Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  Farrell updated the rest of the team at the next briefing about his impressions of the evidence garnered from the priest and the housekeeper. As an afterthought, he asked DS Byers to try and ascertain what Mary Flannigan had been doing with her life before she worked for Boyd. She had seemed unnecessarily cagey. He also approved for circulation the identikit image of the man seen by the dog walker; although, given that it was a rear view, it didn’t take them much further forward. Finally, having done all that he could think of and with exhaustion settling like sediment in his body, he forced himself to leave and go home.

  As he drove along quiet country roads on his way out to the tiny hamlet of Kelton, Farrell lowered the windows to allow the cool night air to chase away the tiredness that was slowing down his brain. The earth smelled moist and rich with unidentifiable scents on the periphery of his memory.

  Turning right into the small lane, he dipped his headlights so as not to disturb his neighbours in the surrounding cottages. The stones crunched under his wheels and the tang of salt water from the River Nith drifted up to greet him. Farrell could feel his clenched muscles finally start to unknot.

  What on earth …? As he reached the cottage his headlights had picked up a shadowy figure slinking round the side wall from the rear garden. The light illuminated a white face with glittering eyes briefly turned his way.

  Farrell skidded to a halt and flung himself out the car and down the lane in hot pursuit. As he stumbled onto the muddy banks of the Nith, running perpendicular to the lane he had just left, the darkness closed in on him. He could only hear the sound of his ragged breathing and the sucking noise of the tidal river. After a couple of minutes, he paused to listen, trying to control his laboured breathing. Someone coughed behind him. He spun round, heart hammering.

  ‘Police,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t move!’

  As he shone the thin light of his torch in the direction of the sound, he met the interested gaze of a belted Galloway cow.

  From ahead the faint sound of mocking laughter drifted towards him on the back of the slight breeze that had got up. He spun round to give chase but it was one bit of nifty footwork too many. His feet went from under him, and he landed face down in the brackish mud.

  Squelching home, he noticed more than one curtain twitching. Grabbing a torch from his car he circumnavigated the cottage checking for signs of forced entry, but there were none. At least he interrupted the burglar before he had a chance to break in. Not that he had anything worth taking.

  After a long hot shower Farrell pulled on a faded pair of jeans and a navy roll-neck sweater. He padded through to the sitting room in his bare feet and inserted some Gregorian chants in the CD player. Pouring himself a generous measure of whisky, he sank back onto the leather couch and lost himself in the soothing rhythms of the music.

  Later, as he got up to change the CD Farrell noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Through the door of the sitting room he could see downstairs to the front door. Something was poking out from under the doormat. Warily he went down the stairs and pulled out a single piece of paper. In ragged capitals, it said:

  I’M TEMPTED TO CONFESS

  YOUR GUILT WILL GROW AND GROW

  ONLY YOU CAN STOP ME NOW

  JUST LIKE BEFORE

  Farrell sucked in his breath. What did it mean? He paced up and down the confines of his small cottage for half an hour before dismissing the letter as a crude prank. It was just a shot in the dark. Everyone had a guilty conscience about something, didn’t they? It clearly had nothing to do with Boyd’s murder at any rate and that was all he was concerned with right now. The lettering was completely different, and Boyd’s anonymous letters had been unambiguously threatening in tone, whereas this one was more couched as a sort of riddle. Probably just some yob who’d figured out he had a copper living near him and decided to have a laugh at his expense.

  Utterly exhausted he climbed into his pyjamas and glanced at the towering stack of books on his bedside table. He flicked through the latest sci-fi offering from his favourite author. Tempting though it was, he didn’t have the mental energy to enter another world tonight. Instead, he picked up a well-worn leather volume. Lips moving silently, he read The Divine Office until sleep claimed him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Promptly at ten the following morning, Farrell and McLeod entered Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. Farrell glanced at McLeod and saw that she was looking apprehensive. For the first time he wondered if he should have brought her along. He’d figured she could use the experience. As they went down in the lift to the mortuary, it felt as though they were descending into the bowels of Hell. As soon as they arrived they were issued with robes and masks then bade to enter the post-mortem room.

  As usual, the first thing that hit Farrell was the smell of formaldehyde, although it was the pungent smells creeping under the edges that really did for him. Feeling light-headed, he breathed shallowly and tried not to gag. Boyd’s body was laid out on the slab, and Farrell had to struggle not to avert his eyes. This was the first post-mortem he’d attended where he actually knew the victim. As he saw the pitiably frail body that had been disguised by the magnificent silk vestments of the Church he felt like the worst kind of voyeur. He glanced at McLeod. She was pale but bearing up.

  The pathologist gave them a brief nod before starting to dictate. As it was a murder investigation, Bartle-White was assisted by an independent visiting professor of pathology from Glasgow.

  After a while the officers were beckoned over by an imperious gloved finger. Bartle-White pointed to the neck of the deceased.

  ‘Cause of death, I would say, has been strangulation. The ligature seems to have been some kind of chain; see those indentations?’

  ‘Could it have been a rosary?’ asked Farrell, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach.

  The pathologist stepped back, thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s possible, although it would have had to have been very strong to withstand the force applied.’

  ‘How about this?’ asked Farrell, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket. ‘This was wrapped round the victim’s hands.’

  Bartle-White studied the rosary carefully and turned once more to the deceased.

  ‘Yes, I should say that in all likelihood that is the murder weapon. Did it belong to the deceased?’

  Farrell slapped his head in annoyance.

  ‘McLeod, once you’re done here, go and see Father Malone and get him to confirm whether or not this rosary belonged to Boyd.’

  ‘I would say that death occurred between 10 p.m. and midnight and that, judging by the lividity of the corpse, the body was not subsequently moved. There is a depressed fracture of the skull, which is the source of all the blood, but that was not of sufficient severity to have killed him outright,’ continued Bartle-White, in the manner of one discussing the vagaries of the weather.

  He then picked up a scalpel, and Farrell tried not to flinch as the first incision was made. The pathologist continued his work dispassionately; his dry words punctuated by the unseemly squelches of a body giving up its secrets.

  ‘Hang on a moment, what do we have here?’

  The pathologist held up a small silver object covered in blood and other gunk.

  ‘This was lodged in the victim’s digestive system. I would say it is likely it was consumed immediately prior to death,’ he said, sounding bemused.

  It appeared to be a small religious icon of a baby Jesus. Bartle-White cleaned it up, popped it into an evidence bag, and signed the label. Farrell co-signed the label and gave it to McLeod.

  ‘When you go to see Father Malone ask him about this as well. Don’t let on where it turned up; just ask him if it belonged to Boyd or if he’s seen anything like it before. If that draws a blank, then get on to ecclesiastical suppliers; see if there’s anywhere locally it could have been purchased.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said McLeod. ‘Should I get on it right away?’ she asked hopefully.

  Farrell too
k pity on her.

  ‘Go on, then, scarper.’

  She didn’t need to be told twice.

  The post-mortem threw up nothing else out of the ordinary. It transpired that Boyd, like so many priests, had turned to the bottle. His liver was shot through with cirrhosis. If he hadn’t been murdered, he would likely have been dead within the year.

  As Farrell drove away from the morgue he reflected that, had it not been for Boyd taking the action he did, in another twenty-five years he too might have been a lonely old man seeking solace in a bottle. Although it was out of his way, Farrell drove slowly by St Aidan’s, feeling heartsore at the way things had turned out.

  The church was located in a predominantly working-class area. It was a busy parish with a catchment area that took in ghetto-style housing estates where drugs spawned crime and poverty as well as the determinedly genteel areas of those who were either climbing up or sliding down the social scale: a true microcosm of society. Many here turned to religion as a means of combating their despair at the hopelessness of their situation. Others turned their back on God, rejecting Him with all the angry defiance of which they were capable. This could have been his parish had things turned out differently, had Father Boyd not … but the man was dead. It was a matter for God to judge his actions now. As for Farrell, he must now bring his murderer to justice, regardless of his feelings about the man.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DC Mhairi McLeod shuddered as she turned the key in the ignition and quit the hospital car park with squealing tyres. Note to self. Never ever attend a post-mortem again. It was one thing reading the eventual report couched in dry medical terms, most of which she had to look up in the medical dictionary she kept in her drawer. It was another thing entirely actually being present. She wondered how the pathologist could stand to do his job; day after day, hacking into people like they were just pieces of meat. Desperately she tried to delete the images of the dead priest from her memory, but they were there to stay. Dammit. It had been a helluva couple of days. She felt her nerves were stretched as taut as a violin; one good twang and they would ping apart.

  Before Farrell came along she had been aware that the other detectives had stopped taking her seriously and felt that she had failed to live up to her earlier promise. Ever since Ewan had run out on her on the eve of their wedding six months ago, she had been all over the place, more interested in having a good time than in forging ahead in her career. The career that had meant everything to her until it lost her the man that she loved. Ewan had struggled with her crazy hours, not to mention the fact that from time to time she might be placed in harm’s way. What had given him the final push to end things was when she had failed to turn up for their rehearsal dinner because she had to talk a young drug addict down from the roof of the local hospital. Farrell had been loading responsibility on her from the day he arrived. Maybe he hadn’t heard yet that she was a flake?

  Parking outside St Aidan’s, Mhairi quickly walked up the lane to the priests’ house. She banged the heavy brass door-knocker. The curtains were still shut in a few of the rooms and there were smudges on the brass plate. There were no signs of life. Growing impatient she knocked again. This time, after a few seconds, she heard a door opening deep in the interior of the house accompanied by the sound of urgent footsteps. The door was flung open and a slightly dishevelled Father Malone stood there, blinking almost comically in the sunlight.

  ‘DC McLeod … er, sorry to keep you waiting. No housekeeper, sometimes I forget …’

  ‘No worries,’ Mhairi said, smiling at the young man, who resembled a badger woken up from hibernation too soon.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, throwing wide the heavy wooden door and causing it to creak alarmingly on its hinges.

  Father Malone rushed ahead of her into the same room they had been shown a few nights ago. He threw open the curtains and whisked away a pile of newspapers from an upright chair, gesturing for her to sit down. The carpet looked like it could do with a good hoover.

  ‘Aren’t there any ladies of the parish who could come in to give you a helping hand until Mary is able to return?’ she asked.

  ‘Too many, that’s the trouble. If I let one in to help they’ll all want to do it and then it’ll be …’

  ‘Needlepoint at dawn,’ Mhairi finished with a grin.

  ‘Something like that,’ he said.

  Mhairi fished in her handbag and brought out the two evidence bags that Farrell had given her. Father Malone saw what she was doing and started to look anxious.

  ‘Do you recognize this rosary?’ Mhairi asked, passing the sealed bag to him.

  The priest looked at it carefully then handed it back.

  ‘No, it’s not one I’ve seen him use.’

  ‘How about this little ornament?’

  She handed him the other bag, feeling nauseous again as she remembered where it had been found.

  Again, Father Malone stared at the item intently through the plastic.

  ‘It looks like it might have been removed from a nativity scene but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells with me, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘If you need any religious items, like rosaries or statues, can you tell me where you would get them?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘Well, there’s a place in Edinburgh I know we have used. Let me just look up the address.’

  He retrieved a battered address book from the old-fashioned sideboard and flicked through the pages. He then wrote an address down and handed it to her.

  Suddenly, the door-knocker sounded with a thump causing them both to jump. Father Malone went to answer it, and Mhairi put the items carefully back in the zip compartment of her bag before standing up and following him out.

  Father Malone was having a whispered conversation with a craggily handsome man in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater. As she approached silently there was something in their body language that made her feel uncomfortable, as though she was intruding.

  ‘Look, it’s not a good time. The police are here. You have to leave …’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Mhairi said behind them.

  Father Malone sprang back from the door as though he’d been stung, his face flushing deep red. An expression of annoyance flitted across the other man’s face but Mhairi couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with the priest or annoyed with her for interrupting them.

  Mhairi thanked Father Malone and walked down the steps, resisting the impulse to look back and see if the man had been ushered inside. What was that all about, she wondered?

  Back at the station, Mhairi checked in the evidence bags. As she went past DCI Lind’s office he glanced up and beckoned to her to come in. Although she’d been pulled up by him a few times, she had a lot of respect for the DCI. He always strived to be fair and, unlike a lot of the blokes in the station, he had never tried to come on to her.

  ‘Come in, Mhairi,’ he said. ‘How was the post-mortem?’

  ‘Absolutely gross, Sir.’

  ‘It’s something you never quite get used to, which is probably a good thing. Anything useful come out of it?’

  ‘It looks like he was strangled with some rosary beads. He also had his head bashed in, er, I mean a depressed fracture of the skull, but that wasn’t the cause of death, Sir.’

  ‘What else?’

  Mhairi’s face screwed up in remembered disgust.

  ‘They pulled out an ornament of a baby from his digestive tract, Sir.’

  Lind raised his eyebrows.

  ‘And I thought this case couldn’t get any weirder,’ he sighed.

  Mhairi returned to her desk, called up the digital images of the rosary and religious icon she had taken earlier, and emailed a query to the address Father Malone had given her. This case was really freaking her out. She’d never known anything like it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Farrell sat behind his desk and pulled an overflowing basket towards him. So much for the concept of a paperless office. The reports on his desk were multiplying like bact
eria. He pulled a sheaf of brightly coloured charts that had been sent up by the civilian intelligence analyst towards him. Quickly scanning them, he soon realized that they told him nothing new. There simply wasn’t enough data available yet to pinpoint any specific patterns forming. He took a sip of the mud-coloured coffee he had grabbed on the way up and pulled a face. Pure gut rot. He glugged it down anyway. Needs must. If they could uncover a motive in this case it might lead to the killer. What had the dead priest done that had been so heinous it had led to his murder? Could he have interfered with somebody’s kid? Farrell thought back to his own years as an altar boy and couldn’t recall a single instance when Boyd’s conduct had made him uneasy. It didn’t fit the mode of killing either. An outraged father would have charged at Boyd like a bull at a gate. There would have been no finessing at the crime scene. Unless, of course, the killer had dressed it up to look like a nut job to throw them off the scent. It was no good. He was going round in circles. Glancing at his watch, Farrell realized it was nearly time for the final briefing of the day.

  On the way to the MCA room he decided to pay a visit to the tiny fingerprint lab, where any prints from the murder crime scene would be undergoing analysis. A middle-aged civilian woman was hard at work with her back to him, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name.

  ‘Hi there, er …’

  She spun round to face him and was wearing a name tag. Saved.

  ‘Barbara, how’s it going?’ he said, aiming for a jovial tone. Name tags might be the answer to his prayers, on the one hand, but he always felt uncomfortable having to read it off a woman’s chest. That was a whole other can of worms in the hermetically sealed politically correct goldfish bowl they all had to operate in these days.