Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Search upstairs,’ he barked.

  Stirling took off at the double and Farrell took the rooms downstairs. Baxter stood in the hall watching him with something akin to glee in his eyes.

  ‘If I’d known you had such a keen interest in decorating I’d have dropped off some swatches,’ he said.

  Farrell reached the room at the end of the hall and threw the door open. The sight within caused him to falter then stop, completely dumbfounded. There sat Father Malone, completely at home and drinking tea from a bone china cup and saucer. There was a plate of scones in front of him.

  ‘You know me, Father,’ said Baxter. ‘Always had a bit of a soft spot for the clergy.’

  Farrell and Stirling drove back to Loreburn Street in tight-lipped silence, the air exploding with things unsaid. As they drew into the car park, Stirling opened his mouth.

  ‘Permission to speak freely, Sir?’

  ‘Spit it out, Sergeant,’ said Farrell.

  ‘That was one helluva stunt you pulled back there.’

  ‘Just doing my job, Sergeant.’

  ‘Listen, you gung ho Fuck! We should have waited for backup.’

  ‘Cops like you need backup in place before they’re willing to wipe their own arse.’

  ‘Listen up, pal, I’ve got a wife and kids at home. I’m due to retire next year. I don’t intend to be one of those sad bastards that leave the force in a body bag. You don’t just drop in unannounced on a serial killer, for Christ’s sake. What’s the matter with you? Have you got a death wish or something?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ said Farrell. He turned on his heel and strode off leaving Stirling staring after him, face contorted with fury.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Still badly shaken, Farrell had nearly reached the sanctity of his office when a whirlwind of energy coming round the corner crashed into him, rocking him on his heels. He should have guessed. DC Mhairi McLeod.

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he asked, patting himself down.

  ‘I’m off to interview your mother, Sir.’

  ‘Oh? In connection with the Boyd case?’

  ‘Yes, she’s turned up as being very involved in activities at St Aidan’s. DS Byers and I were meant to go and interview her, but DI Moore has nabbed him to do something else. Everyone else is busy so I’m looking for PC Thomson, but he seems to have disappeared.’

  Farrell froze. He should have seen this coming.

  ‘I’ll come,’ he said quickly.

  Mhairi looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh, right, er … are you sure that’s wise?’

  ‘Is she a suspect?’

  ‘No, of course not, it’s just …’

  ‘Good, then I’m coming along.’

  Mhairi shrugged her acquiescence.

  If he went along himself he might manage to needle more information out of her than they’d get otherwise. It would give her less opportunity to do him down as well. She was never one to wash her dirty laundry in public. The silence stretched between them. McLeod started to look puzzled. He made a decision.

  ‘OK, DC McLeod. Let’s get going. I take it you’re driving?’

  ‘’Course, Sir. You know what they say about male drivers.’

  As they drew up outside his mother’s immaculate small bungalow Farrell was assailed by fresh doubts. It had been about thirteen years since they’d last spoken; her decision not his. How would she react? They rang the doorbell and the door opened. When she saw him standing there her face went slack with shock and she moved to slam the door. Farrell had his foot ready to stop her.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re here on police business. This is DC McLeod. We have a few questions for you in relation to the murder of Father Ignatius Boyd.’

  Was it his imagination or had a twitch of fear shown in her face?

  ‘You’d better come in, I suppose,’ she said and made way for them to enter.

  Farrell was shocked to see how thin his mother had become. She had always been paranoid about gaining weight but now she looked almost anorexic, as though she was trying to deny her own existence. Her hair was still scraped back in the severe bun that Farrell remembered though it was now shot through with flecks of grey.

  DC McLeod looked at him curiously as they followed his mother into the front parlour. Goodness knows what she was making of all this, thought Farrell. He indicated to McLeod that she should kick off.

  ‘Mrs Farrell, we understand that you knew Father Boyd very well. As one of his more active parishioners you were possibly his confidante at times?’

  Attagirl, thought Farrell. Flattery works just the ticket on women like her.

  ‘You could say that, I suppose,’ said his mother, keeping her eyes fixed on DC McLeod at all times.

  ‘Did he seem troubled about anything of late?’

  The eyes slid away from McLeod, skidded in Farrell’s direction and took off round the room.

  ‘Mrs Farrell? Would you like me to repeat the question?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’m still in possession of all my faculties, thank you very much.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’

  ‘The answer is no,’ she interrupted. ‘There was nothing worrying him as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Were you aware that he had received anonymous letters?’

  ‘Good Heavens! No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Had you seen anyone strange hanging about the church of late: someone who maybe hadn’t been there before?’ McLeod persisted.

  ‘No, no one, I can think of,’ she said. Again her eyes slithered towards Farrell, again she pulled them back.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Father Boyd, past or present?’

  His mother paused before answering then shook her head decisively.

  ‘He could be somewhat blunt and I don’t doubt his traditional views didn’t sit well with some of the more … progressive … members of the congregation, but nothing likely to lead to his murder as far as I am aware.’

  Farrell allowed his attention to wander. Looking round the immaculately buffed and polished room, he felt no connection with its pristine contents even though he had lived there until he was eighteen. There were no photos of him. It was as if he had ceased to exist for her. More surprisingly, there were no longer any photographs of his father on display either. That was odd. Although his father had died before he was born his mother had always seemed to idolize him. Maybe she had met someone else? He struggled to regain his focus and concentrate on the job in hand.

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I used your bathroom?’ asked Mhairi, standing up expectantly.

  For a fleeting second his mother looked so horrified at the prospect of being alone with him that Farrell almost laughed out loud.

  ‘If you must,’ ground out his mother. ‘Along the hall and turn left.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mhairi, spinning on her heel and managing to wink at him as she walked out the door.

  The awkward silence lengthened.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ said Farrell.

  His mother flinched and her back seemed to become even straighter.

  ‘You made your bed, now you have to lie in it,’ she said, still avoiding looking at him.

  ‘What exactly did I do that was so wrong you can’t find it in you to forgive me?’ asked Farrell with an edge to his voice.

  Suddenly she whipped round to face him, her eyes slit with anger.

  ‘You left the priesthood, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘And you wanted a priest more than you wanted a son,’ Farrell said.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped.

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ replied Farrell.

  ‘I’m only glad your father didn’t live long enough to see how his son turned out,’ she hissed.

  Farrell rolled with the punch and shot out one of his own.

  ‘So why have you taken down his photos then? Did you meet someone else?’

/>   His mother turned brick red and opened and shut her mouth like a guppy.

  ‘How dare you be so presumptuous! You have no right to come in here on the pretext of police business and ask intrusive personal questions. I want you to leave. Now!’

  He became aware of DC McLeod standing in the doorway looking shocked. Farrell stood up. They were almost at the front door when his mother burst out.

  ‘Father Boyd was a good man, you know. I won’t hear a word said against him. He dedicated his life to the service of others and didn’t deserve to meet his end like that. It’s a travesty, that’s what it is.’

  ‘I know this must have been very distressing for you,’ said McLeod. ‘Thank you so much for your time. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’

  They walked to the car in silence.

  ‘Family rift?’ queried McLeod.

  ‘You could say that,’ Farrell replied.

  ‘This is kind of tricky, Sir, what with her being your mother and all, but I got the feeling she was hiding something.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Farrell. ‘She’ll need to be interviewed again, maybe without me present this time. Look, it’s been a long day and you hardly got any sleep last night. Can I drop you off at home or someplace else?’

  ‘I’m meeting someone at Wetherspoons, so there would be fine,’ she said.

  ‘A young man?’

  ‘One of them,’ she answered cheerily.

  Farrell looked at her in concern. It was really none of his business how she lived her life but he had a feeling he could get quite fond of Miss Party Cop and didn’t want to see her hurt.

  ‘And the one you told me about before?’

  ‘Kicked into touch,’ she replied. ‘I’ll not be caught out again.’

  ‘How can you be so sure if you don’t take the time to get to know them properly?’

  Mhairi glared at him.

  ‘Who appointed you my moral guardian?’ she snapped.

  ‘Sorry’, said Farrell. ‘You’re right. Forget I said anything.’

  Mhairi’s expression softened.

  ‘Look, I get it. I know you’re just trying to look out for me, Sir. It’s fine. I’m a detective so I’ve got it all worked out. For example, a white band on his finger shows a wedding ring recently taken off. If he won’t let me borrow his mobile or rushes out the room to take a call that’s also dodgy. I’m done with being taken for a mug,’ said Mhairi as she got out the car.

  Farrell toyed with the idea of heading back to the station, but rejected it out of hand. He’d been going around in circles all day and his brain felt fried. What he needed was to clear his head. His stomach growled with hunger but he felt too restless to go home. On impulse he picked up a fish supper from a chip shop and headed out the New Abbey Road towards the coast.

  The beach was deserted at this time of night. As he sat on a flat rock, the salt on his chips mingling with salt from the spray on his lips, he felt the tension slowly ebb from his body. Removing his socks and shoes he rolled up his trousers and strolled to the water’s edge. The cool sand pushed up between his toes as he meandered along the shoreline, the sun falling inexorably into the sea.

  What on earth had Boyd been up to? Clearly the man had had a guilty conscience or he would have involved the police when he first started getting the letters. Farrell thought back to when he had lived with Boyd in that same house as a young priest. Try as he might the images refused to come; the whole experience expunged by the mental illness that had later consumed him.

  As a teenager, Boyd had always singled him out for special attention when he came to the school to give them religious instruction. He hadn’t always been a dry old stick. Back then he made a life devoted to God sound like such an adventure: filling their impressionable young minds with stories of the martyrdom of the saints. Farrell had lapped it up. The priest even had a box of holy relics that he used to great effect. The girls had recoiled from the grisly contents, but Farrell’s neck had prickled with excitement.

  Farrell sighed and turned back to his car. Maybe the interviews tomorrow would offer up a lead. If they couldn’t establish a motive it was going to be hard to flush out the killer.

  By the time he arrived back in Dumfries it was already getting dark. With a heavy heart he drove past the church but there was no sign of life. What had Boyd been trying to tell him the day before he died? Guilt twisted his intestines into knots. If only he’d swallowed his pride and turned round at church that morning, then Boyd might still be alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The following morning, Farrell was about to enter the MCA room when a breathless DC McLeod caught up with him.

  ‘Sir, it’s the two boys. We’ve just had a call. One of them has been found.’

  ‘Alive or dead?’

  ‘Alive, Sir. There’s no sign of the other one’.

  ‘The locus?’

  ‘An abandoned church out near Kirkton.’

  ‘I know the one,’ said Farrell. ‘Who called it in?’

  ‘A couple of kids planning to bunk off school. They got as far as busting a board from one of the rear windows when they heard a child crying and called it in.’

  ‘Lucky break,’ said Farrell.

  ‘DCI Lind asked for you to nip out to the scene. He’s already gone out there with DI Moore.’

  ‘You’d better go and be with the family; we’ll keep you apprised of developments by radio. That is, if you’re up to it?’ he said with a hint of sarcasm. It did the trick.

  ‘Of course I’m up to it, Sir,’ she flung at him and marched off with her head held high.

  Farrell tore to the crime scene, which was a few miles out of town. As he waited impatiently at the lights in St Mary’s Street the sky seemed to develop an ominous tinge with the clouds swirling to make a demonic image. He averted his eyes. It’s not real. Not enough sleep. He fumbled around in his pocket. No pills. He’d been getting careless. The lights changed. He’d sort things later. Right now he needed to focus on the job.

  Drawing up outside the abandoned church Farrell could see that the crumbling sandstone masonry was well on the way to becoming a ruin. Set well back from the road, there were bushes poking out through the walls and it had clearly been a number of years since anyone had tended the forlorn graves. Moss covered the stone flags that led to the open wooden door, which was hanging off its hinges. The doorway resembled a gaping mouth, and Farrell shuddered at the thought of entering. To his fevered mind the place reeked of evil. Get a grip, he told himself. It’s only mildew and dry rot.

  An incident van arrived, and SOCOs spilled out already suited up and carrying with them the usual paraphernalia of their trade. The local news teams arrived hot on their heels.

  PC Thomson stood guard at the outer cordon, looking as intimidating as he knew how. Farrell lifted the tape and patted him on the shoulder in passing.

  ‘Good lad,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t let anyone past, except on my say so.’

  Inside the church, Farrell sucked in a deep breath then wished that he hadn’t. The air was fetid and reeked of decay. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Farrell began to take in his surroundings. He heard some scuttling and scraping sounds and beamed his torch into the red eyes of a rat with an empty crisp packet hanging from its mouth. Around the walls, where the altar would have been, were slogans sprayed in red: ‘SATAN LIVES’, being among the most literate offerings. He moved on down the aisle to the inner cordon, which seemed a hub of activity. Farrell donned the obligatory plastic suit and passed through. Lind greeted him, sounding strained beneath his professional demeanour.

  Forcing himself to remain objective he examined the first separately cordoned-off scene beside the left-hand wall from every angle. An old-fashioned book of fairy tales that looked vaguely familiar lay beside a makeshift bed on the floor. Farrell picked it up and opened it, noticing the corner turned down at Sleeping Beauty. As he was replacing the book he noticed something poking out from under a blanke
t. His jaw tightened when he saw that it was a playing card: the Queen of Hearts. He left it untouched, wanting the SOCO to extract it first.

  ‘Where’s the child?’ he asked tersely.

  ‘Over there with DI Moore and DS Byers,’ answered Lind. ‘Poor little chap hasn’t said a word since we found him.’

  Farrell strode over to the small group on the other side of the church, removing his plastic coveralls as he did so. As he approached the officers parted to let him through. He recognized that it was Mark from the description of his clothes: red joggers, a white T-shirt, and a navy cardigan, all looking a bit grubby now. The little boy looked up, and the instant his big blue eyes met Farrell’s he started to scream, hiding his face in DI Moore’s skirt. She glared at him.

  He had never been good with kids this age. Squatting down to the boy’s level he gave his most winning smile but it was no use. The hysterical toddler was having none of it. Farrell struggled to make himself heard above the din.

  ‘Where was Mark found?’

  ‘Lying on that bed beside the far wall.’

  ‘Is there another bed for the other boy anywhere?’

  ‘Over there, inside that alcove.’

  Farrell followed her finger and realized that she was pointing to where the crib would normally have been erected at Christmas. As his feet marched across the tiled floor he could smell a faint whiff of something familiar. Incense. That’s what it was. This church had been lying empty for close on ten years. Not to mention the fact that incense was a dirty word to most self-respecting Church of Scotland types. This stuff was the real article, not just some hippy joss sticks.

  As he walked towards the alcove he saw that the space was littered with chip papers that still stank of vinegar. At least he’d fed the poor mites. The SOCOs, Phil Tait and Janet White, were busy bagging evidence.

  Farrell probed with his eyes until he saw what he was looking for. He signalled to Janet.

  ‘Pull that piece of card out for me. It’s sticking out from under the blanket.’

  She carefully extracted it using a pair of tweezers and held it up for inspection. Farrell took a step back as he realized the implications of what he was seeing.