Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘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 deman
ding 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.

  Farrell determinedly squashed the small jolt of excitement he felt when she walked through the door. Her hair was different. The short cut that had framed her elfin features had gone and in its place were long tumbling dark curls. It suited the woman she had become. He stood up and approached her decisively. It gave him a huge measure of satisfaction to see that she looked even more ill at ease than he did. Determined to put matters on a formal footing and keep them there, Farrell spoke briskly.

  ‘Doctor Yates, I’m hoping you can throw some light on an investigation I’m working on.’

  She smiled warmly at him and he felt his defences begin to crumble.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again. Come along to my room. We can talk there,’ she said and set off along the corridor.

  Farrell followed her, his eyes inscrutable. As they sat down in her comfortable office, more like a cosy sitting room than a consulting room, he was unable to stop his eyes sliding of their own volition to her left hand, to check out whether she was wearing a ring. She wasn’t. The slight twitch of her mouth told him she’d seen him. Time to take control.