‘I’m sorry to give you a scare like that,’ said Farrell. ‘If I’d told you what I was intending to do it may have affected the result.’
‘I don’t understand,’ muttered Father Malone. ‘How did you manage to sound like that monster?’
‘We have reason to believe that I may be closely related to him. We also need you to keep that information to yourself for the time being,’ said Farrell.
‘What’s one more secret?’ replied Father Malone.
‘For what it’s worth, no one outside the investigating team needs to know what you told us today.’
‘I can’t simply ignore the fact that I have broken the sanctity of the confessional and carry on as normal.’
‘Think it over,’ urged Farrell. ‘Don’t do anything rash. In the meantime, we’re going to arrange for protection. Any time you hear confessions there will be at least six plain clothes detectives posing as parishioners so that the church is never empty while you are in it. Two of these will accompany you home now and stay with you until all of this is over.’
Farrell walked back to the car feeling fairly satisfied with the outcome of the interview. Pity the killer hadn’t told Father Malone anything they hadn’t already worked out for themselves at this stage.
A shame it hadn’t thrown up a link with Jason Baxter. This whole confession thing threw up uncomfortable associations with the way Baxter had manipulated him in the past. He would love to pin something on that evil toe-rag and have him shunted back inside where he belonged. Farrell firmly squashed the inevitable pang of guilt that accompanied his vengeful musings.
While on the subject of uncharitable thoughts he wondered how his mother had fared earlier.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Farrell got back to the station later than he’d hoped due to being stuck behind a tractor pulling a huge trailer. Impatient to hear of any progress made in the case, he swung by the HOLMES room to see how Mhairi was faring with her investigation.
‘Nothing yet, Sir,’ she informed him. ‘The amount of organizations that hold information relating to twins is huge. There’s the hospital, GP surgeries, Dumfries and Galloway Council, Registry of Births, Deaths, and Marriages, to name but a few. Potentially thousands of people could have access to this information, particularly if they’re nifty with computers.’
‘Prepare a detailed questionnaire and send a couple of PCs round to speak to both lots of parents again. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed. It might just be random selection but if we could narrow the potential victims down it would be easier to take protective measures.’
Farrell left Mhairi buried in piles of computer printouts and headed downstairs to the interview rooms. The usual stench of body odour overlaid with air freshener and pine disinfectant assailed his senses. For obvious reasons he couldn’t sit in on the interview, nor did he want to. He thought he might catch a fleeting glimpse through the window on the way past. Too late. As he rounded the corner he clocked his mother approaching him flanked by two police officers. Heart pounding, he stood to one side to let them pass. She stalked past, head held high, not acknowledging him. Fine, if that’s the way she wants to play it. He poked his head round the door his mother had just vacated. Inside, DI Moore and DS Byers were bent over their notes at the small table.
‘Well?’ he asked.
They both looked up, and DI Moore’s lovely grey eyes regarded him sympathetically.
Now she thought he was a ruddy charity case.
‘Come away in, Frank,’ she said. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘Fine,’ he replied, fooling no one.
‘We got a name,’ she said.
Farrell’s stomach clenched. His legs felt weak.
‘Gerald McWhirter.’
The name rang no bells with Farrell. No surprises there.
DI Moore turned to Byers, who had steadfastly avoided Farrell’s gaze.
‘DS Byers, contact the fiscal’s office, get them to do a trace on this name, see if he’s presently in custody anywhere. He must be a fair age by now.’
After he had left she motioned for Farrell to join her at the table.
‘She cooperated. Eventually.’
‘That’s my mother. Ever the pragmatist,’ countered Farrell.
‘She confirmed she had been raped when she was sixteen, on her way home from work.’
‘Did she tell the police at the time?’
‘Apparently she told no one, just tried to block it out. He’d threatened to kill her if she breathed a word. She believed him. Still believes him.’
‘When did she realize she was pregnant?’
‘Not until she was six months gone. Just thought she was putting on weight.’
‘Sex education wasn’t exactly high on the agenda at Catholic schools in those days,’ said Farrell.
‘Even in my day it consisted of a book covered in brown paper given to the sixth year on their last day of school,’ said DI Moore.
‘You’re Catholic?’ asked Farrell.
‘Lapsed,’ she said, looking embarrassed. ‘Anyway, her parents reacted badly. Didn’t believe her about the rape and called in the parish priest, who was—’
‘Father Boyd,’ said Farrell.
‘They leaned on her to put the baby up for adoption, which Father Boyd said he could arrange through private channels to a good Catholic family.’
‘For a tidy sum?’ asked Farrell.
‘She didn’t know anything about that, was shocked at the very idea.’
‘She had no idea she was having twins?’
‘Not a clue,’ said DI Moore. ‘She decided to give one baby away as planned but insisted on keeping the other.’
‘Any idea why?’ asked Farrell.
‘She said she wanted it to become a priest and atone for the sins of its father.’
‘Had it all thought out, didn’t she?’
‘Frank, she was very young. I’m sure she did the best she could under difficult circumstances.’
Farrell stood up abruptly. He had to get out of this confined space. With a muttered farewell he left the room and exited the station. He needed some air.
After a few minutes’ walk he found himself at the Dock Park and strode along the tree-lined avenue bordered on the left by a children’s play park and the fast-flowing waters of the River Nith on the right. As he looked at the massive gnarled trunks of the ancient beech trees he felt comforted by his insignificance in the wider scheme of things. So he hailed from a dysfunctional family. He wasn’t the first and he wouldn’t be the last.
As Farrell passed by the bandstand he remembered his hormone-fuelled youth. He used to sneak off early from choir practice, and Laura would be waiting for him there. Happy days. He wondered if he would ever have become a priest in the first place if he hadn’t been so relentlessly forced in that direction by his mother. Hard to say. What was done was done. As he listened to the screams and laughter from the park, he felt a recurring pang of regret that he had never had children. A little boy in a stripy jumper with tousled hair toddled into his path in pursuit of a ball. Farrell stooped to pick it up and handed it to him, looking round for his mother. She was engrossed in conversation with a friend, didn’t even notice the exchange.
Had the abductor already killed Mark or had he stashed him away somewhere for some foul purpose? He thought about how Boyd had died, and his stomach churned. His brother was a monster. What did that say about him? Did he have the same dark impulses coursing in his veins? Was there a difference between mad and bad or was it all just a question of semantics and perception?
His radio crackled into life. It was Mhairi to tell him the fiscal had confirmed Gerald McWhirter was currently banged-up in Barlinnie. He told her to pick him up in the car park and quickened his pace on the loop round the green where the large windows of elevated sandstone windows stared sightlessly towards the river, remembering better times.
He reached the car park as Mhairi arrived in her Renault Clio complete with pink
fluffy dice bouncing above the windscreen.
Farrell folded himself into the front seat, trying to find a toehold among all the clutter on the floor.
‘I’ve been busy,’ she said with a pre-emptive glare.
‘Did I say anything?’ protested Farrell, peeling a facial wipe off his shoe.
‘DCI Lind wants us to head straight up to Barlinnie and see McWhirter. He said you are free to decline but he figured you might be able to get more out of him, Sir. Catch him on the back foot.’
‘Can’t beat family reunions for loosening the tongue,’ said Farrell. ‘Not like Lind to abandon protocol.’
‘He said he was willing to do whatever it took to find that wee boy and worry about the consequences later.’
‘What’s McWhirter in for?’
Mhairi looked stricken, as though she couldn’t bear to tell him.
‘Come on, out with it,’ he snapped.
‘Multiple rapes. He’s serving a life sentence,’ said Mhairi, keeping her eyes on the road ahead as she gave Farrell time to assimilate the information.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Nearly two hours later they pulled into the visitor’s car park at Barlinnie, on the outskirts of Glasgow, where the dregs of society were left to fester behind high brick walls topped with coils of barbed wire. Most of the souls inside were damaged beyond repair: brutalized by what they had had done to them and what they themselves had meted out.
Farrell recalled the stir that the Barlinnie Special Unit had caused. It had been a bold experiment in its day. They had taken a number of hardcore offenders that were causing problems within the jail and put them away from the other inmates. They tore up the rule book and started giving them intensive art lessons; the opportunity to create something good out of all the mayhem. Jimmy Boyle was a graduate of the Unit; carved out a whole new life for himself as a sculptor and writer. He had gone to hear him speak once and been impressed. Some had said he was just working the system and that beneath that polished presentation there still lurked a black heart. Farrell had chosen to believe otherwise.
As they were buzzed through to the reception area Farrell noticed Mhairi was looking pale.
‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.
‘Never.’
‘Don’t worry. Maximum security means just that. It’s perfectly safe,’ said Farrell, omitting to tell her about the time he had briefly been taken hostage there five years ago.
‘Here I am worrying about how I feel,’ said Mhairi. ‘And you’re going to meet your …’
‘Whatever else he may be, he’s not THAT.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit on edge.’
They passed over their warrant cards and explained the purpose of their visit. Ten minutes later they were cleared to enter the visitors’ room. With a dull hiss of hydraulics the doors slid apart and then closed behind them with an air of finality. A jangle of keys heralded the arrival of another blank-faced prison officer. He led them further into the bowels of the prison; opening and locking doors behind them as they moved along featureless beige corridors with strip lighting. A smell of sweat mingled with disinfectant seemed to become stronger as they pressed deeper into the interior. Eventually, they were shown into a small room with a plastic table and four orange chairs, all bolted to the floor.
Farrell glanced out the small window with its thick metal bars and tensed as he saw a powerfully built man in handcuffs being escorted across the yard between two prison officers. As he passed the outside of the window the man turned and their eyes met. Farrell’s skin crawled and he had to exert every ounce of willpower he possessed not to look away.
The door was unlocked and the man in handcuffs was escorted in by two grim-faced prison officers. The man had a feral presence that expanded to fill the room,
‘Sit down, Mr McWhirter,’ Farrell said.
‘Well, well,’ sneered McWhirter. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
‘We’re here to ask you some questions about the murder of a priest.’
‘And here’s me thinking it was a social call,’ drawled McWhirter. ‘Put a clean pair of boxers on in honour of the occasion,’ he said, leering at Mhairi.
Mhairi glanced at her watch and stifled a yawn. Farrell saw the annoyance flare in McWhirter’s eyes.
Farrell cautioned McWhirter then leaned back in his seat, studiedly nonchalant.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions relating to the rape of Yvonne Farrell in Dumfries over forty years ago.’
‘That was no rape,’ said McWhirter. ‘She was gagging for it that one. Like a bitch on heat. Is it details you’re after?’
Farrell felt nauseous but strived to keep his expression neutral.
‘Have you ever been visited by someone claiming to be a product of that rape?’
‘What? Before today, you mean?’
Farrell intercepted a worried look from Mhairi. He fought for self-control: clenching his jaw and balling his hands into tight fists under the table. ‘You just answered my question,’ Farrell replied. ‘How else would you have known what I looked like? You deliberately weren’t given my name in advance of our meeting.’
‘Think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, Mr high and mighty fucking copper.’
‘Give us a name,’ snapped Farrell, thumping his fist on the table, causing Mhairi to flinch.
‘Or you’ll what? Rattle your rosary beads? I’m so scared I’m crapping my pants.’
‘He told you that I was a priest?’
‘Laughed myself silly when I heard. Gonnae put in a good word for me at the pearlies?’
‘How did you find him?’ asked Farrell.
‘He found me. Social worker stuck her neb in. Wee bastard had such a shite life he thought if he could only meet me everything would be fine and dandy. The nutter heid genes must come from that slag mother of yours.’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘For about a year on and off,’ said McWhirter. ‘You jealous … son?’
He reached out to stroke Farrell’s hand in a parody of parental affection. Farrell removed his hand and pressed on.
‘Did you put him up to the murder of a Catholic priest?’
‘The only good priest is a dead priest as far as I’m concerned,’ McWhirter hissed. ‘Present company not excepted. However, much as I would like to take the credit it was nothing to do with me. He had an old score to settle there. Why would I stand in his way?’
Farrell decided to take a shot in the dark.
‘And what about the three-year-old kid?’ said Farrell grimly. ‘Was he an old score as well?’
McWhirter dropped his eyes and looked uncomfortable for the first time.
‘Aye well, that’s a different kettle of fish. That’s where him and I had a parting of the ways.’
‘You messed with his head,’ said Farrell. ‘Tipped him over the edge.’
‘Hey, don’t try and pin this one on me,’ shouted McWhirter. ‘How was I supposed to know he was gonnae start taking weans? I’m no’ fucking psychic. He’s a complete nut job.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Farrell.
The fight seemed to go out of McWhirter. His shoulders sagged.
‘Two months ago. He told me what he was planning wi’ the weans.’
‘And what exactly was that?’
‘He said one gets to live; one gets to die. He said God decides which one goes home and which goes wi’ him tae the pearlies.’
‘What else did he say? Think man!’
‘Nothing, ’cos I telt him tae get the fuck away from me. A bit o’ slap and tickle is one thing but I wouldn’ae take a wean. No fucking danger.’
‘Prove it,’ said Farrell with a hard edge to his voice. ‘Give us the name he operates under and the last address you had for him.’
‘On yer bike,’ sneered McWhirter.
‘He’s not done, you know. If you don’t help
us out here, the next kid he takes will be down to you.’
‘What’s in it for me?’ asked McWhirter.
‘The knowledge that for once in your miserable existence you did the right thing?’
McWhirter leaned forward close enough for Farrell to smell his fetid breath.
‘Suppose we say that you’ll owe me one, be in my debt like?’ offered McWhirter with an evil grin.
Mhairi tugged at his arm, but Farrell ignored her. It cost him dear to owe this monster that had created him but he had to hold on to the bigger picture. Lives were at stake.
‘As long as it doesn’t involve breaking the law I think we can agree on that,’ said Farrell, hiding his repugnance as best he could.
McWhirter stared at him then. A long hard stare. Farrell stared coolly back.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘He goes by the name of Michael Black,’ said McWhirter, as though the words were stuck in his throat. ‘The last address I have for him is 21 Harrison Road, Dumfries.’
Wordlessly, Farrell got up and left the room with Mhairi close behind.
‘Don’t forget you owe me!’ yelled McWhirter. The sound of his mirthless laughter followed them down the corridor.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Mhairi had to break into a trot to keep up with Farrell as he loped back across the car park, barking orders into his mobile phone. As soon as they were in the car Mhairi started the engine.
‘Now we wait,’ he said.
‘Do you think he was on the level, Sir?’ asked Mhairi.
Farrell laughed. Mhairi stole a sideways glance at him. A nervous tic was blinking at the side of his eye, and his face was deathly white. Given his medical history she wondered how much more of this strain he could take.
‘Do I think he’s a lying sociopath? Too right,’ he answered his own question. ‘Do I think he’s spinning us a yarn about that name and address? Funnily enough, I don’t. He wants to mess with us. OK he wants to mess with me in particular. If he tells us something completely without foundation he’s going to have no further opportunity to play his sick head games.’
Dead Man's Prayer Page 22
