The Lost Children Page 5

  Oonagh shrugged, ‘I just got lucky I suppose.’

  Tom let out a slight laugh that didn’t quite each his eyes.

  Books were stacked in piles on the floor, a group of framed pictures leaned against one wall. The whole thing had a just moved in look.

  ‘How long have you lived here, then?’

  ‘Two years,’ she said, without batting an eyelid.

  Tom walked to where the books were stacked. Crouching down, he examined the spines and picked out a hardback Charlie Chaplin biography. He leafed through the pages as Oonagh went through to the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, guess what?’ he called, looking up from the book. ‘Charlie Chaplin’s wife was called Oonagh O’Neil. Well, what do you know? Quite a famous name.’

  ‘That’s nothing,’ she replied. ‘You should speak to my brother, Eugene.’

  ‘Your brother’s called Euge—’ His voice trailed off to nothing when he saw her face.

  ‘God, you’re so easy to wind up… I don’t even have a brother. Right, are you going to stop this small talk and tell me why you’re here?’

  He told her he was being taken off the Magdalene Project.

  ‘Can’t you get them to change their minds? I mean what’s this got to do with Father Kennedy’s death?’

  Tom’s contribution to the programme was hardly vital, and she really was at the closing stages anyway, but still, it was handy having someone on the inside, even if he was still working for the enemy. And she enjoyed his company. It was nice to have an excuse to see him.

  ‘Oh, come on, Oonagh, don’t be so bloody naïve,’ he snapped.

  She was slightly taken aback. ‘I think you’ve had enough wine, buster!’ she said, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘But if it turns out there was something suspect about his death, well, the Church will be swarming with police and reporters over the next few weeks. They seem to think you’ll try to get other information out of me.’

  ‘What other information?’ She smiled and tried not to sound too nosey as she moved to fill his glass once more. Tom put his hand over it in an impotent protest. Oonagh ignored him and poured anyway. He pulled his hand away just in time.

  She plonked herself down on the sofa opposite him and sank into the feather cushion.

  ‘Tom, maybe it was suicide?’

  ‘Christ knows.’

  Oonagh giggled. She liked the way Tom used the Lord’s name in vain at every opportunity. In a previous conversation, during happier times, he had denied it was blasphemy, claiming it was God providing choice phrases when no other words came to mind.

  She’d always thought Tom an unlikely candidate for the priesthood. They shared similar Irish-Catholic backgrounds, and true enough a few boys from her school had gone off to seminaries, but usually they were the quiet types no one missed. Occasionally one would re-emerge months – sometimes years – later looking slightly bewildered, desperately trying to fit back in. Always trying to get back in step. Trying once more to be one of the boys. Tom was different. He was bright, smart and could be a bit of a laugh on a good day. This wasn’t a good day. A waste of a good man, she’d always thought. She guessed he’d joined up as a means of escape, but from what she had no idea. She picked holes in his faith at every opportunity, and he dutifully filled them in.

  ‘Don’t the police have any leads?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, they’ve already questioned me. In fact I’ve come straight from the press office. The police were there.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, they’ve spoken to me too.’

  ‘Have they?’

  Oonagh thought Tom looked relieved. She didn’t have the heart to tell him it was her who had badgered Alec Davies to probe into Father Kennedy’s death, convincing him that he’d had enough enemies to at least warrant a post mortem examination if nothing else. She’d come head to head with Father Kennedy herself a few months back when chairing a televised debate on abortion. She’d torn him to shreds. There had certainly been no love lost between them.

  ‘He was nothing more than a twisted old glory seeker.’ Tom’s rebellious streak was on overdrive.

  ‘I know!’ Oonagh agreed. ‘He was never off the telly.’

  ‘Ha! You’re one to talk.’

  She slapped his arm and affected a thick Dublin accent. ‘You’re not just a wee bit jealous there, are you now, Father Thomas?’

  Tom gave her a petulant grin, as if to say that he could never stoop so low.

  Oonagh lit a cigarette and walked through to the kitchen to fetch another bottle of wine. Tom was just finishing his second glass.

  ‘Jee-sus, you can fairly put it away,’ he said.

  ‘Well spotted, milk monitor.’ Oonagh drew heavily on her cigarette and sat back down on the settee. ‘Will the police want to speak to you again?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Probably.’

  She thought Tom had the look of a man whose battle was coming to an end. Like he wanted to run away, but had nowhere to go.

  ‘They know I had a fight with him the night before he died.’

  ‘Look, just because they know you had a barney doesn’t mean the police believe you killed him. People fight every day. It usually means nothing.’ She tried to read his expression. ‘Erm… you didn’t kill him, Tom – did you?’

  He just tutted. ‘Christ, Oonagh, shut up. That’s the least of my worries just now. There’s more to it… It’s not easy being a priest.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment.’ Although in truth Oonagh thought it would be quite a cushy wee number.

  ‘I feel as though everyone wants a piece of me. They think I can help them and I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too much.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, taking his glass, unconvinced that it was as intense as Tom was making out. ‘Here, have another drink. You’ve just had a bad day.’

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Oh. You haven’t finished your drink.’

  ‘No. The Church. I’m leaving the Church.’ He let out a nervous snigger and relaxed into the sofa cushion. ‘There, that’s the first time I’ve actually said it out loud.’

  ‘You know, I don’t know why you were ever ordained in the first place. I mean, you’re an intelligent man, and let’s face it, the whole thing’s such a big bag of crap, and—’

  ‘Oh Christ, just drop it, eh?’

  ‘What…?’

  Tom looked at her. ‘The “let’s run down the Catholic Church” routine. It’s wearing a bit thin. You know, Oonagh, for every rotten priest there are a thousand decent ones. I spend my life trying to help people who’ve got nowhere else to turn.’ He swirled his wine round in its glass. ‘Fat lot of good it does, eh?’

  Oonagh leaned over and touched Tom’s hand. ‘Hey, come on, you do a lot of good. But you don’t need to be a priest to do social work. There are loads of projects and initiatives that would be glad to have you on board. You’re well qualified, you’re experienced, you’re great with kids… Crikey, you’d get snapped up.’

  He pulled his hand away gently. ‘You know, I went to college with a guy who’s stuck out in San Salvador. No, not stuck. Chooses to be there. Every day he breaks the law, just by being a priest. Risks his life. Every day. He works underground, hiding people – freedom fighters – from the police. He heads a network that helps women whose husbands, sons, whole families have been dragged in for questioning, never to be seen again.’

  Oonagh felt she should be making encouraging noises, but the point of the story was lost on her.

  Tom shook his head. ‘Being a priest isn’t what I do, it’s who I am.’ He put his glass down on the coffee table. Oonagh slid a coaster underneath it. ‘I mean, I’m a Christian, Oonagh.’ He dropped his eyes and slapped his hand on his chest. ‘Jesus is still the most important person in my life.’

  A smile pulled at the corners of Oonagh’s lips and she waited for him to laugh, but he didn’t.

  ‘So we’re not all bad, yo
u know.’ Tom sniffed hard, stifling a sob in the back of his throat. ‘Just as not every journalist is a money grabbing, amoral, ambulance chasing, dirt raker. So just leave it, will you…?’ He let out a little hiccup as his voice caught.

  ‘Okay… okay…’ She held up her hands, palms outward.

  Tom’s eyes had glazed over and he was swaying slightly, taking on that drunken melancholic look that Oonagh knew so well. She guessed the wine had gone straight to his head, bypassing his brain and loosening his tongue on the way.

  ‘I thought it was what I wanted. But I can’t do it any longer. I’m starting to hate it.’

  She felt sorry for him. But couldn’t quite grasp his dilemma. Sobbing his heart out just because he’d chosen the wrong job. It was all very black and white to Oonagh.

  ‘Look,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘why don’t I phone out and get us some food delivered. You look as though you could do with a bite to eat.’ And before he could refuse she was cradling the telephone on her shoulder and sifting through a pile of menus.

  ‘Italian okay?’

  She ordered for them both, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said, ‘Why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ve plenty of room, and if you’re going to see Father Watson, it’s easier for you to get into town from here in the morning. And anyway, you’ll be way over the limit.’

  Tom considered his options for just a moment before he said yes. No one knew he was there. Anyway, who would care? He could leave by the back door in the morning without being seen.

  ‘Oonagh…’ He patted the seat next to him. ‘Oonagh, sit down, I need to speak to you.’

  Something about the tone of his voice unnerved her. He was staring into his glass, swaying back and forth as he swirled the wine round and round.

  ‘What is it?’ The faintest hint of fear pricked her skin, and she felt the flesh round her scalp tighten. ‘What’s wrong?’

  9

  Glasgow, 2000

  It threatened rain as they turned off the main road. The clinic was tucked away discreetly in Glasgow’s West End, just off Great Western Road.

  ‘Don’t you think we’re clutching at straws?’ McVeigh asked Davies. ‘I mean we don’t even know if it was suspicious yet. He could have taken the penicillin himself, although I can’t see why he would. It’s just that there’s no’ really much point in killing a priest, is there? My money’s on it being an accident.’

  The post mortem examination on Father Kennedy’s body had revealed more than just large quantities of penicillin; he’d also been riddled with cancer. The suicide theory was gaining ground amongst their colleagues.

  Davies gave McVeigh a look. ‘Just because the old guy killed himself doesn’t mean there wasn’t something funny going on. Priests just don’t kill themselves for no reason. It’s against… y’know… They’re not allowed! Anyhoo, I want to know if someone was getting at him. Threatening him. Maybe he was pushed over the edge.’

  They pulled up outside the ornate iron gates. A small brass plaque identified it by name only: Kendall Hall. A converted town house, there was nothing to make it stand out from the neighbouring buildings, which were equally impressive.

  As Davies lowered the electric window and pressed the intercom to announce their arrival, a small surveillance camera whirred overhead. Security was tight, but they were expected. Once inside, he drove up the tree lined gravel drive and ignored a sign pointing to the rear car park, stopping instead outside the front door.

  ‘I mean, not everyone is a suspect, surely?’ McVeigh persisted.

  Davies just ignored his colleague, but knew from experience that it would do little to shut him up. He leaned on the doorframe with his right hand, while his hand gripped the waistband of his jeans. He drummed his fingers on the wood as he waited to be let in.

  A receptionist in her mid fifties, with perfectly manicured nails and a bleached blonde bob greying at the roots, opened the door and led them through the main hallway into a private office with wood panelled walls. The dark blue carpet cushioned their every step. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she told them to make themselves comfortable. No tea or coffee was offered.

  McVeigh looked around and let out a long, slow, soft whistle. ‘There must be some money in this…’ He looked at the ornate ceiling and then towards the leather settee. Two Howison originals hung on the wall. The place boasted of the luxury and style of a five star hotel. Very swanky. The only thing missing was an eighteen-hole golf course round the back.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, do you ever shut up? Did they no’ teach you nothing at that uni?’

  Davies realised McVeigh was used to his moods by now, but he still seemed oblivious to his part in creating them.

  A door opened.

  ‘Look boys, make this quick, will you. I’ve got an appointment in half an hour.’

  The man before them was tall – very tall. Expensively dressed, probably early forties, too well groomed to make any guess at his age more accurate. Walking towards them, carrying a bundle of anonymous case notes, he made no attempt at an introduction. Instead he nodded for them to sit back down.

  ‘Doctor Cranworth, we’ve no intention of keeping you longer than is necessary, but as I told you on the phone, we do have—’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ He didn’t give Davies a chance to finish. ‘But I really don’t know what you expect me to know about the death of that priest.’ He picked an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder with his thumb and forefinger and viewed it with distaste before flicking it onto the immaculate carpet.

  Davies leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Father Kennedy didn’t exactly approve of your work here, did he?’

  ‘No, I don’t imagine he did.’ The first sign of a mock smile played on Cranworth’s lips.

  ‘Didn’t you threaten to sue the Church, claiming he was intimidating your patients? He probably lost you a bit of business, eh?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, I own and run an abortion clinic. Do you honestly think I plan to kill every priest who speaks out against me?’

  Davies felt his self-satisfied look coming on, the one he saved for when he thought he had scored a point against an opponent. ‘I didn’t mention he’d been killed,’ he said. ‘What makes you think it was murder?’

  ‘My mistake. Well, what is it then?’ His voice took on a mocking sing-song tone. ‘I take it you’re not collecting for a wreath.’ He laced his fingers together and raised his eyebrows, expecting an answer.

  Davies wasn’t used to people being sarcastic to him, and didn’t like being made a fool of, especially not in front of McVeigh. This would be all round the bloody station by teatime.

  ‘Look here, Doctor, understand that we’ve got a job to do. You threaten a priest and three months later, he’s dead. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit suspicious. I mean—’ he nodded his head upwards ‘this place can’t come cheap.’ He looked around the room. ‘Your clients can’t be short of a few bob. I imagine any lost business would cost you dear.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ He shook his head and let out an audible sigh. ‘His protests wouldn’t… wouldn’t even make a dent. Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s not quite my style. Now, is there anything else?’

  Davies nodded but wasn’t about to be fobbed off. ‘I’ll call back in a few days when you’re less busy. You can answer my questions then.’

  ‘As you like.’ Cranworth buzzed his receptionist. ‘Show the… the lads out,’ he said, immediately turning his attention to his papers.

  *

  They were back outside within seconds. Davies got into the car and slammed the door hard behind him. He opened the glove compartment and fished around until he found a battered packet of cigarettes stuffed in the back.

  ‘I thought you’d given up,’ said McVeigh.

  ‘Fuck off!’ said Davies.

  10

  Glasgow, 2000

  The club was dark. There was little chance of being recognise
d. Even those people he saw day in day out often walked past him in the cinema or the supermarket without giving him a second glance if he was wearing civvies. So the chances of anyone picking him out here, in this blackness, were negligible.

  He had no great plan of what he wanted to do once inside. Dance? Maybe a drink? Pick someone up? He didn’t even know if they still called it that. Talking would be nice. He’d simply decided that he wanted to be out in the big bad world for once. Call it preparation.

  He enjoyed blending in. He was leaning against a wall and was genuinely shocked when someone stood next to him and strained to speak above the music. Shit, he was being chatted up? What now? Go with it? Go home?

  He went with it, a few minutes passing in a daze. No harm done. He could still walk away.

  The obvious questions of a first conversation unfolded… Do you come here often? Are you here alone? What do you do?

  ‘Lawyer,’ he lied.

  Oh Christ, why didn’t he say brickie, or bus driver, or unemployed? Was he really that much of a snob? He didn’t bother bouncing back the question. He couldn’t care less who this other person was, or what they did for a living.

  ‘I’ve got my car outside, do you fancy moving on somewhere else?’

  Jee-sus, fast worker, he thought. Was he genuinely that out of touch? Was that just how things were these days? Or was it only in gay clubs that people moved in quick for the kill?

  He allowed himself to be led outside, where it was just as dark as it had been in the club, then into the passenger seat of a Volkswagen. They drove in silence away from the quiet cul-de-sac in the Merchant City, through town towards the West End. The streetlights had a hypnotic effect, lulling him into a trance. An eighties style power ballad blasted through the stereo, providing a soundtrack that made the whole experience feel like watching the events unfold on screen. The song lasted the entire journey – precisely eight minutes according to the digital display.

  It wasn’t until they pulled up on Kelvin Way that the driver switched off the engine, and with it the music. The car was facing Argyle Street with trees flanking either side. The last time he’d been here a throng of mums and kids had been taking a short cut through the park, while miserable looking students had rushed to lectures.