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

CHAPTER TWELVE

Farrell’s leg jiggled with impatience as he sat in the carpeted reception area of police headquarters at Cornwall Mount. Situated well out of the town centre the light-filled atrium and tasteful foliage creeping unobtrusively around it would not look amiss in a posh hotel. Gloria, the immaculately groomed civilian receptionist, suddenly turned a full-voltage smile on him and told him to go straight on down to the armoury in the basement.

As he rounded the corner, walking past the twenty-five metre firing range, Farrell saw the firearms sergeant briefing his men in quiet emphatic tones. The atmosphere was tense with none of the usual banter. The doors to both the weapons armoury and, across the corridor, the ammunitions armoury, were still open. As his men began to file out to their waiting vehicles Sergeant Forsythe turned his measured gaze on Farrell.

‘Well, Sir, what can I do you for? You’ll need a bulletproof vest for starters.’

‘I’d like the bog standard one, not the heavy-duty version,’ requested Farrell.

The vests that the firearms team wore were damn heavy and he wanted to be able to give chase if necessary. It was well known that the members of the firearms team were among the fittest on the force. They had to be.

‘I believe you’re authorized to carry a firearm, Sir?’

‘Just give me a Taser,’ said Farrell decisively. ‘That’ll do me. Has DS Stirling been down to get equipped?’

‘He’s waiting for you in the car park, Sir.’

By the time Farrell and Stirling had driven over to Hardacre Road, Sergeant Forsythe already had his men in place. A number of uniforms were dispersed around the perimeter of the property awaiting further instructions. A cordon had been set up to keep back members of the public in case things turned nasty. The bungalow looked uncared for, as did the small rectangular garden, which was choked with weeds. There was no sign of movement from within.

Farrell and Stirling approached through the rusty gate that screeched out a warning of their approach. Farrell noticed that Stirling was trembling and chalky white. He’d selected him because of his age and experience, but looking at him now Farrell suspected his backup wouldn’t amount to much. Two of the firearms team took up position behind them on either side of the front door. Farrell knocked briskly, adrenalin flooding his system, causing his heart to pound. There was no response from inside the house.

After a few seconds, he was about to give the order to bust the door down when there was a sound of a bolt sliding back on the other side. A man put his head round the door then promptly ducked back in, trying to slam it shut. Farrell was having none of it. He blocked the door with his shoulder and flashed his warrant card.

‘David Nolan, we are investigating the abduction of two boys and believe that you might have information pertinent to our inquiry.’

The man silently let go of the door and trudged into the interior of the house, followed by Stirling and Farrell. As he turned to face them they could see beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. His sweat gave off a sour odour that Farrell had encountered many times: the smell of fear.

At a nod from Farrell, Stirling proceeded to methodically search the house. Farrell plonked himself down in an armchair and crossed his legs as though this were a social call. Nolan dithered for a few seconds, unsure of how to react, then sank into the chair opposite.

‘You’ll find nothing here,’ he said. ‘Them kiddies going missing has nothing to do with me.’

Farrell was inclined to agree. David Nolan was a sorry specimen of manhood. About five feet seven inches, his hair was sparse and speckled with grey. Flaccid and pale, he had on an old pair of baggy joggers and a khaki sweatshirt that bore traces of previous meals. Hardly credible that a man like him would have the balls to carry off a crime like this. So why did he look so nervous then? What did he have to hide? There was a computer in the corner of the room with a screensaver on and Farrell noticed that Nolan’s eyes periodically slithered towards it and then flicked back to him. Interesting.

Stirling came back in looking disappointed.

‘Nothing, Sir. No sign the boys have ever been here.’

Nolan looked smug. Farrell gave him a hard stare then walked purposefully towards the computer.

Nolan jumped to his feet and shouted, ‘stay away from that, you’ve got no right. Leave it alone.’

‘Oops,’ said Farrell theatrically and stumbled.

As he put out his hands, ostensibly to save himself, he pressed the mouse on the computer and the screensaver vanished. Farrell blanched. Behind him he heard Stirling curse. Hardened as he’d had to become to the darker side of human nature, Farrell had rarely seen anything as horrific as the images of child pornography that dominated the screen. The suffering in the eyes of that small child would haunt him for a long time to come.

‘It’s not mine. Someone’s trying to set me up,’ whined Nolan as Farrell roughly snapped the handcuffs on and read him his rights, barely able to contain his fury.

Farrell left Stirling to supervise the seizure of the computer and search for further evidence then made his way back to the station. If it wasn’t this creep was it possible that the abductor of the twins had flagged him deliberately? Or was it simply a convenient theft of identity? At any rate it would give the vice boys something to chew on and, with a bit of luck, Nolan would give up some other low-lives into the bargain. He didn’t strike Farrell as the stoical type.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Back at the station, Farrell dodged into the washroom and soaped his face and arms up to the elbows then did it again for good measure. Sometimes this job made him feel so polluted he imagined the grime seeped right into his soul. As he rinsed off he caught a glimpse of his enraged face in the mirror and slammed his fist into the wall beside it, wishing it was Nolan’s face. The pain would help to calm him. He didn’t often lose his self-control, which had been hard won over the years, but right now he was spoiling for a fight. Anything to get those images elbowed out of his mind. Struggling for composure, he took a few deep breaths and gradually regained mastery over his emotions. Checking in the mirror that his face was once more cool and impassive, giving nothing away, he strode back out into the corridor.

As he passed the conference suite, he glanced through the glass door and saw Border TV setting up for a televised appeal. Mhairi was inside with DI Moore and the family. He caught her eye and beckoned to her and she excused herself and hurried over.

‘How are they holding up?’ Farrell asked, but really he wanted to see how she was holding up, since he had taken something of a gamble in having her appointed as FLO.

‘Not so good, Sir,’ she replied. ‘But, I guess that’s to be expected. We had all been hoping that Nolan had them at the house so that was a massive blow. Do you think he knows the kidnapper, Sir?’

‘I doubt it but he might know something that we can use. He’s being interviewed shortly by DCI Lind and DS Byers. And how are you managing, Mhairi?’

‘Fine, Sir. I mean it’s challenging and exhausting but nothing compared to what the parents are going through.’

Farrell could see the parents, Elspeth and Barry, being led to the table by DI Moore and the reporter taking up her position in readiness.

‘You’d better get back in there. I reckon they’re about to start. Keep me posted.’

‘Will do, Sir.’

Farrell’s radio beeped. He’d asked Byers to let him know when Nolan was due to be questioned as he wanted to watch the interview take place from behind the one-way mirror in the adjacent room. There was nothing further he could do on the Boyd case for the time being and he wanted to keep up to speed on the missing boys just in case Lind needed backup. DI Moore seemed to have things well under control but he didn’t yet fully have her measure. His old friend hadn’t had an opportunity to grieve for his lost daughter yet, and a case of this sort was hard enough at the best of times. It would also give him an opportunity to observe Byers in action as he hadn’t been all that impressed with what he had seen so far.

David Nolan cut a forlorn figure slumped in a plastic chair in the interview room, which, like the table, was bolted to the floor. He appeared to be sporting a few cuts and bruises more than the last time Farrell had clapped eyes on him, which he struggled to feel sorry about. Nolan’s young solicitor was obviously a local man as Byers and Stirling seemed to know him and had been exchanging small talk while setting up the recording equipment.

The parties introduced themselves for the benefit of the tape, and Farrell learned the solicitor was called Brian Whitelaw. Stirling kicked off the questioning.

‘I am reminding you that you are still under caution and that anything you say can be used against you in court, do you understand?’

Nolan nodded.

‘For the tape, please?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is your full name David Henry Nolan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘Fourteenth of the first, seventy-three.’

‘How long have you been a social worker with Dumfries and Galloway Council?’

‘Ten years.’

‘What department do you work in?’

There was a pause. Nolan stared at the table.

‘Well?’

‘Child protection,’ he muttered.

From his vantage point, Farrell could see Stirling clench and then uncurl his fists under the table.

‘Look!’ burst out Nolan, shrugging off the restraining arm of his solicitor. ‘I know how this looks but I would NEVER actually harm a child. I’m not even a bloody paedophile. At least, I don’t think I am.’

Byers leaned across the table, his face reddening with fury.

‘Those kids bloody happy to be photographed while those things are done to them, are they?’

‘Byers!’ snapped Stirling. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Byers subsided, but fury still blazed in his eyes. Farrell wondered if he’d been the architect of the cuts and bruises.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Stirling.

‘I’ve been depressed. Me and my wife got divorced. I went on a real downer. Had to go on the sick. Thought I was going mad staring at four walls all day. I started watching porn, just for something to do but I couldn’t feel anything. I started to look at harder stuff. Still nothing. Then some random kid stuff came up. It repulsed me but it made me feel something. Breaking that taboo made me scared but it made me feel alive again. I know that sounds bloody crazy but I’m trying to be honest.’

Too bloody honest, said the annoyed expression on his solicitor’s face.

‘Did you tell anyone what you’d been doing?’ asked Stirling.

‘Of course not. I knew how people would react. A year ago I would most likely have been one of them.’

‘Have you had any unusual phone calls recently?’ asked Stirling.

‘Human Resources phoned last week to check on how long I was intending to remain off on the sick. First time they’ve phoned since I went off a year ago. Probably gearing up to sack me, the bastards.’

Stirling glanced at Byers but he was already writing in his notebook. Not so slow on the uptake as Farrell had thought.

‘Have you ordered any replacement credit cards, bank cards, driving licence, passport, anything like that?’ asked Stirling.

‘I ordered a new bank card,’ Nolan said. ‘Come to think of it, bloody thing never arrived. I haven’t had a statement for a while either. It’s like you cease to exist when you’re on the sick,’ Nolan said with a self-pitying whine in his voice.

‘Have you had anyone at the door trying to sell you anything?’ asked Byers.

‘I thought the Jehovah’s Witnesses were bad enough but last week I’d a Catholic priest round trying to get me to sign up for some missionary newsletter.’

Stirling and Byers looked indifferent to this information, but Farrell frowned. That was odd. The Catholic Church was old school and didn’t cold call as far as he was aware. He waited to see if they asked Nolan for a description, but they didn’t.

‘Did you sign anything?’ interjected Byers.

‘Eventually, just to get rid of him. Took persistent to a whole new level. And you can’t exactly roughhouse a priest, can you?’

Plenty have tried, thought Farrell.

‘Anyone or anything else?’ asked Stirling.

‘That’s all I can think of …’ answered Nolan.

The interview was terminated, and Nolan was remanded in custody to appear before the Sheriff the next morning.

Farrell slipped quietly out of the room before they became aware he had been listening in.

Before he went home he stopped by the MCA room and had a word with the Duty Sergeant. Still nothing concrete had emerged from the investigation. As Lind and Moore appeared to be making all the right moves and coping as well as could be expected, he resolved to focus his complete attention on the Boyd case from now on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Farrell breakfasted on a bacon roll and two caffeine tablets washed down with a strong cup of coffee from the canteen. Within a few minutes he could feel the fog in his brain lifting and started to feel more alert. Although it was only the back of six he popped his head round Lind’s door on the way past, not really expecting to see him in this early after what had happened with Laura the other day. Somewhat to his surprise his friend was immersed in paperwork, looking like he’d been sitting there for some time.

‘Any leads on the kids’ whereabouts yet?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a dickie bird,’ replied Lind. ‘There’s been no ransom note either. Bastard has just spirited them into thin air.’

‘What about the car? Nothing doing there?’

‘Turns out it was stolen. Owner reported it missing when he got back from work last night. It was found torched in the early hours of the morning out the back of the Labour Club.’

‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Farrell.

‘I think we’ve got all bases covered. The boys’ pictures are everywhere: in social media, the papers, on leaflets. Border News televised an appeal by the parents last night. Did you catch it?’

‘Just the tail end,’ said Farrell. ‘I take it the phones have been ringing off the hook ever since?’

‘We’ve got officers working round the clock on dedicated lines but nothing concrete yet. Right now I need you to prioritize the murder investigation. The bishop is demanding daily updates, and I don’t need to tell you that the super would like nothing more than to dish your head up to him on a silver salver.’

‘You got that right. Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll catch a break in the case soon,’ said Farrell, sounding more confident than he actually felt. He turned and left the room without sharing with Lind his plans for the later part of the day.

Farrell glanced at his watch. It was time to go to the railway station and meet his old friend and spiritual adviser, Father Joe Spinelli. Given that he was in Boyd’s appointment diary, Farrell knew that he ought, by rights, to be conducting the interview at the station, to make things official, but no way was he going to put someone he revered so highly in a smelly interview room and have his soul polluted by the experience. Farrell had invited him to stay at Kelton, where he was sure he would be able to draw out any information that might be pertinent to the investigation.

Two hours later, as he served the elderly priest a modest helping of chilli, Farrell couldn’t help but feel an anticipatory pang of loss. Joe was now in his late seventies and looking increasingly frail. He had retired from active work in his Edinburgh parish and had an almost ethereal look about him, as if he was not long for this world. After his friend had said grace and eaten a few mouthfuls his pale face relaxed a little.

‘I see you still like your Gregorian chants, Frank,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I thought that after all this time your tastes might have become a little more secular.’

‘I like my music to transport me not thrash me over the head with an iron bar,’ replied Farrell.

His friend looked troubled.

‘Interesting metaphor,’ he said. ‘It must be a struggle to maintain your connection to the Divine when you are mired in such violence.’

‘You’re reading way too much into this. It was just the first random thing that came into my head,’ protested Farrell.

‘Exactly,’ said Father Joe.

Farrell glared at him, exasperated.