‘Do you think that Michael Black chose to abduct identical twins as some kind of twisted revenge on you or your mother?’
‘Possibly,’ said Farrell. ‘However, just because we share the same DNA doesn’t mean we inhabit the same mind.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply …’
‘Relax, Mhairi, I’m just saying that we’re not the same. Your guess is as good as mine.’
Mhairi squealed out of the car park.
‘Didn’t have you down for a girl racer,’ Farrell said.
‘I’m dying to get back and crack on with things,’ said Mhairi.
‘You and me both.’
Mhairi flicked on a CD, figuring it would help her beleaguered boss relax. The sound of Girls Aloud filled the car and Mhairi lost herself in the music. After a few tracks she stole a glance at Farrell, whose face was twisted up into an expression of agony.
‘Toothache, Sir?’
‘Something like that,’ he muttered.
Mhairi flicked a button and the soothing strains of Classic FM filled the car. Now it’s my turn to grin and bear it, she thought. Halfway down the M74 motorway she stole another sideways glance at Farrell and was gratified to see the lines of tension had slackened. She, on the other hand, had the mother of a headache building up.
Farrell looked sideways at her.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I guess this music isn’t quite up your street.’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a very catholic taste in music.’
‘Hidden depths eh?’ asked Farrell.
Hidden shallows more like, thought Mhairi, contenting herself with what she hoped was an enigmatic smile.
Back at the station, Mhairi sped off to continue her research into those having access to databases with twins.
Farrell took the stairs two at a time; bursting into Lind’s room after a peremptory knock without waiting for an answer. On the other side of the door he came face to face with Detective Superintendent Walker. Lind shot him a warning look. Cave Canem. Too late.
‘Sorry, Sir,’ Farrell said. ‘I didn’t realize you were busy. I’ll drop by later.’
Farrell spun round in a pirouette that would have done Darcey Bussell proud and was almost out the door when the super snapped, lips drawn back from nicotine-stained teeth.
‘Farrell, get back in here.’
‘Sir?’
‘Sit down, man, sit down.’
Farrell sat and steeled himself for the inevitable onslaught. He shot a glance at Lind, whose expression was unreadable.
‘By rights you shouldn’t be in on this investigation,’ said Walker. ‘If this wasn’t such a small force and I didn’t need your expertise I’d have kicked you into touch long since. To say you’re personally involved is an understatement. It seems you returning to Dumfries acted as some damn catalyst, setting this whole lamentable chain of events off.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Sir,’ said Farrell in as restrained a tone as he could manage.
‘If it’s any consolation it’s not been exactly a barrel of laughs for me either.’
The super stared at him for a few long moments then his expression softened somewhat and he subsided into the chair beside Farrell with a sigh.
‘Aye, it’s an awful business, altogether. Tell me this, Farrell. Is blood thicker than water?’
‘The only person I feel at all emotionally connected to in this investigation, Sir, is my mother, and we’re not exactly what you’d call close. As for my brother? Until recently, I didn’t even know he existed. Other than an accident of birth he means no more to me than any other nutter that needs locking up for his own good and the good of others. The man responsible for my conception is already incarcerated so no problems there.’
‘Brave words, Farrell. You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced? Here’s the deal. You get to remain on the Boyd investigation but not as SIO. From now on myself and Lind will be completely running the show and you’re just another plod that does what he’s told. I imagine that DI Moore will also be happy to avail herself of your expertise in relation to that missing child as from what Lind tells me it looks increasingly likely that Michael Black is behind both cases.’
‘But Sir …’
‘That’s the deal. Take it or leave it. Furthermore, if I get even the faintest whiff of a suggestion that you’ve withheld information or gone off half-cocked against orders I’ll have you transferred to the Port Authority at Stranraer. Is that clear?’
‘As a bell, Sir,’ said Farrell.
‘There’s something else,’ said Walker. ‘DI Moore has been speaking to that psychiatrist up at Nithbank, what’s her name?’
‘Clare Yates,’ supplied DI Lind.
‘That’s it. You know that we’re putting a series of articles into the local press calculated to inflame Boyd’s killer and prod him into making contact with you? I want to make sure that this is with your consent?’
‘Of course, Sir,’ said Farrell.
‘You do realize there’s no telling how he might respond. It could cause you to be placed in considerable danger?’
‘Bring it on, Sir,’ replied Farrell. ‘We need to catch him before he strikes again.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Walker. ‘Good to see an officer step up to the plate when the occasion demands it. Too many youngsters these days are liable to melt into a puddle with stress if someone so much as says “boo” to them. Stress! Everybody’s scared shitless to say what they mean and mean what they say. Might as well cut off our bollocks and string them up in a bloody necklace for all the use they are these days.’
Farrell risked a sideways glance at Lind and saw that he was slack jawed with astonishment at the super’s outburst.
‘Keep me posted, Farrell,’ said Walker, getting heavily to his feet. He gave Farrell’s shoulder a rough squeeze on the way past, slamming the door behind him.
Farrell and Lind looked at each other.
‘OK,’ said Farrell. ‘He touched me. Now I know I’ve really entered the twilight zone.’
‘He’s right about one thing though,’ said Lind. ‘What they’re planning to do might send the killer—’
‘You mean my evil twin,’ said Farrell.
‘I was trying to be diplomatic, you moron,’ said Lind. ‘If these articles push his buttons, he’ll come after you, and it might not just be idle chit-chat he has in mind.’
‘Look, the sooner we flush him out into the open the sooner we can get him banged up and life can get back to normal,’ said Farrell.
‘I wish it was that simple,’ said Lind, gnawing his lip.
Farrell sat up straight, cursing himself for being a self-absorbed fool.
‘Is it Laura?’
Lind said nothing, which was all the reply Farrell needed.
‘I thought you said she had been feeling a bit brighter. Getting back on top of things?’
‘I lied,’ said Lind. ‘I figured with all the shit you had flying around the last thing you needed was to be burdened with my personal problems.’
‘We’re supposed to be friends.’
‘Since we lost the baby she’s been very low; not herself at all.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Farrell. ‘It’ll take her time to grieve, accept what’s happened. I take it she’s been to the doctor?’
‘He gave her some tablets. Can’t say it’s made a difference. She’s down to see a psychologist but it could take upwards of a year before she gets an appointment. I miss her,’ Lind said. ‘The kids miss her. It’s as though she’s somewhere we can’t reach.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked Farrell.
Lind looked at him blankly, lost in his own private Hell. Suddenly the mist cleared from his countenance.
‘Come to dinner,’ he said. ‘Tonight.’
Farrell froze.
‘Tonight? Actually, I’m fairly sure I need to—’
‘Eight o’clock,’ Lind interrupted. ‘It’ll bring her out of herse
lf. You know you and she used to be close. It’ll remind her of happier times. Say you’ll come.’
Farrell couldn’t ignore the naked look of entreaty in the other man’s eyes. Used to be close? That was an understatement. He wondered if Laura had ever told her husband that in a last desperate attempt to prevent him leaving for the seminary in the morning she had stolen into his room and made love to him all night. Even now the thought of that hot sultry night was enough to curl his toes.
‘Eight o’clock it is then,’ he said, as heartily as he could manage.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
DS Stirling stuck his head round the door after a peremptory knock. He nodded to Farrell.
‘Yes?’ said Lind.
‘The firearms team have got the house surrounded, Sir. There’s been no sign of activity since surveillance commenced.’
‘Right,’ said Lind, jumping to his feet and grabbing his jacket. ‘Let’s get over there and see what we’ve got.’
Farrell parked his car in a nearby cul-de-sac from which he could observe the façade of the rundown semi. The elderly couple in the immaculate adjoining dwelling had been spirited away to Loreburn Street, in a right old tizz, for tea and chit-chat with DC McLeod. Lind pulled in behind him and got out of the car. Farrell made to do likewise but Lind shook his head, motioning for him to stay put as he walked swiftly by with DS Stirling. Farrell watched them closely as they marched up the weed-encrusted driveway. A curtain twitched within the property. Someone was there. Farrell sat bolt upright. It was at times like this that he wished he smoked. Sweat prickled under his arms and an iron fist squeezed his gut. It was always the same when something big was going down. Every cell in his body flooded with adrenalin.
He heard Lind rap firmly on the door; Stirling right beside him. No response. Lind stepped aside and motioned to a member of the armed response team, who burst the lock and charged inside. Farrell knew they would have entered the back door simultaneously. This was it. They would surely catch him now. Farrell tensed at the thought of being confronted with this brother he had never known: spawned, as he himself had been, from evil, and who had lain with him in his mother’s womb. Now it was time to stop regarding this whole mess as an academic exercise and get real.
Two burly officers wearing bulletproof vests erupted from the front door and waved them forward.
Lind stepped past the door, now hanging from its hinges, and motioned for Farrell to follow him. The first thing that he noticed was the smell of incense. As they moved into the tiny living room it became intermingled with the rank smell of stale body odour and unwashed clothes. There was something else? Farrell wrinkled his nose and sniffed like a bloodhound, following the sweet sickly smell into the kitchen where he found the remains of what looked like cannabis resin on the worktop. He left the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs there was a crucifix on the wall. Farrell barely glanced at it but Lind, hot on his heels, halted in front of it.
‘Frank, you’d better see this.’
Farrell slowly turned and looked hard at the crucifix. His eyes widened in shock as he saw that the head of Christ had been removed and a near perfectly proportioned facsimile of his own head substituted. He could feel his skin crawl with revulsion.
‘This is some kind of crude message,’ Farrell said.
‘What do you think he’s trying to get across to you?’
‘How would I know?’ snapped Farrell. ‘You honestly expect me to be able to crawl inside a mind as sick as his?’
‘Frank, I didn’t mean …’
‘Just leave it,’ said Farrell, turning to walk upstairs. ‘If anything occurs to me you’ll be the first to know.’
Turning the corner onto the upstairs landing, Farrell identified another familiar smell. Beeswax. The faint strains of a Gregorian chant wafted towards them. A door at the end of the passage was standing open. Farrell and Lind exchanged glances and moved cautiously towards it.
Standing on the threshold, Farrell stiffened, his heart pounding. The room was lit only by candlelight, and a shadowy figure with his back to them stood by the ruby velvet drapes wearing a long black cassock.
‘Police, put your hands in the air,’ yelled Lind, reaching for his baton.
There was no response.
Farrell strode over to the figure, grabbing it roughly by the shoulder, and felt his heart leap into his mouth as it toppled backwards into his arms.
‘A dummy. Would you believe it?’ he said to his boss.
Lind did not respond but was looking across the room at something behind him. Farrell swung round and beheld the words dripping in red down the back wall of the bedroom. Lind wordlessly hit the light switch.
FORGIVE ME FATHER FOR I HAVE SINNED
Farrell involuntarily crossed himself. There had been evil in this room. He could sense it. Lind was examining the dummy.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said in a voice laced with foreboding.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Farrell said.
‘These robes are yours,’ said Lind.
Farrell slowly walked over to examine the collar. The name tag was blue stitching on cream linen. Father Frank Farrell, in his mother’s painstaking embroidery stitch. The wooden cross around the dummy’s neck was also his, given to him by his mentor, Father Spinelli, on ordination. Beside himself with fury, Farrell lifted it, intent on removing it from this most unholy of rooms. Lind placed a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Sorry, Frank. It’s evidence. Have to leave it where it is I’m afraid.’
Farrell reluctantly let his hand drop back.
‘He’s closing in,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s as if he’s inside my head.’
‘No, he’s not.’ replied Lind. ‘Listen to me, Frank. That’s what he wants you to think. He’s just a sick son of a bitch who’s getting off on jerking us around. Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake and we’ll nail him.’
‘I pray to God that you’re right,’ said Farrell.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Farrell buried himself in the ever-increasing mountain of paperwork surrounding the investigation. Attention to detail. That’s what always caught them in the end. Not some eureka moment. Charts covered every wall of his small office. HOLMES was all very well and definitely had its place in modern policing, but the downside was that it could spew out so much meaningless information that it was like looking for a single snowflake in an avalanche.
He had reached the stage where he was trawling through all the statements and distilling facts he considered relevant onto index cards. Give him a pen and paper any day of the week. Say that to any bright young copper nowadays and they looked at you like you were an exhibit in a museum with a label saying ‘PAST IT’. He’d just missed out on the whole computer thing. In his last year at school the first computer had arrived. It had sat in a tiny room next to the headmaster’s office, cordoned off behind a rope like some squat nameless monster. The only kids allowed past the rope had been a handful of maths geeks who were excited to the point of frenzy. The seminary had also had little use for technology. During his career in the police he had been forced to undergo periodic training on computers but always under protest and never a pixel more than he had to. Computers couldn’t do your thinking for you, no matter what hype surrounded them. Those sci-fi films with humans lying wasted and inert, living their lives in cyber space, weren’t that far wide of the mark he reckoned. After all, look at the average teenager. Farrell snorted and cleared his throat. Concentrate, man.
Two hours passed with nothing but the rustling of papers and the scratch of Farrell’s fountain pen on the cards. Finally, he tossed his pen down on the desk and sucked in his cheeks like he was eating a sour plum. So much for good old-fashioned police work, he thought. There was a firm knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he sighed.
Mhairi popped her head round the door, bearing a steaming mug of coffee.
‘My accomplice in crime,’ Farrell greeted her.
‘Thought you could do with a pick-me-up, Sir,’ Mhairi said, placing the coffee down in front of him.
‘You’re a star,’ he replied, taking a sip of the scalding liquid and gesturing for her to sit down opposite him.
Accomplice? In one of the abductions the man had had an accomplice, though at the time they’d drawn a blank. Farrell started frantically rifling through the files. He’d been so consumed with finding Boyd’s killer and then the missing boys that he’d not focused on the person on the end of the phone. Where the heck were the details of that phone conversation?
‘What is it, Sir? Have you got something?’ asked Mhairi.
‘The second abduction at that posh nursery …’
‘Head Start?’
‘That’s it. The woman in charge, Mrs Mitchell, said she’d phoned and spoken to someone, a male, who verified the abductor’s story. The same number I phoned myself later.’
‘Well, he couldn’t have been in two places at once,’ said Mhairi.
‘Exactly, so he’s got an accomplice, someone who was helping him.’
‘But what good does that do us when we don’t know who he is?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Maybe it was Jason Baxter.’
‘I still don’t get it,’ said Mhairi, looking at him as though he was a sandwich short of a picnic. ‘Where’s the connection?’
‘Find out if Baxter and Gerald McWhirter were ever cellmates in the pokey.’
‘I’ll get onto the Scottish Prison Service right away,’ said Mhairi whirling from the room, leaving a vapour trail of perfume behind.
Farrell glanced at the clock. It was past six. Better get a move on if he was to turn up for dinner with the Linds looking halfway presentable. He didn’t want to look like a total loser when he met the love of his life again. Who was he kidding? She’d picked the better man. It was all water under the bridge and if it wasn’t then it should be.
Back at Kelton Farrell slipped on some shorts and a vest and took off along the estuary, feeling his muscles lengthen and unwind as his running shoes pounded along the coarse, springy grass on the riverbank. He filled his lungs with the tangy smell of the mud, tasting salty air on his tongue. A fine smirn of rain cleansed his soul and mingled with the sweat running off his body. He could feel dark forces gathering around him as the case gathered momentum, and he prayed he would have the cunning and tenacity to stop his brother before he took another life. It was snatched moments like this when his thoughts were subdued by the pain of physical exertion that gave him the strength to go on.
Dead Man's Prayer Page 23
