Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Jackie Baldwin 2016

Jackie Baldwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008200954

Version: 2018-05-10

Dedication

For Guy

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

June 2012

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

If you enjoyed Dead Man’s Prayer, read on for an exclusive extract from the next thriller in the Frank Farrell series

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

JUNE 2012

Father Ignatius Boyd lifted the crystal tumbler to his mouth and gulped greedily at the brandy, his shaking hand causing the glass to knock unpleasantly against his teeth.

The ruby velvet curtains and gas fire did nothing to dispel the chill he felt in his soul. It had rattled him seeing Frank Farrell at Mass this evening. His past mistakes had been haunting him of late as his body began to fail him. It would not be long until he met his Creator, and he had a feeling he would be found wanting. He had recently travelled to Rome to confess his sins to an anonymous priest but it had not brought him any comfort. His penance had not been the anticipated repetitions of the rosary, but a harsh command to reveal what had been hidden and to make what restitution was in his power. Until he completed that penance, his immortal soul remained in peril.

When he had seen Farrell at Mass this morning he had felt it was a sign. Before his courage failed he had hurried after him but his shouted greeting had fallen on deaf ears.

Another letter had been waiting on the mat when he returned home. For a moment he had the insane idea it might have been left there by Farrell, but on reflection he acknowledged it wasn’t his style. He picked it up from the floor, where he had flung it in a rage, and studied it helplessly for some clue as to the sender’s identity. The paper was cheap and flimsy, but the words meant business.

It was eleven o’clock. He walked over to the window and moved the curtains a fraction so he could peer out. The darkness pressed against the window as though it was trying to get in. He opened his bedroom door and listened intently. All was quiet and as it should be. Father Malone and the housekeeper did not keep late hours and had already retired to their rooms. Remembering the stricken expression of the young priest earlier, he felt a slight pang of remorse. He could have handled the situation better.

Suddenly the insistent trill of the phone pierced the silence. He swiftly ran down to answer it, his plain black cassock whispering on the stairs. With trembling hands, he picked up the phone, the colour draining from his face as he heard the menacing voice on the other end of the line.

Slowly he replaced the receiver on the hook. With a lingering backwards glance, he opened the back door and slipped out into the still night. It was clammy and not a breath of air disturbed the overhanging trees as he hurried up the narrow lane to the church, his heart thudding uncomfortably against the confines of his chest.

He went in the small door to the rear of the church and paused to listen. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the thump of his heart. As his eyes acclimatized to the darkness he walked slowly towards the confessional box, resisting the urge to flee with every step. He paused outside the Priest’s door. The handle wouldn’t yield. He walked to the Penitent’s door and swung it open. As he sank onto the kneeler the metal grille flew open and Father Boyd reared back with a shout of terror, hearing the sickening crunch of bone against unforgiving stone.

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Inspector Frank Farrell glanced around the tiny impersonal room with its beige walls, grey carpet, and cheap wooden desk strewn with files. Not for the first time he wondered whether he’d done the right thing in accepting a transfer back to Dumfries from the murder squad in Edinburgh. The rain drummed relentlessly on the window behind his desk. He looked out over the town. The swollen grey clouds had leached colour out of the landscape. The first early morning shoppers were dumping their cars in the car park across the road from the station. Beyond the rooftops the Lowther Hills were shrouded in mist.

Turning round, he folded his long body onto the chair behind the desk and, with a frown, pulled a pink slip of paper towards him. It was a message from Father Ignatius Boyd, dated yesterday; the day before he started his new job. Farrell’s jaw clenched. The cheek of the man daring to phone him after all this time! Boyd had even tried to engage him in conversation after Mass yesterday morning, but Farrell had been having none of it. Impulsively he screwed the message up into a tight ball and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. He had better things to do than pander to an elderly priest whose Christian charity could be measured in negative numbers. Ignoring the niggling voice in his head that said he was being unprofessional, Farrell pulled the nearest file towards him and started reading.

He’d almost finished when the phone rang. A nervous voice asked him to go along to Detective Superintendent Walker’s office on the top floor.

Farrell moved quickly knowing that if you got on the wrong side of the super it cast a long shadow. He knocked firmly and a clipped voice bid him enter. The large airy office contained a small compact man behind a large desk. His sleeves were rolled up and Farrell could just make out the tail-end of a tattoo on his left arm. Tufts of fiery red hair stuck out in all directions above milky-white freckled skin. Walker ignored him, continuing to rustle the papers on his desk. Farrell waited patiently. Some men never leave the playground. Eventually, when the silence had started to stretch between them like a steel cable, Walker looked up and treated Farrell to his best ballbreaker stare.

‘Now, Farrell, I hope you realize that we’ll not tolerate any funny business at this station.’

‘Sir?’

Whatever Farrell had expected it wasn’t this. He could feel amusement welling up and struggled to keep his face impassive.

‘You know what I mean, don’t play the innocent with me, lad. I don’t want any papist mumbo jumbo interrupting the smooth running of this station. No speaking in tongues, no Bible-study lunches, and absolutely no bloody exorcisms! Do I make myself clear?’ Walker thundered, looking every inch a candidate for a heart attack.

‘Crystal, Sir.’

‘You want to get up to that sort of thing you do it in your own time, got it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now we’ve got that out the way, welcome aboard.’

Walker proffered a meaty paw, and Farrell shook it. Walker snatched his hand back as though he’d been stung.

‘Why you …’

‘Sir?’ said Farrell.

‘Dismissed!’ bellowed Walker, pale eyes bulging.

I really shouldn’t have done that, thought Farrell, walking away. He’d been so incensed by Walker’s ill-judged assumptions about him that he’d been unable to resist giving him a Masonic handshake as a parting shot. Only his first morning and already he’d landed in hot water.

It wasn’t as if it had been a real exorcism. Last year a complete loony tune had escaped from the local hospital and managed to bag a couple of hostages. As the guy had thought he was possessed by the devil, Farrell had pretended to exorcise the evil spirit and got him to surrender. It had been the quickest way to get the job done. Since then he had never heard the end of it. The big brass in Edinburgh had been falling over themselves to avoid him, like he had something unsavoury they might catch.

Ten minutes later, Detective Chief Inspector Lind stuck his head round the door. Farrell recognized him at once. Although he was only forty-three, the same age as Farrell, Lind was all but bald with a few remaining wisps of blond hair clinging on perilously to the side of his head. Farrell resisted the urge to run his hands through his own thick mop of hair just to check it was still there. Lind’s face cracked open into a wide smile that seemed to light up all the dark corners of the room. Farrell was amused to note that his lean fitness-fanatic friend now had the beginnings of a pot-belly.

‘Frank, welcome to the wild South West.’ Lind plonked himself down in front of the desk. ‘So, how have you been?’

Farrell thought about telling him then decided against it.

‘Oh you know, buried under a mountain of paperwork. Thought I’d see if there was any action down here or if it’s still all cattle rustling and two cop bops.’

‘You’re well behind the times there, sunshine,’ snorted Lind. ‘Breach of the peace is the least of our problems now.’

Farrell smiled warmly at his new boss and old school pal.

‘How’s Laura these days? Not sent you packing yet?’

‘I’m keeping her barefoot and pregnant, just in case.’

‘Another one!’ laughed Farrell. ‘When’s it due?’

‘The middle of September,’ said Lind. ‘You must come over for dinner soon. Laura would love to see you; be just like old times.’

‘Sure,’ said Farrell, smiling until his jaw ached. Even the mention of her name after all this time was enough to unsettle him.

Lind leapt up. ‘Got to dash, I’ve got a departmental meeting. The briefing is at nine thirty.’

Farrell wasn’t sure how he felt about having Lind as his immediate boss. On the one hand, he knew Lind wouldn’t give him any hassle. In fact, he’d probably be falling over himself not to rub his nose in it. On the other hand, he felt a bit uncomfortable having someone around who had once known him so well.

Laura McCarron: the biggest sacrifice he had ever made. Her lingering presence had occasioned him both grief and comfort over the years. To confront the reality of the woman she had become might finally restore some equanimity.

A little cheered, he applied himself to the files again until a few minutes before the scheduled briefing. As he’d suspected, the subject matter was fairly tame compared to what he’d been used to dealing with in Edinburgh.

Wandering down to the briefing room Farrell cast an expert eye over the loose assortment of officers inside. Within a few days they would differentiate into clumps of good cops, bad cops, smart cops, lazy cops and … attractive cops. He looked quickly away but not quickly enough. She’d noticed him staring and was headed straight towards him.

A pair of reserved grey eyes looked up into his and a dainty hand, cool to the touch, reached out to shake his.

‘DI Kate Moore; you must be DI Farrell?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said with a warm smile.

A faint blush coloured her cheeks and she slid her eyes away from his.

‘If I can be of any help while you’re settling in, don’t hesitate to call on me,’ she replied before walking off rather too smartly to the other side of the room.

Farrell became aware of covert glances from other women dotted around the room. It made him feel uncomfortable and gave him the urge to retreat into himself. He did nothing to encourage female interest. His manner of dressing was low key and he doubted if he could flirt if his life depended on it. It was just a cross he had to bear. A joke by God at his expense.

An old boy with the ruddy complexion of a hardened drinker and hair like a pot scrubber wandered over next to make his acquaintance.

‘DS Stirling; I hear you’re a local man,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ replied Farrell.

‘And would you be related to Yvonne Farrell, by any chance?’

‘She’s my mother.’

‘Is she now?’ said DS Stirling, gazing at him. ‘I know her from the bowling. I didn’t know she had a son. It’s a small world, eh?’

‘Some might say too small,’ Farrell replied, feeling the tension in his jaw.

‘Come and meet one of the other sergeants: DS Byers.’

Farrell followed Stirling across the room to where a man in his early thirties with the gym-sculpted body of the truly narcissistic was trying to impress DI Moore. Farrell was amused to note that she looked unmistakably relieved at their approach, which enabled her to extricate herself.

DS Byers then turned and pumped Farrell’s hand so hard his fingers lost their blood supply.

‘DS Byers at your service, Sir, or should I say Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?’

There was a collective intake of breath as the eyes of all those in the room nervously flicked their way. Farrell, making them sweat, coolly looked around them all and then back at the hapless Byers, who was already regretting his foray into levity.

‘I don’t know, Byers, should you?’ Farrell asked.

Just then DCI Lind entered and the confrontation was over as soon as it began. Farrell took a seat at the back, the better to observe his fellow officers.

‘The tourist season is starting to kick off now so we’re going to have to clamp down on Jimmy McMurdo’s wee gang on the Whitesands,’ announced Lind.

There were a few snickers at this from which Farrell deduced Jimmy McMurdo was filed under ‘local colour’. Lind held his hand up for silence and continued.

‘Scintillating repartee with the local winos won’t be at the top of anybody’s holiday wish list. The byelaws are there so use them.’

They all listened fairly attentively as Lind briefed them on ongoing enquiries and allocated actions for that day. Farrell was impressed; his old friend seemed to run a tight ship.

Behind him there was a minor commotion as a somewhat dishevelled young woman with bloodshot eyes entered. She tried to slip into the seat beside him only to drop the folder she was carrying with a bang. Malicious eyes pivoted to her and then back to DI Lind. Lind paused mid-sentence and glared, his expression a few degrees before zero.

‘Nice of you to join us, DC McLeod,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Sir, the bus—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. We’re public servants and as such we’re paid to work, not to get up and wander in when we feel like it.’

‘No, Sir,’ said the unfortunate constable.

‘Moving on then …’ said Lind.

Farrell tuned out and studied his new neighbour. A faint whiff of stale booze and cigarettes wafted over him causing his nose to prickle in distaste. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed and there was a small ladder in her tights. Sensing his scrutiny, she turned and scowled at him. He tried a rueful grin but she was having none of it.

Suddenly, a young police officer burst through the door with such force that it banged against the wall. Lind opened his mouth to give him a roasting then stopped, taking in the lad’s white face and serious expression.

Farrell stiffened. Something bad had happened. He could smell it. Lind took the constable to one side, his expression becoming graver as he listened to what he had to say, and then motioned for him to sit.

‘Listen up, people. PC Thomson has just informed me that there’s been a murder down at St Aidan’s: the elderly priest there, Father Boyd.’

Farrell could feel the blood drain from his head and forced himself to surreptitiously take deep breaths until the dizziness receded. He became aware that he was being watched curiously by DC McLeod and gave her a savage glare that caused her to redden and turn away. He brought his whirling thoughts back under control just in time to hear Lind appointing him as Senior Investigating Officer.

CHAPTER TWO

Farrell parked across the road from St Aidan’s. Despite the fact that it was June dark clouds still glowered in the sky, sending down a grizzling lament of rain. The sandstone church occupied an elevated position within landscaped grounds, looking down with unfeeling eyes on the flotsam of humanity washed up onto its steps. A tall spire reached for the unobtainable.

Feeling unnerved by the prospect of what was to come Farrell forced himself to quit the car. PC Thomson was waiting for him. His face had the waxy pallor of a mannequin. Probably the lad’s first murder scene, thought Farrell. He quickly posted the assembled uniforms to search the surrounding area and guard all entrances and exits, then, motioning to PC Thomson to follow him, he reluctantly entered the church. Automatically he extended his fingers to dip in the holy water, but stopped himself in the nick of time. Hardly appropriate; he was here as a copper not a priest today, and he’d do well to remember it.

‘Over here, Sir.’

Farrell saw DS Byers, DS Stirling, and DC McLeod standing behind the outer cordon of blue-and-white tape. Striding over he nodded an acknowledgement and addressed DS Stirling.

‘Right, Sergeant, I’m appointing you Crime Scene Manager on this one; you know the drill?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Stirling.

Byers looked sour. Stirling posted PC Thomson on the outer cordon with strict instructions to let no one past except on Stirling’s say so. Stirling and Farrell carefully suited up, covering their whole bodies, including feet and hair, in blue plastic.

‘Any sign of the perpetrator?’ asked Farrell as they stepped through.

‘No, Sir. The church and grounds have been searched.’

‘Any sign of forced entry?’

‘None, Sir.’

Both officers ducked under the second line of tape. Silently Stirling swung the door of the confessional open. Farrell sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever he had expected, nothing could have prepared him for this … this … obscenity. Acid flooded his mouth and he forced it back down his throat. Stirling swore under his breath then looked mortified. An unmistakable whiff of incense overlaid other more noxious smells emanating from the confined space.

Farrell shoved away feelings of revulsion and steadily regarded the crime scene. Father Ignatius Boyd was propped up on his knees in the small confessional; his hands bound tightly together with rosary beads in a parody of prayer. From his bulging eyes and protruding tongue it looked as though the cause of death may have been strangulation, though there was also a fair amount of blood with its unmistakable rusty odour. Underneath the dead priest’s hands was a white sheet of paper, but Farrell didn’t dare disturb anything until the police surgeon and the Scenes of Crime Officers had done their stuff.