Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘I need to get all the stuff that happened out of my head before it goes fuzzy round the edges. We got lucky this time. We don’t want there to be a next time.’

  ‘All right,’ said Lind. ‘But if Laura finds out about this you’re on your own.’

  ‘Wimp,’ said Farrell.

  An hour later, Farrell was ensconced in his office with a strong cup of coffee. He’d had a steady stream of visitors including the SOCO, Janet White, who indicated that she’d taken scrapings from under his fingernails while he was unconscious, but that no useful DNA had been recovered. The sketch artist had been in to see him but he was unable to add anything significant to the existing image. He still had a nagging feeling of recognition but put it down to the fact he’d been staring at the identikit image for so long in the course of the case. It didn’t help that he was floating high on painkillers either. Those were definitely going down on his Santa list this year.

  There was a quiet knock at his door and DI Moore entered, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

  ‘Frank, how are you? When I heard you’d been stabbed …’

  ‘Och, it’s just a scratch,’ he shrugged and then wished he hadn’t as the pain caused him to grit his teeth.

  ‘I tried to give Mhairi a couple of days off, but she was having none of it. She’s really shown her mettle since you took her under your wing.’

  ‘She’s got her head screwed on where it matters,’ said Farrell.

  ‘DS Byers managed to trace Rosalie MacFarlane. She’s downstairs now in an interview room but he’s out chasing down another lead. Mhairi asked me to see if you were fit enough to conduct the interview with her?’

  Farrell struggled to his feet, embarrassed to be appearing at such a disadvantage.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, trying to sound full of vim and vigour, but falling well short.

  ‘I don’t know that I’m entirely convinced,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I do it?’

  ‘Nonsense! It’s not as though you don’t have enough on your plate as it is, Kate.’

  ‘I suppose I’m wasting my breath,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Come on then. I’d better see you get down there in one piece, at least.’

  They progressed down to the interview room like two pensioners out for a Sunday stroll with DI Moore matching her stride to his, still not fully recovered from her sprained ankle.

  Rosalie MacFarlane looked to be in her early forties. Her clothes were elegant and looked expensive even to Farrell’s untutored eye. A curtain of dark red hair framed her pale face. She was sitting across the table from a stroppy-looking McLeod.

  McLeod introduced them and then with a nod of his head he indicated to her that she should kick off the questioning. He then sat back in his seat the better to observe the woman’s reactions.

  ‘You were at Father Boyd’s funeral, weren’t you?’

  The woman looked at her more closely.

  ‘Yes. I pushed you, I’m sorry. I just needed to get away without being seen. I shouldn’t have gone there. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Information received has led us to believe that you had or were having a relationship with Father Ignatius Boyd, now deceased,’ said McLeod.

  The woman’s cheeks flushed like she’d been slapped but she simply averted her eyes and said nothing. The silence lengthened. McLeod looked at Farrell, unsure how to proceed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘I know how difficult this must be for you.’

  Abruptly, she turned on him, green eyes sparking with emotion.

  ‘No, you don’t. How could you? I’m married to a devout Catholic. If this ever came out, he would never forgive me. Having an affair with a Catholic priest … it’s totally …’

  ‘Taboo,’ Farrell finished for her.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘And if he knew that our son …’

  ‘You didn’t tell him?’ asked Farrell, trying to keep any note of censure out of his voice.

  ‘No,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘I was very young. When I told Father Boyd he said he would deny everything. He said I was a whore sent by the devil to tempt him. I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. I even contemplated taking my own life. I was truly desperate. Then along came Stephen. He was handsome, well off, and he adored me. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I was fighting for survival.’

  ‘He never suspected that the boy wasn’t his?’

  ‘He is tall and dark like Stephen but he has my eyes and mouth. God saw fit to protect us.’

  ‘What age is your son?’

  ‘He is twenty-three.’

  ‘Have you told him that Father Boyd was his biological father?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Of course not. It would destroy him.’

  ‘Could he have found out accidentally?’ asked DC McLeod.

  ‘I don’t see how,’ said the woman, her brow creased with worry. ‘I’ve been so careful. I kept no souvenir of my relationship with Father Boyd, not a thing except—’

  ‘The baby?’ interjected Farrell.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with a sigh.

  ‘What is your husband’s full name?’ DI Moore asked.

  ‘Stephen Mark Edwards.’

  ‘And his occupation?’

  ‘He’s a consultant neurologist at the Southern General in Glasgow.’

  ‘We need to confirm you and your husband’s whereabouts on the night of seventh June this year,’ interjected DC McLeod.

  The woman lifted up a seriously expensive green leather bag and rummaged about for a few moments before extracting a slim dairy. She opened it and flicked through the pages until she came to June.

  ‘Well?’ asked Farrell, unable to hide his impatience.

  ‘I was at the cinema with my friend, Maria, in Glasgow. We went out for a late supper afterwards. Here is her number,’ Rosalie said, tearing a page out of a notebook.

  ‘My husband was at a medical conference in New York, presenting a paper. That is why I had made plans, to avoid feeling lonely while he was away. Here is his secretary’s number. She will be able to give you the conference organizer’s number but please, I beg you, be discreet. A lot is at stake for me here,’ she said, fighting back tears.

  ‘Can you tell us your son’s name?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Joseph Murray Edwards.’

  ‘And his present whereabouts?’ asked Farrell.

  The woman put her head in her hands and said nothing.

  ‘Rosalie? Where is your son?’ he repeated.

  ‘He’s at a Catholic seminary in Rome,’ she said. ‘And, before you ask, yes: I did try and talk him out of it.’

  ‘I’ll still need to verify his exact whereabouts on the night of the murder,’ said Farrell. ‘But I’ll do my level best not to reveal the truth about his paternity if he can establish an alibi for the night in question.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  DC McLeod escorted her out. Farrell remained seated; his face an impassive mask but his brain filled with a riot of conflicting thoughts. How Boyd could have thought he had the right to sit in judgement over anyone when his own personal life was such a shambles was beyond him.

  McLeod came back into the interview room just as Farrell was struggling to his feet.

  ‘I’ll verify the alibis. I’m only really fit to be chained to a desk today anyhow.’

  ‘Do you reckon they’ll all check out?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d put money on it,’ said Farrell. ‘She landed on her feet despite, and maybe even because of, what Boyd did to her. If her husband hadn’t thought she was pregnant with his child, he might not have been in such a hurry to wed. They might never have married. She’s got no motive to kill Boyd at this stage. It’s all too far in the past now, too remote from their current lives. Even if the husband did find out about his son’s paternity it would more likely end up in divorce than murder. And as for the son … the mind boggles. I just don’t see it. I’ll make the calls though and get back to you.�
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  Two hours later and, after a great number of phone calls, Farrell despondently scratched the three names off his list of suspects. Were they never going to catch a break in this case? It was time to go home. His wound was aching and his eyes were scratchy with fatigue.

  He stopped by the locker room on his way out and was washing his hands still deep in thought. Glancing into the mirror above the sink it suddenly hit him like a grenade exploding in his chest where he had seen the killer’s eyes before. His world tilted then went black.

  Farrell woke up as the paramedics were lifting him into the ambulance.

  ‘What are you doing? Leave me, I’m fine,’ he protested, his voice sounding smaller and thinner than normal.

  ‘Not this time, Frank,’ said DCI Lind in his ear. ‘I should never have let you con me into letting you come in. You’re off sick for at least a week and that’s an order. Your wound has opened up and is showing signs of infection. No one’s indispensable, not even you. Give it up.’

  Farrell sank back on the stretcher, knowing he was beat. Knowing that he needed time to figure out just what in Hell’s name was going on.

  They kept him in for two days, re-suturing the wound that had burst open when he fainted and dosing him with strong IV antibiotics to treat the infection. Was that all it had been? That moment of recognition when he had glanced in the mirror and saw the eyes of the man at the church staring back at him. Was it simply a hallucination down to an infection raging out of control? Or had it been as real as it felt? If so, what were the implications? His mind slid around a third, even more unpalatable, option: could it be possible? Was he losing his mind?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Three days later, Farrell walked stiffly into the reception area at Nithbank. He was in no mood to brook interference. He placed his warrant card face down on the desk.

  ‘I need to speak with Dr Yates.’

  ‘I’ll just check if she’s available,’ the receptionist said, eying him warily.

  After a brief exchange on the phone she motioned to him to go through.

  He walked through and opened her door. Clare jumped up from her desk and backed away from him. He approached her, concerned.

  ‘Clare, what’s wrong? Why haven’t you returned my calls?’

  ‘I should have thought that would be perfectly obvious,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he countered.

  ‘I don’t take kindly to men jumping out of bushes and mauling me.’

  ‘Why would you? But what does this have to do with me?’

  Clare stared at him through narrowed eyes.

  An iron fist squeezed Farrell’s entrails. Struggling to keep his voice level, he asked, ‘this incident, when exactly did it happen?’

  ‘As if you don’t know,’ she scoffed.

  ‘Humour me,’ he said.

  ‘Wednesday, around 9 p.m.’

  Farrell’s legs felt weak. He slumped into a chair. The night he had blacked out or been drugged; he still didn’t know which.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he protested.

  ‘You left this behind,’ she said, producing his mobile phone from her pocket.

  Farrell looked at it in horror. He slowly took it from her.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. That’s not who I am.’

  ‘I didn’t think so either,’ she said, her voice softer. ‘Look, Frank. Tell me what’s going on with you. Are you getting sick again, is that it? Has the stress of these cases triggered a relapse?’

  Farrell’s head was all over the place. He didn’t know what to think. If he levelled with her, she might have him carted off to the funny farm. However, on the other hand, there was no one else so uniquely placed to help him. To heck with it, he thought. Here goes.

  ‘You asked if I’m getting sick again? Truthfully I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been a bit lax about the lithium …’

  ‘You’re still on lithium?’ she interjected. ‘But you said … why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ he said. ‘Because you would have written me off as a broken-down whack job.’

  ‘Give me a little credit,’ she said.

  Farrell looked at her. She turned away, gnawing her lip.

  ‘All right! I admit it might have made me a little twitchy. Satisfied?’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Farrell. ‘None of that matters now. The night you thought I was hiding in the bushes is the night I either had a blackout or was drugged. He could have stolen my mobile phone. It went missing sometime before that night and hasn’t turned up since. I know he’s been in my house before.’

  Farrell quickly brought her up to speed on the investigation, including his dramatic encounter with the abductor.

  ‘You were actually stabbed?’

  ‘It was nothing, just a flesh wound. Didn’t hit anything vital,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have …’

  ‘What Clare? You would have done what exactly? I did try to phone, several times, but you wouldn’t even take my calls.’

  Clare couldn’t meet his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was confused. I didn’t know what to think. You scared me.’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ shouted Farrell louder than he had intended.

  Clare’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You’re scaring me now,’ she said in a low voice.

  Farrell took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He was handling this all wrong.

  ‘The thing is, Clare, when I looked in the mirror a few days ago it suddenly hit me where I had seen the killer’s eyes before.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Clare.

  ‘In the mirror.’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ countered Farrell.

  Clare stared at Farrell. He stared back.

  ‘That night,’ she began, ‘I didn’t see the man head on as he approached me from behind. When he put his arms round me I thought it was you. He was the same height and build. I even got a whiff of that aftershave you wear. It was you and yet it wasn’t you. I’m not making any sense, am I?’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Farrell. ‘Although, for what it’s worth, the aftershave disappeared around the same time as the phone.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible you’re having some kind of psychotic episode,’ said Clare slowly, ‘but that would mean …’

  ‘That I’m the one who assaulted you the other night,’ finished Farrell.

  ‘You mentioned DC McLeod was with you up at the convent. Did she see you and the abductor at the same time?’

  Farrell thought back, replaying the whole terrifying scene in his mind. He shook his head decisively.

  ‘She only heard his voice. She didn’t get a look at him. I think she said he had a Glaswegian accent.’

  Another uncomfortable thought occurred to him.

  ‘Wait a minute, I’ve remembered something. She said there was something familiar about the voice but she couldn’t place it.’

  Farrell jumped up and started to pace round the room.

  ‘Clare, I don’t suppose, you don’t think …?’

  Farrell’s breath became ragged and the room began to recede. All he could hear was the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears like a river in spate. He felt a cool hand take hold of his hot one and gently lead him to the chair he’d recently vacated. Feeling like a fool he obeyed her instructions to place his head between his knees. Gradually the room swam back into focus. He pushed himself upright. Their eyes met and his slid away in confusion.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Frank. I don’t know what to think,’ Clare said carefully. ‘You’ve certainly had a psychotic episode in the past but after all this time a recurrence is unlikely. I don’t like the fact that you’ve been haphazard with your lithium. It muddies the water a little,’ she said looking worried.

  ‘There’s no way I’m behind these abductions,’ said Farrell. ‘I know mysel
f better than that. Plus, I would have to have stabbed myself as well. That’s a whole different level of crazy. There’s got to be another explanation.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Clare.

  ‘Hell, I don’t know!’ exploded Farrell. ‘Some kind of doppelganger? The whole thing’s ridiculous. Forget I said anything. I’ll figure it out,’ he said as he got to his feet and turned towards the door.

  ‘Could someone be deliberately impersonating you?’

  Farrell paused and looked at her like he thought she’d taken leave of her senses.

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Trying to frame you, exact revenge for a past grievance?’

  ‘Jason Baxter is the only person I can think of down this neck of the woods that has a grudge against me.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, nothing! He’s an old guy with a big belly, not to mention the wrong height. You’d have sussed the difference immediately.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ she said, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to suggest,’ said Clare. ‘To all intents and purposes it was you but not you.’

  ‘If it was just your experience alone I would be more likely to think it was someone pretending to be me, but you’re forgetting I looked into his eyes. They were my eyes, I know it!’

  ‘Frank, you have blue eyes. The person who abducted the boys has been variously described as having green or brown eyes.’

  ‘Coloured contact lenses, probably, so we don’t really know.’

  ‘Let’s just put it behind us and move on. Whether it was you or not, it doesn’t matter. I’m fine and you seem your normal self now. Either it was you or it was someone with the same physical build trying to impersonate you. There are no other possibilities.’

  ‘Unless I’ve got a twin brother, a mirror image?’

  ‘Frank,’ Clare said, looking concerned. ‘I don’t think …’

  ‘I can’t be adopted. I’ve got my mother’s eyes and she also gave me these dimples, for my sins.’

  ‘And your father?’ she asked, clearly trying to humour him.

  Farrell paused before answering, feeling a familiar emptiness. How could he continue to mourn someone he had never known?