Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Did you know a Catholic priest by the name of Father Boyd?’ he asked.

  Her eyes widened in recognition at both the name and his use of the past tense. She leaned forward in her chair.

  ‘Yes, I knew him. Are you telling me he’s …?’

  ‘Dead. Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But I only saw him two weeks ago. He looked absolutely fine,’ she continued, trying to make sense of it.

  Farrell pressed on. ‘He was murdered,’ he informed her.

  Her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘So you’re …?’

  ‘Senior Investigating Officer,’ he filled in for her.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘He was meant to see you today at twelve o’clock. I need to know why. It could be relevant to the investigation.’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that patient confidentiality continues after death.’

  ‘There are a number of exceptions to that rule. You could justify disclosure on the basis that it’s in the public interest to catch this murderer before he kills again. Surely, it is also in the interest of his surviving sister that the police are given any relevant information that might directly or indirectly lead to the capture of his killer?’

  ‘Fine, you win. Father Boyd had been referred to me by his GP as he’d been suffering from moderate depression, a symptom of which was alcoholism.’

  Farrell had guessed as much.

  ‘I need you to keep this to yourself,’ he said. ‘Before he was murdered he’d been sent a few anonymous letters. One of these contained the comment “I know what you did”. In his sessions with you did he make any reference to the letters or who might have sent them?’

  ‘No,’ said Clare. ‘Definitely not. We’d only had three sessions so I’d just scraped the surface really, barely got started; you know how long these things take.’

  That’s it, thought Farrell, twist the knife. Don’t let me forget who’s got the upper hand in this little exchange. He kept his countenance impassive.

  She continued, ‘I can tell you that he seemed deeply troubled. He mentioned he felt guilty about something he had done years ago; made one or two comments about the past starting to haunt him, stuff like that.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to probe any deeper?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘I was getting to it,’ she said defensively. ‘You can’t rush these things; have to peel the layers away slowly.’

  There was an awkward silence. Farrell’s heart was hammering and he felt hot and sweaty. Was it wishful thinking on his part or was she feeling some kind of connection between them too? She had lowered her gaze and was studying her clasped hands intensely. Probably just remembering what a basket case he’d been in those days. Looking at her full lips he felt an unwelcome frisson of desire as he remembered with startling clarity the moment he had touched his own to them. Time to get out of here.

  He stood up abruptly, ready to leave. She rose as well. They stared at each other for a long moment before Farrell broke the silence.

  ‘Well, if you think of anything else, please get in touch.’

  He passed her a card and their hands touched. He snatched his back as though it had been burnt, hoped she hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Frank …’ she said, moving closer.

  Farrell had to fight the impulse to back away from her and render himself even more ridiculous in her eyes. He looked at her in what he hoped was a manner of cool enquiry: one eyebrow quizzically raised, just the ticket.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘About before …’

  The woman was a sadist. Surely she wasn’t going to rub his nose in it after all these years?

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I owe you an apology.’

  Farrell could feel the heat rise in his face and move down his whole body. He said nothing, having temporarily lost control of his tongue.

  ‘I was young, just starting out,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid I allowed my feelings to get the better of me. I must have been sending out mixed messages. I realized when you kissed me that I’d failed you professionally and just panicked, I guess.’

  Farrell tried for a joke to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘Hey, with that amount of guilt you must be Catholic,’ he quipped.

  She smiled and the sun came out. Farrell could feel a rusty grin pushing against his cheeks.

  ‘Now we’ve got that out of the way, maybe you’d like to join me for a drink some night? I’m writing a paper on the development of criminality in adolescents: the old nature versus nurture debate. I would welcome the insights of a serving police officer informed by your unique spiritual background.’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ replied Farrell, the nonchalance of his response utterly belied by the colour creeping up his face.

  They arranged to meet at the Swan, a quiet country pub, the following week.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Farrell jerked bolt upright in bed; the memory of his scream ringing in his ears. Heart pounding, he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the nightmare images to recede. As the mist cleared from his eyes, early morning country sounds filtered through the open window. House martins squabbled under the eaves. Farrell glanced at the clock and groaned. Five a.m.

  Throwing on running shorts and a vest, he limbered up with a few practised stretches, turning towards the small mahogany crucifix above his bed. Blank wooden eyes stared impassively back at him. He knew he should really take it down and pack it away but it had been a present from his mother at ordination: the last thing she had ever given him. Taking it down would feel like another betrayal.

  As he opened the front door the scent of honeysuckle wafted past. Gravel crunched under his trainers like muesli. He headed for the river, legs pumping rhythmically, drinking in the mist-clad beauty of the summer morning. The River Nith snaked towards the Solway Coast, its mud banks already covered by the incoming tide. Bovine faces turned towards him curiously.

  By the time he was heading homewards the sun was rising. Lights were pinging on all over the tiny hamlet of Kelton. His muscles shrieked in protest but with the pain came a welcome feeling of calm.

  Back in the cottage Farrell peeled off his running gear then stepped into a steaming hot shower. As he worked up a fragrant lather he pushed away the thoughts that hovered on the periphery of his conscious mind ready to assail him. He had to learn to live more in the moment.

  Eventually, he was forced out of the shower by the water running cold and then obliged to boil a kettle for his shave. Tense blue eyes glared back at him from the mirror as the razor rasped over his stubble, taking no prisoners, and flashbacks of Boyd’s murdered body slipped through his mind like an unwanted slide show. Desperate to get going now and lose himself in action, Farrell reached abstractedly into the wardrobe for something to wear. He selected one of four identical black suits and black shirts. Just for an instant, he reached back in for a clerical collar instead of the dark grey tie he habitually wore. He shrugged away the thought, exasperated with himself.

  After making his single bed with military precision and washing the breakfast dishes, Farrell grabbed his keys and badge then folded his long body into the dumpy blue Citroen outside.

  Driving into town he wondered again whether he had done the right thing in coming back to Dumfries. In some ways it had been like slipping on a favourite sweater. The Galloway hills and pine forests never failed to soothe and delight him. Dumfries itself had changed, grown older and not necessarily wiser, since he was a boy. John and him had had a blast growing up here, and the kind of freedom money couldn’t buy these days. They’d be off early in the morning with their jammy pieces, and their mothers wouldn’t see them until they fetched back home at sundown, tired, hungry, and filthy dirty. Aye, but it was good clean dirt in those days. Not like now.

  He had thought it might give him a chance to unwind, even buil
d some bridges with his mother, before slipping back to his fast-paced life in Edinburgh. Instead, the first thing to land on his desk was a murder, swiftly followed by the abduction of two little boys. He fervently hoped they were safe. DI Moore might be running the investigation into their disappearance, but a case like that got under everybody’s skin.

  As he drove past St Aidan’s on his way to work his thoughts turned to what he had discussed with Father Joe. He felt some compassion for Father Malone. The Catholic Church demanded a lot from its priests. To expect them to shoulder the heavy burdens of their parish without a partner or children to console them was harsh, especially when it wasn’t theologically necessary. The rule of celibacy is merely classed as a rule of discipline. Farrell had always felt it had more to do with political expediency than theology.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

  What if the anonymous letter hadn’t been intended for Father Boyd at all, but for Father Malone? If someone had got wind of his homosexuality and a fledgling relationship might they have intended to blackmail him? Farrell glanced in his mirror then did a nifty U-turn up the road he had just come down.

  Ten minutes later he was being handed a cup of tea by Father Malone. Farrell noticed the cup rattling in the saucer as it was passed to him. He sat back, sipped his tea and stared at the young priest thoughtfully. Father Malone sat back as well, trying to but not quite succeeding in mimicking Farrell’s relaxed demeanour.

  The silence ballooned between them, pressing tightly against the margins of acceptable social intercourse. Farrell waited. Father Malone’s complexion went from white to waxy. Still Farrell said nothing.

  ‘Look, why are you here?’ burst out the younger man finally.

  ‘The letters Father Boyd received,’ Farrell said.

  ‘Yes, what about them?’

  ‘When were they delivered? Was there any pattern?’

  ‘They were there in the morning when we got up, just lying on the mat.’

  ‘Were they in an envelope?’

  ‘No, just a folded over sheet of paper. I only saw Father Boyd pick up one of them.’

  ‘Who was usually up first?’

  ‘It used to be me, but latterly Father Boyd was already up and dressed when I came down. I think he had difficulty sleeping.’

  Farrell opened a folder and took out a photocopy of one of the letters. He handed it across to Father Malone.

  ‘I want you to consider the wording of this letter very carefully and tell me if it is at all possible that it was intended for you rather than Father Boyd,’ said Farrell.

  The colour staining the priest’s cheeks and the anguished expression in his eyes told Farrell all he needed to know.

  ‘But, Father Boyd thought it was sent to him …’

  ‘Two guilty consciences under the same roof,’ said Farrell. ‘Not as uncommon as you might think.’

  ‘Do you know who sent the letters?’ asked the stricken priest.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Farrell. ‘But I aim to find out.’

  ‘Do you need to know …?’

  Farrell held up a hand to stop him saying any more. ‘I have no intention of violating your privacy unless it proves necessary to the case.’

  He stood up to leave.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Father Malone hesitantly. ‘Do you ever miss being a practising priest?’

  Farrell considered for a moment.

  ‘It was a lot to give up but I’ve made my peace with it.’

  ‘Peace is an underrated commodity,’ the priest said with a sad smile.

  Farrell gave a last lingering look round and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mhairi skidded into the car park at Loreburn Street and stopped the car so abruptly she burned the tyres. Leaping from her seat, she managed to snag her tights as she picked up her bag and ran. Heart pounding, she flew into the building, incurring a raised eyebrow from Emily in reception at her dishevelled state. That bitch probably doesn’t even fart, she thought resentfully as she took the stairs two at a time. Whirling into the office, she threw her jacket over the back of her seat and spun out again to seek the sanctuary of the locker room. She collapsed onto the bench. Head thumping like a bass drum she knocked back three paracetamols, fighting the urge to gag. Right, time to repair the damage. She gave an exploratory sniff under her armpits and recoiled. A pity she hadn’t made it back to her flat this morning, as intended. She took some deodorant out of her bag and sprayed it liberally.

  The door to the locker room opened and in came DI Kate Moore. Oh, crap.

  She surveyed Mhairi. ‘This really won’t do, you know.’

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Mhairi, tasting bile in her mouth.

  ‘When you pitch in to work late and in yesterday’s clothes you don’t just do yourself a disservice, but all of us.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ muttered Mhairi.

  ‘If you keep this up,’ she continued, ‘you’ll end up back in uniform.’

  DI Moore turned to her own locker and took out a pristine white blouse, a pair of expensive black slacks, and a set of white cotton underwear and handed them over.

  ‘Shower and make yourself presentable,’ she said. ‘I expect you to make up the time at the end of the day, and I want these items returned in immaculate condition.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Thank you,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘You know, if you applied your mind to your job you could really be rather good,’ said DI Moore and left the room.

  Mhairi peeled off her stale clothes and stepped into the shower. The family had gone to stay with Elspeth’s mother in Ayr for a couple of days to get away from all the media attention. She had taken the opportunity to blow off some steam. What was so wrong with that? The guilt twisting in her gut told her plenty.

  Twenty minutes later she was at her desk, burrowing through a pile of paper work. DS Stirling wordlessly placed a cup of strong coffee at her elbow, and she flashed him a grateful smile. The older copper regarded her with a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘Nice outfit,’ he said.

  ‘Guess whose?’

  ‘Let me see: expensive material, crease resistant, nice finish, elegant tailoring, I’m guessing DI Moore?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘Read you the riot act, did she?’

  ‘And then some.’

  ‘Good night was it?’

  ‘I’d tell you if I could remember.’

  ‘You ought to watch yourself, lass.’

  ‘What are you, my mother?’

  ‘Sorry I spoke,’ Stirling said with a grin.

  Byers came striding into the room and Mhairi immediately tensed up. There was something overtly predatory about Byers that she had never liked. He stared at her in a way that made her wish she had on a cardigan.

  ‘Been playing with the dressing-up box, DC McLeod?’ Byers asked.

  Mhairi turned her head away from him and pointedly picked up her pen.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Sir, I’ve got work to be getting on with.’

  Byers looked annoyed that she had rebuffed his attempt at humour.

  ‘Right, if you’re that keen you can come with me to do some more interviews. Pity St Aidan’s isn’t a Proddy church,’ Byers moaned. ‘It would only have taken us five minutes to interview one of their congregations. This church seems to have been stuffed to the gunnels. Just our bloody luck.’

  Five hours later they were footsore and hungry. They had taken nine statements, none of which had revealed anything that they didn’t already know. Father Boyd, it would seem, had been a good enough parish priest, though liked to keep himself to himself when he wasn’t on parish business. They’d heard the odd subversive whisper that he could be a bit harsh but nothing that would give anyone a motive for wanting to kill him. Byers glanced at his watch.

  ‘Right, time for one more before we knock off for lunch,’ he said. ‘What’s the next name on the list?’

  ‘Miss Agnes Brown,’ McLeod replied.

  A few minut
es later they drew up outside the ground floor flat of a row of sandstone terraces. As they walked up the path McLeod noticed the net curtain give a compulsive twitch. The old woman who answered the door was dressed in black, which contrasted unfavourably with her pallor. Her face had collapsed in on itself like someone had let out too much air. She bared her teeth in a smile or it could have been a grimace of pain.

  ‘I wondered when you lot were going to show up,’ she rasped, turning to lead the way into a freezing cold parlour.

  She smelled of stale urine and fleshy decay as if she was already half dead.

  McLeod said gently, ‘I know that this must all have been a terrible shock for you. Did you know Father Boyd well?’

  ‘Since I was a girl,’ the old woman said.

  She doesn’t look like she’s ever been a girl, thought McLeod.

  ‘In that time have you ever known of anyone to have a grudge against Father Boyd?’ asked Byers.

  The old woman paused a moment, sizing them up with her bright beady eyes. Her false teeth clicked and the sound of her hissing breath filled the room. Byers was about to repeat the question when she let out a cackle that made them both jump.

  ‘Frank Farrell,’ she said, rolling the words around her mouth with relish. ‘You ought to be looking at Frank Farrell.’

  McLeod and Byers stiffened in their seats, glanced at each other. Whatever they’d expected it hadn’t been this.

  ‘You don’t mean Inspector Frank Farrell, do you?’ asked Byers.

  ‘The very same.’ The beady eyes gleamed with mischief.

  ‘But that’s insane,’ McLeod burst out.

  Byers shot her a warning glance.

  ‘Oh, it’s insane I am now, is it?’ the old woman grumbled.

  ‘I didn’t mean … that is to say … I’m sorry,’ said McLeod.

  ‘Got a thing for him, have you, lass?’ asked Miss Brown.