Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘I’ll phone you later,’ he called after her.

  Driving in to work, Farrell could scarce recall a start to a morning that had left him feeling so rattled.

  Nodding curtly at the constable on duty he made straight for the canteen and grabbed a coffee from the machine and a banana that looked as though someone had sat on it then made straight for his office on the second floor. He was about to enter when he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving about behind the opaque glass. Carefully placing his coffee on the floor he tensed then swung the door back causing it to crash against the filing cabinet to reveal a startled DCI Lind.

  ‘Bloody Hell, Frank, what’s your problem? I nearly shit a brick.’

  ‘Sorry, don’t know my own strength,’ said Farrell, weak with relief. What was with him this morning? He picked up his coffee and moved to his desk, Lind staring at him all the while.

  ‘How’s Laura?’

  ‘You know, putting a brave face on things.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Life goes on.’

  Farrell made a decision. He extracted a plastic evidence envelope from his pocket and wordlessly pushed it across the desk.

  Lind read it out loud:

  ‘I’m tempted to confess again.

  Your guilt will grow and grow.

  Only you can stop me now.

  Just like before.’

  He looked at Farrell, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Some joker pushed it through my door a couple of days after Boyd was murdered. It meant nothing at the time. It was only when the boys went missing that I started to wonder if that was what it was referring to.’

  ‘He seems to know a lot about you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Farrell. ‘On the other hand, it could just be a shot in the dark, a wind up … There’s no way of knowing for sure.’

  Lind flopped into his seat like a sack of potatoes, brow furrowed as his analytical mind looked at this disturbing piece of information from all angles. Farrell paced up and down, muscles coiled tight as though trying to burst through the restraints of his skin. He said nothing, knowing Lind would not welcome any interruption to his train of thought. Finally, just when Farrell was about to crack, Lind looked up.

  ‘How on earth did this geezer know about what happened to you back then? Christ, I’m one of your best friends and even I just got to hear about it. We’re talking about something that happened over fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Unless they’re one and the same person,’ said Farrell. ‘He could be out by now if he kept his nose clean inside. I didn’t follow his progress. I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘I suppose anything’s possible,’ said Lind, suddenly looking older and greyer at the thought of a deranged psychopath turning up on his patch.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Farrell. Reluctantly, he pulled another evidence bag out of his pocket and slid it across to Lind, whose eyes were now on a collision course with his receding hairline.

  ‘Anything else?’ he managed, while gingerly reaching for the bag.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I take it this was put through your door with the note?’ asked Lind.

  Farrell shifted in his seat.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Spit it out man,’ barked Lind.

  ‘I found the card on my hall table this morning.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lind, decisively. ‘That settles it. Bugger off down to the crime lab with these. I’m arranging twenty-four-hour surveillance on your property. A complete nut job has been inside your house. I can’t ignore that. As to whether it has got any bearing on the abduction of the kids? That remains to be seen. It’s a tenuous link at best.’

  Lind reached for the phone but Farrell slammed his hand down on it before he had a chance to dial.

  ‘Don’t make me pull rank on you here, Frank,’ Lind said.

  ‘Look, John … Sir … none of this matters now. There are two wee boys out there that need to be found, and I don’t want coppers wasting their efforts on me when they could be out pounding the streets. You know how these things go down as well as anyone. If they’re not found soon …’ Farrell punched the desk in impotent fury.

  Lind looked at him.

  ‘You’d better get out there then, hadn’t you,’ he said.

  Farrell tore along to the briefing room, dropping the two evidence bags off at the crime lab en route after photocopying the contents. He was just leaving the lab when he bumped into the SOCO, Janet White.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, Sir,’ she muttered, sounding embarrassed.

  ‘What is it, Janet?’ asked Farrell, giving her his full attention.

  ‘We got the analysis of the DNA samples back from Dundee this morning.’

  ‘And?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘No matches with known criminal profiles … although they did find some of your DNA on the note Boyd was holding.’

  Farrell slapped his head in annoyance. Somehow he had managed to contaminate evidence at the crime scene. It must have been the shock had made him careless momentarily. Still, it was no excuse.

  ‘Thanks for the head’s up, Janet. I don’t know how it could have happened.’

  ‘It won’t be the first time, Sir,’ she said, walking away.

  The increasing sophistication of DNA analysis was proving to be a double-edged sword, thought Farrell. Still annoyed with himself, he headed for DI Moore’s office, hoping to intercept her before she made it along to the MCA room for the first briefing of the day.

  ‘Wanted to give you a head’s up,’ he said, declining her offer of a seat. ‘I received this anonymous note through my door before the boys were taken. Then a playing card, the joker, arrived on my hall table this morning. It might be linked to someone banged up a number of years ago in a case I was involved in as a priest rather than as a copper. Equally, it might have nothing to do with it.’ He placed the copies on her desk.

  Moore looked at them and frowned before looking up at him. ‘Why on earth did you sit on the note for so long? It’s tantamount to withholding evidence, Frank.’

  He sighed and slumped into the seat opposite.

  ‘You’re right, of course. At the time, I was only concerned with Boyd’s murder, and I didn’t see how it could have any possible correlation with that. I also—’

  ‘What, Frank? Spit it out.’

  ‘I also didn’t want to dredge up the past. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.’

  Her expression softened.

  ‘No one likes to feel exposed, Frank, but let’s get this job done. I’m trusting you to be straight with me from now on.’

  ‘You got it. Whatever it takes,’ he said. ‘Jason Baxter is his name. Last I heard he was in doing life for the murders of three young women. A total psychopath.’

  ‘How’s the Boyd investigation going?’

  ‘Byers is trawling through the parishioners, hoping to open new lines of enquiry that way. But if we don’t catch a break soon … his killer may never be caught.’

  Moore stood up and gathered her papers.

  ‘Sorry, Frank. I have to get along to the briefing. I’d like you there if you can spare the time, especially in light of this new information.’

  It was nearly 8 a.m., and the Investigation Team were filing in with none of their usual banter. Cases involving kids were the worst and no one had a good feeling about this one.

  Holding up her hand for silence, DI Moore began. ‘Information received points to the possible involvement of one Jason Baxter in the abduction of the boys. However, he was banged-up around fifteen years ago for a number of murders so we have to ascertain whether he’s still inside or whether he was subsequently released.’

  She pointed to Stirling who immediately jumped up.

  ‘I’m on it, Ma’am,’ he fired over his shoulder as he left the room.

  ‘Byers, any joy from the appeal by the parents on Border News?’

>   ‘We’re still getting inundated with calls, Ma’am, but nothing concrete yet.’

  ‘Did you get anywhere on the family trees?’

  ‘Still working on it, Ma’am. I did discover one thing though. The twins were adopted at birth.’

  ‘Who are their real parents?’

  ‘Their adoptive parents don’t know. It was all done through a Catholic adoption agency, and it’s like pulling teeth trying to extract information out of that crowd.’

  ‘Get on to legal. Tell them it’s urgent.’

  The door opened, and a young WPC approached DI Moore, blushing, as all eyes swivelled to follow her progress.

  ‘The police artist thought you might want copies of this, Ma’am.’

  Farrell took one of the sheets being passed around and studied it closely, heart ricocheting about his chest like a squash ball. The picture didn’t mean anything to him. Was it or was it not Jason Baxter? Impossible to say: it had been so long and incarceration changed a man. The beard didn’t help either. He certainly couldn’t rule him out.

  ‘Make sure this picture is widely circulated,’ said Moore. ‘I want it plastered everywhere so this man has no place to hide. Get it on the local news and get the editors of all the local papers to run it in their next editions.’

  As he stared into the blank eyes of the identikit image Farrell wondered what kind of man could have had the daring to carry out such a meticulously planned abduction and vanish into thin air. There was something familiar about him. Nothing he could put his finger on, just a feeling he’d seen him before somewhere. His eyes lighted on Mhairi. She looked tired and drawn but ready for anything. She was proving herself to be an outstanding member of the team, he thought.

  ‘How’s it going with the family, Mhairi?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘As you’d expect, Ma’am. They’ve been up all night waiting for the phone to ring.’

  ‘No jarring notes?’

  ‘None at all, Ma’am; at least, none that I’ve been able to detect. The boys do have an uncle that was convicted of indecent exposure two years ago but he looks nothing like the description we’ve been given for the suspect and has an alibi for the time in question.’

  ‘Alibis can be broken. Bring him in for questioning anyway,’ said Moore, obviously determined to leave no stone unturned. She glanced at the clock and said, ‘right, everyone that hasn’t been allocated a specific task should get out on the streets with pictures of Mark and Jamie to help with the search. No exceptions. Every hour that goes by without a result means those little boys might be an hour closer to death. I want to see maximum effort. Let’s move it.’

  Farrell strode out, pulling on his jacket as the room behind him erupted. He’d noticed from the search grids pinned to the wall that a number of coppers were due to search Burns Walk down by the river at 9 a.m. He used to play down there himself as a kid and knew it better than most so he’d added his name.

  He felt a slight tug on his sleeve and turned around, frown already in place, and saw that it was DI Moore. He made a conscious effort to smile, the tension in his jaw making it more of a grimace.

  ‘Frank, wonder if I might tag along? I see you’re heading out to join the search at Burns Walk?’

  He looked doubtfully at her immaculate attire and expensive-looking court shoes. How to put her off without giving offence? Before he had a chance to fob her off she piped up.

  ‘I’ve got wellies and an anorak in the car. I’ll drive.’

  He was left with no alternative but to follow in her wake, lengthening his stride to keep up with her.

  As she opened the back of the car to get her gear out he was amused to see she had a matching scarf, woolly hat, and gloves set as well as some sparkly chiffon number with matching shoes and purse. Talk about being well prepared.

  ‘I used to walk my dog, Jasper, down here,’ she said. ‘He managed to get in all the nooks and crannies.’

  Walking down to the river from Nunholm Road, Farrell got a sudden waft of perfume from the magnolia climbing over the stone wall of a shuttered Georgian house. Across the Nith, the sun was high in the sky, shooting warm tendrils into the mist rising off the fields.

  Fanning out, the officers worked silently, poking and prodding the secret spaces where Burns had strolled and which J. M. Barrie had gazed upon from his handsome sandstone house. They sifted through the detritus of modern living grafted onto the beauty of the morning like some creeping disease: lager cans, fag ends, even condoms. Early birds on the adjacent golf course looked at them curiously, annoyed at being put off their stroke. He noticed that DI Moore didn’t shrink from getting her manicured hands dirty.

  Was the kidnapper really someone from his past or just one of those bampots who liked to play games with the police? Hearing a muffled curse behind him, he spun round to see DI Moore keel over, having caught her ankle in a rabbit hole. He turned round to help her up and was surprised when she slapped his hand away.

  ‘I can manage,’ she snapped.

  ‘As you wish,’ he replied.

  She struggled painfully to her feet, drained of all colour. Seeing her lurch forward, Farrell put out a steadying hand before he could help himself and was rewarded with a glare.

  ‘Come on, Kate, we need to get you away to the doctor. You’ll be no use to man or beast till that ankle is strapped up. I reckon we’re done here anyway. Time to check in with the rest of the team back at HQ.’

  ‘Sorry’, she said. ‘I prefer to stand on my own two feet.’

  ‘Looking at that ankle, I reckon that’s going to be a problem,’ he said.

  Hesitantly, she put her arm through his and they hobbled back to the car in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As soon as he was back at Loreburn Street Farrell went in search of Stirling.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded as soon as he clapped eyes on him. ‘What’s the score with Baxter?’

  ‘He was released from Barlinnie on appeal five years ago. His conviction was ruled unsafe by the appeal court and he’s since made a tidy packet through settling a civil action for wrongful imprisonment.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Farrell in disgust.

  ‘Apparently, he lived in Glasgow up until recently.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Lives out at Lochside, Dalscairth Avenue.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Farrell, turning on his heel.

  Stirling grabbed a scuffed corduroy jacket and followed him out the door.

  ‘Don’t you think we should call for some backup?’ asked Stirling. ‘Maybe get the firearms team to meet us there? You did say he’s a murderer, didn’t you?’

  ‘Take too long to mobilize. If he’s got those kids they’re living on borrowed time. That’s if we’re not already too late.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Stirling.

  ‘You don’t have to like it. Just get in the bloody car, man.’

  Stirling’s mouth tightened into a thin line but he got in beside Farrell and they took off for Lochside with squealing tyres. Farrell drove like a maniac, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of the upcoming confrontation.

  ‘What makes you so sure Jason Baxter is our guy?’ asked Stirling. ‘I did a bit of digging around and he only ever targeted young women before. Something like this would be completely atypical.’

  ‘You don’t think the timing’s suspicious?’

  ‘Could just be coincidence. He’s a Doonhamer, you know. Still got family here.’

  ‘I’d no idea,’ said Farrell grimly, skin crawling at the thought that he and Jason Baxter had inhabited the same small world as they were growing up, might even have stood next to each other in the pub or supermarket.

  They parked around the corner and approached on foot. The mid-terraced sandstone house looked immaculately maintained. The small lawn was manicured to perfection. Farrell slipped the catch off the gate and walked quickly up the path. No sign of activity within. He looked up and saw black storm clouds gath
ering: a portent of the evil within? Rapping firmly on the door he waited, adrenalin surging round his body.

  The door opened and he was suddenly face to face with his tormentor from all those years ago. Except this man looked nothing like the virile monster that charged through his dreams with such menace. This was an old man, looked like somebody’s granddad: all Marks and Sparks cardies and floppy white hair. More importantly he looked nothing like the description of the abductor.

  Stirling glanced at Farrell, waiting for him to take the lead. Farrell said nothing, just stood there with the blood draining from his head to his feet like a receding tide. Stirling stepped forward. The man ignored him, face clouded with confusion; staring hard at Farrell as though trying to place him. Farrell stared back like one in a trance, fighting the urge to turn and run from the evil soul lurking behind that mild façade.

  ‘DS Stirling and DI Farrell,’ said Stirling, no doubt wondering what the blazes was going on.

  ‘Can you confirm that you are Jason Baxter?’

  ‘The one and only. What’s this about, officers?’

  ‘We’d like to ask you some questions in connection with the disappearance of two little boys,’ Stirling continued.

  Baxter laughed. The sound had an obscene quality to it that made Farrell’s skin shudder. Moving so quickly that Baxter nearly fell backwards into the hall, Farrell towered above him like an avenging angel, though from Heaven or Hell it would have been hard to say.

  ‘Easy boss,’ muttered Stirling in his ear.

  Farrell unclenched his fists and was gratified to see a flicker of fear in Baxter’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t know anything about missing boys,’ he smirked. ‘The ladies were always more my style. Don’t you remember?’

  Stirling looked at him in confusion. Farrell grimaced inwardly. He was going to have some explaining to do later. It would be all round the station in no time.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Baxter, ‘it was always a shame that someone didn’t stop the killer sooner. Seemed a nice lass that Emily, although I only know what I read about her in the press, of course.’

  This time Farrell didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘Mind if we come in?’ he said, nearly knocking Baxter off his feet as he strode past him.