‘No! I mean, er …’ McLeod retreated into silence, her cheeks burning. She didn’t have a thing for Farrell, did she?
‘Always was a good-looking lad. Used to turn all the lassies’ heads, but he only had eyes for one.’
‘What makes you think that Inspector Farrell had a grudge against Father Boyd?’ asked Byers.
‘It was Father Boyd who was behind him leaving the priesthood,’ she said and sat back to watch their reaction.
‘How do you know this?’ asked Byers, his voice harder.
‘When you’ve been around as long as I have you get to know a lot of things,’ she retorted. ‘Why don’t you ask him, if you don’t believe me?’
‘Do you know why Boyd allegedly made Inspector Farrell leave the priesthood?’
Miss Brown looked defeated for the first time. ‘No, I don’t. But it must have been for something bad. Priests are like doctors and you lot. They tend to stick together. Frank Farrell turned up at Mass the day Father Boyd was murdered. It gave the priest a right turn, so it did. I turned round to see what he was staring at and there was Farrell sitting there, bold as brass.’
‘Did they speak to each other afterwards?’ asked Byers.
‘Father Boyd went running out the church after him, shouting his name, but Farrell, he just kept right on walking though he must have heard him.’ The old woman looked at them maliciously. ‘Going to arrest him are you?’
‘I hardly see that’s any of your concern,’ said Byers.
‘Thought not,’ she said.
Byers and McLeod walked back to the car in silence.
As they drew up to the station, McLeod turned to Byers.
‘What are you going to do, Sarge?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to run it by the DCI and take it from there.’
‘You can’t believe the ranting of a crazy old woman, Sarge. There’s no way DI Farrell had anything to do with Boyd’s death. It’s just coincidence, that’s all.’
‘She was right about one thing though,’ said Byers. ‘I reckon you’ve got a soft spot for him.’
‘Absolute bollocks, Sir.’
‘But there again, who haven’t you got a soft spot for, Mhairi? It’s not exactly an exclusive club.’
McLeod reined herself in and answered him with icy composure.
‘Will there be anything else, Sir?’
Byers looked disappointed she hadn’t risen to the bait.
McLeod exited the car and walked stiffly into the station aware of his hot eyes following her. Jerk.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DCI Lind listened impassively as DS Byers relayed the morning’s events. After Byers had finished Lind thought for a moment before speaking.
‘I’d take what she said with a pinch of salt. We’re talking about a disagreement that happened around fifteen years ago. It’s not as though she was even able to give you any specifics.
‘But, Sir …’ interjected Byers
‘I will of course speak to DI Farrell and get his take on events before drawing a line under the matter. Satisfied?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ said Byers, clearly not satisfied at all.
There was a rap on the door and Farrell poked his head round.
‘Ah, Frank, come in, come in. Byers is just leaving.’
Byers brushed past Farrell, refusing to catch his eye. Farrell raised his eyebrows at Lind.
‘Was it something I said?’
‘No, something someone else said. Take a seat, Frank.’
Farrell sat down and regarded his boss steadily. Lind seemed to be having difficulty finding the right words.
‘Come on, John, spit it out. We’ve known each other too long to beat about the bush.’
‘Byers interviewed someone today who indicated you had a grudge against our dead priest.’
‘And?’ asked Farrell.
Lind looked disconcerted.
‘Oh. So you admit it then.’
‘Of course I admit it. Why wouldn’t I?’ The penny dropped. ‘Wait a minute, you don’t think …? Well, I’ll be blowed. You must do or you wouldn’t have—’
‘Frank,’ interrupted Lind. ‘Get off your high horse. Of course I don’t think you had anything to do with the murder but surely you can see why I had to ask?’
‘You’re right; I’m being an eejit,’ said Frank. ‘It was nearly fifteen years ago. I just didn’t think it was relevant.’
‘I never really asked what happened,’ said Lind. ‘You were in such a state, what with being ill and all, I just never got round to it.’
‘Ancient history,’ said Farrell. ‘Some nutter was killing women in Glasgow. He got off on yanking my chain in the confessional.’
‘Jesus, Frank, I’d no idea,’ said Lind.
‘The monster said all the right words, so I was forced to go on granting him absolution, time after time. Then he started telling me which one he was tempted to off next. I was powerless. The sanctity of the confessional is such that I knew I couldn’t say anything while he pretended contrition. It would have meant automatic expulsion from the priesthood. Another woman was killed, just like he said. I was tortured by guilt. There was an anonymous tip off to the police. They never found out who it was. The killer himself believed it was me. He gave an interview to someone in the gutter press. They were going to run with it until the police legal team managed to get an interdict.’
‘But how did Boyd …?’
‘I left Glasgow after that, having asked for a move back down here. I was still pretty screwed up, made the mistake of confiding in him. He didn’t believe me and told the bishop he thought I had tipped off the police. The bishop was pretty good about it. Told me he believed me and that I had to work through what he considered to be my misplaced feelings of guilt with my spiritual adviser. Boyd, however, just wouldn’t let it go. Eventually he pushed me too far. I just couldn’t take it any more. I quit.’
‘And then you …’
‘Became a basket case?’
‘If I’d only known. Why didn’t you come to us, Laura and me? We’re your oldest friends, for God’s sake.’
Farrell’s mouth twisted. He and Laura used to be the ‘us’. He pushed away that treacherous thought.
‘It seemed easier to go it alone. You guys were up in Aberdeen at the time. Hey, like I said, ancient history. Anyhow, if there’s nothing else …’
‘I’ll keep what you told me to myself for now, Frank. However, if it becomes relevant in any way to the investigation …’
‘Sure, no worries,’ replied Farrell. ‘Any word on the missing kids yet?’
‘We’ve got nothing. No leads and no contact from the kidnapper. It’s not looking good, I’m afraid.’
Farrell dived into the gents on the way back to the MCA room and found Stirling and Byers there. From the way it went totally quiet he knew they’d been talking about him. Stuff them, he thought. He was going to have a drink with Clare Yates and he refused to let anyone or anything rain on his parade.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Farrell had showered, changed, and was winging his way out the station with a spring in his step when he saw the diminutive figure of DC McLeod ahead of him. As he drew abreast of her, the expression of unguarded misery on her face brought him up short.
‘DC McLeod, Mhairi, what’s the matter?’
Startled, McLeod turned an anguished face towards him.
‘Just thinking, Sir; you know how it is.’
‘Come on, in here.’
Farrell sidestepped into an empty office, leaving her no option but to follow him. He sat down behind the desk and motioned for her to sit, which she did with evident reluctance.
‘Right, Mhairi,’ Farrell said, ‘tell me what’s wrong. I’ve been around a bit longer than you and I know that something is bothering you. Don’t make me get the thumbscrews out.’
‘Honestly, Sir, it’s nothing.’ Mhairi’s face flushed.
‘Hey come on, I’m a priest, I
love hearing confession,’ Farrell said, trying to lighten the mood.
To Farrell’s horror his comment had the opposite effect. Mhairi’s eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Last night I went to meet someone,’ she burst out. ‘Someone I was really keen on. Turns out … he was married. He didn’t see fit to tell me till after we … we …’
‘It’s okay, Mhairi, I get the picture. Some men can be total pigs. Losers like him aren’t worth all this grief.’
‘It’s just … I know what they all think of me but a married man … I would never have …’
Seeing her there with her face all crumpled Farrell had an insane urge to put his arms around her. He should never have started this. Standing up he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
‘All the best lessons in life are learned the hard way. Sometimes we need to be broken down before we can become truly strong.’
Mhairi cracked a smile for the first time.
‘Is this a sermon?’
‘Sorry, I’m a bit rusty. I used to have them all quaking in their seats.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Mhairi. ‘Look, you’re right, I should be glad I’m not the one married to him. Sorry, Sir, it’s just with the murder, the kids, and everything, I’ve been running on empty. You don’t need to worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
‘I know it’s none of my business …’ said Farrell.
‘So old, yet so perceptive,’ muttered Mhairi under her breath.
‘But don’t sell yourself short,’ said Farrell, starting to perspire. ‘That’s all I’m saying … Love tends to turn up when you least expect it.’
‘Love,’ snorted Mhairi, ‘is a four letter word.’
‘Er, right,’ said Farrell. Why in God’s name had he got into this?
‘I’m glad we had this little talk,’ said Mhairi.
‘You are? Excellent!’ said Farrell, exhaling with relief.
‘Don’t you have to be somewhere, Sir?’ asked Mhairi, taking pity on him. ‘You looked like you were in a hurry …’
Farrell glanced at his watch.
‘Go on, Sir. I’m fine. If you keep me any longer, I’ll miss the start of EastEnders.’
‘See you tomorrow then, DC McLeod, bright and early,’ Farrell said with mock severity.
As he drove along the quiet country lanes to meet Clare, Farrell felt increasingly nervous. Since he had left active service in the priesthood he had tended to avoid involvement with the opposite sex. The very few relationships he had tentatively embarked on had been short-lived, as the guilt had gnawed away at him like cancer until he ended it and laid himself bare in the confessional. Even though, if he met someone he wanted to marry he could apply for a papal dispensation, he still couldn’t rid himself of the feeling deep down that he would be betraying his vows. It had been a good number of years since his last relationship. It’s only a drink, he told himself.
The Solway Inn was a few miles out of Dumfries. As he walked towards the lounge entrance light spilled onto the pavement from the mullioned windows. Pulling open the heavy wooden door, he glanced around quickly, worried that she might not be there. His fears were groundless. She was sitting framed by the glowing log fire, perfectly composed.
The time flew by as they chatted about books, films, and music. Nice safe topics. Then she brought up the paper she was writing.
‘So where do you stand on the nature versus nurture debate?’ she asked, looking as though she wanted to take notes but thought that might be a breach of social protocol.
Farrell thought about it.
‘Firmly on the fence, I would say. I’ve come across kids that have been dragged up with mothers on the game, fathers in prison, and the kind of poverty that eats into the soul yet they’ve struggled and strived and somehow come out on top. Equally, I’ve come across kids that have wanted for nothing; their every whim catered to by devoted parents, and they’ve got involved in drugs and spiralled downwards until all that’s left of them is their addiction, like a big black hole sucking in everything around them.’
‘So you don’t think some people are simply born bad?’
‘No. I like to think that we can all exercise choice to a greater or lesser degree but I admit that good choices are harder to make in certain environments.’
There was then a lull in the conversation and Farrell knew it was coming.
‘So, Frank, how have you been?’ she said.
‘If I want to book a consult I’ll contact your office,’ he snapped.
She looked hurt and he hated himself for being so boorish but what did she expect?
‘It’s just that, if we’re to see each other socially, I need to know if there are any issues that could complicate things …’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ he told her. ‘I overreacted.’
‘Are you still taking lithium?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, sending a silent apology winging up to the Almighty. ‘After a while I didn’t seem to need it.’ It was only a little lie. After all he’d been off it for the last few days and still felt fine. He’d only ever had that one episode and the circumstances had been extreme, to say the least.
Clare seemed to relax again and turned the conversation away to other things. Farrell decided to sound her out about the murder. Maybe she could shed some light on the kind of mind that would dream up something so horrific. Clare listened attentively. She thought in silence for a few minutes after he had finished then turned towards him again.
‘It sounds to me as though this murder was staged for effect, everything planned down to the tiniest detail, yet there’s ferocity about it that contradicts that. I would hazard a guess that the killer knew Boyd and felt he’d a very real grievance against him,’ she said.
The evening went a little flat after that and Farrell blamed himself for ruining the mood. As they took their leave in the car park, he wondered if he’d blown his chances. But as he reached down to kiss her goodnight on the cheek she turned her head and her lips touched his, sending a jolt of electricity through his body. Gently he pulled away and smiled at her.
‘Call me,’ she said as she slipped into her car and drove away.
Once home, he was asleep within minutes, the rigours of the last few days catching up with him. The phone woke him abruptly and he reached for it still half-asleep. His clock showed the time to be 3 a.m.
A strangely muffled voice said, ‘what’s yours is mine and what’s mine will be yours.’
Farrell sat bolt upright.
‘Who is this?’
The caller rang off. Just some fruit loop had one too many, Farrell thought. Uneasily, he fell asleep once more but his dreams were troubled.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Farrell woke with a start and lay there with the darkness pressed against him, blood roaring through his ears like an express train. He’d slept only fitfully, one nightmare image after another chasing through his mind. Galvanized into action, he leapt out of bed, peeled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and dived into the shower. No time to waste.
Turning the radio up loud so he could catch the news in the bathroom, Farrell peered at his haggard complexion in the mirror, while wrapped in a towel. He needed a shave. Drat, no shaving foam; he’d have to make do with ordinary soap. He couldn’t see his aftershave either. Lathering up as best as he could Farrell was oblivious to everything but the rasping and scraping of the razor over his face when all of a sudden he jumped, cutting himself in the process.
Someone was in the cottage. He could hear them. Stealthily he crept through the open door into the bedroom and turned the radio off so he could hear better. Stooping, he picked up the baseball bat that he kept under the bed. Maybe he could take the intruder by surprise. Another creak, this time on the stairs. Heart pounding, body tensed in anticipation, Farrell waited behind the open door, avoiding looking at the crucifix above his bed. He was dashed if he was going to turn the other cheek and let some loser beat him up in his own home. The steps were nearing the top of the st
airs. Farrell coiled, ready to spring. Now. He leapt out, weapon held aloft, and beheld the wide-eyed stare of Clare Yates. Farrell froze.
‘Wow, nice caveman routine,’ she said. ‘What do you do for an encore?’
Clare slowly looked him up and down, and to his intense chagrin Farrell felt himself blush. Time to go on the offensive.
‘Clare, what are you doing here?’
‘I brought you some light reading on the way to work. I thought it might help you with the case.’
She placed a couple of heavy-looking tomes and a number of journals on a low table.
Another thought occurred to him.
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was open. I did knock but there was no answer. I called out as well, but figured you were maybe in the shower and couldn’t hear me because of the radio. I didn’t have you pegged for a Radio 4 listener, by the way.’
‘Back in a minute, I’ve just got to get something,’ muttered Farrell and took off downstairs.
That door had been locked. He was sure of it. As he stood in the hallway his heart thudded uncomfortably as he noticed the key sitting on the hall table. There was something underneath it. A playing card. The joker’s grinning face leered up at him. Farrell felt the world tilt and staggered back against the wall. What did it mean?
Clare’s face materialized in front of him. She was looking at him with concern but there was something else there behind her eyes. She thinks I’m losing it, thought Farrell. He made a monumental effort to pull himself together and act normal.
‘Frank, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘Sorry, just a bit dizzy. Need to eat something.’
The clouds lifted from her face and she smiled at him. He leaned in and kissed her. The intensity of her response both thrilled and terrified him. He pulled away, his head a riot of conflicting thoughts.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to get going.’
‘Already? It’s only gone seven.’
‘Those little boys are still missing. It’s not looking good.’
‘I’m sorry, I won’t hold you back.’ She turned to leave.
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