‘Father Boyd would be turning in his grave if he could see you with that floozy,’ she said.
Farrell crashed into the seat beside her and stuck his face right up to hers.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. From what I hear he was partial to a bit of skirt.’
‘How dare you! That’s a wicked lie!’
‘Or was he just not partial to you, Mary, was that the problem?’
She tried to stand up but he anchored her by leaning on a meaty hand.
‘He was worth ten of you. Don’t you dare speak ill of him.’
‘Get jealous of her, did you? Want a piece of him yourself?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Father Boyd was a man of the cloth. I would never have …’
‘And what about the child? How did he manage to sweep that under the carpet?’
‘There was no child.’
‘Arranged an abortion, did he?’
‘Of course not! Father Boyd would never have murdered his …’
‘So there was a child. Boy or girl?’
‘Stop twisting things. You’ve got me all confused.’
‘What was the name of the woman?’
The shaven-headed barman started in their direction, rolling up his sleeves. Mhairi quickly flashed her warrant card and shook her head. He didn’t look happy but retreated back behind the bar.
The housekeeper cringed but remained silent.
‘Was it Rosalie MacFarlane?’ demanded Farrell.
The housekeeper sucked in a breath then bent over coughing.
‘Who told you that?’
‘Never you mind,’ said Farrell, remembering to slur his words.
‘I never knew her name. I caught a glimpse of her once, from a distance.’
‘How did you know it was her?’
‘He had a photo of her. I stumbled upon it accidentally,’ the housekeeper said, looking shifty.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Farrell, injecting a note of scepticism into his voice. ‘What did she look like then?’
‘She had long red hair and looked barely old enough to be out of school. Sent by the devil to tempt him, she was. He succumbed in a moment of weakness. That’s all it was.’
‘What happened to the baby?’
‘I didn’t say there was a baby,’ she sneered.
‘Come on, Mary,’ cajoled Farrell. ‘What does it matter now? He’s dead. There’s nothing more you can do for him except help us find his killer. Don’t you think he’d want justice? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Wasn’t that one of his favourite quotes from the Bible?’
‘He wouldn’t like you of all people poking around into his life. He never trusted you, said you were a lightweight and that you should never have been ordained in the first place.’
‘Did he now?’ slurred Farrell. ‘And I suppose his own son is a pillar of rectitude is he?’
‘I’m sure that he is,’ she said defiantly.
A boy then. Farrell decided to chance his arm further.
‘You couldn’t have thought that highly of Father Boyd if you sent him those letters,’ he said.
‘They weren’t meant for him,’ she shot back, clamping a hand over her mouth as she realized what she had said.
‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful,’ Farrell said, straightening up. She knew then that she’d been tricked, and the look she gave him would have curdled milk.
Driving back to the station, Farrell’s thoughts were in turmoil. Boyd had been so hard on him when he thought he had breached the sanctity of the confessional, yet all along Boyd had been harbouring an even bigger secret in the shape of a lover and child. Not for the first time, Farrell wondered if you could ever really know someone.
‘So who killed Boyd then, Sir?’ McLeod’s voice broke into his reverie.
‘Could be the old flame, though I doubt it, given the manner of the killing.’
‘What about the child?’
‘Maybe. He’ll be a man now. Could even be the housekeeper. Don’t reckon it would take much to push her over the edge.’
‘I can’t see her killing a priest, though,’ said McLeod.
‘She’s a bit of a zealot,’ said Farrell. ‘I could see her doing almost anything if she felt it was God’s will.’
‘What about this woman’s husband? If he suddenly found out after all these years, he might have snapped.’
‘No way of finding out who he was until we positively identify the woman.’
Farrell suddenly executed an emergency stop, missing Father Malone by inches. The young priest had run right across the road from the church. He didn’t stop, but ran on, looking as if the devil himself was after him.
Farrell turned to McLeod, who was looking shaken and rubbing her neck where the seatbelt had dug into her skin. He could smell burning rubber from the tyres.
‘Are you all right, Mhairi?’
‘Yes, Sir. Never a dull moment when you’re around,’ she quipped, her shaking hands belying the bold words.
‘Do you feel up to a little more surveillance work before we pack it in for the night?’
‘Father Malone?’
‘He looked terrified out of his wits. I want to know where he’s going in such a hurry.’
Farrell turned at the roundabout and cruised along, looking for his quarry. He soon caught sight of the priest hurrying along looking neither to left or right and followed at a discreet distance. Soon his suspicions were confirmed. Father Malone was paying a visit to Jason Baxter.
Parking further down the road, Farrell bade McLeod wait in the car while he crept up the garden path, keeping just below the level of the front window, shielded by a well-placed bush. He heard raised voices, but couldn’t make out what was being said.
He had just returned to the car when the door was flung open and Father Malone came loping down the road towards them.
‘He’ll see us,’ said McLeod, panicking.
‘I have a plan,’ said Farrell.
‘What?’ asked McLeod.
‘This.’
Farrell turned to McLeod and gathered her into his arms, planting his lips firmly on hers thus hiding both their faces. The priest didn’t give them a second glance as he carried on by. They broke apart, and Farrell could feel the heat of embarrassment staining his cheeks. McLeod looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘I … er … sorry for leaping on you like that, McLeod. I didn’t feel there was any other way we could avoid detection. Please don’t think … I mean I’m not that …’
‘No problem, Sir,’ she said. ‘Anytime. I mean er, in the line of duty.’
They drove back to the station in awkward silence.
After dropping Mhairi off, Farrell changed back into his suit. He touched base with DS Byers in the MCA room, updating him on what had transpired. Then, he walked into town to pick up a bunch of flowers and a good bottle of Australian red wine for Clare. The address she had given him was not one he was familiar with and turned out to be an exclusive apartment block overlooking the River Nith. He rang the doorbell and seconds later Clare stood framed in the doorway. She was wearing black linen trousers with a red fitted blouse and her hair was pinned up in a loose chignon, which exposed the back of her graceful neck. She welcomed him with a brief kiss and he followed her inside.
The interior of the flat looked like it had been styled for a magazine shoot. Everything was cream with honeyed pine stripped floors. There was no clutter, just the odd carefully chosen splash of colour or piece of expensive-looking art. He couldn’t imagine children living here and for a moment caught himself comparing it unfavourably with the lived-in clutter of the Lind family home.
‘Something smells good,’ he commented, handing over the wine and flowers with a smile.
She had clearly gone to a lot of trouble. The glass dining table was beautifully set with a tasteful flower arrangement in the centre. Farrell was glad he hadn’t had a chance to go home and change into fresh clothes or he’d hav
e probably turned up in jeans and disgraced himself.
As she served up steaming plates of beef Wellington Farrell poured the wine and could feel himself starting to relax. He really must train himself to be less solitary in his habits.
Suddenly there was a lull in the conversation. Farrell looked up and saw Clare’s brow was furrowed. Clearly there was something on her mind. He sat back in his chair and looked at her.
‘Right then out with it,’ he said.
She laughed nervously.
‘I’m an atheist. Given that you’re not only Catholic but a priest to boot I’m guessing that might cause us some problems further down the line?’
Farrell didn’t reply right away. He was a great believer in respecting other faiths and ways of looking at the world, but to have no faith at all? He looked at her heart-shaped face studying him so earnestly across the table and knew that he owed her the truth.
‘Your lack of faith does bother me but only because I feel like you’re missing out. I’m drawn to you and want to see where this leads. Maybe it will lead you to God or to me finally renouncing my vocation, maybe neither of these things.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank. I’m overthinking stuff. Call it an occupational hazard. Let’s just take it a day at a time. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Farrell replied.
After a delicious meal they cleared the dishes and washed up before settling down to watch a DVD.
‘I got us The Exorcist,’ said Clare, bursting out laughing at Farrell’s horrified expression.
‘Just kidding. How about Music and Lyrics?’
‘Perfect,’ said Farrell.
Clare inserted the DVD, then, with an almost imperceptible hesitation, joined him on the sofa. Wordlessly, he put his arm around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Farrell pounded relentlessly along the mud flats sucking in great gulps of briny air, feet slapping down on the wiry tufts of grass that tried to survive in this inhospitable environment. Eventually he could force his aching limbs on no further and collapsed onto a broken-down wall to rest. Immediately, nightmare images from last night’s dream crowded into his mind.
He could hear Clare screaming, begging him to save her as he ran into St Aidan’s graveyard. It was dark and a full moon lit up the swirling mist, making it look like phantom spirits. As he rounded the corner he saw them. Clare was lying spread-eagled on a huge tombstone on which the words ‘JASON BAXTER’ were etched. Above her was a man intent on rape. As he struggled to reach them he had felt as though his limbs were wading through treacle; Clare’s pitiful screams spurring him on. At last he had reached the man and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him round. The shock had made his hair stand on end. He was staring at a bestial version of himself.
‘It was only a dream,’ Farrell muttered. ‘It was only a dream!’ he yelled, the words echoing round the deserted expanse. A gaggle of geese honked overhead, almost as if they were laughing at this ridiculous human and his posturing.
‘Get a grip Farrell,’ he told himself. ‘You’re losing it.’
Back at the cottage after his run he soothed his stiffening limbs with a steaming hot shower then fried up a mound of bacon and French toast and had it while listening to Westsound radio. The news started just as he was about to leave the cottage, causing him to freeze in disbelief.
Another pair of twins had been abducted this morning. Why had no one called him? He reached for the phone. The line was dead. He took the stairs two at a time to get his mobile from his bedside table. It wasn’t there. He could have sworn it had been there when he went to bed. No matter, it would turn up. He ran downstairs and grabbed his keys, then hurriedly locking up, he threw himself into the Citroen and left in a flurry of gravel.
Bursting into the MCA room eight minutes later he groaned inwardly. The super was there, black eyes glinting with malice at his late arrival.
‘Nice of you to join us, DI Farrell,’ he intoned. ‘I do hope we’re not putting you out?’
‘I didn’t know, Sir,’ Farrell said through gritted teeth.
‘What, no tip off from the Almighty? You do disappoint me.’
Farrell ignored the jibe and sat down beside DI Moore. DCI Lind was at the front with the super, looking grave, as well he might.
‘So, to recap,’ continued Lind, ‘we have the same modus operandi as before, give or take a few details: a man presents at Head Start Nursery at 8 a.m., the kids having been dropped off by the mother at 7.30. He produces social work ID and a piece of paper purporting to be a place of safety order from the Children’s Panel. The senior member of staff on duty phones the number on the order and is assured the papers are genuine and the person is who he says he is. The man waltzes out with the kids, gets into a blue Ford Mondeo this time, and disappears.’
‘Any known link between the family in this case and the last family?’ asked Farrell.
‘None that we know of,’ replied Lind. ‘Nothing beyond the fact it’s identical twins again and they were taken from a nursery. These kids have wealthy parents. The father’s some big commercial lawyer in Edinburgh; the mother owns a beauty parlour in the town.’
‘Do you think there might be a ransom demand this time then, Sir?’ asked McLeod.
‘Time will tell,’ said Lind. ‘Personally, I doubt it.’
‘I agree,’ said Farrell. ‘Whatever is driving this nutter, I doubt it’s money.’
The super got up and cleared his throat. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this case is going to generate media frenzy. This police force is going to be on trial in a way it has never been before. I want results and I want them FAST.’ He glared at them all belligerently before popping an antacid and departing to deal with the press.
Lind hurriedly assigned actions for the day. Every available uniform had been dispatched on door-to-door enquiries in the vicinity of the nursery and the children’s family home. DI Moore and DS Stirling went off to interview the mother at her home, and Byers was dispatched to the incident van. That left Farrell and McLeod to take the nursery.
Head Start Nursery was situated in an impressive Georgian mansion house set in its own extensive area of grounds on the outskirts of town, just past the bypass. A red-eyed security guard examined their warrant card with shaking hands and then buzzed them through the massive wrought iron security gates.
‘Probably wishing he’d never been born, poor chap,’ said Farrell.
As they drew closer they could see a flurry of small kids being frogmarched out the building by worried parents. The cars would not have looked out of place in a suburban area of Edinburgh. The idyllic surroundings, with state-of-the-art adventure playground and chubby Shetland ponies looking over a paddock fence, only served to remind those present that the dream had turned into a nightmare.
A young woman in her twenties opened the door, showing clear signs of strain. She too scrutinized their ID carefully: something that Farrell found irritating in the circumstances but refrained from commenting on.
Farrell introduced himself and McLeod and learned that the woman’s name was Maura and she had been working in the baby room so hadn’t seen anything.
‘It’s Mrs Mitchell you need to talk to,’ the girl said, inclining her head towards a door from behind which raised voices could be heard.
Farrell had to hammer on the door to be heard over the commotion. There was a moment of silence then an imperious voice bade him enter.
Farrell found himself confronted by an imposing perfectly groomed woman who looked to be in her early forties. She held out her hand to him in greeting. Before he could step forward and shake it the other occupant of the room, a bull-headed man in his forties with an impressive physique and an expensive suit, rudely inserted himself between them. Farrell could feel his hackles rise.
‘How exactly do you plan to save my boys from this maniac?’
‘Mr Frew,’ interjected the woman, ‘the police have to …’
‘
Quiet, woman!’ he hissed.
Farrell glanced at McLeod to indicate she should take the lead here. The last thing this guy needed was to add a charge of assault to his list of woes. She stepped forward at once.
‘Time is of the essence, Sir. Now let’s get to it. If we go through here you can tell me, for starters, exactly what your sons were wearing.’
She placed her hand under his elbow and steered him out the room, talking firmly to him all the while. He went quietly; all the fight draining out of him.
Left alone with Mrs Mitchell, Farrell gestured for her to take a seat. She perched reluctantly on the edge of an upright chair, and Farrell sat opposite her.
‘I feel such a fool,’ she burst out.
‘You weren’t to know,’ Farrell said.
‘The paperwork was spot on. It’s happened before, you see. One of the children we had last year. Turned out the father was abusing the little girl. The mother refused to believe it. Social services got a place of safety order, turned up here out of the blue and took the child away.’
Farrell leaned forward, pulse quickening.
‘Do you still have the earlier paperwork?’
‘Of course.’
The woman went over to an immaculately ordered mahogany filing cabinet and extracted a slim file. She handed it to Farrell.
‘This is what I was given when I handed over Melanie Thomson. This is what the man gave me this morning when he took the little boys. I compared what I was given with last year’s paperwork, which I knew to be genuine. I phoned the number at the top of the page, just to double check. I wanted to be sure,’ she said.
‘Did the person answering the phone identify themselves?’
‘Yes, he said he was Brian Scott, duty social worker. I noted it down.’
‘The telephone numbers don’t match but everything else is the same,’ said Farrell.
‘What do you mean? I checked the numbers. They were the same.’
‘Not quite, I’m afraid. One digit was different.’
‘I freely admit I was a bit flustered but I was so sure it all checked out. That I’d done everything I could …’
Farrell threw her a lifeline to cling onto.
Dead Man's Prayer Page 15
