed her dressing gown from the hook. With the cord Tom attempted a makeshift tourniquet round both arms to stop any more blood escaping, while Oonagh laid the dressing gown over Anna’s naked body.

  Oonagh told Anna Brady she’d be all right. Let her know she wasn’t alone, that help was on the way. But Anna just lay there. Pathetic and helpless.

  The paramedics didn’t wait to be let in. One good hard shove was indeed all it took to open the door of the chapel house. They were at Anna’s side in seconds. One gently ushered them out of the way as the other got to work.

  Oonagh gripped Tom’s arm tighter than she intended. Her legs momentarily buckled underneath her. Tom held on, trying to steady her. ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, pretending she was fine when she wasn’t. ‘You were great there, Tom.’ She gestured at Anna, the bathroom, the blood. ‘Just brilliant.’

  Concentrating on the paramedics took her mind off the pictures that were unfolding in her head.

  Within a few minutes Anna Brady was hooked up to a saline drip, lifted onto a stretcher and carried down to the ambulance. Tom and Oonagh stayed with her the whole time until the ambulance sped away, the sirens blaring.

  *

  It took less than six minutes to reach the Victoria Infirmary, one of two hospitals on Glasgow’s South Side. Oonagh took Tom’s arm and guided him over to the orange plastic chairs; they were even less comfortable than they looked.

  A dozen or so other people were dotted around the waiting room, looking bored. A blast of cold air shot through every time the automatic double doors opened. The flashing light overhead told them there was a waiting time of seventeen minutes.

  Oonagh held Tom’s hand as he kicked the flattened fag ends that lay under his seat around. Some of Anna Brady’s blood was still on his hands. His face was in a bit of a mess, too.

  ‘Christ, this is all my fault.’ Tom broke his hand free from Oonagh’s and drummed his fingers together.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tom. You may have saved her life. None of this is your fault.’ Oonagh spoke with conviction, safe in the knowledge that it couldn’t be Tom’s fault, because it was her bloody fault. They wallowed in collective guilt.

  ‘Father? Father?’ Only when a hand was laid on Tom’s shoulder did either of them realise the woman was talking to Tom. She stood in front of them, dressed in a navy blue trouser suit under a white lab coat.

  ‘I’m Docto
r Simmons. You brought Anna Brady in?’

  Oonagh’s heart thumped in her throat. Tom stood up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you? She held out one arm, gesturing for them to come with her.

  ‘Is she…?’ Oonagh wasn’t sure what to ask. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Well, she’s alive,’ was all the doctor gave away as they walked down the corridor.

  Both Oonagh and Tom expected to be taken straight to her, and were surprised when she led them into a small room with vertical blinds blocking out the view to the corridor.

  ‘Mrs Brady? Can I see her?’ Tom sounded anxious.

  ‘Sit down, please…’

  ‘Father Thomas,’ said Tom, holding out his bloody hand by way of introduction. She didn’t shake it, and instead gestured for him to sit down. ‘And this is Oonagh O’Neil, my…’ he hesitated ‘… a friend of Mrs Brady’s.’ Oonagh was too tired to smile and slumped into the chair. Doctor Simmons looked straight at Tom.

  ‘How long have you known Anna Brady?’

  ‘Four years. Why?’

  ‘In that time has she tried anything like this before?’

  Oonagh knew where this was leading.

  Tom shook his head, apparently shocked at the question. ‘Good God, no!’

  ‘We’re worried she may try to kill herself again.’

  ‘Look, you don’t understand,’ Tom said. ‘She’s been under a tremendous amount of pressure. Our parish priest died last week, and, well…’ He wasn’t sure how to tell her the rest. ‘… she took it quite badly, that’s all. I’m sure if I speak to her…’

  She raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Father Thomas, Anna’s body has evidence of self-abuse going back years. Old scar tissue that would indicate this isn’t the first time she’s tried to kill herself. We’d like to transfer her to a psychiatric unit as soon as she’s fit.’