Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘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.

  Struc
k 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.