‘Bastard,’ he hissed.
‘Sir?’ asked Janet, not following.
Farrell ignored her, lost in his own thoughts. Clearly the murderer had made the little boys select a card to determine their fate. The card that he was looking at was the three of spades. Highest wins.
The SOCO put it in an evidence bag and Farrell, forcing his thoughts back into the moment, co-signed the tag. He had learned very early on in his career that sloppy police work plus good defence lawyer equalled bad guy out on the street. Maybe that was what had happened with Baxter, resulting in his get out of jail free card.
‘There’s another card underneath the bed over there,’ he pointed.
Comprehension dawned in Janet’s eyes, and she nodded but carried on processing the scene in front of her: the consummate professional. Phil gathered up his case and moved in the direction indicated by Farrell.
Farrell turned on his heel to leave, but Janet stopped him.
‘Wait, there’s something else. Just give me a minute …’
Farrell looked on with ill-concealed impatience as she slowly peeled off a piece of white-backed card from the underside of the blanket then rotated it so he could see that it was a piece of a black-and-white photo of some age.
Just then he heard an excited exclamation.
‘Sir! You’d better get over here and look at this,’ yelled Byers.
Farrell picked his way up the central aisle to a set of stone stairs leading up to where the altar would have been. Another, smaller, set of stairs led up to the pulpit on one side, where the minister would have addressed the congregation. On the adjacent wall was an old-fashioned gilt-edged mirror. Farrell stared at it in surprise. He’d never seen the likes of it. There was a small notice above the mirror crudely attached to the wall with tape. It read:
‘WATCHING YOU WATCHING ME’
Farrell rubbed his eyes, which felt like they’d glass in them. What did it all mean? This set-up had all the hallmarks of an elaborate production in which the abductor was trying to convey some kind of a message. But what was it and who was the intended recipient? He thought back to the murder of Father Boyd. That too had been staged for maximum impact. Farrell left instructions with Byers to alert the SOCOs and cordon off this additional area, then picked his way back down the stairs to the main body of the kirk.
The female police surgeon had just finished examining the little boy in DI Moore’s arms and pronounced him fit and well. As Farrell approached he turned his head away and cuddled in to his protector. Farrell tousled his curls gently but Mark shrank from his touch. Poor little mite probably had a downer on most men after what he’d been through.
DCI Lind came across.
‘This little lad needs to get home to his mum,’ he said. ‘He seems to have taken to you, Kate, so why don’t you and Farrell take him back where he belongs. I’ll stay here to make sure everything is done by the book.’
As he looked at her cradling the child in her arms, uncaring of the fact that her tights were laddered and her fancy suit covered in dust, Farrell wondered whether it had been choice or circumstance that had resulted in her not having children of her own to care for.
He strode out of the church, grateful for the cool air fanning his face. DI Moore got into the back of his car, snuggling the boy on her knees minus a seatbelt. Farrell said nothing. To heck with the law.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As they drew up outside the house where the family lived Farrell’s stomach lurched with dread. He glanced at DI Moore in the mirror and saw the same anguished look in her eyes. It was never easy being the bearer of bad news. The local press was in attendance but before long would be getting elbowed to the back of the crowd by journalists from the nationals, who were meaner and hungrier for a good story to pick over.
Farrell exited the car and looked as threatening as he knew how at the assembled posse. It didn’t stop the flash bulbs popping as they hurried to the front door to be let in by a grim DC McLeod.
‘Have they no decency, Sir?’ she asked.
‘Not part of the job description, I’m afraid, DC McLeod.’
The boy’s mother came bursting through a door, followed by the father. She snatched her son out of DI Moore’s arms and fell to the floor with him, smothering him in kisses.
‘Mark, thank God; I’ve been so worried.’
‘Elspeth, come away in here with him where it’s warmer. He looks frozen,’ said her husband, his voice coarse with emotion.
She allowed herself to be led into the comfortable lounge, where a log fire blazed in the grate. Having been bid to sit, Farrell perched awkwardly on the edge of a floral print chair. The woman turned to DI Moore, hope briefly kindling in her eyes.
‘My other son, Jamie, Officer?’
‘I’m so sorry. There was no sign of him and no indication as to what might have happened to him.’
Elspeth’s face crumpled as she turned into her husband. Her joy had been short-lived. DC McLeod took the little boy by the hand and went into the kitchen for some juice.
‘So he might still be alive then?’ asked Barry, who seemed somehow to have reduced in stature since they’d first met.
‘Anything’s possible,’ replied Farrell, sounding more positive than he felt.
Just because a body hadn’t been found yet it didn’t necessarily mean that the other boy was still alive. DI Moore didn’t share the information that they were awaiting the arrival of a specialist dog team, trained to sniff out cadavers, to cover the area around the church and the small wood behind it.
‘He’d clearly fed them chips for tea and there was a book of fairy tales with the page turned down at Sleeping Beauty,’ said DI Moore.
‘That was always Jamie’s favourite story,’ said his mother, smiling through her tears.
Farrell felt suddenly uneasy. The book had been beside Mark’s bed, not Jamie’s.
‘Mrs Sullivan, can you confirm again what Mark was wearing the last time you saw him?’
Farrell cursed himself for not having checked this out before. What was wrong with him? DI Moore’s level grey eyes met his, uncomprehending. Mr Sullivan glanced at his tearful wife.
‘Look, is this really necessary? Can’t it wait until tomorrow? Hasn’t she been through enough?’
‘No argument there, Sir,’ said Farrell with feeling. He looked into the father’s eyes.
‘It was something your wife said; I have my reasons for needing to know,’ he continued doggedly, hating himself for what he suspected might be yet another blow he’d have to inflict on this tortured couple.
‘What he’s wearing now: red joggers, a white T-shirt, and a navy cardigan,’ she replied, sounding puzzled but not yet alarmed.
‘Thank you, ma’am. Do either of your sons have any birthmarks that enable you to tell them apart?’
Farrell saw the horror flare in DI Moore’s eyes. She got it.
‘Well, Jamie has a strawberry mark under his hair at the base of his neck. Mark has a mole on his left anklebone.’
‘DI Moore, do you think I could have a cup of tea?’ asked Farrell.
She got up immediately and went to the kitchen. Moments later she returned with the little boy and DC McLeod and shook her head. Farrell rubbed his hand over his eyes. No easy way to say this; he just had to launch straight in.
‘Mr and Mrs Sullivan, DI Moore has just had a look at your little boy in the kitchen. It appears that for some reason unknown to us the killer made the children swap clothes. I’m almost positive that it is Jamie who we brought back with us and not Mark.’
Both parents sat there as though hit by a thunderbolt then dived at the son they had thought might be dead before weeping afresh for the other son they had now lost.
DI Moore stood up and beckoned to DC McLeod and Farrell to join her in the kitchen. She spoke to Mhairi first.
‘DC McLeod, I gather that you have come off a night shift. Do you want someone to relieve you?’
‘No, Ma’am, I’ll
be fine. They’ve got to know me. I think it would be best if I stayed, provided some continuity.’
‘I’ll send an officer round with some supplies and an overnight case,’ said DI Moore, giving her a brief hug.
‘Nothing too stylish, Ma’am, or no one will recognize me,’ said Mhairi in a weak attempt at humour.
‘Just hang on in there, McLeod,’ said Farrell. ‘You’re doing sterling work.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Mhairi.
Farrell envied women their ease with each other. He always felt so clumsy when the emotional stakes got high. Best to keep a professional distance.
Before they left he asked the parents one more question.
‘Are you members of any particular church in the town?’
‘Yes, St Aidan’s. I wouldn’t say we make it along every single Sunday or anything but we were married there and the kids are baptized in the faith,’ said Mr Sullivan.
Mrs Sullivan was sitting staring into space. Her son was clambering over her knee trying to get her attention, but she was unresponsive. Mhairi gently lifted him off her knee and took him upstairs. It had been a long day for the little chap.
The doorbell rang and an elderly gentleman with an avuncular manner was admitted. Fortunately, DC McLeod had called the family doctor earlier as poor Mrs Sullivan seemed to be sinking fast. On their way out, DI Moore pressed a card with her personal numbers into Mr Sullivan’s hand.
‘If you think of anything, anything at all, no matter how trivial it might have a bearing on the case, call me day or night. I want you to know that I will not rest until we know what has happened to Mark.’
Mr Sullivan pressed her hand, too overcome to speak.
As Farrell was pulling away from the kerb he saw Father Malone turn the corner looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He waited to be sure and saw him turn into the gateway of the house they had just left. Farrell wondered what reception he would get from the parents.
Later that night as he drove home a murderous rage filled Farrell. What kind of warped individual could have played such sick games with those little boys?
Once back at Kelton, he was too wired to sleep and prowled around the cottage like a caged tiger. He tried to pray to calm himself but the words wouldn’t come. Instead he sought solace in a bottle of malt whisky. However, far from placating the angry beast within him the whisky seemed to embolden it. Swaying in the open doorway to his room he yelled at the wooden crucifix.
‘Why did you let this happen? They’re only little boys. Why didn’t you stop him?’
Fiendish laughter filled the room. Farrell stood transfixed with horror as the crude wooden head on the crucifix slowly turned to face him. The eyes glowed red and the lips parted. A forked tongue darted out; at which point Farrell slammed the door shut and retreated to the living room, where he remained with his back to the wall, lights blazing all night, muttering, over and over.
‘It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It isn’t real.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Farrell woke with a sour taste in his mouth and a thumping headache. Stumbling, he rooted about in the washing basket for some running gear. Only after a few stretches did he dare open his bedroom door and look at the crucifix. Wooden eyes stared impassively back at him. Excellent.
He took his lithium with some orange juice straight from the carton then ran out into the rain, aware that he must cut a somewhat ridiculous figure but knowing that the exercise would help stabilize his mood.
As his feet squelched along the mud flats the fine drizzle seemed to permeate his very bones. The lonely cry of an oystercatcher escaped the dampening effect of the mist rolling inland from the Solway estuary. Body now on autopilot, Farrell’s mind churned over the events of yesterday. St Aidan’s seemed to be a common denominator; yet, considering the large size of the parish relative to the population of Dumfries as a whole, was that necessarily significant? What about Father Malone? He’d worked with the dead priest but clearly knew the boys’ family as well. Then there was that day he’d been sitting having tea and biscuits with Jason Baxter. Sure, it could have been nothing more than a pastoral visit or it could have been something more sinister. And where did Baxter fit into the equation? Another coincidence? He wasn’t buying it.
Back at the cottage Farrell traipsed wet feet up the wooden stairs. After a scalding hot shower and vigorous rub with a rough towel he felt closer to human than he had for a while. He came out the shower room ready for anything … except this.
Standing at the top of the stairs he could see there were now two sets of wet footprints going up the stairs, not just one. Blood pumping, he crept into the adjacent bedroom, nudging the door against the wall with his bare foot in case there was anyone behind it. He then charged through to the living room. The plaintive beauty of a Gregorian chant suddenly swelled to fill the silence. He’d forgotten to switch off his CD alarm. As he made his way round the austerely furnished room he suddenly became aware of a draught. Racing downstairs he found the front door swinging open. Still clad in his towel he raced outside and looked up and down the lane. Two schoolgirls clocked him and ran off giggling.
Back inside, with the door locked behind him, Farrell pondered. The wet footprints had long evaporated. Had he imagined the whole thing? He’d been briefly delusional last night, courtesy of the whisky, he hoped. Maybe he’d nipped back downstairs for something and forgotten. It happens. Working a case like this it was no wonder he was spooked. Throwing on the first black suit that came to hand he quickly dressed before heading into work. Maybe today they’d get the breakthrough in the Boyd case they’d been waiting for.
DCI Lind was already over at Cornwall Mount briefing the Chief Constable and other senior officers by conference call. DI Moore was at Glasgow meeting with a child psychologist, specializing in trauma, and had left a message asking Farrell to take her morning briefing in relation to the child abduction case. There was some crossover of personnel already due to the relatively small number of available officers in a force this size. Farrell decided to hold a combined briefing in the lecture theatre at Loreburn Street, which was large enough to hold both investigating teams. Glancing around at the assorted members of his team, Farrell knew that their morale must be at low ebb. He’d picked up the morning papers on the way in and the headlines had made him wince.
‘POLICE OUT OF THEIR DEPTH IN LOCAL MURDER’
‘LOCAL BOOBIES FLOUNDER IN LOCAL CRIME WAVE’
Unless they picked up their game and started to get results they would be vilified nationwide. He had to seem positive, look like he was in control of the situation. He cleared his throat and the room fell quiet.
‘Yesterday was a tough day for all of us. I want to congratulate you all on a job well done under difficult circumstances. We still don’t know what has happened to young Mark. An examination of the grounds and wood around the church has revealed nothing sinister so far. A specialist dog team will be arriving from the Central Belt this afternoon and if they strike out then this will remain an open case to which we devote maximum effort and attention. The stakes don’t come much higher than a missing child.’
‘Do you think it’s likely we’ll find him alive?’ asked Byers.
‘Statistically, it’s more likely that he is dead than alive at this stage but statistics are not facts. The abductor is intelligent and plans his crimes meticulously down to the last detail. That does not mean he is infallible. The fact that he appears to have made some effort to cater to the needs of the boys in terms of food, bedding, even a storybook, I believe gives some grounds for optimism.’
A hand shot up.
‘Yes, DC McLeod?’
‘Sir, do you think he’s done here or is he likely to strike again?’
‘My gut tells me he’ll strike again,’ said Farrell. ‘Clare Yates, a local forensic psychiatrist, has been called in to consult on the case, and I’m meeting her tomorrow morning. I’m hoping she might be able to give us something a
dditional to go on.’
‘Has any thought been given to questioning Jamie?’ asked DS Stirling.
‘DCI Lind has put out feelers to child services and the Council legal team to ascertain whether sufficient safeguards could be put in place to make that a possibility. Right now, DI Moore is in Glasgow meeting with a psychologist specializing in the forensic examination of children. While it would have very little evidentiary weight in terms of court proceedings it could give some limited indication of the abductor’s intentions.’ Farrell paused. ‘Moving on now to the unsolved murder of Father Boyd. DS Stirling?’
‘Sir?’
Farrell regarded the man closely but there was no trace of the animosity he’d displayed towards him before. Missing kids had a way of putting things into perspective.
‘I want you to organize twenty-four hour tails on Jason Baxter and Father Malone. Use the most experienced men on Baxter. It won’t be the first time he’s been followed and he knows all the dodges.’
‘McLeod.’
‘Sir?
‘Are you available to come to Father Boyd’s funeral with me later this morning?’
‘Yes, Sir. Elspeth’s mother arrived this morning. She said she’ll take care of the family meantime, pending further developments.’
‘In that case, I want you to review the footage of Father Boyd’s funeral this afternoon. I want a complete list of who was there, together with their addresses and who talked to whom at the graveside or anywhere else. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Also, I want you to chase up the various forensic reports we’re waiting on. Say that DSup Walker will be all over them if they don’t drop everything they’re doing to concentrate on these two inquiries.’
‘Yes sir,’ said DC McLeod.
‘The rest of you have been allocated actions by DI Moore or myself, so what are you waiting for?’
Galvanized into action, the rest of the men and women assembled sprang to their feet and filed out. Farrell applied himself to making notes for DI Moore on where they were at so she could press on when she returned later that morning.
Dead Man's Prayer Page 12
