Dead Man's Prayer

by Jackie Baldwin

  Returning to the cottage, he eased his aching muscles in a steaming hot shower then towelled himself dry to the soothing strains of Bach. Finally, feeling ridiculously adolescent he slapped on some aftershave and pulled out his best suit. Too formal? No. The occasion demanded a degree of formality given that he hadn’t seen Laura for over a decade. He reached for his usual black shirt but then, mindful of its connotations of mourning, he chose a cobalt blue one instead. Finally, he selected a tie and was ready.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  On the stroke of eight Farrell was standing on the doorstep of Lind’s detached Victorian house, nervously clutching a large bunch of white carnations and a bottle of red wine. The garden was filled with the casual debris of childhood including a red-and-yellow pedal car, a ball, and an Action Man. A fat tabby cat wrapped itself round his legs, mewing plaintively up at the squabbling sparrows under the eaves. He breathed in deeply, steeling himself to face the evening ahead, then rang the doorbell.

  Lind flung the door open wide, holding a cherubic-looking baby in his arms, and looking harassed in the extreme. A bang was heard from inside the house that set off a chorus of wails.

  ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ said Lind.

  ‘Here, take Adam for a minute, will you?’ asked his friend. ‘I’ve got to go and bang a few heads together. This is the only one that’s behaving tonight.’

  Farrell took the sleepy baby and awkwardly laid him against his shoulder. He had blue Winnie the Pooh pyjamas on and snuggled into him contentedly. Following the sounds of the commotion, he walked through into the living room. Lind was pursuing the remaining three children round and round the sofa, sounding increasingly severe. The children were hyper and paid him no mind.

  Suddenly, Laura appeared from the door leading into the kitchen. The door banged behind her.

  ‘Shut up!’ she yelled. ‘I can’t stand this racket. Just shut up and get to bed before I beat the living daylights out of you!’

  The boys came to a standstill and started to cry. Adam whimpered and Farrell handed him back to his father. There was an awkward pause when no one really knew what to say.

  ‘Shock tactics,’ said Farrell, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Works every time.’

  Laura spun round on hearing his voice and, after a searching look that lasted a bit too long for comfort, she rushed over and flung her arms round his neck, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go. Farrell glanced awkwardly over at Lind, who shrugged helplessly and left the room with the two boys, motioning to his daughter to follow them upstairs. Whatever Farrell had expected it wasn’t this. Off balance and not sure entirely how to react, he patted her awkwardly with his free hand; the other stuck out at an angle, still hanging on to the flowers and wine. She felt frail and brittle in his arms, almost impossibly fragile. He’d dreamt of holding her so many times over the years but never in circumstances like these. Fearful of Lind coming back downstairs and finding them still locked together, Farrell tossed the flowers and wine onto the chair beside him and gently prised her away from him. He led her by the hand to the couch and sat down with her. She averted her eyes from his.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Seeing you there, after all these years, I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘John told me you’ve been having a tough time lately,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I can’t seem to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Maybe you feel the grief is keeping her close to you and you’re not ready to let her go yet.’

  ‘John thinks I’m losing my mind; I know he does.’

  ‘Hey, you’re entitled. But don’t forget he’s grieving too. Don’t push him away. You need to pull together on this one.’

  ‘Will you pray for me, for us?’

  ‘Your family has been included in my prayers ever since I heard.’

  ‘I came to see you once. It was not long after you were ordained. I snuck in at the back of the chapel and heard you say Mass.’

  ‘I saw you,’ said Farrell, gently releasing her hand.

  ‘Why didn’t you come over to me at the end?’

  ‘You know why,’ he replied, looking directly into her eyes.

  Farrell felt rather than saw Lind hovering in the doorway. He stood up and retrieved the bottle of wine.

  ‘I’m guessing you’d rather have this than the flowers?’ he said.

  Lind took his cue and poured the wine. Farrell tried his best to jolly them both along, but it was hard going at first. It pained him to see Laura looking so broken instead of the exuberant girl that he remembered.

  As they sat down to a simple pasta supper he felt a wave of gratitude that he had managed to find his way back to these old friends. He was about to start eating when Lind put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Frank, would you like to say grace?’

  Farrell nodded assent. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’

  The atmosphere inexplicably lightened after that. The men hammed it up for Laura with tall tales of their exploits as younger men, and Farrell was gratified to see some colour creep back into her cheeks; the dullness in her eyes relieved now and then by a spark of humour. She’s still in there, he thought. They’re going to make it through this.

  After a pleasant evening tinged with nostalgia he bade them farewell. Laura gave him a brief hug as he was leaving.

  ‘You’re a tonic, Frank. Don’t leave it so long next time.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised, feeling a pang of emptiness at leaving her company.

  Lind followed him out to the car. The air was electric with things unsaid.

  ‘Thanks for coming over, Frank. You brightened Laura up no end.’

  ‘Hey, it was my pleasure,’ Farrell said. ‘You two are good together.’

  ‘You and her were good together once,’ said Lind, glancing off into the middle distance.

  ‘Ancient history,’ said Farrell. ‘I’d better head off. I promised Clare I’d swing by if it wasn’t too late,’ he lied.

  After leaving his old friend, Farrell drove round aimlessly for a while. Seeing Laura had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He’d been right to give them a wide berth all these years. He wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he’d defied his mother and not entered the priesthood. Would he be married to Laura instead of Lind? That one decision seemed to have led him by the nose his whole life. Yet had it been so wrong? Again, fate had intervened. Had Jason Baxter not enacted his sick fantasies in his confessional he might still be a priest.

  His head bursting with unanswerable questions, Farrell suddenly made a U-turn and headed back into town. This was the hand he’d been dealt, and it was high time he made the most of it.

  Boldly he decided to have a quick drink in Beau Jangles nightclub, as most of the other pubs would have called last orders by now. He hadn’t set foot in the place for years, but Farrell was determined: he would people watch and celebrate his newfound zest for life with a pint of Eighty Shilling. He walked past the doorman, who gave him a strange look. Must have me clocked as an off-duty copper, thought Farrell. As he emerged into the glare of the strobe lighting he stood for a second looking around him. Some things never changed. It was the same tacky place he remembered from his youth: a right cattle market. The flesh on display gyrated in what appeared to be pelmets rather than skirts, with much hair flicking, atop impossibly pointy shoes. They looked barely old enough to be allowed out to the corner shop. The youths ogling them huddled in groups, swaying to the rhythm of the liquor rather than the music, destroying brain cells they couldn’t afford to lose. Farrell suddenly felt depressed. He didn’t belong here. Who was he kidding?

  Suddenly, a wall of muscle loomed in front of him. A bouncer sporting a mullet and tattoos was glaring at him with ferocious intensity. Out from his shadow stepped a nervous, acne-scarred youth, wearing a pink shirt and tie.

  ‘You’re not welcome here, Sir. We’d like you to leave at once,’ said the youth.


  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘You heard the man, sling yer hook,’ grunted the muscle, cracking his knuckles.

  The youth put a tentative hand on the bouncer’s arm as though trying to control a pet gorilla.

  ‘We’re not obliged to give a reason. We’d simply like you to leave.’

  ‘Look,’ Farrell said. ‘I came in for a quiet drink. There’s obviously been some misunderstanding.’

  Farrell reached inside his pocket to produce his warrant card. Big mistake. Quick as a flash, muscle man had him in an armlock.

  ‘Release me at once, I’m a police officer,’ ground out Farrell, face contorted in agony.

  A small crowd began to gather. He could hear pink shirt calling the police. Terrific, the uniforms would be making a meal of this for weeks.

  The girls on the dance floor sashayed over to stick their noses in. One of them, a pretty brunette of around sixteen, suddenly clutched the arm of her friend for support.

  ‘That’s him!’ she screamed. ‘That’s the creep who assaulted me!’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Farrell sat in the back of the panda car with a face like a thundercloud. This was just fine and dandy. The whole station would have him down as some closet sexual predator. The mere idea would have normally raised a wry chuckle, but he was most definitely not amused. For this to have happened to him, of all people. Only those working on the investigation knew that there was someone else running amok wearing his face. An impostor with a black hole where his heart should be. At least the two young officers escorting him to the station had wordlessly uncuffed him before he got into the car.

  As they drove through the town centre the car’s headlights picked out the flotsam and jetsam of humanity swirling around the sink hole of their existence. He heartily wished he had gone straight home after dinner. What had he been thinking? It frustrated him that once more he had been wrongly identified as his brother, as if to the outside world they were interchangeable, cut from the same cloth. Even though Michael couldn’t possibly have known he would pitch up in Beau Jangles, he had still managed to land him in a whole heap of trouble.

  Farrell kept his head held high at Loreburn Street as he was escorted by the unsmiling officers to the Custody Sergeant, but couldn’t avoid his face burning with humiliation at the curious glances the strange trio evinced.

  The Custody Sergeant, Donald Sloan, who with his narrow face and ginger beard resembled a wily fox, intercepted them smoothly.

  ‘Right, Constables, thanks for your assistance. I’ll take it from here.’

  The two youngsters exchanged relieved glances and shot off. The Custody Sergeant gave him a hard look. He looked right back at him.

  ‘Step this way, Sir,’ Sloan said, briskly showing him into an interview room.

  He folded his long body onto the plastic chair and waited.

  The door opened and in walked Byers and McLeod. Farrell had an insane urge to wipe the smile off Byers’s face with the back of his hand.

  ‘Well, well, Sir,’ said Byers. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  Farrell snapped to his feet.

  ‘I don’t, you moron. I never touched her! She’s only a kid. It must have been him.’

  ‘Assuming there is a him. You have heard of Jekyll and Hyde?’

  Farrell swallowed a retort and sat back down.

  ‘When is this alleged assault supposed to have taken place?’

  ‘Saturday, fourteenth June,’ replied Byers. ‘Around midnight.’

  Farrell racked his brains, reeling back through the cluttered memories of the last few weeks. Suddenly he had it. He glanced at Mhairi and saw the realization in her eyes too.

  ‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘Guess I was home alone.’

  ‘He was with me,’ Mhairi burst out.

  Byers turned towards her. The penny dropped. He glanced from one to the other.

  ‘Takes “open all hours” to a whole new dimension.’

  In one fluid movement Farrell was out of the chair. He slammed Byers against the wall so hard some plaster fell to the floor. Mhairi’s hand flew to her mouth in horror.

  ‘We were working late. That’s all there was to it.’

  Byers, eyes bulging, attempted to nod vigorously.

  ‘Now, I think you owe the lady an apology,’ Farrell said, releasing his grip.

  ‘Sorry, DC McLeod. I didn’t mean anything by it. Just kidding around,’ said Byers, eyes bouncing around like ping pong balls as he tried not to look at either of them.

  ‘Apology accepted,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Now, either let me out of here or charge me,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I guess you can go,’ said Byers, ‘seeing as how your alibi checks out.’

  Farrell wordlessly got up and walked straight out the room and then out of the station into the cool fresh air. A raucous crowd of youths staggered by on the opposite pavement, one of them pausing to retch into the roadway. Obscenities rose from their midst like a mushroom cloud. He had to get home, clear his head.

  Back at the cottage he poured himself a whisky and wandered out into the small walled garden. It was a clear night and, away from the town, the stars sprawled luxuriantly across the sky displaying their beauty for all to see. As Farrell sat down on the garden seat the scent of blowsy crimson roses and honeysuckle soothed him, chasing away the stench of human nature.

  Looking around him Farrell realized that he could not simply enjoy the fruits of the previous tenant’s labour forever. The garden had a faintly neglected air, a creeping malaise. Already he could see tendrils of bindweed edging tentatively around the precious blooms that did not yet realize they were under attack.

  An emerald glint caught his eye. A large ginger tom stood motionless, every muscle tensed. His rear end began to wiggle as he prepared to launch himself onto a tiny field mouse that was sniffing the air anxiously, sensing danger but not sure where it was coming from.

  Farrell erupted from his seat hissing loudly and the predatory moggy took off, yowling in anger. He looked round but the mouse had already made good his escape. You had to take your victories where you could find them. Feeling slightly comforted he went back inside.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The next morning Farrell awoke feeling refreshed. After his morning run he pulled sausage, bacon, and eggs out of the fridge and fried up a storm. Later, as he wiped the last morsel of fried bread round his plate and knocked back freshly squeezed orange juice chased down by a strong coffee, he felt unusually content.

  Suddenly a brick came flying through the kitchen window. He leapt up in time to see a lean figure in jeans and a hoodie racing down the lane. In hot pursuit he sped out the door after him, already regretting his heavy breakfast. He slid to a halt at the top of the lane. Which way had he gone? To the left was the road into Dumfries. Farrell saw the hooded figure watching him, just before the bend. He roared in anger and charged after him. Just as suddenly he stopped dead. Wait a minute. Why did hoodie man pause on this side of the bend in clear view? Farrell smelled a rat. He executed an about turn and loped back home in long easy strides. Slipping round the side of the cottage Farrell paused, listening. He could hear someone in the house. The brick through the window had been a decoy, and he had fallen for it.

  Creeping in the back door he picked up a carving knife from the wooden block in the kitchen. Heart banging against his ribs he crept up the stairs to the lounge. He could hear the sound of cupboards being opened and shut. Bracing himself, he stood in the doorway, knife held out in front of him. His skin crawled in revulsion. Jason Baxter! As his old adversary spun round, Farrell glimpsed a look of such feral savagery he almost took a step backwards. It was gone so suddenly that, had he not known what lurked underneath the now amiable façade, he might have thought he had imagined it.

  ‘Detective Inspector Farrell,’ Baxter said. ‘How lovely to see you! I did knock but no one answered so I took the liberty of making myself comfortable until
your return.’

  ‘Since when has breaking and entering been classed as a social call?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Isn’t it an offence to brandish one of those things?’ asked Baxter.

  ‘This is a private place,’ said Farrell, wondering how best to play this.

  He needed backup for starters. Pulling out his mobile he carefully positioned the knife on the windowsill, still blocking the door. As he spoke quietly to Force Control he saw Baxter weighing up his options: to charge past him and risk getting stabbed through the heart by an enraged copper who hated his guts, or to take his chances with the local constabulary? No contest. Baxter sank down into an armchair and crossed his legs.

  ‘Good decision,’ snapped Farrell.

  ‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’ said Baxter, baring his nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a coffee? Milk and two sugars.’

  Farrell tensed. Don’t let him get to you. He wants you to take a pop at him so you’ll finally get booted off the case.

  ‘Sorry. No can do,’ he replied. ‘It’s the maid’s day off, unless, you’d like to invite your accomplice to join us?’

  ‘Accomplice?’ queried Baxter, wrinkling his pallid face in a parody of concentration. ‘There was no one with me. I was merely partaking of the morning air when I found myself in the neighbourhood. I noticed the brick in the kitchen, by the way. Kids these days.’

  ‘Still keep up with your mates from the pokie?’ asked Farrell, a hard edge to his voice.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Baxter, peering at him with his cold reptilian eyes.

  He knows, thought Farrell. The creep knows. He bit back an angry retort sensible of the fact that he was the wrong person to interrogate this particular lowlife. Also, anything he got out of him now would be ruled as inadmissible in a court of law and Baxter knew it.