Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist

CHAPTER TWO

Farrell parked across the road from St Aidan’s. Despite the fact that it was June dark clouds still glowered in the sky, sending down a grizzling lament of rain. The sandstone church occupied an elevated position within landscaped grounds, looking down with unfeeling eyes on the flotsam of humanity washed up onto its steps. A tall spire reached for the unobtainable.

Feeling unnerved by the prospect of what was to come Farrell forced himself to quit the car. PC Thomson was waiting for him. His face had the waxy pallor of a mannequin. Probably the lad’s first murder scene, thought Farrell. He quickly posted the assembled uniforms to search the surrounding area and guard all entrances and exits, then, motioning to PC Thomson to follow him, he reluctantly entered the church. Automatically he extended his fingers to dip in the holy water, but stopped himself in the nick of time. Hardly appropriate; he was here as a copper not a priest today, and he’d do well to remember it.

‘Over here, Sir.’

Farrell saw DS Byers, DS Stirling, and DC McLeod standing behind the outer cordon of blue-and-white tape. Striding over he nodded an acknowledgement and addressed DS Stirling.

‘Right, Sergeant, I’m appointing you Crime Scene Manager on this one; you know the drill?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Stirling.

Byers looked sour. Stirling posted PC Thomson on the outer cordon with strict instructions to let no one past except on Stirling’s say so. Stirling and Farrell carefully suited up, covering their whole bodies, including feet and hair, in blue plastic.

‘Any sign of the perpetrator?’ asked Farrell as they stepped through.

‘No, Sir. The church and grounds have been searched.’

‘Any sign of forced entry?’

‘None, Sir.’

Both officers ducked under the second line of tape. Silently Stirling swung the door of the confessional open. Farrell sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever he had expected, nothing could have prepared him for this … this … obscenity. Acid flooded his mouth and he forced it back down his throat. Stirling swore under his breath then looked mortified. An unmistakable whiff of incense overlaid other more noxious smells emanating from the confined space.

Farrell shoved away feelings of revulsion and steadily regarded the crime scene. Father Ignatius Boyd was propped up on his knees in the small confessional; his hands bound tightly together with rosary beads in a parody of prayer. From his bulging eyes and protruding tongue it looked as though the cause of death may have been strangulation, though there was also a fair amount of blood with its unmistakable rusty odour. Underneath the dead priest’s hands was a white sheet of paper, but Farrell didn’t dare disturb anything until the police surgeon and the Scenes of Crime Officers had done their stuff.

A man in his fifties with a ruddy, weather-beaten complexion came hurrying into the church.

‘Bill Forster, Sir, police surgeon,’ said Stirling at Farrell’s elbow.

Farrell thought the man looked more like a farmer than a doctor. Although he would be no stranger to dead bodies, Farrell was willing to bet Forster had never seen anything like this before. As the confessional door swung back on its hinges the doctor gave an audible gasp, seemingly rooted to the spot; then getting a hold of himself he conducted a brief examination with meticulous professionalism, careful to disturb the body as little as possible. He then straightened up and followed Farrell back through the cordons into the interior of the church.

‘What can you tell me, Doctor?’ asked Farrell.

‘Well, I can confirm that life is extinct; no surprises there.’

‘Can you give me a preliminary cause of death?’

‘I’m not qualified to comment on that, Inspector. You know the limitations of my role here.’

Farrell ground his teeth in frustration but knew better than to press him further.

Two SOCOs arrived, as the doctor was leaving, laden with the paraphernalia of their trade. Nodding in recognition to Stirling, they introduced themselves to Farrell as Phil Tait and Janet White. Quietly and efficiently they then got to work under the capable direction of Stirling, as CSM. Farrell dispatched five pairs of uniforms on door-to-door enquiries. He asked them to complete Personal Description Forms for everyone they interviewed. This murder was undoubtedly Category ‘A’, and he was leaving nothing to chance.

Farrell’s concentration was interrupted by a heated altercation between PC Thomson and DS Byers. Rolling his eyes skywards he went to investigate. Byers was clearly struggling to hang onto his temper. The young constable was flushed but resolute.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ snapped Farrell.

‘This impudent young bugger won’t let me through the cordon,’ blustered Byers.

‘You mean you’re bitching about the fact that he’s doing his job? You know as well as I do that cross contamination of the scene is to be avoided at all costs.’

‘I thought it would help if I saw the set-up with my own eyes,’ muttered Byers.

‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with the video, like everyone else.’

Byers marched off in high dudgeon, and Farrell winked at PC Thomson.

‘Well done, lad.’

‘You might want to come and see this, Sir,’ yelled Stirling.

Farrell swiftly approached. Janet was holding something up in her gloved hands for him to inspect. It was the white piece of paper that had been trapped under the hands of the deceased. Written on it, in what appeared to be blood, were the smudged words ‘mea culpa, mea culpa’. The paper was carefully bagged, signed, and then sealed.

‘Looks like a real whack job,’ said Stirling.

‘You got that right,’ replied Farrell. ‘Did you notify the duty fiscal?’

‘Yes, Sir, but, if it’s OK with you, I decided not to let him view the scene,’ replied Stirling.

Farrell nodded acquiescence then stepped out of the church. He couldn’t even begin to get his head around this. Seeing the incident van, he walked over. Together with a number of uniforms, DC McLeod was questioning members of the public. Word had evidently got about and a sizable crowd was gathering, kept at a distance by hastily erected barriers. An opportunistic burger stand was setting up on a patch of waste ground. Hungry coppers were turning a blind eye.

A media truck arrived and started to send cables snaking around. Two young public-school types with trendily sculpted hair started walking around importantly with big furry microphones held aloft. A young blonde woman in skyscraper heels and a powder blue suit descended and glanced around, selecting her prey. To Farrell’s horror she started to approach him with a determined expression on her painted face. This he could do without. Fixing him with a basilisk stare and thrusting out her hand, she left him with no choice but to advance reluctantly and shake her hand. Where the blazes was the civilian press officer?

‘Sophie Richardson, Border News,’ she said, drawing her lips back over impossibly white teeth.

‘DI Frank Farrell, Senior Investigating Officer.’

‘Can you confirm the identity of the deceased, DI Farrell?’

‘Not until the family has been informed.’

‘What can you tell us?’

‘Simply that enquiries are ongoing. We are treating this matter as a suspicious death. Excuse me, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.’

Farrell turned on his heel and started to walk back into the church. The crowd was growing in size and becoming more vocal. The local hacks looked ecstatic at the prospect of a juicy murder to report on for once. Did no one actually care that a man had lost his life today?

An alarm on Farrell’s watch beeped. Glancing round to make sure he was unobserved he surreptitiously popped a pill into his mouth and swallowed. Straightening his shoulders, he then pulled open the heavy oak door and strode back into the church. If only he had swallowed his pride and spoken to Boyd yesterday. He was tormented by the thought that he might have been able to prevent his murder.

CHAPTER THREE

Farrell glanced at his watch. His stomach growled with hunger. It was about time he went and interviewed the remaining parish priest and housekeeper. He cast around for someone free to accompany him and his eye lighted on DC McLeod, who was looking pale and drawn. Time to get her out of here. He beckoned her over.

‘Sir?’

‘Come with me, DC McLeod. We’re going to interview Father Malone, the other parish priest.’

‘I didn’t know there were two of them, Sir. I’m not of the, er … same persuasion.’

Farrell led the way round the back of the church and up a narrow paved lane that led to a detached sandstone house. It had been many years since he had called it home. He knocked firmly on the door.

A slight young man, who looked to be in his late twenties, opened the door. He was clean-shaven and formally dressed in an immaculate black suit with a clerical collar. There were dark shadows under his pale blue eyes that were suggestive of more than one sleepless night.

‘Father Malone?’ asked Farrell. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Yes of course. Please, come in,’ the priest said in a flat voice.

He swung the door open and they followed him along a dark hall into a comfortable, if rather old-fashioned, living room. Farrell felt a sense of dislocation as though he had inadvertently stepped back into his own past. The carpet and drapes were the same. The only addition to the room since he had lived there appeared to be the small flatscreen TV, positioned self-consciously in the corner as though apologizing for its existence.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ the priest said, gesturing vaguely to a well-worn leather sofa, as though his body was going through the motions but his mind had retreated elsewhere.

Farrell leaned forward, making eye contact, trying to force him back into the room with them.

‘I understand you were the one who found the body?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I had gone over to prepare for morning Mass at 9.30. I hadn’t seen Father Boyd at breakfast but I assumed he had taken a tray up to his room as he sometimes does. He’s not that keen on morning chit-chat. I mean he wasn’t …’

‘I know this is painful but can you tell me how you happened upon the body? I mean I presume you weren’t hearing confessions that early in the morning?’

‘No. I was walking up the aisle ready to open the front door when I noticed the confessional door was slightly ajar. I went over to nudge it closed but something was stuck behind the door. I opened it to get a better look and that’s when … I saw …’

‘Did you disturb the scene in any way? Maybe check if he had a pulse, move him, or something else – in any way?’

‘No. It was quite clear to me that he was dead. I simply ran back here and phoned the police.’ He looked ashamed. ‘I was afraid the killer might still be there. I should have stayed and prayed over him, attempted the last rites …’

Farrell could see the priest’s guilt escalating.

‘He had already passed. It was too late for any of that. If you had lingered any longer all that would have happened is that the crime scene would likely have been contaminated, making it all the harder to bring his killer to justice.’

There was a tap on the door and a plump middle-aged woman entered the room carrying a laden tea tray. When she saw Farrell the cups began to rattle and she choked back an exclamation. Father Malone rose at once to take the tray from her and seated her in a chair.

‘Mary, these officers have come to question us about anything we know that might help them catch the person who did this terrible thing.’

‘He was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like this,’ she said. ‘I hope whoever did it rots in Hell.’

Father Malone looked troubled.

‘Mary, Father Boyd would expect us to forgive his killer.’

‘Father Boyd believed in an eye for an eye. He wasn’t like the namby-pamby young priests they turn out of the seminary these days,’ she added, darting a contemptuous look at Father Malone.

Farrell looked at the portly woman sitting across from him, lines of bitterness scored into her face. He tried but failed to find the woman she had been when they first met, beneath the layers of fat and anger. What had happened to her? He might get more out of the priest if she wasn’t there. He doubted there was any degree of collusion between them, but best to interview them separately for now.

‘DC McLeod, could you please take Miss Flannigan to the kitchen until I am ready to interview her and also obtain details of Father Boyd’s next of kin, please.’

At a gesture from Farrell, McLeod gently helped Mary Flannigan to her feet and went off to the kitchen with her.

The priest sat silent, his face grey to match his socks.

‘When did you last see Father Boyd?’

‘It would have been around ten p.m.,’ he murmured. ‘I left him sitting here, reading a book, while I went to bed. Mary had already gone upstairs and he told me he’d lock up.’

‘Did he mention any plans to go out?’

‘No. It was just an ordinary night.’

‘What did you talk about?’

The young priest looked unaccountably furtive.

‘Nothing in particular, just bits and pieces.’

Farrell sat back and stared at Father Malone thoughtfully. What wasn’t he telling him? The silence lengthened. Through the wall he heard the tap running in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes. The young priest continued to avoid his gaze, two spots of colour now staining his cheeks.

‘No unexpected visitors, late phone calls?’

‘Wait, I did hear the phone ring. It woke me then I dozed off again.’

‘Any idea what time that might have been?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Had he seemed himself lately?’ asked Farrell. ‘Anything appear to be worrying him?’

‘He’d received a few crank letters: three, I think. He tried to brush it off but I could tell he was upset by them.’

‘What was in them?’

‘He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t like to pry. He’s … he was a very private man, liked to keep people at a distance.’

‘And you didn’t try and sneak a peek?’

‘Certainly not! I probably wouldn’t even have known about them had I not got up before Father Boyd on one occasion. I saw something lying on the mat and was about to pick it up when Father Boyd yelled at me not to touch it. He was clearly upset. I remember his hands were shaking and he stumbled back against the wall as he was reading it,’ said the priest.

‘These letters, were they posted or hand delivered?’

‘Hand delivered, I believe. Do you think they’ve got anything to do with …?’

‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell. ‘Where did Father Boyd keep the letters?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said the priest.

‘Do I have your permission to search the house?’

‘Yes, of course. Do what you have to,’ said the priest.

‘One more thing. Did Father Boyd keep an appointment diary? It might help if we can track his movements prior to the murder.’

The young priest leapt to his feet with an air of relief and fetched a leather-bound diary from the hall. Farrell turned to the weeks before and after the killing. His eyebrows shot up as he noted that Boyd had met with Father Joe Spinelli, Farrell’s own spiritual adviser, the Friday before he died. Turning the next few pages, Farrell spotted the name Clare Yates. His pulse quickened. She was still here after all these years then. Worse, he was going to have to follow this up.

Still scowling, Farrell went into the kitchen and found DC McLeod sitting beside two mugs of tea on the table. Instantly, he tensed.

‘Where’d she go?’ he demanded.

DC McLeod looked surprised at the urgency in his voice. ‘She said she needed to go to the bathroom. What’s up?’

Farrell didn’t reply but tore out the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. Hearing the sounds of drawers banging shut he raced past the unoccupied bathroom, followed by a perplexed McLeod, and crashed through the door the noise was coming from. The housekeeper was standing with her back to him. He strode over and spun her round, his suspicions realized. She was holding a piece of paper to a cigarette lighter. Farrell snatched the charred bit of paper off her but most of it had been destroyed. Father Malone arrived at the open door and took in the scene.

‘Mary, what have you done?’ he remonstrated.

Farrell was furious. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and unceremoniously handcuffed the housekeeper, whose bravado was now overlaid with apprehension.

‘I am detaining you on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used in evidence against you,’ Farrell snapped.

‘I won’t have you lot trying to blacken his name. He was a good man,’ Mary mumbled, refusing to meet his eye.

‘Did you get that?’ said Farrell to McLeod, who was busily scribbling away in her notebook.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Father Malone gestured helplessly to the handcuffs.

‘Look, is all this really necessary?’

‘Too right,’ said Farrell grimly. ‘She’s destroyed a major piece of evidence.’

‘I didn’t even know she knew about the letters. Father Boyd must have confided in her,’ the priest said, sounding surprised.

At that point two uniforms came in, having been summoned by radio, and led the now sobbing housekeeper away. Farrell followed them out to the waiting squad car. As she was about to get into the back seat she whipped round to face him. It took the combined efforts of the two young officers to hold her steady.

‘They had an argument last night, Father Boyd and that apology for a priest in there. I heard them shouting while I was in bed.’

‘You heard Father Malone shouting?’ asked Farrell, his gaze sceptical.

‘Well, I heard Father Boyd shouting at him, and he must have done something to rile him up so much. There’s a black heart under that cassock, I’m telling you …’

Farrell tried to hide his distaste and looked at her impassively, though he could feel his temper rising.

‘Did you hear what the argument was about?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t hear from my room.’

She looked down furtively and Farrell resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

‘Did you get up, perhaps, for a drink of water?’ asked Farrell.

‘As it happens I did,’ she said.

‘And?’ snapped Farrell.

‘It was all over by the time I got downstairs. Father Malone brushed past me without so much as a by-your-leave so I got my drink and went back to bed. Poor Father Boyd was never very lucky with his priests now, was he?’ she added for his benefit.

Farrell itched to retaliate and wipe the malicious grin off her face, but instead indicated to the officers that they should proceed, turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

He had intended to ask Father Malone about the argument there and then but the young priest looked about fit to keel over. It could keep. Knowing Boyd and his temper as he did it was probably something and nothing anyway.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn this place over. Is there anywhere you can go and stay meantime?’

‘There is a couple I’m friendly with. I’m sure they would put me up,’ Father Malone replied, looking as though his legs might collapse from under him at any second.

Farrell glanced at DC McLeod.

‘On it, Sir,’ she said, and escorted the young priest out to more waiting uniforms.

She was holding up well, thought Farrell. It wasn’t at all common for officers in Dumfries to be faced with a murder of this nature. Perhaps there was more to party cop than he’d thought.

Farrell ran an expert eye over Boyd’s bedroom, scanning for likely hiding places. The room was large and comfortably furnished with a liberal smattering of antiques and the odd expensive-looking oil painting. The rich reds and greens of the Axminster carpet threw the drabness elsewhere in the house into sharp relief. The double bed was piled high with a sumptuous quilt and scatter cushions. So much for the vow of poverty, thought Farrell, picking up the lid of a fine cut-glass decanter and sniffing the expensive brandy it contained. He rifled through the good quality suits in the wardrobes, raising an eyebrow at some of the labels. Boyd had clearly developed a taste for the finer things of life. Relentlessly he pressed into every nook and cranny with probing fingers. Nothing. He turned his attention to the walnut bookcase where there were many scholarly theological volumes. On the bottom, pushed self-consciously to the back of the shelf, were a number of paperback thrillers. He flicked briskly through each of these, looking to see if anything was hidden between the pages. Again, nothing.

His eyes turned to the ornately carved crucifix above the bed; the figure on which seemed to be following his progress disapprovingly round the room. Averting his eyes and feeling slightly foolish he took the wooden plaque on which it was mounted and removed it from the wall. He tapped the back. It sounded hollow. Hardly daring to breathe he prised off the back and removed two sheets of paper. Bingo. He yelled for McLeod and she ran into the room. Carefully, he opened a folded sheet of paper. In crude capitals were the words

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Farrell opened out the second sheet of paper.

IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN I’LL TELL

YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL

Farrell carefully bagged the letters in an evidence bag, and DC McLeod co-signed the label. What on earth had Boyd been up to, he wondered? It was a shame there had been no envelopes with the letters. It might have been possible to obtain a DNA match from any saliva used to seal the envelope.

Just then PC Thomson walked in. ‘Sir, they’re ready to take the body to the mortuary.’

Farrell considered him.

‘Someone needs to go with the body to the mortuary until it is signed in and sealed. Do you think you can hack it, son?’

PC Thomson seemed to go even whiter.

‘No problem, Sir,’ he said.

‘Good lad; Sergeant Stirling will sort you out with the right forms to take with you. We’ll be down in a minute.’

Farrell turned round to see DC McLeod regarding him with a thoughtful expression. She gestured to the wooden crucifix lying on the bed ready to be removed as evidence.

‘Trade secret, Sir?’ she asked.

‘Something like that,’ answered Farrell and turned to leave.

As he supervised the body being loaded into the hearse in its inscrutable black bag, Farrell felt a sense of foreboding. Evil was afoot in his old hometown.