The Lost Children
THE LOST CHILDREN
Theresa Talbot
Start Reading
About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About The Lost Children
First in a gripping new thriller series featuring investigative journalist Oonagh O'Neil.
TV journalist and media darling Oonagh O’Neil can sense a sinister coverup from the moment an elderly priest dies on the altar of his Glasgow church. His death comes as she is about to expose the shocking truth behind the closure of a Magdalene Institution. The Church has already tried to suppress the story. Is someone also covering their tracks? DI Alec Davies is appointed to investigate the priest's death. He and Oonagh go way back. Oonagh now faces the biggest decision of her life. But will it be hers to make? What secrets lie behind the derelict Institutions doors? What sparked the infamous three-day riot that closed it? And what happened to the three Maggies who vowed to stay friends forever? From Ireland to Scotland. From life to death.
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Lost Children
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Theresa Talbot
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
Prologue
Glasgow, 1958
The body had been wrapped in a piece of torn sheet, then stuffed into the box.
Sally came in from the cold; stopping at the back door to stamp her feet and shake off the wet earth caked to her boots. They were miles too big and tied around the ankles with string. Her skinny wee legs were mottled blue with the cold. She caught Irene Connolly watching her from a third floor window. Her face and hands pressed hard against the glass. She shooed her away – gestured for her to ‘beat it’ – hoping to God she’d go back to bed before there was trouble.
Sally’s footsteps sent the rats scurrying for cover as she opened the door. Tiny claws scraped and clicked on the stone floor, their tails slithered like big, fat worms. There were two boxes stored overnight in the pantry. She carried them through and laid them on the table beside a third. Each held a similar bundle. Tightly bound. Carefully wrapped. Like tiny Egyptian mummies, so small they could easily fit into one box.
She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes, wiping the sweat from her brow at the same time. Despite the cold, beads of perspiration clustered on her forehead, her thin shirt had become damp and it clung to her back from the sheer effort of digging into the hardened earth out in the yard. Her small wiry frame concealed a surprising physical stamina. The mental stamina came from knowing no other way of life.
Some said she was simple – ‘There’s a waant wi that yin,’ they’d say. Sally let them think what they liked.
The lid balanced precariously on top of the third bundle, which was still warm. It took all her weight to hold it down in place. A tiny bone cracked under the pressure, but she carried on regardless. She took a nail from between her teeth and hammered it into the wood. She did this with all six nails before being fully satisfied the lid was secure.
As she wiped the sweat and mucus from her top lip, she stopped dead in her tracks. She pushed her ear against the makeshift coffin and froze.
There was no mistaking the tiny cries from within.
1
Glasgow, 2000
‘Take this, all of you, and drink from it.’ Father Tom Findlay held the chalice above his head. ‘This my blood…’
The meagre congregation mouthed the words along with him. He looked out at his flock and could have wept. There were a dozen at best. They were mostly old; mostly women and most of them had nowhere else to go. All huddled around the pews closest to the radiators. Still, at least he had a job.
He took just one sip. Meticulously he wiped the rim of the chalice clean with a linen cloth and handed it back to the old priest by his side, before walking down the steps of the altar.
He wanted to believe he carried the sacred body of Jesus Christ in his hands. He wanted to, but couldn’t.
A handful of people shuffled sideways out of the pews to get their daily bread. He was desperate to give them more, but he really had nothing left to offer.
The first supplicant was too frail to shuffle the few feet to the altar; he went to her first. Walking over to her pew, he smiled, pretending not to notice the faint smell of piss, masked by thick musky perfume.
‘Body of Christ.’ He tried not to gag as he placed the communion wafer in her slack mouth, and looked away when her ulcerated tongue licked the crumbs from her parched lips.
‘Amen,’ she replied, then wound her shaky arthritic fingers round his, and bent to kiss his hand. ‘Thank you, Father. Thank you, Father.’
Tom felt like a complete fraud as he prised his hand away and left her rocking back and forth, her milky eyes spilling with gratitude that the priest had gone to all that trouble.
As he turned to go back to the altar there was a collective sharp intake of breath from the congregation. He turned as the old priest stumbled towards him and fell to the floor. The weak autumn sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows gave his ashen face an undeserved healthy pink glow. His catatonic stare was fixed on the crucifix. Tom rushed to his side and felt for a pulse. But there was none.
Father Kennedy’s frail body lay prostrate on the altar: the ultimate offering. The gold chalice by his side. The puddle of wine became a blood-red snake that trickled its way along the marble floor, reaching out for him, pausing briefly to lick its lips before creeping into his white cassock.
*
Oonagh O’Neil popped a couple of aspirin in her mouth and with masochistic delight pushed the Dyson along the Persian rug – the only carpet in her West End home. It was becoming a daily ritual; she had a cat and asthma. But once or twice a week she’d get someone else to come and push it for her.
Oonagh had good days and bad days. Today was a bad day. Time was meant to be the great healer. But not for her. All it did was close over the gaping wound, sealing it at the edges but somehow trapping the grief inside.
She missed her dad.
Looking out of the window she presented her own forecast: ‘Dull and damp with a warm front coming in from the west, but feeling cool in the northerly wind.’ One of her first jobs had been as a weather girl for a low b
udget satellite television station. The gig had been easy enough, the hardest part had been finding ways to make ‘wet and windy’ sound interesting. Squally showers had been a particular favourite. She had come a long way since then. Maybe too far, she mused.
The shrill of the phone made her jump. The answering machine kicked in after three rings and Gerry’s voice screeched through the house. ‘Oonagh, are you in? If you’re there, pick up. Jeez-oh.’
She raced into the hall and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hiya. What’s wrong?’
‘What’s wrong? Where the hell are you? No, don’t tell me, in your house – on the phone.’ Gerry was well used to Oonagh’s sarcasm. ‘You’re meant to be here to record the trail for tonight’s programme. We’ve only got the studio until—’
‘Oh shit. Sorry, Gerry… completely forgot. Look, get me a cab and I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘That fat bastard Ross is kicking up a stink. You know what he’s like. Trouble making little—’
‘Darling – we’re wasting time. Order the taxi now. I’ll throw a bit of slap on my face and by the time it gets here, I’ll be ready to shoot the crow.’
Without waiting for a reply, she hung up and took the stairs two at a time to the spare bedroom that served as a massive walk in wardrobe. A row of navy jackets – identical to the untrained eye – hung on one rail. She chose the Chanel; perfect over the plain white silk shirt and cream trousers she was wearing.
It didn’t take her long to put on her ‘telly face.’ She had it down to a fine art. By the time the taxi was blaring its horn she was blotting her lipstick with a tissue.
Oonagh perched on the back seat, and jotted down her script. As soon as it was finished she called Gerry from her mobile and dictated it to him; that way he could get it on auto cue before she arrived. Twenty seconds was all that was needed, but she wanted to be ready to record as soon as she was inside the studio. Tonight’s programme – an exposé of a Glasgow sun bed salon fronting a money laundering racket – would be the first in a brand new six part series; The Other Side. It was Oonagh’s baby; a hard hitting look at Scotland’s seedier underbelly. The first five programmes were already in the can. The last one just needed a few finishing touches. And she could do without any more bother from The Fat Bastard. He’d been hell bent on trying to scupper her plans from the word ‘go’.
When she’d first presented the idea to Ross Mitchell, Oonagh had made it clear she intended to write, present and help produce the entire series. She’d been their main anchor-woman for over three years, presenting the weekday news each evening, but she was sick of the talking head routine and missed researching and developing her own ideas. Ross had dismissed the whole thing. Told her it wouldn’t work. Nothing wrong with the idea per se, he’d said, it was just that the public wouldn’t take to her being aggressive, hard hitting. If she wanted to branch out… why not try ‘day time’?
Oonagh had known he was talking a pile of crap, and had gone above his head, taking her idea to Alan Gardner, Head of News and Factual Programmes. Within a month, she had a full production team, and the budget for a pilot run of six programmes. That had been eight months ago, and Ross still had the hump. Petty bastard. Petty Fat Bastard.
As the taxi neared the door of the studios, Gerry was out in the street, smoking a roll-up and pacing like an expectant father. Despite the obvious rush, he still had time for an over the top air kiss. He flapped his arms about his head.
‘It’s all right, I’ve covered for you.’
He was wearing a black t-shirt with a picture of Charles Manson on the front and He’s not the Messiah – he’s a very naughty boy printed underneath. Despite being in his mid-fifties, his hair was carefully teased into short orange and blond tufts.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gerry.’
And she meant it. A good PA was vital in the business. One you could trust, not just some ambitious wannabe who saw it as the first rung in the television ladder, a stepping stone to ‘better’ things. It was the battle of the fittest in this game. The ‘fans’ who slavishly sent her mail, begged for a signed photograph, then perhaps a guided tour round the studio, were the same ones who the very next week would write to the studio bosses offering to work for nothing. It would only be a matter of time before her age and experience would be used against her, and the next bright young thing would be stepping into her Jimmy Choo’s.
She walked quickly down the corridor, straight through both sets of double doors into the studio, and sat on the plush blue chair in front of the camera, crossing her legs at the ankle. She blew Ross a kiss, knowing he’d be watching from the gallery, cursing her, not for being late but because she was on time, leaving him little to moan about. The floor manager gave her a five second cue, Oonagh smoothed down her already immaculate chin length bob. The red light came on above camera B.
‘Three… two… one…’
*
As expected, she did it in one take. Oonagh O’Neil never made mistakes. Not on the air anyway.
Gerry gave her the thumbs up. ‘Brilliant.’ That was his word of the month. As usual he did the mother hen routine, unclipping her mike, teasing her hair, wiping away imaginary specks of dust from her shoulders. ‘Now, Alan Gardner wants you to pop your head in before you run off.’
Alan’s door was open and he was perched on his desk looking at the running order for the evening’s news on his PC. ‘Hi, Oonagh.’ He gestured to the chair for her to sit down. ‘Be with you in a tick.’ He fiddled about with the order of the stories, changed the sequence then changed them back to their original format.
‘There, that’s better.’
Oonagh said nothing. Just grinned. She was used to Alan.
‘Oonagh, do you know if there’s any footage of Father Kennedy kicking about?’
‘Yeah, there must be loads in the library, there was a whole lot taken last year when he was doing those pro-life rallies. And the debate I did with him’ll still be in archives. Why, what’s the old git done this time?’
‘Nothing,’ Alan said, without looking up. ‘He’s dead.’
Oonagh gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Dead? Bloody hell. How? What happened?’
‘Died on the altar.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Hardly. The diocese is just off the phone. Collapsed during eleven o’clock mass no less. A trooper right to the end. Never missed a trick, did he? We’ll give him forty-five seconds in the second half. Just put a still picture up, but we’d best have a bit of footage on standby in case any of the other items get—’
Oonagh didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘But I was meant to meet him later. I had an interview booked. He called me last night and arranged it.’
‘Looks like you’ve got the afternoon off then, doesn’t it? What did he want to speak to you about anyway?’
Oonagh felt a tiny prick of excitement. ‘I don’t know. But he said it was important.’
‘Ach, you know what he was like. Probably nothing.’
‘Nothing? Alan, I’d been badgering Kennedy for an interview for the Magdalene Programme for months. Then out of the blue he called me.’
‘Well, whatever it was, he’s taken it with him to the grave.’
Oonagh’s eyes widened, she opened her mouth to speak, Alan held up his hand.
‘Oonagh, I’m teasing. Not everything’s a bloody story. He must have been at least a hundred and twenty. He was going bloody ga-ga for fuck’s sake. He was always on the blower to me spouting some nonsense or other—’
Oonagh stood to leave, her mind racing. ‘Right, I need to crack on, my taxi’s on wait and return, so—’
But Alan was only half listening, his attention already diverted by yet another crisis.
2
Glasgow, 2000
The pair drove from Govan Police Station in silence. Alec Davies felt like shit. He was tired. Tired and fed up. His eyes stung from ten days of back to back late shifts, and a tension headache was beginning s
omewhere around the base of his skull. Despite the toothpaste and mouthwash, the taste of stale Glenmorangie lingered in his mouth. Last night had been heavier than usual. He was getting too old for this. He licked his front teeth, forcing his tongue up under his top lip.
They headed south towards the old Crossmyloof Ice Rink – a supermarket for many years now – and left into Darnley Road.
‘The good houses, eh?’ said the clown sitting next to him on the passenger seat. The silence had been too good to last.
They had been thrown together three months ago and it was supposed to be a six-month attachment. He didn’t know if he would last without thumping him. Bloody Police Graduate Entrance Scheme. What a load of old shite.
‘See this part of The Shields,’ McVeigh continued, pointing out of the window, warming up for a full-blown session.
Davies missed McAndrew. He hadn’t really believed him when he’d said he was retiring.
‘Do you know how much the flats are going for around here?’ McVeigh continued.
Old men retired. Not forty-eight-year-old guys. Christ, he wasn’t far off that himself, but had joined the force later than McAndrew. It would be ten years before he could access his pension, and right now that seemed like a lifetime.
McVeigh let out a low slow whistle through the gap between his front teeth. ‘Big money, that’s what.’ He nodded his head and widened his eyes.
It was all right for McAndrew, he could lie in bed all day if he wanted.
Davies turned the radio up. Surely McVeigh knew he was getting on his tits. He had to. No one could be that bloody stupid. Although looking at that hair and that jacket… maybe McVeigh was the exception to the rule. Davies drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, he was bored with the conversation, bored with McVeigh and bored with life in general. He couldn’t be arsed. He needed his bed.
He flicked on the window wipers with his pinkie as the first drops of rain spat onto the windscreen, then gripped the wheel tight enough to turn the knuckles on the back of his hands white. McVeigh opened his mouth to speak, but took one look at Davies’ face and shut up.