Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Do you deny that there was bad blood between you and the victim?’

  ‘Not at all. I despised the man but not enough to kill him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He forced me into leaving the priesthood fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Do you have an alibi for the night of the murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you not let on that you knew Mary Flannigan?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen her for close on fifteen years. As far as I was concerned it added nothing to the case.’

  Byers and Stirling looked at each other. It wasn’t enough to hold him and they knew it. Farrell could see Stirling wavering but he doubted Byers would want to let it go.

  They stopped the tape and left the room for a few minutes. Farrell waited motionless for their return.

  ‘You’re free to go but you’ve to go and see DCI Lind. He’s expecting you,’ said Stirling, avoiding eye contact.

  Farrell sat in the chair in front of Lind’s desk and tried not to look defensive. He had just brought the DCI bang up to date with the latest developments and was waiting for the fallout. As anticipated his normally mild-mannered friend went nuclear.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Frank!’

  Farrell tried not to wince.

  Lind noticed. ‘And fuck your delicate sensibilities.’

  Farrell tried to look neutral as Lind exploded round the room like a firecracker before eventually collapsing back into his chair.

  He glared at Farrell.

  ‘I honestly don’t know whether to lock you up or pat you on the back,’ he said finally.

  ‘I got results,’ said Farrell.

  ‘You got lucky,’ fired back Lind. ‘I’ve never heard of such gung ho policing in all my puff.’

  ‘The ends justified the means,’ said Farrell.

  ‘You took a young police officer on an unsanctioned undercover operation.’

  ‘We went to visit my mother, not a drugs baron,’ said Farrell.

  Lind glared at him.

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that if your mother is involved somehow the abductor may have been in the vicinity? That you could have put Mhairi at risk to gratify your own whim?’

  Ouch, that one hit home, thought Farrell. He remained silent.

  Lind stared at him and his expression softened slightly.

  ‘Look, Frank, I know it’s been tough, all this family shenanigans rearing its head but let’s not jump to conclusions. I don’t want to close off any avenues of investigation yet. All this stuff about you having a brother might seem a possible fit for the facts on one level, but it might not stand up to closer scrutiny. It might even have nothing to do with the case at all.’

  ‘I feel it in my water,’ said Farrell.

  ‘What are you, my Aunt Bridget?’ scoffed Lind.

  ‘Look, Frank, blue eyes are fairly common. In fact, the woman at the first nursery was clear that the abductor had green eyes, in any event.’

  ‘Coloured contact lenses, most probably,’ muttered Farrell.

  ‘When you confronted him you were in a heightened physical and emotional state, having just been stabbed. If the resemblance was that dramatic don’t you think any of the witnesses would have cottoned on?’

  ‘Not if he was well enough disguised,’ said Farrell. ‘Anyway, now that I think of it, the first boy we found, Jamie, he was afraid to come anywhere near me.’

  ‘Before this you were certain Jason Baxter was involved,’ said Lind. ‘There’s also the fact that Father Malone’s behaviour has been extremely suspicious of late. Didn’t you say earlier that Boyd was giving him a hard time about his sexuality? It’s as good a motive as any.’

  ‘For killing Boyd though, not for abducting the little boys,’ countered Farrell.

  ‘I’m still not convinced that the two investigations are linked,’ said Lind.

  Farrell said nothing.

  There was a tap on the door. DC McLeod entered and laid a piece of paper on Lind’s desk.

  ‘Results of the drugs test on the whisky, Sir. It tested positive for benzodiazepines.’

  ‘Thanks, McLeod. Good work,’ said Lind.

  Farrell exhaled in relief.

  ‘There’s a combined briefing down for 8 a.m. What I’ve got to say should blow away the cobwebs. If you’d rather give this one a miss, Frank, that’s fine by me.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to face them all sometime. Might as well get it over with.’

  At 8 a.m. Farrell took his preferred seat at the back of the lecture hall as Lind motioned for silence and took them through all the latest developments in both cases, holding nothing back. You could have heard a pin drop. When Lind got to the rape of his mother the bile rose in his throat. The product of a rape. His skin crawled with revulsion, not just for what had been done to his mother but also for the fact that his own DNA was lousy with that animal’s. He felt a lesser man. There was a soft squeeze on his shoulder. DI Moore was behind him. He shot her a grateful look. Mhairi was seated near the front, notebook in hand. Despite their intimacy last night, she had greeted him coolly this morning in front of the others. Sensible lass. Lind got to the end of his spiel and started firing out actions for the day.

  ‘Stirling and Byers, go bring Mrs Farrell in. Get a name. Then patch it through to me right away and I can get the fiscal to dig out the papers. If she doesn’t cooperate charge her with attempting to pervert the course of justice. See how that goes down in the sewing circle. Lean on her hard about the connection with the priest. What that woman’s been hiding would fill a suitcase. Was he bartering babies for cash or doing it out the goodness of his heart?’

  ‘DI Farrell, I want you to bring Father Malone down to the station. From what you were saying earlier I reckon he’s holding something back too. Make it as public as you like. Apply maximum pressure.’

  ‘DI Moore, I want you to get together with Andy Moran and concoct an article for the local paper. Make it something provocative about twins separated at birth. Get Clare Yates on board; she’ll give you some pointers but I don’t want her to front it. Too dangerous. Use a false expert name. It’s time to go on the attack and flush this bastard out from the undergrowth.’

  ‘DC McLeod, I want you to compile an exhaustive list of every conceivable local organization that might hold records of twins. Concentrate on pre-schoolers, both public and private sector. Check the background of both sets of twins through HOLMES. If there’s a point of intersection I want to know about it. He must be getting his information from somewhere. Fax all the nurseries and childcare agencies again. Warn them to be on high alert and to release no child into the care of someone they don’t personally know without reference to us first. I have a feeling he’s not done playing out his sick fantasies yet.’

  Lind strode out and Farrell was quick to follow on his heels. Behind them bursts of excited chatter broke out all over the room. Mhairi rushed out the room behind them; her shirt hanging out of her skirt as though the various factions had each been trying to claim her as their own.

  ‘Sirs,’ she said formally and marched off down the corridor, head held high.

  Farrell looked at his watch. He could just catch the morning Mass at St Aidan’s. It would give him an opportunity to observe Malone’s demeanour before bringing him in.

  As Farrell sat surreptitiously studying the twenty or so members of the Catholic faithful, he marvelled at how their white pinched faces all resembled each other. Was it some universal badge of holiness and piety or merely the pallor of those for whom living in this world was a mere prelude to the real life beyond? He became aware that the congregation were becoming restless and shifting in their seats. A few coughs broke out and he heard a loud tut. Where was Father Malone? With a lurch of foreboding, Farrell leapt from his seat and ran lightly up the aisle to the sacristy door. He rapped firmly. No reply. He opened the door. There was nobody there.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Farrell exited the back door of the chapel and ran across t
he grass and up the lane to the priest’s house. There was no sign of life. He pushed hard on the door and it swung open. The place smelled rank. In the kitchen dirty dishes were piled high in the sink. He soon ascertained that there was nobody downstairs.

  Still without announcing himself, Farrell crept upstairs, trying to avoid the creaking treads from memory. Quietly opening one of the bedroom doors, he came upon Father Malone throwing things into a case on the bed. The priest spun round, a look of abject terror on his face, which only abated slightly when he realized it was Farrell.

  Farrell leaned against the wall with folded arms and regarded the young priest sternly.

  ‘Doing a runner?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m … I’m … just going on a little holiday, taking a break,’ Father Malone faltered.

  ‘With a church full of parishioners waiting for you? I don’t think so,’ said Farrell.

  The priest sank onto the bed, refusing to meet Farrell’s gaze. He was unshaven and had developed a nervous tic at the side of his mouth. His fingers moved compulsively as though threading an imaginary rosary. Farrell considered him closely, weighing up the best approach to take. If he came down too hard the priest might blow apart, and they’d never get anything worthwhile out of him. Relaxing his stance, he crossed the room to the bed and sat down beside the trembling man.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m on your side. Put me in the picture and I can make all this go away. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Father Malone replied.

  ‘What are you running from?’

  The priest remained silent.

  ‘Did you kill Father Boyd?’

  The surprise and anger in Malone’s face looked genuine.

  ‘No, of course not! How can you think that I would do something like that?’

  Farrell’s eyes went to the open suitcase and back to Malone.

  ‘Well, if you didn’t kill him you must know or suspect who did?’

  ‘I don’t know his identity.’

  ‘Has he communicated with you?’

  The priest was silent.

  ‘By letter? Phone? What?’ snapped Farrell, beginning to lose patience.

  Still no reply. A horrible thought occurred to him. He looked at the priest.

  ‘In the confessional?’ he asked.

  Father Malone jerked like a puppet. He nodded dumbly, raising tormented eyes at last to meet Farrell’s gaze.

  Chilled to the soul, Farrell forced himself to ask a question to which he felt he already knew the answer.

  ‘Has Boyd’s killer confessed his sins to you?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ the priest replied in a wooden voice.

  ‘He’s been asking you to grant him absolution, hasn’t he?’

  There was a long pause.

  The priest nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Farrell felt sick to the stomach. Unable to contain his emotion he rose to his feet and paced around the room.

  Securing himself a ‘Get out of Hell’ card. Talk about forward planning.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘A few weeks.’

  ‘He told you all about Boyd’s murder?’

  ‘Yes, in sickening detail,’ shuddered the priest.

  ‘Did he say anything about the boy that’s still missing?’

  ‘I didn’t know that was anything to do with him at first. After he’d confessed to killing Boyd, I thought that was it. Then he came back. Every time I begged him to tell me where the missing boy was being kept.’

  ‘He’s alive then?’

  ‘I believe that he was a week ago. Beyond that I couldn’t say. He would hint at particular places: abandoned churches, derelict buildings; say he couldn’t quite remember which place he’d hidden the boy.’

  ‘The mud on your shoes that day. You’d been out looking for the boy?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know what else to do. Every day I’ve been searching. Praying and searching.’

  ‘If you had only said something,’ sighed Farrell. ‘We could have surrounded the church; maybe caught him before he abducted the other boys.’

  ‘There are rules for a reason,’ said Father Malone. ‘If people felt their priest was liable to go running to the police they would never confess their sins. All those lost souls dying with the stain of sin. Not to mention automatic excommunication for the priest.’

  ‘So why let on now?’ asked Farrell. ‘Because you’re scared witless? So much for lofty ideals.’

  ‘Because I don’t think his penitence is sincere. And yes, I’m terrified that if I keep refusing to grant him absolution I’ll meet the same fate as Father Boyd.’

  ‘Running away won’t solve anything. You need to stay and fight, be worthy of the cloth you wear. Help me stop this!’ pleaded Farrell.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘For a start, get yourself over to the chapel for Mass. Tell those that are still there that you had to administer the last rites to a parishioner. Stick to your normal routine as much as possible.’

  ‘What if he’s out there, watching me?’

  ‘I’ll be in the congregation. After Mass is over there will be an unmarked police car to meet you at the back door driven by a man and woman in plain clothes. They’ll bring you to me. I don’t want you at the station in Dumfries. Too risky.’

  ‘I don’t think I can go out there, connect with God.’

  ‘Fake it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ retorted Farrell. ‘Now get out there before they all leave. Hurry!’

  Father Malone lurched to his feet and left the room. Farrell wasn’t all that sure he’d be able to carry it off but hoped for the best. He radioed in to HQ, set up the car, and arranged the meeting place. Then he made his way over to the chapel; entering by the front so as not to arouse suspicion. Letting the familiar words and phrases wash over him he felt more disconnected from God than he could ever remember feeling before. He felt like a crude impostor; a million miles away from the devout young priest he used to be. A tarnished soul.

  The Mass finally drew to its conclusion. Farrell took care to leave first and drew away in his car having first checked in with HQ who confirmed DS Stirling and PC Thomson had picked up the priest and were taking him to the police station at Lockerbie. Farrell went to Lockerbie by a different route, pushing the Citroen as far as it would go, which still wasn’t fast enough to raise any eyebrows. For once he was indifferent to the soft undulations of the hills around him: his brain thinking tangentially about the case; ideas exploding round his head like bullets looking for a way out.

  Twenty minutes later, Farrell arrived in the small bustling town of Lockerbie and parked in the supermarket car park before walking round to the back of the police station.

  DS Stirling was pacing up and down the small reception area watched by an avid young constable, who was fairly agog with excitement; Lockerbie not being exactly the crime capital of Europe.

  ‘Everything is set up,’ said Stirling. We’re ready to go.’

  They moved into the adjacent interview room where Father Malone was sitting, gnawing miserably on his nails.

  ‘I’m going to go to Hell for this, you know,’ he said to Farrell while the recording equipment was being checked.

  ‘You’re going to go to Hell if you don’t,’ returned Farrell.

  ‘We’re good to go when you’re ready, Sir,’ said Stirling.

  Farrell nodded his approval. Nowadays when they were interviewing a suspect or an important witness two tapes would run simultaneously, leaving no room for allegations of a stitch up. It was a lot safer for everybody: police and suspects alike.

  After cautioning Father Malone, just in case, they took him through it all – right from the beginning.

  Farrell struggled to keep his face impassive as the grisly details of how Boyd had been tortured and killed were narrated in a faltering voice by the young priest.

  The killer had come right at the end of the confe
ssions, when there was no one left in the church and Father Malone was readying himself to leave.

  ‘Did you try and get a look at him?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘No, I was too afraid,’ Father Malone replied in a low voice. ‘After all, I knew better than anyone what he was capable of.’

  ‘What about Baxter? Where does he fit in?’

  ‘Jason Baxter? He’s got nothing to do with it. I’m aware of his past. He was very candid about it. As far as I’m concerned he’s just a new parishioner who wanted a bit of help settling in.’

  I’ll bet, thought Farrell. There had to be a connection. He just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

  ‘Did the man say why he had killed Boyd?’

  ‘I did ask him that,’ said Father Malone. ‘His reply was that the Lord said we were meant to do as we were done by.’

  ‘It’s “do as you would be done by”,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Of course it is. I told him that but he wouldn’t be swayed from his point of view. He said God’s true meaning had been corrupted by translation and that the correct meaning had been revealed to him in a dream.’

  ‘What about the kids? Did he say why they had been taken?’

  ‘He said he was taking them to a better place where they could play with the angels. In his last confession a week ago he said it was nearly time. That’s when I panicked.’

  ‘I want you to sit back and close your eyes,’ said Farrell. ‘I’m going to conduct a little experiment.’

  ‘You’re not going to rough me up, are you?’ mumbled the priest.

  Farrell and Stirling rolled the whites of their eyes at each other.

  ‘For the record,’ said DS Stirling formally, ‘we are NOT going to rough you up.’

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ said Farrell in the Glaswegian accent he’d been practising on the way over.

  Father Malone’s eyes flew open and he rushed for the door, overturning his chair. It was locked. He turned terrified eyes on Farrell, who had remained sitting.

  ‘It was you all along; you’re the killer!’ he shouted, rattling the door handle.

  Farrell stopped the tape and Stirling led the now shaking young priest back to the table.