Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  Farrell felt the colour drain from his face and sat down more abruptly than he had intended. Faces swam back into focus. DC McLeod thrust a Mars bar into his face.

  ‘Low blood sugar, Sir, bet you’ve forgotten to eat in all the stramash.’

  He took it from her, playing along.

  ‘The Mars Bar Diet. Now that’s one I’ve always fancied trying.’

  ‘What about Father Malone?’ he asked Stirling.

  ‘Clean as a whistle so far, Sir. Seems to spend an awful lot of time in church. Apparently, he’s been in there three hours.’

  Farrell smelled a rat.

  ‘There are three doors into St Aidan’s: the main entrance at the front, a side door, and a small fire door at the rear. I take it all three are covered?’

  Farrell could tell by the stricken look on Stirling’s face that he hadn’t thought to check.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ he said to the sergeant decisively and headed out.

  They got to the church in record time and found two shamefaced constables waiting on them. Both looked to be barely out of college so Farrell went easy on them.

  He walked up to the closed church door. It yielded under his weight, opening with a creak. Inside, he observed Father Malone praying on his knees at the altar steps. The young priest continued his silent devotions, seemingly oblivious to Farrell’s approach. Farrell took in the fresh mud on the shoes poking out from under his surplice and also the ragged edge to the man’s breathing. Interesting. He genuflected and kneeled down beside the priest, hands clasped, deliberately invading his space. Malone kept his eyes closed and head bent but, sneaking a glance through his peripheral vision, Farrell could see a faint sheen of sweat starting to form on his forehead. An unmistakable tang of sweat mingled with the salty odour of fear began to manifest itself. Farrell remained as still as the adjacent statue of the Virgin Mary. Eventually, just as his knees were beginning to give out, the younger man cracked.

  ‘Detective Inspector Farrell, how can I help you?’ Father Malone said, from between clenched teeth.

  ‘By telling me the truth,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, for starters, where have you been for the last three hours?’

  ‘I’ve been here all the time, praying,’ said the priest.

  Farrell leapt to his feet and towered over the young man. He cast around before he found what he was looking for. A bible. Roughly he held it up to Father Malone.

  ‘Swear on this bible that you haven’t been out of the church in the past three hours and maybe, just maybe, I’ll believe you.’

  ‘I haven’t …’ faltered the priest.

  ‘Swear it,’ insisted Farrell angrily. ‘Perjure yourself in a house of God under the body of Our Lord Jesus Christ who died for our sins. Swear it!’

  ‘I can’t,’ the priest muttered close to tears. ‘I can’t tell you where I’ve been. I won’t.’

  Farrell grabbed Malone by the arm, intending to force him to his feet, but Malone resisted. He paused. This wouldn’t do. Two priests brawling in a church? He would deal with Malone later. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Forcing down his temper, Farrell turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Farrell strode through the swing doors at Loreburn Street and stopped dead, wondering whether the woman sitting in the waiting area would clock him if he spun round on his heel and pushed his way back out. Too late. She was on her feet and advancing towards him. Her stooped posture, hooded lids, and hooked nose put him in mind of a vulture; an image enhanced by her greasy dark curls and shaggy black coat. Gritting his teeth, he held out his hand in greeting, pressing the cool slightly scaly flesh on her bony hand.

  ‘I’d been praying you’d stop by,’ she drawled, looking up at him with heavy-lidded insolence.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Ms Sharkey,’ he countered. ‘Is this a social call?’

  She bared her teeth in what passed for a smile.

  ‘Hardly.’

  Farrell escorted her reluctantly to his office. She was a piece of work this one. He’d have to be on his guard. Years ago, during a murder trial in Edinburgh, she’d vilified him, the arresting officer, in the press, almost going so far as to suggest that they’d got the wrong man and that Farrell had more to do with the murder of a gangland boss than he was letting on. His background had been dragged up and she had made out as though he was on a moral crusade fuelled by religious fanaticism rather than following police procedures. She’d been blatantly out to make a name for herself. It had worked.

  They sat facing each other, old adversaries. Farrell resisted the urge to fill the silence that stretched between them. He was older and wiser now.

  ‘So,’ she said in a voice coarsened by years of cigarettes. ‘Heard any good confessions lately?’

  ‘Why? Need to make one?’

  Sharkey looked shifty all of a sudden.

  ‘What is it? Why have you come? Have you heard anything pertaining to our investigations?’

  She still wouldn’t meet his eyes as though engaged in some internal battle. Farrell hardened his voice.

  ‘A little boy is missing and may have been murdered. This nutter is likely to strike again. Do you really want that on your conscience? To know that, if you had only spoken out earlier, a life might have been saved?’

  Despite himself his voice had grown ragged. Her eyes flicked towards him, enjoying his discomfort while pondering her own.

  ‘I know nothing about the missing boy. This concerns the murdered priest.’

  ‘Go on’, said Farrell, leaning forward, despite himself.

  ‘I’d want an exclusive interview, something that no one else in the press has got.’

  ‘If your information leads to a break in the case that could be arranged,’ said Farrell, mouth dry with anticipation.

  Sharkey’s cold black eyes glittered with malice as she strung out the tension between them. Farrell felt an unholy urge to slap her. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘The priest’s housekeeper is a drunk. I caught her on the razzle one night and she spilled her guts. Turns out, Father Boyd wasn’t so holy after all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Farrell.

  ‘He had a secret love child.’

  ‘No way,’ said Farrell. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Apparently she was a local woman, married the first poor sucker who asked her and passed the kid off as his.’

  ‘I assume you have proof,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  Manufacturing it, more likely, thought Farrell.

  ‘You have a name, something I can work with?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she conceded reluctantly.

  Farrell stood up, terminating the interview.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, Inspector,’ she flung over her shoulder as he escorted her from the premises.

  More of a threat than a promise, he decided, as he watched her picking her way down the street.

  DC McLeod came bursting through the door and was brought up short by the savage look on the face of her boss.

  ‘Sir, anything wrong?’

  Farrell quickly brought her up to speed on the morning’s developments.

  ‘Do you think there’s anything in it, Sir?’

  ‘Hard to say. I know it goes on a lot more than people realize. The celibate state is an unnatural one. But Boyd? I never had him down for shenanigans of that sort.’

  ‘People change, though, don’t they, Sir. You never knew him as a young man. I’d never have had you down for a priest either,’ she said incautiously, her hand flying to her mouth as though to stuff the words back in.

  ‘I meant it as a compliment, Sir,’ she said blushing.

  Farrell raised an eyebrow. McLeod squirmed.

  ‘It at least gives us another line of enquiry,’ he said. ‘If we can establish the identity of the woman he had the child with then that gives us a whole raft of
additional suspects.’

  ‘There’s the woman herself,’ said McLeod.

  ‘Unlikely,’ replied Farrell. ‘She’d have to be fairly old by now. Also, why wait all these years? No, my money’s on the kid or the husband.’

  ‘Do we know if it was a boy or a girl?’

  ‘No, could be either,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Not a lot to go on, Sir, is it?’

  ‘That’s why we need to question the housekeeper again. I’ll bet she knows more than she’s letting on. When she was interviewed with her lawyer in custody we got nothing worth having out of her at all. The whole charade was a complete waste of time.’

  ‘I’ll get uniforms to bring her in.’

  ‘No, given that she’s still got a pending charge against her for attempting to pervert the course of justice, I reckon that might cause us problems. Apparently she likes a tipple. Do some digging. Find out where she drinks and we can contrive to bump into her there,’ said Farrell.

  McLeod sped off.

  Farrell decided to pay his mother a visit. He felt a stab of sadness that he had to have the excuse of police business to get him past the threshold. Why couldn’t they be like other mothers and sons, with her trying to feed him up and him putting up her shelves? Why did everything have to still be so fraught even after all these years? Why did being a Roman Catholic priest matter more than his happiness, even his sanity? As usual, his thoughts threw up more questions than answers.

  As he drew up at her neat semi he observed a shadow flit across the curtain. He rang the doorbell. No reply. Fine. If that was the way she wanted to play it. Farrell banged hard on the door.

  ‘Police business; open up.’

  He was gratified to see other curtains pulled back to enjoy the show. The door flew open and his mother stood there quivering with rage. Playing to the gallery, he produced his warrant card with a flourish. Without a word she turned on her heel and walked back into the house. He followed her into the front room. She didn’t invite him to sit and glared at him with eyes like flint.

  He felt his bravado melt away, no match for the coldness of her gaze. Focus, he told himself fiercely. Uninvited, he sat down. Her lips tightened but she said nothing. After a few moments of silence, she sank onto an upright chair, as though the strength had left her legs. Farrell felt ashamed at the small jolt of triumph that shot through him at her capitulation. He should be bigger than this.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  Now there was a loaded question, thought Farrell. He kept his voice neutral as he replied.

  ‘How well did you really know Father Boyd?’

  His mother looked startled.

  ‘Fairly well, as you know. He was our parish priest for a great number of years.’

  ‘Did you ever hear any talk of him seeing anyone, a woman?’

  His mother shot upright like someone had given her an electric shock.

  ‘How dare you. He was a priest, a man of the cloth. Hasn’t he suffered enough without you trying to sully his reputation after his death? You, of all people, should know how hard it is to keep such vows. He was a better man than you’ll ever be.’

  There she goes again, sticking the boot in, thought Farrell.

  ‘Who was he close to back then? Who were his friends?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she replied.

  Can’t or won’t, wondered Farrell? He knew it was brutal but she left him no choice. He took out a colour crime scene photo and stuck it under her nose. She flinched and looked away.

  ‘Don’t you want to see his killer caught?’

  ‘Of course I do. I just don’t see how raking over the past is going to achieve that. What possible bearing could events that happened over twenty years ago have on his murder now?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Probably some yob high on drugs, wanting a soft target.’

  ‘And the little boys?’

  His mother paled.

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘There is a possibility that the same person who murdered Boyd could be behind the abduction of three-year-old twin boys, one of whom is still missing, maybe dead.’

  ‘What kind of a monster would do something like that to a helpless child?’ his mother whispered.

  Farrell worried that he was perhaps being too tough on her. She was getting on in years.

  ‘Don’t hold out on me, mother.’

  ‘There was a woman,’ she said in a low voice. ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Think!’

  ‘It was all very hushed up. She went away. There were rumours of a child. No one knew for sure. I certainly never believed it.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about her? Anything at all?’

  ‘Her name was … Rosalie … MacFarlane.’

  ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘I think she may have lived in Primrose Street.’

  ‘Has she any family still living in the town?’

  ‘Nobody that I know of. I think she came over from Ireland to work here in one of the local hotels.’

  ‘Do you know which one?’

  ‘No. Even if I did the odds are that it would have closed down by now anyway.’

  ‘Is there anything else at all you can tell me? I promise I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

  ‘That’s it. I’ve told you all I know. I’d like you to leave now.’

  His mother stood up and moved to the door, her back ramrod straight. Farrell longed to give those bony shoulders a squeeze as he went past her but knew it was a familiarity she would not forgive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Farrell headed straight back to his office and instigated a search of parish records for any mention of a woman called Rosalie MacFarlane. He also fired off a search to the Registrar at the Mid Steeple for all births and marriages in relation to the same name. Thankfully MacFarlane wasn’t that common a name so he was hopeful something would turn up.

  He was just raising a welcome cup of coffee to his mouth when the door burst open, causing the scalding coffee to spill down his chest. DC McLeod looked on in horror as he hastily ripped off his shirt to reveal already reddening flesh. Farrell turned on her in exasperation.

  ‘DC McLeod, is it too much to ask that you knock at the door like a regular person instead of storming in here like the SAS, giving me heart failure in the process?’

  Sergeant Byers had to pick that exact moment to poke his head round the door.

  ‘Yes?’ barked Farrell.

  ‘Er, it’ll wait, Sir,’ smirked Byers and took off.

  McLeod looked at her boss aghast. She had never seen him look so wild.

  ‘Er, sorry, Sir,’ she said.

  Farrell turned his back to her to get another shirt from the cupboard and spun round again when he heard her involuntary intake of breath. What was wrong with him today? He’d forgotten the raised scars criss-crossing his back.

  ‘Sir, how did you …?’

  Farrell quelled her with a look and flung his shirt on.

  ‘Right, DC McLeod. What’s so important?’

  ‘It’s the housekeeper, Sir. PC Thomson just phoned to let us know she’s in the Drover’s Arms, down at the bottom of English Street.’

  ‘I know the one,’ said Farrell. ‘Anyone with her?’

  ‘She’s alone, Sir.’

  ‘Right, let’s get down there.’

  Farrell took off down the corridor with McLeod in hot pursuit.

  ‘We’ll take my car,’ he informed her.

  Rummaging round in the boot he pulled out a scuffed brown leather jacket, a crumpled white T-shirt, and a pair of Levis. He looked McLeod over critically.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything better to wear than that?’

  ‘Sir?’ she asked, black affronted.

  ‘That get-up you’re wearing. It’s too smart. I want us to go in there as if we were off duty,
a bit pissed.’

  ‘I’ve got just the thing in my locker, Sir,’ she said cottoning on. ‘Back in a jiffy.’

  Twenty-five minutes later they were sitting squashed together at a small table in the pub. Although it was a bright sunny day the interior of the pub was dark and gloomy. There were about fifteen customers dotted about the place with only a couple of the clientele being women. For the most part people sat alone nursing their drinks along with their resentments.

  The housekeeper, Mary Flannigan, was ensconced at a table against a wall between them and the bar. There were three empty gin glasses on the adjacent table and, from the way she was almost missing her mouth every time she took a sip from the glass in front of her, Farrell guessed they belonged to her. He twisted in his seat so he could keep her in view with his peripheral vision and saw that she had clocked them, shooting baleful glances in their direction.

  McLeod shrugged off her jacket, and Farrell, caught unawares, was treated to an eyeful of cleavage that made his hair stand on end. Immediately, he dragged his eyes upwards but not before she’d caught him looking. Bang goes the moral high ground, he thought. She winked at him and, remembering their purpose there, he roughened his voice, slurring his words a little.

  ‘Come on, let’s push the boat out, we’re not on duty now.’

  ‘Another Bacardi and Coke then. Make it a double,’ said Mhairi loudly.

  ‘What’s it worth?’ asked Farrell, lurching clumsily to his feet.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ said Mhairi, flicking her hair back from her face.

  Turning away from the housekeeper Farrell muttered to Mhairi, ‘I feel ridiculous, like we’re in some B-movie.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Mhairi. ‘I’m strictly A-list myself.’

  As he weaved to the bar on slightly unsteady feet Farrell contrived to bump into the wooden table the housekeeper was sitting at, causing her drink to spill slightly. She stared at him with loathing.

  ‘Be careful,’ she hissed.

  ‘Hey relax, lady, it was an accident,’ he said, affecting not to recognize her.