Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  As Father Murray entered from the far left, moving towards the altar, Farrell reflexively stood, taking comfort in the familiar patterns of the Mass and drawing sustenance from it. As he moved seamlessly with the others to take Communion from the priest, he felt a rare moment of peace. Kneeling afterwards, he lost himself in prayer and sensed the layers of time fall away until he was once more at one with God.

  Pulled from his almost meditative state of prayer by the rustle of the congregation rising to its feet, he hurriedly followed suit. It was as if the slender thread connecting him to the Divine had once more been sheared away.

  He waited on the steps outside for his mother, glad to see she was smiling and laughing with her new Catholic brethren. She would be in the thick of things here in no time. Her grief had been raw and unexpected. He had thought she might snap under its weight. He had thought that he might too.

  She came to a halt and scrutinized him from head to toe.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘And you’ve lost weight.’

  This last was pronounced with more than a hint of accusation.

  ‘You are still on your meds, aren’t you?’ she hissed under her breath.

  Farrell felt a familiar flare of irritation and tried to squash it back down.

  ‘Stop fussing. I’m hardly likely to make that mistake again.’

  The mistake that had allowed the demon of psychosis to make its presence felt after an absence of fifteen years.

  ‘I’m your mother, I’m allowed to fuss,’ she snapped. They both fell silent, overwhelmed by the subtext lurking behind the ordinary words.

  Father Murray relieved the sudden awkwardness by choosing that moment to appear. His mother re-joined her friends who had been waiting for her. Farrell noticed a couple of them shooting curious looks in his direction.

  ‘Pint?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Too right,’ said his priest and friend, Jim Murray. ‘If we head up to the Bruce, we can grab a bite to eat as well. I’m starving.’

  A fifteen-minute walk took them to the fluted columns of the Robert the Bruce pub. Farrell felt his mouth begin to water as the sign outside announced it was curry night. That would do nicely.

  Although he had only known Jim since the tail end of last year, they had quickly become close. The life of a Catholic priest was a lonely one, and Farrell was glad to provide a listening ear, understanding the pressures only too well. In turn, he could talk to Jim about his growing dilemma of whether to seek a return to active service as a priest, leaving behind the career he had worked so hard to carve out for himself after his breakdown.

  As he wiped the last piece of naan bread round the sauce left on his plate and drained the dregs of his beer, resisting the temptation to give a satisfied belch, the revolving door swung open and in walked a couple of women, dressed to impress. He glanced at them idly. Then he did a double take. One of them was Laura, and she was very drunk.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Jim, looking puzzled by his reaction. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘It’s Laura, Lind’s wife. I don’t know who the other woman is, but I can guess.’

  ‘Ah, the one who …?’

  ‘Yip,’ said Farrell, feeling his jaw clamp tight.

  He had no right to interfere. Laura was none of his concern. Keep telling yourself that, said the niggling voice in his head. She had lost the baby weight and had killer curves to prove it, which were much in evidence in her tight-fitting purple dress.

  Farrell tried to move the conversation on to other things, but his eyes were continually drawn back to Laura.

  Eventually, his friend sighed deeply and turned to him.

  ‘It’s like having a beer with a robot.’

  ‘Sorry, Jim, I’m just worried that some predatory nut job is going to take advantage of her in the state she’s in.’

  ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you had feelings for this woman that went way beyond platonic,’ said Father Murray.

  ‘I don’t!’ said Farrell. ‘John is my oldest friend. I would never do anything to come between them.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on. What about phoning John? Get him to come and take her home?’

  ‘He’s got his hands full at work, and I don’t want to trigger another row. Their marriage is under considerable strain as it is.’

  ‘Uh oh,’ said Father Murray.

  Farrell turned round to see two guys in rumpled suits approaching the women. They too looked somewhat the worse for wear and were exuding that air of fake bonhomie that men assume when trying to pick up women in a bar. He tensed, waiting to see if Laura would shut them down. Dammit, she was accepting a drink. At this rate he was going to have to intervene.

  The four of them went to sit in a booth. Laura still hadn’t clocked him. Maybe she was just chumming her mate, had told them she was married.

  He turned back to his friend and confessor.

  ‘Sorry, Jim, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Where were we?’

  ‘Debating the merits of chicken bhuna over chicken madras, I think.’

  ‘How’s my mother settling into St Margaret’s? She’s been through a lot, and it’s been a wrench leaving all her old cronies behind.’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry on that score,’ Father Murray said with a chuckle. ‘She’s scything her way mercilessly to the top of the pecking order. Westminster politics has got nothing compared to the machinations of the Catholic faithful. Her arrival has really shaken up the inner circle. They’re all running around like headless chickens trying to outdo one another. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so many baked offerings. I’ve put on half a stone,’ he said, patting his expanding tummy with a rueful smile.

  ‘Sounds like she’s being a bit of a handful?’ Farrell said.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Most of our more involved ladies are widowed, not always with the most attentive of families. It keeps them on their toes, therefore happy and engaged.’

  ‘And how are things with you?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Me? Rushed off my feet, as normal. What I wouldn’t give for an extra pair of hands some days! If your hours weren’t so insane and unpredictable I’d have conscripted you already.’

  Farrell fell silent. He would love nothing better than to help out at St Margaret’s, but the Super would have a fit if word got back to him. He was feeling more and more conflicted about where his true vocation lay. Where was he of most use? In the Church or fighting crime?

  Father Murray nudged him, and he glanced back over at Laura. One of the sleazy characters had his arm around her and looked to be getting ready to make a play. Her mate was already indulging in some tongue action with his friend. As he leaned in to seal the deal, Farrell sprang to his feet and approached their table, struggling to keep his temper in check.

  ‘Laura!’ he announced loudly, causing her to spin round in shock. ‘How lovely to see you. How are the kids? John mentioned he might join me here later. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?’

  His manner was mild, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tightly coiled bearing as he looked at the creep now surreptitiously sliding his arm back along the seat.

  Laura glared at him. Then the fight went out of her, and she started to cry.

  As if reacting to an unspoken signal, both men stood up, muttering about having to go as they had an early meeting in the morning. Farrell glared at them with unconcealed contempt, his copper’s eye taking in white bands on ring fingers and the stench of stale booze leaking out of their pores.

  The other woman stood on wobbly heels and squared up to him.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, crashing our party?’

  ‘I’m Laura’s and John’s oldest friend, DI Frank Farrell,’ he replied, a hard edge to his voice. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t need this shit in my life. Laura, I’m off. You okay if I leave you with this fucking charmer?’

  Laura waved her away, str
uggling to get her emotions under control. Farrell passed her a hanky and sank into the seat beside her. Now what? He hadn’t a clue what was going on in her head. Crying women weren’t his strong suit.

  Steeling himself, he waded in.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Laura, but I couldn’t let you do something I know you would regret in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you know what I’m thinking, Frank, because trust me, you haven’t got a fucking clue,’ she hissed through her tears.

  Two women swearing at him in five minutes! He was on fire tonight. He could do with Mhairi here, she’d have the whole mess sorted out in double-quick time.

  ‘Okay, hands up, I haven’t a clue what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Some things never change,’ she snapped.

  ‘Those weren’t good guys, Laura. You know that! Married, the pair of them, looking for a cheap lay. Is that what you want? To be a cheap thrill for some loser?’

  ‘How dare you, Frank Farrell,’ she hissed. ‘Just who do you think you are? You’re such a hypocrite, hiding behind the robes of the Catholic Church when it suits you. Any time things get too intense, you run for the Church. Like with Clare, last year.’

  ‘I seem to recall, she dumped me,’ he said, striving for a light tone, though the wound had only partially healed.

  ‘Look, your friend has bailed,’ he said.

  ‘Whose fault was that?’

  ‘So, you might as well let me take you home.’

  Grudgingly, she fumbled for her coat and bag and allowed him to help her out the pub. He shot an apologetic glance back to Father Murray, who had witnessed the whole scene, and whose expression was unreadable.

  As soon as the fresh air hit her, she swayed and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

  ‘Frank, I’m going to be …’ She bent double and vomited over the pavement, narrowly missing his shoes.

  ***

  By the time he got her home she was pale and clammy. He called out as he opened the door with her key, but no one was home. The kids must be off staying with Lind’s mother.

  Once she was in the hall she slid down the wall like snow off a dyke. He had to get her into bed, so she could sleep off the worst of it before Lind saw her in the morning. Farrell lifted her to her feet, but her legs were like cooked spaghetti. Grimacing he hoisted her into his arms and staggered upstairs, nudging open doors until he found the master bedroom. He pulled off her coat and shoes then felt under her pillow for her nightie.

  ‘Here, put this on,’ he said, turning his back.

  ‘Help me,’ she muttered.

  Rolling his eyes skywards he reluctantly helped her remove her dress. He was shocked by how thin she had become, her bones jutting out at sharp angles. Hurriedly, he pulled her nightie over her head. Suddenly, she locked her arms round his neck.

  ‘I love you, Frank. I’ve always loved you.’

  For a split second, he thought about yielding to her embrace. Horrified at himself for even entertaining the idea, he peeled her arms from around him. Nothing but the drink talking, he muttered, as he tucked her in on her side. She fell asleep right away, and he felt his heart lurch. It was as if the years had melted away. She looked so young and vulnerable, like the girl he used to know.

  Before he slipped out into the night, he placed a glass of water and a couple of painkillers by her bed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mhairi was in the shower by six a.m. Ian was still fast asleep. She smiled to herself as she remembered what a great time they’d had last night. It was the first time he’d stayed over, and it had felt so natural to have him there. He’d even managed to sweet talk Oscar, who had abandoned her knee for his. She dressed as quietly as she could, to try and avoid waking him. Before heading out, she tiptoed to his side of the bed to leave him a note.

  Suddenly, his phone rang, causing her to jump a foot in the air. In one fluid movement he grabbed it, rejected the call and flopped back on the pillow, groaning.

  ‘What is wrong with people? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘Not a morning person then,’ she said.

  ‘For you, I might be prepared to make an exception,’ he said, trying to pull her back onto the bed.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said, nimbly evading him. ‘Some of us have to work!’

  ‘Some of my best work has come to me in a dream,’ he grinned.

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  She blew him a kiss on the way out the door.

  As she arrived at Loreburn Street, she saw Sophie Richardson and her crew of reporters, setting up outside the station, ready to pounce on anyone entering or leaving the building. It was starting to feel as though they were under siege. She flipped up the hood on her parka as she approached. The news thus far had been critical of the investigative team, attempting to turn it into a political debate about the merits of police centralization. She put her head down and marched past them in to the station.

  The mood in the conference room was sombre. DC Thomson was sitting forward on the edge of his seat. Mhairi tried to look more relaxed than she felt.

  The Super had a selection of newspapers in front of him. His normally pale face was red and mottled. He didn’t look well and had a bit of a wheeze.

  ‘Have you seen these headlines?’ he demanded. ‘Bloody journalists using us as a scapegoat to further their utopian fantasies of Police Scotland.’

  He picked up two papers and read the headlines out loud. ‘“Local bobbies painted into a corner over murdered artist. Dumfries police clueless”.’

  DCI Lind, DI Moore, and Farrell exchanged glances.

  ‘We need to get on top of these cases,’ the Super sighed. ‘I don’t want a monumental cock-up to be the lasting legacy of this station.’

  ‘No one wants that, sir,’ said Farrell.

  ‘This scheme you’ve cooked up, DI Moore. I don’t like it,’ said the Super, shaking his head. ‘I don’t like it at all. DC Thomson has no experience in undercover work.’

  ‘He was heavily involved in the murder and abduction cases last year,’ DI Moore said. ‘He’s been working closely with me on the forgery investigation and knows all the ins and outs. He’s one of the few serving officers we have from Kirkcudbright; therefore his accent is a close match for the driver. Plus, he grew up on a farm, so he knows his way round tractors and the like. We’ve obtained permission to use an empty farmhouse for his base, and DS Stirling can be the alcoholic farmer DC Thomson works for. Another two uniforms will be there as farm workers, so backup is never far away.’

  ‘How do you feel about this, son?’ asked the Super.

  ‘I’m happy to give it a go, sir,’ Thomson replied. ‘It’ll be good experience and I reckon I can pull it off.’

  ‘DI Moore, once he’s out in the field I want regular updates, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course,’ she said.

  ‘Very well, I’ll sign off on it,’ said the Super with a sigh.

  ‘Now no heroic bullshit,’ he said sternly to DC Thomson. ‘If it all goes tits up, I want you out of there pronto. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said DC Thomson.

  ‘Very well, dismissed.’

  DC Thomson left hurriedly.

  ‘Now, then,’ said the Super, turning to Mhairi.

  She felt her face colour. To be talking about this with the Super was beyond embarrassing.

  ‘What you’re proposing is to meet Patrick Rafferty for a drink?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s offered to fill me in on the local art scene.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Well, ideally, if I succeed in ingratiating myself, I might end up gaining access to Ivy House and be better able to do some digging.’

  ‘We still don’t know his position in relation to all this. He might be just as interested in mining you for information as you are him,’ said the Super.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be on my guard at all times. If I establish a good connection with
him it might even be a useful way for us to feed false information back into The Collective at some stage. I’ve thought it through and it seems to me that the only viable way of getting inside The Collective is to take this opportunity. It’ll hopefully give me a chance to ferret around behind the scenes and see if any of them are involved in either of the murders or the forging ring.’

  ‘And if someone behind those high walls is involved and, God forbid, finds you poking around?’

  ‘I can handle myself,’ she said firmly. ‘I was in dangerous situations on a number of occasions last year and I kept my nerve at all times, didn’t I, sir?’

  This last comment was addressed to Farrell, who seemed to be developing some frown lines.

  ‘I can’t dispute that, Mhairi, but I can’t pretend I like this either. At all! Are you quite sure about this, DC McLeod? No one will think any the worse of you, if you decide to pull out,’ said the Super.

  ‘Thank you, sir, but my mind is made up. I’m looking forward to the challenge.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Super. ‘You have his number. I suggest you phone him and arrange to meet up tomorrow night. We’ll take it from there.’

  ‘DI Moore and DI Farrell, I’ll expect to be kept in the loop at all times. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they said.

  ‘Good luck, DC McLeod. Remember your safety matters more to me than a conviction. Are we clear on that?’