Dead Man’s Prayer

CHAPTER EIGHT

Farrell sat behind his desk and pulled an overflowing basket towards him. So much for the concept of a paperless office. The reports on his desk were multiplying like bacteria. He pulled a sheaf of brightly coloured charts that had been sent up by the civilian intelligence analyst towards him. Quickly scanning them, he soon realized that they told him nothing new. There simply wasn’t enough data available yet to pinpoint any specific patterns forming. He took a sip of the mud-coloured coffee he had grabbed on the way up and pulled a face. Pure gut rot. He glugged it down anyway. Needs must. If they could uncover a motive in this case it might lead to the killer. What had the dead priest done that had been so heinous it had led to his murder? Could he have interfered with somebody’s kid? Farrell thought back to his own years as an altar boy and couldn’t recall a single instance when Boyd’s conduct had made him uneasy. It didn’t fit the mode of killing either. An outraged father would have charged at Boyd like a bull at a gate. There would have been no finessing at the crime scene. Unless, of course, the killer had dressed it up to look like a nut job to throw them off the scent. It was no good. He was going round in circles. Glancing at his watch, Farrell realized it was nearly time for the final briefing of the day.

On the way to the MCA room he decided to pay a visit to the tiny fingerprint lab, where any prints from the murder crime scene would be undergoing analysis. A middle-aged civilian woman was hard at work with her back to him, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name.

‘Hi there, er …’

She spun round to face him and was wearing a name tag. Saved.

‘Barbara, how’s it going?’ he said, aiming for a jovial tone. Name tags might be the answer to his prayers, on the one hand, but he always felt uncomfortable having to read it off a woman’s chest. That was a whole other can of worms in the hermetically sealed politically correct goldfish bowl they all had to operate in these days.

Not being inhibited by any rank she promptly shot him down in flames.

‘Now then, Inspector Farrell, it’ll take as long as it takes. There’s no point going out of your way to try and butter me up. When I get something you’ll be the first to know. Now, was there anything else, or will I be getting on with my work now?’

‘Yes, just you carry on,’ said Farrell, turning swiftly on his heel. Talk about taking no prisoners. Feathers distinctly ruffled he headed for the MCA room.

The alarm on his watch beeped. He reached into his pocket automatically, to pop a pill, then withdrew his hand. Surely one day wouldn’t hurt? He was already shattered and didn’t want to take anything with a sedative effect, however minimal.

In the MCA room, Farrell started briefing the Investigation Team, which got bigger and bigger all the time as more and more officers became involved. Initial door-to-door enquiries had drawn a blank. No one had seen or heard anything. Time to widen out the search.

‘DS Byers, any leads thrown up by HOLMES?’

Byers gave a hollow laugh.

‘Are you kidding, Sir? All the initial statements have been fed into the system and it’s throwing out names, cars, and streets like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘Keep on it with the rest of your team then, Byers. Let me know if anything interesting comes to the fore,’ said Farrell. He’d put Byers in charge of an eager team of young constables figuring it might make him more motivated.

‘DS Stirling, how did your meeting with the sister go this afternoon?’

‘Different to what I expected, Sir. She’s quite a formidable lady. It was as if she was more bothered about the embarrassment of him being murdered than the fact that he was dead. A real cold fish.’

‘Any idea of who might want to kill him?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a clue, Sir,’ said Stirling. ‘Her precise words were … I don’t exactly move in those sorts of circles.’

A ripple of hilarity wound round the room, dying down as Farrell’s face remained expressionless. He gave them all a hard stare. Some shifted nervously in their seats.

‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘what you’re telling me is that we don’t yet have a single hot lead in this investigation?’ He paused for effect and then thundered. ‘That’s not good enough. Get back out there; keep interviewing till you uncover something worthwhile. Interview parishioners, the sewing circle, the postman. I want no avenue of enquiry left unexplored. A man has died a horrible death. We owe it to him to apprehend the killer and by God that is what we’re going to do.’

Farrell swept out of the room and there was a flurry of activity as the door shut behind him. He was troubled by the lack of progress in the case. The first forty-eight hours in a murder investigation were crucial and so far they had next to nothing to go on.

CHAPTER NINE

Farrell was hard at work compiling charts in his office when DCI Lind burst through the door like a tornado startling him out of his concentration. He could see at once from Lind’s face that it was bad news.

‘John, what’s happened?’

‘It’s Laura.’

Farrell felt his heart scud against his chest like it was trying to get out.

‘She’s been taken up to the Infirmary. They called me from the ambulance. Seems she had a fall. The baby … might not make it.’ Lind sagged against the side of the desk, as though his legs were going from under him.

‘John, I’m really sorry.’ Farrell felt helpless. He awkwardly patted his friend on the shoulder.

‘Laura’s mother is still in Carlisle, shopping. I can’t get hold of her. I was wondering—’

‘Anything, anything at all,’ butted in Farrell.

‘Do you think you could nip to my place and babysit the kids? A neighbour is minding them just now but she has to leave soon. I don’t have time to find anyone else. I need to get to the hospital right away.’

‘Sure,’ said Farrell. ‘Now get yourself off, I’ll sort the kids out.’

Lind handed him a key and started to rush out the door then paused and slowly turned round.

‘One more thing,’ he said.

‘Name it,’ Farrell said.

‘Could you … pray for us? I know I’m being a hypocrite, being an atheist and all that but …’

‘Try and stop me,’ said Farrell. ‘Now, away you go.’

Lind tore off, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Twenty minutes later, Farrell pulled up outside a semi-detached Victorian house in a leafy street in the old part of town. The warm brown sandstone had tendrils of pink clematis and sweet-smelling honeysuckle probing randomly into nooks and crannies. A homemade swing hung from the spreading branches of an ancient beech tree over the well-maintained lawn. Tucked in one corner was a sandpit with a bunch of buckets and spades.

As Farrell inserted the key into the lock, he felt his skin crawl with envy at the thought of John coming home each night to find Laura waiting for him. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the unwelcome thought away.

Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, as he had known it would be, with sanded wooden floors and brightly coloured rugs. From the hallway a palette of warm reds and yellows led into the various rooms. The neighbour, her eye on the clock, rushed past him apologizing for not being able to stay longer. As he shut the door behind her and found his way into the living room he was immediately clocked by four pairs of eyes. Crikey, kids weren’t exactly his specialist subject. At a guess he’d say the girl and three boys ranged in age from eighteen months to six years with the girl being the eldest.

Adopting a falsely hearty tone that convinced no one, he introduced himself, babbling inanely all the while like an Energiser Bunny. The children sat motionless on the couch saying not a word; their behaviour good to the point of scary. The only sound was the youngest sucking rhythmically on an old cotton blanket when Farrell paused for breath. He regarded them quizzically. They stared at him. One of the youngest boys started to speak, but was immediately shushed by his older sister.

‘We’re not allowed to speak to strangers,’ she announced in a clear voice.

‘Quite right too,’ said Farrell. ‘But I’m not a stranger.’

‘That’s what a stranger would say. We’ve never met you before,’ said the girl with unanswerable logic.

The lower lips of two of the boys started to wobble. Farrell was twisting like a fish on a hook. Suddenly, he had it. Rummaging about in his wallet he produced an old photograph of him, Laura, and John taken when they were around eighteen. He showed it to the girl, who solemnly inspected it.

‘It’s you, mummy and daddy. Daddy’s got hair!’ she said, sounding surprised.

‘Can we play with him, now, Molly?’ asked one of the little boys.

Molly nodded decisively and with a loud whoop the boys launched themselves at him.

‘Let’s play wrestling,’ they shouted, catching Farrell off balance.

He was then run ragged for the next hour until he received a polite tap on the shoulder from Molly, who had been reading a book, holding herself aloof from the boys’ antics.

‘Excuse me, what’s for tea?’

Farrell foraged in the freezer and discovered some pizza and chips. He sat the kids together on the couch while it was heating in the oven. The eldest child, Molly, had such a look of Laura about her it made his breath catch in his throat. The same dark brown curls, solemn blue eyes, and dimpled chin. Already she was like a little mother hen: soothing baby Adam on her knee and silencing the two boys, Luke and Hugh, who had started to argue over a toy car.

The microwave interrupted his reverie with a ping, and he was then run off his feet for what felt like hours; shovelling food into a reluctant mouth, a stinky nappy, baths, and story time. Eventually, come 8 p.m., the kids were all settled in bed, and Farrell collapsed into a chair, more tired than he’d been for years.

Keeping his voice low, he telephoned the station and was put through to DS Stirling.

‘Just checking in. Any developments?’

‘Sod all,’ said Stirling, sounding frustrated. ‘Door-to-door enquiries revealed diddly-squat. Nobody seems to have seen or heard a thing.’

Farrell could picture the scene only too well. Everybody pumped up on caffeine and adrenalin ready to charge out the door and catch a killer. How could such a violent murderer have retained sufficient self-control to slip away leaving no obvious clues behind him? The trail was already starting to go cold, which didn’t bode well. He couldn’t share his worries with Stirling though; it was important to keep morale and energy high.

‘Early days, yet. Once we get forensics back I’m sure that will open up a few lines of enquiry.’

‘Any word on how John’s wife is doing? She’s a lovely lass, doesn’t seem fair,’ said Stirling.

‘Nothing yet. Keep me posted.’ He terminated the call and listened carefully. Not a sound from upstairs.

After a while the silence started to feel oppressive, and Farrell took out the rosary he carried everywhere and began to pray for Laura and the baby, lips moving silently as he repeated the soothing incantations. Such was his concentration he failed to notice that John had slipped in and was regarding him with troubled eyes. A polite cough had him stuffing the rosary in his pocket and leaping up out of the chair like he’d been caught doing something illicit.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘She’ll be fine,’ said Lind wearily.

‘And the baby?’

‘Didn’t make it,’ Lind said. ‘Stillborn. A girl …’

Farrell moved towards him, but Lind put his hands up creating a barrier. Farrell could now see that his friend’s eyes were brimming with tears that threatened to spill.

‘Don’t,’ said Lind, voice wavering.

‘Would it help to talk?’ Farrell steeled himself to ask.

‘Not now,’ said Lind. ‘Look, Frank, I can’t thank you enough for stepping into the breach like that …’

‘Hey, what are friends for?’ said Farrell. ‘You sure you’ll be OK here on your own?’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’ said Lind.

‘Right you are,’ said Farrell.

As he glanced back at the house, now wrapped in shadow, Farrell felt the weight of his friend’s sorrow pressing against his chest. He prayed for the soul of their stillborn child and that they be given the strength to bear it.

CHAPTER TEN

After a disturbed night’s sleep, Farrell was hotfooting it down to the Major Crime Administration room after getting his usual caffeine fix when he saw Lind bearing down on him, his face set in an uncharacte‌ristically grim expression. Immediately, Farrell tensed. Had Laura taken a turn for the worse? Lind halted in front of him, his personal anguish bricked up behind a brisk demeanour.

‘Twin boys have been abducted from Happy Faces Nursery in Catherine Street. I’ll coordinate the search from here. I’ve appointed DI Moore to head up the investigation. However, being a small force, we need all hands on deck for this one. I want you to drive to the nursery and see what you can get from the woman in charge. She didn’t make much sense on the phone. Then get over to the parents. The kids are only three years old. What they must be going through …’

Lind spun on his heel, barking orders at the swarm of officers buzzing around him as he went.

Galvanized into action, Farrell grabbed his jacket and keys and took off down the corridor.

‘McLeod,’ he bellowed. ‘You’re with me.’

Mhairi emerged from the ladies at a brisk trot looking disgruntled.

‘Is nothing sacred?’ she grumbled as she trotted to keep up with her boss’s loping stride.

‘Two three-year-olds are missing from their nursery. It seems they’ve been abducted by some nutter.’

‘Who’s the Family Liaison Officer, Sir?’

Farrell thought for a moment.

‘You are, if DI Moore has no objection. That’s if you think you can handle it?’

‘I’m sure I can, Sir.’

Their eyes met in sombre recognition. Dealing with relatives was hard enough at the best of times, but when there was a possibility that some sick creep might have killed two little kids the job would be harrowing in the extreme.

The nursery was located in a sandstone-terraced house near the Ewart Library. Cheerful pictures and smiley faces adorned the windows. As Farrell and McLeod pulled up into the adjacent kerb they had to dodge a stampede of hysterical mothers bearing their offspring away. The jungle drums had been beating in the manner of all small towns. Frightened by the commotion, the youngsters were bawling their eyes out. A crowd of onlookers were already starting to gather, ready to stake their claim in what might turn out to be a tragedy.

A slender middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes came to the door. Wordlessly she let them in and took them into a small tidy office. She gestured for them to sit opposite her.

‘I’m DI Farrell and this is Detective Constable McLeod,’ started Farrell. ‘And you are?’

‘Janet McDougall; I own the nursery.’ Her eyes filled and she clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

‘Who else works here?’

‘There were three of us on duty today: myself, and two nursery assistants, Fiona Thomson and Gill Brown. They didn’t see anything as Fiona was settling the babies in another room and Gill was leading story-time in the quiet room.’

Farrell asked Mhairi to nip out and take preliminary statements from the two young women waiting outside the office, one of whom was weeping quietly while being comforted by the other. The last remaining children had now clearly left. He returned to his seat.

‘Can you tell me exactly what happened when Mark and Jamie Summers were taken?’

‘This man came,’ she began. ‘He said he was from the social work department, had an ID card with him.’

‘Did you examine it carefully?’ asked Farrell, holding her gaze.

Janet McDougall flushed but didn’t look away.

‘Of course, I did. It looked absolutely authentic. He was even wearing the same tie in the photo as he had on when he came here.’

‘What time did he arrive?’

‘It was shortly after nine; the boys had been dropped off by their mum at around 8.15. She works at that firm of accountants in Irish Street.’

‘What exactly did he tell you?’ asked Farrell.

‘He told me the boys’ father had been in a bad car accident on his way to Glasgow, might not even survive.’

‘Go on.’

‘The mother had gone on ahead to the hospital, he said. He’d been asked to take the boys to join her. He gave me this.’

With shaking hands, she pulled a letter out of her pocket. It was a handwritten note, apparently from the mother, asking the nursery to hand over the boys to David Nolan, social worker.

Farrell immediately radioed the station so that they could verify whether or not a David Nolan actually existed within the social work department.

He was careful to keep any note of censure out of his voice.

‘Did you recognize the handwriting?’

‘I hadn’t had much in the way of letters from her before but I did compare her signature with something I had on file. It matched, or I thought it did …’ she added miserably.

Turning away from them she rummaged through a file with shaking hands and produced a consent form. Farrell scrutinized the two signatures. They looked alike, if not identical. The abductor had done his homework. His radio crackled into life.

‘DS Byers here. There’s a David Nolan all right. He’s been off for months on the sick.’

‘Put a call in to Cornwall Mount and request a firearms team be mobilized as soon as can be arranged to surround Nolan’s house. He might or might not be armed but I’m not taking any chances where young kids are concerned. We’ll also need uniformed backup. Bring Lind and DI Moore up to speed.’

‘This man,’ said Farrell, ‘what did he look like? Tell me anything you can remember.’

‘He was tall, very tall. About your height and build.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’

‘Green.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes. He had glasses on, but at one point he took them off, gave them a wipe and put them on again. Now I think about it he had cold eyes. His mouth smiled but his eyes didn’t. Oh God, what have I done?’ she moaned.

‘What colour was his hair?’

‘Dark, very dark. He had a lot of it. And a large beard covering most of his face, but very tidy.’

‘Any distinguishing marks? Scars, tattoos?’

‘I can’t remember anything like that but, thinking back, there wasn’t all that much of his skin visible.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘He looked very professional, had a suit on, navy I think, and a red tie over a white shirt. He looked … respectable.’

‘What made you call the police if you had been satisfied he was genuine?’

‘Their mother called to say that Jamie had forgotten his lunchbox. I knew then.’ She started to sob again. ‘If anything happens to those little boys, I’ll never forgive myself. It was my job to keep them safe.’

Farrell placed his hand on her arm and gave it a squeeze. He said nothing. What was there to say?

‘Do you have any recent photos of Mark and Jamie?’

Janet McDougall jumped up and walked over to a brightly coloured wall display.

‘Here’s one. They were playing at the sandpit out back.’ She choked back a sob as she handed it over.

Farrell’s throat tightened as he beheld the two toddlers grinning happily into the camera, each with wide blue eyes and blond hair flopping over their foreheads. They were dressed identically in shorts and T-shirts and could have been clones of each other.

‘Can I see out the back where this was taken?’ he asked.

So desperate to help that she almost overturned her chair, Janet MacDougall jumped up and showed him through the kitchen to the back door. A large tray of small milk bottles sat untouched beside a plate of home-baked biscuits.

The backyard was securely fenced, with a large sandpit area, a tree with a low-slung tyre attached to a rope, and a few ride-on toy tractors and cars. Behind the yard was a private lane opening into the gardens of adjacent sandstone houses. While the fence was too high for small children to climb out, a reasonably tall adult could see into the yard and see the children playing when walking by.

‘Do you think he’s been watching us for a while?’ she asked, eyes darting everywhere.

‘Very possibly,’ answered Farrell. ‘I must get going now but, if anything else occurs to you in the meantime, here’s my card. Someone will be in touch to arrange for you to come into the station shortly to work with an identikit sketch artist.’

‘Wait, there’s one more thing,’ Janet McDougall said. ‘He left in a grey Primera car. I noticed the make because I’ve fancied one myself for ages.’

‘I don’t suppose you happened to notice any of the registration plate?’ asked Farrell.

‘No, sorry,’ she whispered.

After obtaining a rough description of what the two little boys had been wearing that morning, Farrell sped back to Loreburn Street with Mhairi to deposit the photograph and descriptions with DI Moore. As expected the two nursery assistants hadn’t had anything material to add.

DI Moore was sitting in a large room. Information was being fed to her from all directions. Calm and serene, she projected a quiet authority that was bringing out the best in the officers under her command.

‘Have you any objections to appointing DC McLeod as Family Liaison Officer, Kate?’ asked Farrell.

DI Moore turned to Mhairi.

‘Have you been a FLO before, Mhairi?’

‘No, Ma’am, but I am fully aware of all the duties and responsibilities that go with the position. I would like to be there for the family to help them through this.’

‘You must guard against getting too emotionally involved though; don’t lose your objectivity. Either or both parents could potentially be implicated.’

‘No, Ma’am.’

‘Even though I’m SIO on this one, Frank, I’d welcome your input as the case progresses. We’re lucky to have an officer with your experience. Child abduction not linked to marital breakdown is a rarity down here.’

Her phone rang as three young constables marched into the room bearing documents and files.

Farrell told Mhairi to wait for him at the car and swung by Lind’s office on the way out. He was worried about how his friend would be coping given his own recent tragedy. However, when he walked in to Lind’s spacious office he came face to face with a wall of people to whom Lind was competently issuing orders. As the last officer ran out the door with Lind’s instructions ringing in his ears Farrell updated him, each of them conscious of the clock ticking.

‘I don’t like it,’ Lind said. ‘Bastard has done his homework. Probably been planning this for some time.’

‘Did the super sign off on the firearms team?’ asked Farrell.

‘Yes, we’re going in at 12.30. I want you there, Farrell. There’s just enough time for you and DC McLeod to get round to the parents first. The father should be back home by now. He’d been on the way to Glasgow when the kids were taken.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Farrell and McLeod drew up outside a detached redbrick house on the Lomax Estate out on the Edinburgh Road. There was a large grassy recreation area to one side with a sign saying ‘NO BALL GAMES’.

‘Must have a few bob,’ said McLeod, taking in the gleaming red 4x4 in the driveway.

Farrell wondered what drove people to live in these fancy little boxes with their upwardly mobile neighbours breathing enviously down their necks. He didn’t fancy it, that’s for sure.

Two little bikes with round chubby wheels and stabilizers were propped up against the side of the house. Farrell glimpsed a state-of-the art climbing frame in the back garden, despite the fact they had passed a swing park not two hundred metres away.