Dead Man’s Prayer
JACKIE BALDWIN

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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

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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.

A man in his fifties with a ruddy, weather-beaten complexion came hurrying into the church.

‘Bill Forster, Sir, police surgeon,’ said Stirling at Farrell’s elbow.

Farrell thought the man looked more like a farmer than a doctor. Although he would be no stranger to dead bodies, Farrell was willing to bet Forster had never seen anything like this before. As the confessional door swung back on its hinges the doctor gave an audible gasp, seemingly rooted to the spot; then getting a hold of himself he conducted a brief examination with meticulous professionalism, careful to disturb the body as little as possible. He then straightened up and followed Farrell back through the cordons into the interior of the church.

‘What can you tell me, Doctor?’ asked Farrell.

‘Well, I can confirm that life is extinct; no surprises there.’

‘Can you give me a preliminary cause of death?’

‘I’m not qualified to comment on that, Inspector. You know the limitations of my role here.’

Farrell ground his teeth in frustration but knew better than to press him further.

Two SOCOs arrived, as the doctor was leaving, laden with the paraphernalia of their trade. Nodding in recognition to Stirling, they introduced themselves to Farrell as Phil Tait and Janet White. Quietly and efficiently they then got to work under the capable direction of Stirling, as CSM. Farrell dispatched five pairs of uniforms on door-to-door enquiries. He asked them to complete Personal Description Forms for everyone they interviewed. This murder was undoubtedly Category ‘A’, and he was leaving nothing to chance.

Farrell’s concentration was interrupted by a heated altercation between PC Thomson and DS Byers. Rolling his eyes skywards he went to investigate. Byers was clearly struggling to hang onto his temper. The young constable was flushed but resolute.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ snapped Farrell.

‘This impudent young bugger won’t let me through the cordon,’ blustered Byers.

‘You mean you’re bitching about the fact that he’s doing his job? You know as well as I do that cross contamination of the scene is to be avoided at all costs.’

‘I thought it would help if I saw the set-up with my own eyes,’ muttered Byers.

‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with the video, like everyone else.’

Byers marched off in high dudgeon, and Farrell winked at PC Thomson.

‘Well done, lad.’

‘You might want to come and see this, Sir,’ yelled Stirling.

Farrell swiftly approached. Janet was holding something up in her gloved hands for him to inspect. It was the white piece of paper that had been trapped under the hands of the deceased. Written on it, in what appeared to be blood, were the smudged words ‘mea culpa, mea culpa’. The paper was carefully bagged, signed, and then sealed.

‘Looks like a real whack job,’ said Stirling.

‘You got that right,’ replied Farrell. ‘Did you notify the duty fiscal?’

‘Yes, Sir, but, if it’s OK with you, I decided not to let him view the scene,’ replied Stirling.

Farrell nodded acquiescence then stepped out of the church. He couldn’t even begin to get his head around this. Seeing the incident van, he walked over. Together with a number of uniforms, DC McLeod was questioning members of the public. Word had evidently got about and a sizable crowd was gathering, kept at a distance by hastily erected barriers. An opportunistic burger stand was setting up on a patch of waste ground. Hungry coppers were turning a blind eye.

A media truck arrived and started to send cables snaking around. Two young public-school types with trendily sculpted hair started walking around importantly with big furry microphones held aloft. A young blonde woman in skyscraper heels and a powder blue suit descended and glanced around, selecting her prey. To Farrell’s horror she started to approach him with a determined expression on her painted face. This he could do without. Fixing him with a basilisk stare and thrusting out her hand, she left him with no choice but to advance reluctantly and shake her hand. Where the blazes was the civilian press officer?

‘Sophie Richardson, Border News,’ she said, drawing her lips back over impossibly white teeth.

‘DI Frank Farrell, Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Can you confirm the identity of the deceased, DI Farrell?’

‘Not until the family has been informed.’

‘What can you tell us?’

‘Simply that enquiries are ongoing. We are treating this matter as a suspicious death. Excuse me, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.’

Farrell turned on his heel and started to walk back into the church. The crowd was growing in size and becoming more vocal. The local hacks looked ecstatic at the prospect of a juicy murder to report on for once. Did no one actually care that a man had lost his life today?

An alarm on Farrell’s watch beeped. Glancing round to make sure he was unobserved he surreptitiously popped a pill into his mouth and swallowed. Straightening his shoulders, he then pulled open the heavy oak door and strode back into the church. If only he had swallowed his pride and spoken to Boyd yesterday. He was tormented by the thought that he might have been able to prevent his murder.

CHAPTER THREE

Farrell glanced at his watch. His stomach growled with hunger. It was about time he went and interviewed the remaining parish priest and housekeeper. He cast around for someone free to accompany him and his eye lighted on DC McLeod, who was looking pale and drawn. Time to get her out of here. He beckoned her over.

‘Sir?’

‘Come with me, DC McLeod. We’re going to interview Father Malone, the other parish priest.’

‘I didn’t know there were two of them, Sir. I’m not of the, er … same persuasion.’

Farrell led the way round the back of the church and up a narrow paved lane that led to a detached sandstone house. It had been many years since he had called it home. He knocked firmly on the door.

A slight young man, who looked to be in his late twenties, opened the door. He was clean-shaven and formally dressed in an immaculate black suit with a clerical collar. There were dark shadows under his pale blue eyes that were suggestive of more than one sleepless night.

‘Father Malone?’ asked Farrell. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Yes of course. Please, come in,’ the priest said in a flat voice.

He swung the door open and they followed him along a dark hall into a comfortable, if rather old-fashioned, living room. Farrell felt a sense of dislocation as though he had inadvertently stepped back into his own past. The carpet and drapes were the same. The only addition to the room since he had lived there appeared to be the small flatscreen TV, positioned self-consciously in the corner as though apologizing for its existence.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ the priest said, gesturing vaguely to a well-worn leather sofa, as though his body was going through the motions but his mind had retreated elsewhere.

Farrell leaned forward, making eye contact, trying to force him back into the room with them.

‘I understand you were the one who found the body?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I had gone over to prepare for morning Mass at 9.30. I hadn’t seen Father Boyd at breakfast but I assumed he had taken a tray up to his room as he sometimes does. He’s not that keen on morning chit-chat. I mean he wasn’t …’

‘I know this is painful but can you tell me how you happened upon the body? I mean I presume you weren’t hearing confessions that early in the morning?’

‘No. I was walking up the aisle ready to open the front door when I noticed the confessional door was slightly ajar. I went over to nudge it closed but something was stuck behind the door. I opened it to get a better look and that’s when … I saw …’

‘Did you disturb the scene in any way? Maybe check if he had a pulse, move him, or something else – in any way?’

‘No. It was quite clear to me that he was dead. I simply ran back here and phoned the police.’ He looked ashamed. ‘I was afraid the killer might still be there. I should have stayed and prayed over him, attempted the last rites …’

Farrell could see the priest’s guilt escalating.

‘He had already passed. It was too late for any of that. If you had lingered any longer all that would have happened is that the crime scene would likely have been contaminated, making it all the harder to bring his killer to justice.’

There was a tap on the door and a plump middle-aged woman entered the room carrying a laden tea tray. When she saw Farrell the cups began to rattle and she choked back an exclamation. Father Malone rose at once to take the tray from her and seated her in a chair.

‘Mary, these officers have come to question us about anything we know that might help them catch the person who did this terrible thing.’

‘He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like this,’ she said. ‘I hope whoever did it rots in Hell.’

Father Malone looked troubled.

‘Mary, Father Boyd would expect us to forgive his killer.’

‘Father Boyd believed in an eye for an eye. He wasn’t like the namby-pamby young priests they turn out of the seminary these days,’ she added, darting a contemptuous look at Father Malone.

Farrell looked at the portly woman sitting across from him, lines of bitterness scored into her face. He tried but failed to find the woman she had been when they first met, beneath the layers of fat and anger. What had happened to her? He might get more out of the priest if she wasn’t there. He doubted there was any degree of collusion between them, but best to interview them separately for now.

‘DC McLeod, could you please take Miss Flannigan to the kitchen until I am ready to interview her and also obtain details of Father Boyd’s next of kin, please.’

At a gesture from Farrell, McLeod gently helped Mary Flannigan to her feet and went off to the kitchen with her.

The priest sat silent, his face grey to match his socks.

‘When did you last see Father Boyd?’

‘It would have been around ten p.m.,’ he murmured. ‘I left him sitting here, reading a book, while I went to bed. Mary had already gone upstairs and he told me he’d lock up.’

‘Did he mention any plans to go out?’

‘No. It was just an ordinary night.’

‘What did you talk about?’

The young priest looked unaccountably furtive.

‘Nothing in particular, just bits and pieces.’

Farrell sat back and stared at Father Malone thoughtfully. What wasn’t he telling him? The silence lengthened. Through the wall he heard the tap running in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes. The young priest continued to avoid his gaze, two spots of colour now staining his cheeks.

‘No unexpected visitors, late phone calls?’

‘Wait, I did hear the phone ring. It woke me then I dozed off again.’

‘Any idea what time that might have been?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Had he seemed himself lately?’ asked Farrell. ‘Anything appear to be worrying him?’

‘He’d received a few crank letters: three, I think. He tried to brush it off but I could tell he was upset by them.’

‘What was in them?’

‘He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t like to pry. He’s … he was a very private man, liked to keep people at a distance.’

‘And you didn’t try and sneak a peek?’

‘Certainly not! I probably wouldn’t even have known about them had I not got up before Father Boyd on one occasion. I saw something lying on the mat and was about to pick it up when Father Boyd yelled at me not to touch it. He was clearly upset. I remember his hands were shaking and he stumbled back against the wall as he was reading it,’ said the priest.

‘These letters, were they posted or hand delivered?’

‘Hand delivered, I believe. Do you think they’ve got anything to do with …?’

‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell. ‘Where did Father Boyd keep the letters?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said the priest.

‘Do I have your permission to search the house?’

‘Yes, of course. Do what you have to,’ said the priest.

‘One more thing. Did Father Boyd keep an appointment diary? It might help if we can track his movements prior to the murder.’

The young priest leapt to his feet with an air of relief and fetched a leather-bound diary from the hall. Farrell turned to the weeks before and after the killing. His eyebrows shot up as he noted that Boyd had met with Father Joe Spinelli, Farrell’s own spiritual adviser, the Friday before he died. Turning the next few pages, Farrell spotted the name Clare Yates. His pulse quickened. She was still here after all these years then. Worse, he was going to have to follow this up.

Still scowling, Farrell went into the kitchen and found DC McLeod sitting beside two mugs of tea on the table. Instantly, he tensed.

‘Where’d she go?’ he demanded.

DC McLeod looked surprised at the urgency in his voice. ‘She said she needed to go to the bathroom. What’s up?’

Farrell didn’t reply but tore out the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. Hearing the sounds of drawers banging shut he raced past the unoccupied bathroom, followed by a perplexed McLeod, and crashed through the door the noise was coming from. The housekeeper was standing with her back to him. He strode over and spun her round, his suspicions realized. She was holding a piece of paper to a cigarette lighter. Farrell snatched the charred bit of paper off her but most of it had been destroyed. Father Malone arrived at the open door and took in the scene.

‘Mary, what have you done?’ he remonstrated.

Farrell was furious. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and unceremoniously handcuffed the housekeeper, whose bravado was now overlaid with apprehension.

‘I am detaining you on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used in evidence against you,’ Farrell snapped.

‘I won’t have you lot trying to blacken his name. He was a good man,’ Mary mumbled, refusing to meet his eye.

‘Did you get that?’ said Farrell to McLeod, who was busily scribbling away in her notebook.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Father Malone gestured helplessly to the handcuffs.

‘Look, is all this really necessary?’

‘Too right,’ said Farrell grimly. ‘She’s destroyed a major piece of evidence.’

‘I didn’t even know she knew about the letters. Father Boyd must have confided in her,’ the priest said, sounding surprised.

At that point two uniforms came in, having been summoned by radio, and led the now sobbing housekeeper away. Farrell followed them out to the waiting squad car. As she was about to get into the back seat she whipped round to face him. It took the combined efforts of the two young officers to hold her steady.

‘They had an argument last night, Father Boyd and that apology for a priest in there. I heard them shouting while I was in bed.’

‘You heard Father Malone shouting?’ asked Farrell, his gaze sceptical.

‘Well, I heard Father Boyd shouting at him, and he must have done something to rile him up so much. There’s a black heart under that cassock, I’m telling you …’

Farrell tried to hide his distaste and looked at her impassively, though he could feel his temper rising.

‘Did you hear what the argument was about?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t hear from my room.’

She looked down furtively and Farrell resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

‘Did you get up, perhaps, for a drink of water?’ asked Farrell.

‘As it happens I did,’ she said.

‘And?’ snapped Farrell.

‘It was all over by the time I got downstairs. Father Malone brushed past me without so much as a by-your-leave so I got my drink and went back to bed. Poor Father Boyd was never very lucky with his priests now, was he?’ she added for his benefit.

Farrell itched to retaliate and wipe the malicious grin off her face, but instead indicated to the officers that they should proceed, turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

He had intended to ask Father Malone about the argument there and then but the young priest looked about fit to keel over. It could keep. Knowing Boyd and his temper as he did it was probably something and nothing anyway.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn this place over. Is there anywhere you can go and stay meantime?’

‘There is a couple I’m friendly with. I’m sure they would put me up,’ Father Malone replied, looking as though his legs might collapse from under him at any second.

Farrell glanced at DC McLeod.

‘On it, Sir,’ she said, and escorted the young priest out to more waiting uniforms.

She was holding up well, thought Farrell. It wasn’t at all common for officers in Dumfries to be faced with a murder of this nature. Perhaps there was more to party cop than he’d thought.

Farrell ran an expert eye over Boyd’s bedroom, scanning for likely hiding places. The room was large and comfortably furnished with a liberal smattering of antiques and the odd expensive-looking oil painting. The rich reds and greens of the Axminster carpet threw the drabness elsewhere in the house into sharp relief. The double bed was piled high with a sumptuous quilt and scatter cushions. So much for the vow of poverty, thought Farrell, picking up the lid of a fine cut-glass decanter and sniffing the expensive brandy it contained. He rifled through the good quality suits in the wardrobes, raising an eyebrow at some of the labels. Boyd had clearly developed a taste for the finer things of life. Relentlessly he pressed into every nook and cranny with probing fingers. Nothing. He turned his attention to the walnut bookcase where there were many scholarly theological volumes. On the bottom, pushed self-consciously to the back of the shelf, were a number of paperback thrillers. He flicked briskly through each of these, looking to see if anything was hidden between the pages. Again, nothing.

His eyes turned to the ornately carved crucifix above the bed; the figure on which seemed to be following his progress disapprovingly round the room. Averting his eyes and feeling slightly foolish he took the wooden plaque on which it was mounted and removed it from the wall. He tapped the back. It sounded hollow. Hardly daring to breathe he prised off the back and removed two sheets of paper. Bingo. He yelled for McLeod and she ran into the room. Carefully, he opened a folded sheet of paper. In crude capitals were the words

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Farrell opened out the second sheet of paper.

IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN I’LL TELL

YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL

Farrell carefully bagged the letters in an evidence bag, and DC McLeod co-signed the label. What on earth had Boyd been up to, he wondered? It was a shame there had been no envelopes with the letters. It might have been possible to obtain a DNA match from any saliva used to seal the envelope.

Just then PC Thomson walked in. ‘Sir, they’re ready to take the body to the mortuary.’

Farrell considered him.

‘Someone needs to go with the body to the mortuary until it is signed in and sealed. Do you think you can hack it, son?’

PC Thomson seemed to go even whiter.

‘No problem, Sir,’ he said.

‘Good lad; Sergeant Stirling will sort you out with the right forms to take with you. We’ll be down in a minute.’

Farrell turned round to see DC McLeod regarding him with a thoughtful expression. She gestured to the wooden crucifix lying on the bed ready to be removed as evidence.

‘Trade secret, Sir?’ she asked.

‘Something like that,’ answered Farrell and turned to leave.

As he supervised the body being loaded into the hearse in its inscrutable black bag, Farrell felt a sense of foreboding. Evil was afoot in his old hometown.

CHAPTER FOUR

Farrell regarded the last sandwich in the canteen dubiously. It purported to be ham salad but he had his doubts. His stomach gurgled. He grabbed the sandwich, coffee, and a squashed satsuma. Thin pickings. A case like this required physical as well as mental stamina so he scoffed the lot in five minutes and headed back upstairs. It was his responsibility to get this investigation up and running without delay.

He found DC McLeod already hard at work, brow furrowed in concentration. He picked up the sheaf of papers beside her.

‘Are these the statements from the door-to-door enquiries?’

‘Some of them, Sir.’

‘Anything interesting so far?’

‘One man was out walking his dog around 11.30 p.m. when he saw a figure slipping out of the church. It was someone tall with a long dark coat on. Unfortunately, he only got a view from behind. He assumed it was a visiting priest.’

‘It’s a start,’ said Farrell. ‘Sergeant Byers should be in the Major Crime Administration room. Bring all the statements.’

As they entered the MCA room, McLeod made a beeline for the civilian scribes already assembled to input the information gathered into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Farrell started writing bullet points on the whiteboard, ready for the first briefing of the case. They didn’t have a lot to go on.

An hour later the room was a hub of activity. Farrell walked across to the whiteboard and held up his hand for silence. He pointed to a graphic photo of the murdered priest attached to the wall.

‘To solve this case we need to look into the past of the deceased very carefully. Although we can’t yet rule it out, this murder doesn’t feel at all random to me. It looks personal. In light of the anonymous letters it may well be that the priest was being blackmailed by the killer prior to his death. However, blackmailers don’t usually kill their meal ticket. We need to talk to members of his parish. Some of these old biddies can recall events fifty years ago but not what they did yesterday. Find out who had a grudge against Boyd. We need to know his movements over the last few weeks. McLeod, have you tracked down the deceased’s family yet?’

‘Yes, Sir, both parents are dead but he has an elderly sister, Emily, who lives in Edinburgh. She’s coming down tomorrow afternoon, and PC Thomson is meeting her at the station.’

‘DS Byers, I believe it was you who interviewed the dog walker?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I’d like you to organize pairs of officers to interview members of the parish. We’ll get a list of names and addresses from Father Malone. He’ll be in shortly to give a formal statement. Also, get the dog walker together with one of the identikit guys. I know it was only a rear view but it’s all we’ve got to go on at the moment. Any questions?’

‘What about the housekeeper?’ asked Byers. ‘I hear the Custody Sergeant has a headache with all the shouting and bawling going on.’

There were a few titters at this. It was common knowledge that the Custody Sergeant, Donald Sloan, liked a quiet life and felt sorely aggrieved if he didn’t get it.

‘We’ll be interviewing her later this afternoon. Her solicitor’s in court this morning and can’t make it in until 4 p.m. She’ll be up before the Sheriff tomorrow morning with the rest of the custodies,’ Farrell replied. ‘The procurator fiscal has no objection to bail subject to a condition that she doesn’t go near the house. We don’t want her destroying any more evidence.’

‘The press is going to have a field day with that one,’ said Stirling.

‘No more than she deserves,’ said Farrell.

‘Was there anything going on between them, do you think?’ asked Byers.

Farrell’s jaw tightened. Get a grip man. Why, after all these years, did he still feel a compulsion to protect the reputation of the dead priest, despite all that had happened? He became aware of the silence. Everyone was staring at him.

‘She was willing to risk her own neck to protect his memory. Whether she was also sleeping with him, who can say? However, as Father Malone lived in the same house, I would suggest that it’s unlikely. You can do a bit of digging, if you like. A bit of subtlety wouldn’t go amiss though, if you think you can manage that?’

Byers looked offended. However, there were knowing smirks around the room.

‘Right, if there’s nothing else, everyone get to it. I don’t need to remind you all that the clock’s ticking. Every hour that passes makes catching the murderer that bit harder.’

Farrell headed for the sanctuary of his office and closed the door. He craved solitude like a junkie needing a fix. Sinking into his chair he inhaled deeply. Closing his eyes did not make the nightmare images of Boyd kneeling before him recede. Rather, they seemed to be burned onto his retina. He glanced over at his wastepaper bin and saw the crumpled pink message slip lying where he had hurled it only this morning. The worm of guilt burrowed deep within him. Maybe Boyd had been reaching out to him for help. If he hadn’t been so pig-headed maybe he could have done something to save him.

The phone rang. It was PC Thomson informing him Father Malone had arrived for questioning. He headed for the interview room, collecting DS Stirling on the way. Maybe now the young priest would be more forthcoming than he had been this morning.

Opening the door, he saw that the priest was still deeply shocked. His hands were clasped together in front of him as if in prayer but Farrell suspected it was more to try and stop them shaking than anything else. His left eye had developed a slight twitch that wasn’t there this morning.

Once the tape recorder had been switched on and introductions made Father Malone pushed over a chunky folder, filled with names and addresses.

‘Here’s the parish register. Most of our active parishioners should be included but there are also a fair number of people who turn up to Mass week in and out but don’t seek to become further involved. If they haven’t been baptized, married, or confirmed in the Church, they won’t be noted down anywhere.’

‘Thank you; that’s most helpful,’ said Farrell.

DS Stirling settled back in his chair, letting Farrell take the lead, as agreed earlier.

‘Father Boyd was an old-school priest, very black and white in his views, wasn’t he?’

‘You could say that,’ said Malone, swallowing hard.

‘Not exactly tolerant?’

‘No, he believed very firmly in upholding the teachings of the Church.’

‘A man like that must have made some enemies along the way, surely?’

‘Well, yes, up to a point but nothing to incite a crime of this … magnitude or depravity. It was all small stuff, really.’

‘Maybe not to the people involved?’

‘The kind of thing I’m talking about is refusing religious instruction for kids whose parents want to send them to a secular school rather than the Catholic primary or refusing to do a Requiem Mass for lapsed Catholics. Nothing worth killing over.’

‘So, you’re saying he was petty?’

‘He would see it as principled: setting a strong moral compass for his congregation.’

Petty, vindictive, and narrow-minded, thought Farrell, feeling his ire rising. He pushed the thoughts away and resumed, now with a hard edge to his voice.

‘What were you and the deceased arguing about the night he died?’

Colour flamed in Malone’s face and he dropped his eyes.

‘Well?’ demanded Farrell.

‘If you must know, he said that he doubted my vocation and that I should give some thought to leaving the priesthood. Yes, we argued. For once I stood up to him but I didn’t kill him. In fact, I tried to forgive him … I’m still trying,’ he said in a low voice.

Farrell regarded him. Malone’s version of events certainly tallied with his own memories of Boyd. In any event, they had nothing tangible to suggest he might be a suspect so probably best to cut him loose for now and not antagonize him further. He glanced over at Stirling, who gave a micro shrug in response.

‘Interview terminated at 15.46,’ he said for the benefit of the tape.

He escorted Malone back out to reception and watched until he was out of sight. Stirling had clearly thought the priest was on the level but he still had a niggling feeling he might be missing something. But what?

Feeling his energy levels starting to flag once more he grabbed more coffee and a Mars bar on the way back to the MCA room. His stomach grumbled in protest. This case was giving a whole new meaning to the phrase baptism of fire.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mary Flannigan sat across the table from Farrell, refusing to look him in the eye. The duty solicitor, a lad who looked barely old enough to drink, sat beside her. This time, Farrell had felt it politic to let Stirling conduct the interview and had instructed him to go on a charm offensive at the outset.

Stirling got everyone present to introduce themselves for the tape.

‘I would like to remind you that you are still under caution and that anything you say may be used in evidence against you in court. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not stupid,’ she retorted.

‘Miss Flannigan, aside from these proceedings, first of all let me offer my condolences. I know that this must be very difficult for you. I understand that you had worked for Father Boyd as his housekeeper for some twenty years?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘What did you do before that?’

Farrell realized even he didn’t know the answer to that question. Mary Flannigan looked shifty, embarrassed.

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant?’ she countered.

‘Just answer the question, please,’ insisted Stirling.

Struck a nerve there, thought Farrell.

‘On the advice of my solicitor, no comment.’

Her young solicitor looked somewhat startled, and she tapped the side of her nose at him.

‘Would it be fair to say that Father Boyd relied on you heavily?’ asked Stirling, laying it on with a trowel.

‘Of course he did; the poor man would have been lost without me to take care of him,’ she replied, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes with a tissue.

‘Would you say that you were close?’

The shutters came down.

‘Just what are you insinuating?’ she snapped.

‘Did he confide in you?’

She took her time to reply.

‘No, not really. He was a very private man. Father Boyd took his duties as a man of the cloth very seriously. He didn’t unburden himself to me or to anyone else as far as I’m aware.’

‘In that case, how do you explain the fact that you knew about the anonymous letters he had been receiving? Did he tell you?’

An expression flickered briefly across her sullen face. Shame? Fear? If so, then why?

Her solicitor was signalling that she shouldn’t say anything, but she ignored him.

‘I was putting away his laundry one day and I found them.’

‘Found them where?’ Farrell interjected.

‘In his sock drawer,’ she said, unconvincingly.

‘Why did you destroy the letter we found you with?’ asked Stirling.

‘I wanted to protect his memory,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, so very sorry. I should never have …’ She started weeping, seeming genuinely overcome.

At a nod from Farrell the interview was terminated and she was escorted back to the cells.

Farrell was still getting the feeling that something didn’t ring true but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe his objectivity was being compromised by the past. Stirling again hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He’d thought her behaviour was consistent with the loyalty of a faithful old retainer. Was he imagining things?

Back in his office, he settled down to make some bullet points for the next briefing at 6 p.m., keen to ensure that nothing was overlooked. He weighed up the pros and cons of making it known that Boyd had tried to contact him the day he died but, on balance, decided to keep it to himself for the time being. It would have been different if they had actually spoken but as things stood at the moment there was nothing it could add to the investigation. He didn’t want his past dragged into the present if it could be avoided.

Farrell updated the rest of the team at the next briefing about his impressions of the evidence garnered from the priest and the housekeeper. As an afterthought, he asked DS Byers to try and ascertain what Mary Flannigan had been doing with her life before she worked for Boyd. She had seemed unnecessarily cagey. He also approved for circulation the identikit image of the man seen by the dog walker; although, given that it was a rear view, it didn’t take them much further forward. Finally, having done all that he could think of and with exhaustion settling like sediment in his body, he forced himself to leave and go home.

As he drove along quiet country roads on his way out to the tiny hamlet of Kelton, Farrell lowered the windows to allow the cool night air to chase away the tiredness that was slowing down his brain. The earth smelled moist and rich with unidentifiable scents on the periphery of his memory.

Turning right into the small lane, he dipped his headlights so as not to disturb his neighbours in the surrounding cottages. The stones crunched under his wheels and the tang of salt water from the River Nith drifted up to greet him. Farrell could feel his clenched muscles finally start to unknot.

What on earth …? As he reached the cottage his headlights had picked up a shadowy figure slinking round the side wall from the rear garden. The light illuminated a white face with glittering eyes briefly turned his way.

Farrell skidded to a halt and flung himself out the car and down the lane in hot pursuit. As he stumbled onto the muddy banks of the Nith, running perpendicular to the lane he had just left, the darkness closed in on him. He could only hear the sound of his ragged breathing and the sucking noise of the tidal river. After a couple of minutes, he paused to listen, trying to control his laboured breathing. Someone coughed behind him. He spun round, heart hammering.

‘Police,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t move!’

As he shone the thin light of his torch in the direction of the sound, he met the interested gaze of a belted Galloway cow.

From ahead the faint sound of mocking laughter drifted towards him on the back of the slight breeze that had got up. He spun round to give chase but it was one bit of nifty footwork too many. His feet went from under him, and he landed face down in the brackish mud.

Squelching home, he noticed more than one curtain twitching. Grabbing a torch from his car he circumnavigated the cottage checking for signs of forced entry, but there were none. At least he interrupted the burglar before he had a chance to break in. Not that he had anything worth taking.

After a long hot shower Farrell pulled on a faded pair of jeans and a navy roll-neck sweater. He padded through to the sitting room in his bare feet and inserted some Gregorian chants in the CD player. Pouring himself a generous measure of whisky, he sank back onto the leather couch and lost himself in the soothing rhythms of the music.

Later, as he got up to change the CD Farrell noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Through the door of the sitting room he could see downstairs to the front door. Something was poking out from under the doormat. Warily he went down the stairs and pulled out a single piece of paper. In ragged capitals, it said:

I’M TEMPTED TO CONFESS

YOUR GUILT WILL GROW AND GROW

ONLY YOU CAN STOP ME NOW

JUST LIKE BEFORE

Farrell sucked in his breath. What did it mean? He paced up and down the confines of his small cottage for half an hour before dismissing the letter as a crude prank. It was just a shot in the dark. Everyone had a guilty conscience about something, didn’t they? It clearly had nothing to do with Boyd’s murder at any rate and that was all he was concerned with right now. The lettering was completely different, and Boyd’s anonymous letters had been unambiguously threatening in tone, whereas this one was more couched as a sort of riddle. Probably just some yob who’d figured out he had a copper living near him and decided to have a laugh at his expense.

Utterly exhausted he climbed into his pyjamas and glanced at the towering stack of books on his bedside table. He flicked through the latest sci-fi offering from his favourite author. Tempting though it was, he didn’t have the mental energy to enter another world tonight. Instead, he picked up a well-worn leather volume. Lips moving silently, he read The Divine Office until sleep claimed him.

CHAPTER SIX

Promptly at ten the following morning, Farrell and McLeod entered Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. Farrell glanced at McLeod and saw that she was looking apprehensive. For the first time he wondered if he should have brought her along. He’d figured she could use the experience. As they went down in the lift to the mortuary, it felt as though they were descending into the bowels of Hell. As soon as they arrived they were issued with robes and masks then bade to enter the post-mortem room.

As usual, the first thing that hit Farrell was the smell of formaldehyde, although it was the pungent smells creeping under the edges that really did for him. Feeling light-headed, he breathed shallowly and tried not to gag. Boyd’s body was laid out on the slab, and Farrell had to struggle not to avert his eyes. This was the first post-mortem he’d attended where he actually knew the victim. As he saw the pitiably frail body that had been disguised by the magnificent silk vestments of the Church he felt like the worst kind of voyeur. He glanced at McLeod. She was pale but bearing up.

The pathologist gave them a brief nod before starting to dictate. As it was a murder investigation, Bartle-White was assisted by an independent visiting professor of pathology from Glasgow.

After a while the officers were beckoned over by an imperious gloved finger. Bartle-White pointed to the neck of the deceased.

‘Cause of death, I would say, has been strangulation. The ligature seems to have been some kind of chain; see those indentations?’

‘Could it have been a rosary?’ asked Farrell, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach.

The pathologist stepped back, thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s possible, although it would have had to have been very strong to withstand the force applied.’

‘How about this?’ asked Farrell, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket. ‘This was wrapped round the victim’s hands.’

Bartle-White studied the rosary carefully and turned once more to the deceased.

‘Yes, I should say that in all likelihood that is the murder weapon. Did it belong to the deceased?’

Farrell slapped his head in annoyance.

‘McLeod, once you’re done here, go and see Father Malone and get him to confirm whether or not this rosary belonged to Boyd.’

‘I would say that death occurred between 10 p.m. and midnight and that, judging by the lividity of the corpse, the body was not subsequently moved. There is a depressed fracture of the skull, which is the source of all the blood, but that was not of sufficient severity to have killed him outright,’ continued Bartle-White, in the manner of one discussing the vagaries of the weather.

He then picked up a scalpel, and Farrell tried not to flinch as the first incision was made. The pathologist continued his work dispassionately; his dry words punctuated by the unseemly squelches of a body giving up its secrets.

‘Hang on a moment, what do we have here?’

The pathologist held up a small silver object covered in blood and other gunk.

‘This was lodged in the victim’s digestive system. I would say it is likely it was consumed immediately prior to death,’ he said, sounding bemused.

It appeared to be a small religious icon of a baby Jesus. Bartle-White cleaned it up, popped it into an evidence bag, and signed the label. Farrell co-signed the label and gave it to McLeod.

‘When you go to see Father Malone ask him about this as well. Don’t let on where it turned up; just ask him if it belonged to Boyd or if he’s seen anything like it before. If that draws a blank, then get on to ecclesiastical suppliers; see if there’s anywhere locally it could have been purchased.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said McLeod. ‘Should I get on it right away?’ she asked hopefully.

Farrell took pity on her.

‘Go on, then, scarper.’

She didn’t need to be told twice.

The post-mortem threw up nothing else out of the ordinary. It transpired that Boyd, like so many priests, had turned to the bottle. His liver was shot through with cirrhosis. If he hadn’t been murdered, he would likely have been dead within the year.

As Farrell drove away from the morgue he reflected that, had it not been for Boyd taking the action he did, in another twenty-five years he too might have been a lonely old man seeking solace in a bottle. Although it was out of his way, Farrell drove slowly by St Aidan’s, feeling heartsore at the way things had turned out.

The church was located in a predominantly working-class area. It was a busy parish with a catchment area that took in ghetto-style housing estates where drugs spawned crime and poverty as well as the determinedly genteel areas of those who were either climbing up or sliding down the social scale: a true microcosm of society. Many here turned to religion as a means of combating their despair at the hopelessness of their situation. Others turned their back on God, rejecting Him with all the angry defiance of which they were capable. This could have been his parish had things turned out differently, had Father Boyd not … but the man was dead. It was a matter for God to judge his actions now. As for Farrell, he must now bring his murderer to justice, regardless of his feelings about the man.

CHAPTER SEVEN

DC Mhairi McLeod shuddered as she turned the key in the ignition and quit the hospital car park with squealing tyres. Note to self. Never ever attend a post-mortem again. It was one thing reading the eventual report couched in dry medical terms, most of which she had to look up in the medical dictionary she kept in her drawer. It was another thing entirely actually being present. She wondered how the pathologist could stand to do his job; day after day, hacking into people like they were just pieces of meat. Desperately she tried to delete the images of the dead priest from her memory, but they were there to stay. Dammit. It had been a helluva couple of days. She felt her nerves were stretched as taut as a violin; one good twang and they would ping apart.

Before Farrell came along she had been aware that the other detectives had stopped taking her seriously and felt that she had failed to live up to her earlier promise. Ever since Ewan had run out on her on the eve of their wedding six months ago, she had been all over the place, more interested in having a good time than in forging ahead in her career. The career that had meant everything to her until it lost her the man that she loved. Ewan had struggled with her crazy hours, not to mention the fact that from time to time she might be placed in harm’s way. What had given him the final push to end things was when she had failed to turn up for their rehearsal dinner because she had to talk a young drug addict down from the roof of the local hospital. Farrell had been loading responsibility on her from the day he arrived. Maybe he hadn’t heard yet that she was a flake?

Parking outside St Aidan’s, Mhairi quickly walked up the lane to the priests’ house. She banged the heavy brass door-knocker. The curtains were still shut in a few of the rooms and there were smudges on the brass plate. There were no signs of life. Growing impatient she knocked again. This time, after a few seconds, she heard a door opening deep in the interior of the house accompanied by the sound of urgent footsteps. The door was flung open and a slightly dishevelled Father Malone stood there, blinking almost comically in the sunlight.

‘DC McLeod … er, sorry to keep you waiting. No housekeeper, sometimes I forget …’

‘No worries,’ Mhairi said, smiling at the young man, who resembled a badger woken up from hibernation too soon.

‘Come in,’ he said, throwing wide the heavy wooden door and causing it to creak alarmingly on its hinges.

Father Malone rushed ahead of her into the same room they had been shown a few nights ago. He threw open the curtains and whisked away a pile of newspapers from an upright chair, gesturing for her to sit down. The carpet looked like it could do with a good hoover.

‘Aren’t there any ladies of the parish who could come in to give you a helping hand until Mary is able to return?’ she asked.

‘Too many, that’s the trouble. If I let one in to help they’ll all want to do it and then it’ll be …’

‘Needlepoint at dawn,’ Mhairi finished with a grin.

‘Something like that,’ he said.

Mhairi fished in her handbag and brought out the two evidence bags that Farrell had given her. Father Malone saw what she was doing and started to look anxious.

‘Do you recognize this rosary?’ Mhairi asked, passing the sealed bag to him.

The priest looked at it carefully then handed it back.

‘No, it’s not one I’ve seen him use.’

‘How about this little ornament?’

She handed him the other bag, feeling nauseous again as she remembered where it had been found.

Again, Father Malone stared at the item intently through the plastic.

‘It looks like it might have been removed from a nativity scene but I can’t say it’s ringing any bells with me, I’m afraid,’ he said.

‘If you need any religious items, like rosaries or statues, can you tell me where you would get them?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Well, there’s a place in Edinburgh I know we have used. Let me just look up the address.’

He retrieved a battered address book from the old-fashioned sideboard and flicked through the pages. He then wrote an address down and handed it to her.

Suddenly, the door-knocker sounded with a thump causing them both to jump. Father Malone went to answer it, and Mhairi put the items carefully back in the zip compartment of her bag before standing up and following him out.

Father Malone was having a whispered conversation with a craggily handsome man in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater. As she approached silently there was something in their body language that made her feel uncomfortable, as though she was intruding.

‘Look, it’s not a good time. The police are here. You have to leave …’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Mhairi said behind them.

Father Malone sprang back from the door as though he’d been stung, his face flushing deep red. An expression of annoyance flitted across the other man’s face but Mhairi couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with the priest or annoyed with her for interrupting them.

Mhairi thanked Father Malone and walked down the steps, resisting the impulse to look back and see if the man had been ushered inside. What was that all about, she wondered?

Back at the station, Mhairi checked in the evidence bags. As she went past DCI Lind’s office he glanced up and beckoned to her to come in. Although she’d been pulled up by him a few times, she had a lot of respect for the DCI. He always strived to be fair and, unlike a lot of the blokes in the station, he had never tried to come on to her.

‘Come in, Mhairi,’ he said. ‘How was the post-mortem?’

‘Absolutely gross, Sir.’

‘It’s something you never quite get used to, which is probably a good thing. Anything useful come out of it?’

‘It looks like he was strangled with some rosary beads. He also had his head bashed in, er, I mean a depressed fracture of the skull, but that wasn’t the cause of death, Sir.’

‘What else?’

Mhairi’s face screwed up in remembered disgust.

‘They pulled out an ornament of a baby from his digestive tract, Sir.’

Lind raised his eyebrows.

‘And I thought this case couldn’t get any weirder,’ he sighed.

Mhairi returned to her desk, called up the digital images of the rosary and religious icon she had taken earlier, and emailed a query to the address Father Malone had given her. This case was really freaking her out. She’d never known anything like it.

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.

They were ushered into the house by PC Thomson, who had been waiting with the parents until Farrell could get there. The first thing that met their eyes on going into the hall was a studio portrait of the family. Farrell paused to study it, allowing Mhairi to precede him into the lounge. An attractive woman with honey blonde hair and dimples had her arms resting on the shoulders of two mischievous-looking toddlers, who were dressed alike and had an identical smattering of freckles across upturned noses. Their eyes were sparkling with merriment as though the photographer had just made them laugh. Positioned slightly self-consciously to the rear was a short thickset man whose eyes rested on his family rather than on the camera.

Farrell walked into the lounge feeling a weight settle on his chest. Mhairi was sitting with her arm round a shaking woman, who Farrell took to be the mother. Despite the fact that she still had her work suit on she bore little resemblance to the confident immaculately groomed woman in the photograph. Her hair was straggly and unkempt and mascara ran down channels gouged by tears.

PC Thomson looked ill at ease and as if he wished he were someplace else. Tough, thought Farrell; there was more to being a copper than running around in panda cars, chasing baddies, and the sooner the lad realized it the better.

He walked over to the woman and sat beside her on the large couch, folding both her manicured hands inside his own.

‘DI Farrell. I’m so sorry that this has happened to your family. You have my assurance that we will not rest until your little boys have been returned to you.’

Dead or alive, added Farrell grimly in his own head.

‘Elspeth Summers,’ she said, raising her eyes to meet his.

‘Can you tell me exactly what each of the boys was wearing today? The nursery teacher wasn’t completely sure.’ He signalled to PC Thomson, who took out his notebook, pen at the ready.

‘Mark had on red joggers, a white T-shirt, and navy cardigan with Thomas the Tank Engine on the pocket, and white trainers. Jamie had green joggers, a yellow T-shirt, and a cream knitted jumper. My mother knitted it. Oh God, my mother! She doesn’t know yet.’

‘All in good time,’ soothed Farrell. ‘Jamie’s shoes?’

‘Black trainers.’

‘Are they identical twins or fraternal?’

‘Identical.’

Farrell heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway with a spurt of gravel and turned his head to see a man running to the front door. Gently, he disengaged himself from Elspeth and stood up.

A red-faced man burst into the room, causing the door to slam against the wall. His eyes were frantic with anxiety and flecks of spittle sprayed out when he spoke.

‘Who’s in charge here?’

‘That would be me, DI Farrell.’

‘Why are you here? Why aren’t you out looking for my sons? Anything could be happening to them while you’re here … anything.’

The man started to sway, and Farrell quickly grabbed an upright chair and caught him as his legs buckled, pushing his head down between his knees until the light-headedness went.

‘Barry!’ remonstrated his wife from the settee, getting to her feet unsteadily. ‘My husband doesn’t mean it, Inspector; he’s just worried sick. We both are.’

Farrell looked them both in the eyes and spoke with quiet urgency.

‘Be assured that right now we’ve got every available officer on the streets searching high and low for Mark and Jamie. Our press officer is liaising with the media to ensure as wide coverage as possible. By lunchtime today every library, post office, school, and the town centre will be plastered with pictures of your sons and offering a reward for any information leading to their safe return. We have experts in social media sending out alerts on every possible site. We know our business and we will stop at nothing to ensure a good outcome for you and your family. The reason I’ve come is to try and ascertain whether you can give us any additional information that might narrow the search.’

‘Like what?’ asked the father, quietly this time.

‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around, looking suspicious?’

‘No, no one,’ they said in unison.

‘Have you had any cold callers? Anyone on the doorstep trying to sell you anything? Any unfamiliar cars parked nearby, particularly grey Primera cars?’

They shook their heads helplessly.

‘Have you had any contact with the social work department?’

The man bristled.

‘No, of course not! What are you implying?’

‘The man who took your sons produced a social work ID. Does the name David Nolan mean anything to you?’

‘No, should it?’ asked Elspeth, anxiously.

‘Is he the bastard who did this? When I get my hands on him I’ll—’

‘Barry! Shut up, you’re not helping. While you’re shouting the odds, some nutter could be harming our children.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He tailed off into silence.

Farrell had seen this type of bluster a number of times in similar situations. The ungovernable frustration and rage of a man who feels he has failed to protect his family. He shot a sympathetic glance at the man, who had again simmered down.

‘Have you had any unusual telephone calls?’

‘A couple of wrong numbers, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Elspeth answered.

‘Anyone threatened you recently; anyone have a grudge against you?’

‘I’m a car salesman, for God’s sake …’ Barry said. ‘Just a regular bloke …’

Farrell put a finger under his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. He paused, reluctant to clobber them with more unpalatable information.

‘It’s possible there may be a ransom demand in a while.’

‘Is that what this is about, money?’ asked Barry, eyes wide with terror.

‘It’s a possibility,’ replied Farrell.

‘But we have no money. We’re in debt up to our eyeballs,’ said Elspeth in a low voice.

‘It’s the recession. Things haven’t been so good of late …’ said her husband.

So it wasn’t about money, thought Farrell. That didn’t bode well.

‘They haven’t got their comforters with them,’ said Elspeth, on the verge of losing it.

‘Someone will be round shortly to modify your phone so that we can try and trace the call should the abductor try and contact you for any reason. Try not to give up hope. It’s early days yet.’

Farrell stood up, ready to leave.

‘I’ve appointed DC McLeod here as your Family Liaison Officer. She’ll stay here with you for a while in case the man makes contact and also fill you in on any developments. She can also deal with any members of the press that decide to make a nuisance of themselves. I’m taking the other officer with me to help with the search.’

‘Can I come?’ blurted out Barry. ‘Anything’s better than just sitting here … wondering.’

Farrell looked at him. If anything had happened to those two little boys this guy wasn’t going to make it.

‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just not possible. In any event, I think your wife needs you here.’

He gestured to Mhairi to walk him out and when they were out of earshot he said to her, ‘keep your eye on him. He’s not thinking straight.’

‘Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll keep on top of the situation,’ McLeod answered, her determination belied just slightly by the worry lines snaking across her forehead.

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.

‘While we’re on the subject of my job there’s something I need to ask you, Joe.’

‘I’ll answer if I can,’ the priest replied.

‘Father Boyd was due to meet with you. Can you tell me what about?’

The elderly priest sighed and looked away.

‘I was his spiritual adviser, just as I am yours.’

‘For how long?’ asked Farrell, trying hard to keep the feeling of betrayal out of his voice.

‘Does it matter?’ asked the priest. ‘Long enough. Longer than you. Your paths didn’t cross until afterwards. I thought you would get over it. I thought I could help you resolve the hatred and bitterness within your heart. I was wrong, I see that now.’

Farrell felt trapped in a maelstrom of emotion that threatened to overwhelm his carefully constructed defences. He had to focus, concentrate on the case rather than what this meant for him personally.

‘I must bring his murderer to justice, Joe, don’t you see? Maybe, in the process of doing so, I can finally begin to forgive him for what he put me through. I need to know if there was something in his past that might provide a motive for someone to kill him. You were his confessor, his spiritual adviser, maybe even his friend. Be his advocate. Tell me what I need to know,’ begged Farrell, clasping the priest’s hand.

Father Joe initially struggled, like his hand was a captive bird, but then the fight went out of him and he slumped in his seat.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I don’t have all the answers you’re looking for. If I did, I would have been in touch before now. However, I can tell you there were a number of things troubling him shortly before his death.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Farrell.

‘I used to meet with him up in Edinburgh once every two months, more if required. The last time I saw him was the Friday before he died.’

Farrell leaned forward in his seat. ‘Go on.’

‘He was concerned about the young priest, Father Malone. He believed he was struggling to maintain a celibate lifestyle.’

‘A woman?’ asked Farrell.

‘Would that it was that simple,’ said the priest with a heavy sigh.

‘You don’t mean …?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Was Boyd going to take the matter to the bishop?’

‘I believe that was his intention, yes. He was going to give Father Malone one further opportunity to—’

‘To what? Toe the party line or else?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but in essence …’

‘The housekeeper mentioned she’d overheard them arguing the night Boyd was murdered,’ said Farrell.

Father Joe clutched the table.

‘What are you saying? You don’t think that …?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied Farrell. ‘If Boyd had simply been hit over the head with a vase in the heat of the moment I might figure maybe it was Malone, but the way he was killed … that was real evil at work.’

‘Unless it was calculated to throw you off the scent; convince you that you were dealing with something entirely different in character.’

Farrell sat back in his chair and regarded the elderly priest quizzically.

‘I can’t believe you just came out with that,’ he said.

‘I don’t know why you find it surprising,’ Father Joe said with a sad smile. ‘After a lifetime of service in the Church I have seen how the human soul can transcend its existence and become a thing of beauty no matter what its earthly travail. I have also seen how easily a Godless soul can be polluted by evil until it is a scream of agony contaminating everything it touches.’

‘And here’s me thinking a man of the cloth like you just sits in his ivory tower counting rosary beads all day,’ said Farrell, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Father Joe laughed and the tension momentarily left his shoulders.

‘Did Father Boyd know that he was running out of time?’ asked Farrell.

‘He was aware he had months rather than years left to live.’

The elderly priest paused and looked away.

Farrell leaned forward in his chair. ‘What is it, Joe? What aren’t you telling me? There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘He talked about you, that last Friday.’

‘Me? What about me?’ asked Farrell.

‘The way he had behaved towards you in the past. I got the impression that it was weighing heavily upon him and that he wished to make amends. He also seemed to think he had wronged your mother.’

‘My mother? What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘It’s probably nothing. He’d had a couple of brandies after dinner, said it helped with the pain. I didn’t like to press him.’

Farrell suddenly became aware that Father Joe was looking exhausted and felt a prickle of guilt. He poured two coffees and led the elderly priest upstairs to a comfortable seat in the lounge with panoramic views over the River Nith to the rolling hills beyond. In companionable silence they sat together enjoying the view to the uplifting strains of Bach.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning, Farrell arrived at the Crichton Hospital and ducked into the men’s room before announcing himself at reception. He splashed his face with cold water. The face that looked back at him out of the mirror gave nothing away. Good, that was how he wanted it.

Sitting in the waiting room, he remembered the last time he had been waiting here to see Dr Clare Yates. Mental illness was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. It stripped you bare, turned you inside out for others to gawp at. A lot of what had happened to him was mercifully blank. He could still, however, remember the gut-wrenching terror afforded by the paranoid delusions. The episode of psychosis had never reoccurred although the fear that it might was like a persistent needle in the psyche that never let him alone.

He had had to submit to a stringent psychiatric evaluation when he joined the police and had to submit an annual report from his psychiatrist in Edinburgh to confirm that he was still of sound mind and cooperating with his treatment plan. He seriously doubted that there was any point in taking the tiny maintenance dose prescribed but he didn’t feel inclined to make a fuss. He had been lucky to be taken on back then and he knew it.

Clare Yates had been like a cool drink of water to a man dying of thirst. Back then, still in her twenties, she had the effortless poise and confidence enjoyed by the alpha female at the top of her game. After years of depriving himself of female company he had fallen for her like a ton of bricks, mistaking clinical passion and concerned glances for something else. Recalling the moment when he had leaned across and kissed her on the mouth he remembered with shame the revulsion he had seen on her face. After that, he’d been referred to someone else, a senior male psychiatrist, who’d eventually stitched his shattered self back into something capable of masquerading as normality. Over time, the pretence became real.

Farrell gave himself a mental shake. He hadn’t thought about Clare Yates for years. What was the matter with him? It must be being here in this room that had triggered all these unwanted memories. He was a police inspector now, a grown man in a position of authority not some broken-down washed-up priest. She’d better not try and stonewall him or she’d soon see he meant business.

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