Mhairi spun round, shaking. Farrell looked furious.
‘I was just looking for some marmalade when I came across these. I’m sorry. I had no right.’
Her boss ran his hands through his hair and suddenly looked so bone weary that Mhairi had to resist the impulse to throw her arms round him. He sank into a chair at the table and she brought over the pot of coffee and toast.
‘Are you sick?’ she asked.
‘I used to be. I had a breakdown many years ago. The pills help to keep me on an even keel. End of story.’
‘I won’t say anything to anyone.’
‘For a price?’ Farrell asked.
‘You obviously don’t know me very well,’ snapped Mhairi.
Farrell drained his cup and stood up.
‘Come on. We’ve got work to do,’ he said in a flat voice.
Mhairi drove Farrell’s car as he wasn’t yet fit to drive. McLeod couldn’t help stealing a sideways glance at her boss every so often. His face remained inscrutable. Talk about baggage. No wonder he had never married. What with the pills and what she had seen in that box she was a bit freaked out. Get over it, McLeod, she told herself.
Then, Farrell’s police radio crackled into life. He picked up the hand piece and put it to his ear.
‘Farrell,’ he growled, ‘we’re coming up to St Michael’s Bridge … Be there in five … Maintain radio silence.’
‘Well?’ demanded Mhairi. ‘Have they found them?’
‘Step on it, McLeod. Uniform has been told to give us a wide berth. An anonymous caller phoned. He was walking his dogs in the grounds of the old Benedictine convent on Maxwell Street when he heard a child crying. The firearms team is mobilizing.’
Mhairi put her foot down, cursing the fact that she was driving Farrell’s clapped-out Citroen and not her own little Cleo, which was much nippier. They flew through the junction at the Dock Park as the lights were changing and reared like an ageing bronco up the steep hill that followed. Turning into Maxwell Street with squealing tyres she rode to the summit of the long hill in second gear and parked outside the grounds where Farrell indicated. There was no sign of any other police presence. Shit, thought Mhairi, heart pounding. This is it. She reached for the door handle but Farrell grabbed her arm. Surprised, she spun round to face him.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I’m going in alone. Backup will be here shortly.’
‘What is this, the Dark Ages?’ she snapped. ‘I’m coming. There’s no time to waste so let’s get on with it.’
He gave her a long look then nodded abruptly and released her arm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The convent had been abandoned back in 1990 when the few remaining elderly nuns moved back to their sister house in Largs. The impressive sandstone façade could be glimpsed behind the towering beech trees that lined the drive. There was an ominous quiet about the place as though it existed in a vacuum, disconnected from the hurly burly of the town below.
Mhairi felt her skin prickle with unease as she crept through the undergrowth with Farrell, her breath becoming more laboured. She was scared shitless but she was damned if she was going to play it by the book when there were kids’ lives at stake.
The building was divided into two parts, the chapel and the school, connected by a network of corridors. Following Farrell’s lead she slunk round the back bypassing the chapel until they reached a boarded-up window with rotting planks leading into the basement of the abandoned school.
‘My money’s on them being in the chapel,’ Farrell whispered. ‘The only way in is through the front door, which will be locked. If we go in through the school we can maybe take them by surprise.’
The rotten planks yielded without too much protest, though to Mhairi’s fevered imagination it sounded like the death throes of an Amazonian rainforest. They crept inside and found themselves in what must have been the former cloakroom. The air was heavy as though it hadn’t been disturbed for years and still reeked of sweaty feet. Hugging the wall, they quietly climbed the stairs and made their way along empty corridors where nuns’ feet used to whisper along under long black robes. The brown and cream tiles felt cool under her feet. The arches overhead resembled hands held together in prayer.
A rat suddenly scurried across her path and it was all she could do to choke off the scream that rose in her throat. Farrell turned and grinned at her. Ha, bloody ha!
Motioning to her to follow him he crossed the corridor and paused in front of a wooden door, listening intently. Turning the handle, he opened the door and went into a large bright room. Holding his finger fiercely to his lips he crept across to what Mhairi thought looked like a cupboard. He sank to his knees and gently turned the handle, signalling to Mhairi to do likewise to the adjacent door. What the Hell was he playing at, she wondered?
Reflexively, she ducked down, heart racing as she realized she was looking down over the interior of the chapel below. She carefully closed the door behind her as Farrell had done in case it banged shut alerting those below to their presence. Carefully, she knelt down on the padded leather kneeler in the small cubicle and peered down into the chapel. Her stomach clenched as she saw two toddlers wandering around, half-heartedly playing with a couple of Action Men. They were each tethered by the wrist to an intricate wrought iron grille that had previously divided the enclosed nuns from lay members of the congregation. Mhairi could feel tears start to spurt at their plight and angrily dashed them away. What kind of a monster could do this to kids that age?
A man spoke into the silence, causing Mhairi to flinch. She peered over the rail but he must have been standing under the overhang as she couldn’t get a glimpse of him. His voice was pleasant, vaguely familiar, and with a definite Glasgow twang.
‘Time for a picnic,’ he announced.
The little boys flinched and huddled together trying to get as far away from their abductor as possible.
‘Come on, now, don’t be like that,’ he coaxed. ‘We’re playing this grand game of Hide and Seek, and in a little while one of you will go back to Mummy and the other will go and play with the angels.’
One of the toddlers yelled forcefully, ‘Want Mummy now. Bad Man.’
‘Mummy, want Mummy,’ wailed the other child, hiding behind his brother.
A carrier bag was tossed by the unseen man across to the bolshier of the twins.
‘There’s food and drink in there. Take it or leave it,’ he said, all pretence at jollity gone.
After some initial hesitation the bolder of the two boys peered into the bag and with chubby fingers pulled out sandwiches, chocolate, and juice, which he and his brother devoured.
Just as her knees were starting to go numb Mhairi saw the handle turning on the door behind her. That had better be Farrell, she thought, bracing herself just in case. To her relief his familiar face appeared round the door. He put a finger to his lips and gestured to her to follow him.
Silently, scarcely daring to breathe, Mhairi and Farrell retreated back down the stairs until they were well out of earshot of those in the chapel.
‘I think I can take him,’ Farrell said.
‘He might have a gun,’ hissed Mhairi.
‘Unlikely,’ said Farrell. ‘There aren’t many guns in this neck of the woods. The plan is for me to storm in from the priest’s robing chamber, behind the altar. That gives him the option of running out the front door; hopefully, into the arms of the Armed Response Unit. As soon as we’re out of sight I want you to hustle the kids back out through the door of the robing chamber and find somewhere else to hide with them till the All Clear sounds. Got it?’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Mhairi, knowing nonetheless that there was no other way.
‘Here, take this,’ said Farrell as an afterthought, pulling a flick knife from out of his sock.
‘You can use this to cut the boys loose.’
He set off determinedly with Mhairi trotting to keep up with his loping stride. As they reached the tiny robing room, Mhai
ri smiled brightly and gave him the thumbs-up sign. He smiled back at her, clearly not fooled for an instant. As he turned the handle slowly, Mhairi’s nerves shrieked in protest. Then he was gone from sight.
Farrell crept up on the man who was sitting on a chair reading a paper. He looked tall and angular with dark hair. As he drew closer the children stopped eating and stared at him. The man glanced at the children then stiffened, leaping to his feet and turning round to face Farrell in one fluid movement. With a jolt, Farrell saw that he was wearing a Mickey Mouse mask. Yelling as loudly as he could, Farrell lunged at him. They grappled furiously; Farrell trying without success to dislodge the grinning mask.
Suddenly, he felt white heat pierce his shoulder and realized he’d been stabbed. As he fell back, his adversary took off for the door. Farrell picked himself up and staggered after him, shouting to Mhairi to come out and get the boys.
Mhairi rushed forward, cut the ropes tethering the two toddlers and, grabbing their hot little hands, she ran back into the interior of the building. Seeing a set of stone spiral steps on her right she rushed down them to find herself in the old kitchens of the convent. She scouted round until she found a pantry with a small window to the rear courtyard through which the boys could be lifted if necessary. She sank to the floor and cuddled them into her. And waited.
Farrell charged after the man like a raging bull, summoning up every last scrap of aggression in him to override the growing pain and dizziness. He had hoped that he would be flushing the killer out into the midst of the ARU but there was no sign of them. No sign of anyone. Where were they? Legs pumping, he forced himself through the woods bordering the driveway, unkempt branches whipping his face relentlessly. He started to gain on his assailant. Suddenly the man stopped some way ahead and turned to face him. Farrell juddered to a halt, preparing to square up to him. A fine drizzle of rain made the blood from a cut on his forehead run into his eyes, giving the now shadowy form of the killer an ominous red tinge. Suddenly, the killer removed his mask and the sound of maniacal laughter seemed to echo all round Farrell as he sank to the ground, his body finally betraying him. He strained forward, trying to imprint the man’s face on his memory before he lost consciousness but all he could see was a dark bushy beard and wild blue eyes. Those eyes, where had he seen them before …?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Farrell came round to discover he was in an ambulance. The sound of the sirens filled his ears and a burly paramedic was writing on a clipboard. A second later the pain sliced through him like cheese wire, causing a moan to escape from between his teeth. The paramedic injected something into the venflon on his hand.
‘Easy, mate. I’ve given you something to take the edge off.’
‘Sir, are you all right? Did you get a good look at him?’ asked a disembodied voice.
Farrell turned his head and DC McLeod swam into view.
‘Blue eyes, bushy dark beard, my height, give or take an inch,’ he managed before losing consciousness.
As he slipped under he could hear DC McLeod on her radio crisply imparting the information to Control.
An hour later at Loreburn Street, Mhairi sat quaking in the conference room in front of a grim-faced Superintendent and an equally grim-faced DCI Lind. The third person present was DI Moore, whose expression was carefully neutral.
‘Did you enter the convent on DI Farrell’s orders, DC McLeod?’ barked the super.
‘No, Sir,’ answered McLeod, lifting her chin. ‘He wanted me to wait for backup, but I decided to accompany him as I figured that someone would need to look after the boys if he engaged the assailant.’
‘Are you saying you disobeyed a direct order?’ asked the super.
‘No, Sir, it wasn’t like that, Sir.’ Mhairi shot a desperate look at DI Moore, who interceded on her behalf.
‘I believe what DC McLeod is trying to convey, Sir, is that DI Farrell made a judgement call to risk his own neck in order to take the killer by surprise to try and save the lives of those two little boys. He appears to have tried to protect DC McLeod by ordering her to stay put but she then volunteered to put herself into danger as time was of the essence. Had they both not performed so heroically under difficult circumstances the outcome might have been very different.’
‘Hear hear,’ interjected DCI Lind.
Walker was outmanoeuvred and he knew it. He got to his feet and shook hands with DC McLeod.
‘Well done, DC McLeod. That will be all for now.’ He turned to DCI Lind and DI Moore. ‘Keep me apprised of all further developments.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ they chorused as Walker swept out the room, brass jangling. Lind hurried out after him.
Once Mhairi was alone with DI Moore she collapsed back into her chair, shaking.
‘I thought I was for the chop there,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t you he was after,’ said DI Moore.
‘You mean …?’
‘Forget I said anything. Now DC McLeod I want you to clear off and get some rest. We can spare you for a couple of days. Perhaps I should arrange some counselling?’
‘No thanks, Ma’am,’ replied Mhairi. ‘I’ve got a self-help library to rival Oprah’s. I’ll be fine.’
Mhairi grabbed her bag and left the station. Who would have thought DI Moore could be such a star?
On her way home she decided to drop in at the Infirmary to see how Farrell was doing. She found him sitting up in bed, struggling to put his shirt on, his face drained of all colour.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ she spluttered.
‘I’m discharging myself, what does it look like?’
‘But you’ve been stabbed,’ Mhairi protested.
‘It was just a flesh wound. I’m going home.’
‘Come on then, you big dope,’ she sighed. ‘Let me help you get dressed.’
‘A dope, eh?’ He shot back. ‘I don’t recall that form of address being in the manual.’
‘I’m off duty,’ she replied, helping him carefully into his shirt.
Mhairi didn’t know whether to be upset or relieved when the door to the ward opened and a tired-looking doctor came towards them looking stern, eyebrows climbing high in disbelief.
‘What’s this? The Great Escape?’ he asked.
‘Look, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, Doctor, but I’ll recover much quicker at home. My colleague, DC McLeod, is a trained first aider and will make sure I’m comfortable before leaving.’
Mhairi glared at Farrell in response to a none-too-gentle poke in the back. He really was the giddy limit. Did he ever do what he was told?
‘Don’t worry, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after him.’
‘Rather you than me,’ the doctor replied.
It took a further hour before they were cleared to go. They left clutching a carrier bag bursting with prescription drugs and having signed every waiver under the sun; absolving the hospital from liability in the event of an untimely demise.
Having manhandled Farrell from the mandatory wheelchair into the front seat of her car, Mhairi was suddenly assailed by doubt as she looked at his bloodless complexion. He looked barely conscious for goodness’ sake.
Turning the key in the ignition she set off, crawling along like an old granny and nudging the Citroen over each speed bump like it was the edge of a cliff. Despite her precautions, stifled moans of pain still squeezed out of her wounded passenger.
Finally, she reached the cottage at Kelton. It seemed almost impossible to believe that it had been only twelve hours since they had set off this morning. She could feel her own knees going weak as the reaction set in.
Hauling Farrell upstairs, Mhairi helped him lie down under the quilt after removing his shoes and socks. She hovered anxiously until he fell asleep, lulled by the pain meds, and then she slipped out into the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Pain sliced through Farrell’s shoulder as he turned round in bed, causing him to groan out loud. Eyes stil
l screwed shut against the onslaught of the sun flooding his bedroom, he groped for his clock like a blind man. Struggling into a sitting position he decided to pop some more happy pills before trying to get back to sleep. Still only half awake, he registered that Mhairi had left his pills and a glass of water beside the bed.
As he was turning back round he caught a movement out of the side of his eye. Tensing, he turned to hurtle out of bed and floor the intruder. However, the thought had barely formed when he realized it was Lind sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. He slumped back on the pillows, heart pounding like a samba drum.
‘Take it easy, Frank. Mhairi phoned me. She was worried about you. You should have stayed in hospital, you daft bugger.’
‘How’s Laura bearing up? You should be at home with her, not running round after me.’
Lind looked sheepish.
‘Well, to be honest, she insisted I came. There’s a whole load of supplies in your fridge. Worrying about you gave her something else to focus on, other than … well, you know.’
‘The little boys, how are they?’
‘Recovering well. There wasn’t a scratch on them. It could so easily have gone down differently had it not been for you and Mhairi … It was still one helluva risk.’
‘If we let the Health and Safety boys dictate our policing we’ll all be running around with chocolate truncheons in no time,’ muttered Farrell. ‘I take it you haven’t apprehended him yet?’
‘He’s disappeared into thin air,’ said Lind.
Farrell winced as he delicately prodded his bandaged shoulder.
‘No sign of the missing boy? He wasn’t with the other two?’
‘No indication he was ever there. It’s not looking good, poor wee mite.’ Lind sighed heavily and got up to leave.
Farrell looked up at him, calculating the pain of his wound against the pain of inertia, and flung back the bedclothes.
‘Wait for me. I’m coming in.’
‘The Hell you are!’ said Lind, looking wildly around as though for backup.
Dead Man's Prayer Page 17
