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

On the way to the MCA room he decided to pay a visit to the tiny fingerprint lab, where any prints from the murder crime scene would be undergoing analysis. A middle-aged civilian woman was hard at work with her back to him, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name.

‘Hi there, er …’

She spun round to face him and was wearing a name tag. Saved.

‘Barbara, how’s it going?’ he said, aiming for a jovial tone. Name tags might be the answer to his prayers, on the one hand, but he always felt uncomfortable having to read it off a woman’s chest. That was a whole other can of worms in the hermetically sealed politically correct goldfish bowl they all had to operate in these days.

Not being inhibited by any rank she promptly shot him down in flames.

‘Now then, Inspector Farrell, it’ll take as long as it takes. There’s no point going out of your way to try and butter me up. When I get something you’ll be the first to know. Now, was there anything else, or will I be getting on with my work now?’

‘Yes, just you carry on,’ said Farrell, turning swiftly on his heel. Talk about taking no prisoners. Feathers distinctly ruffled he headed for the MCA room.

The alarm on his watch beeped. He reached into his pocket automatically, to pop a pill, then withdrew his hand. Surely one day wouldn’t hurt? He was already shattered and didn’t want to take anything with a sedative effect, however minimal.

In the MCA room, Farrell started briefing the Investigation Team, which got bigger and bigger all the time as more and more officers became involved. Initial door-to-door enquiries had drawn a blank. No one had seen or heard anything. Time to widen out the search.

‘DS Byers, any leads thrown up by HOLMES?’

Byers gave a hollow laugh.

‘Are you kidding, Sir? All the initial statements have been fed into the system and it’s throwing out names, cars, and streets like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘Keep on it with the rest of your team then, Byers. Let me know if anything interesting comes to the fore,’ said Farrell. He’d put Byers in charge of an eager team of young constables figuring it might make him more motivated.

‘DS Stirling, how did your meeting with the sister go this afternoon?’

‘Different to what I expected, Sir. She’s quite a formidable lady. It was as if she was more bothered about the embarrassment of him being murdered than the fact that he was dead. A real cold fish.’

‘Any idea of who might want to kill him?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a clue, Sir,’ said Stirling. ‘Her precise words were … I don’t exactly move in those sorts of circles.’

A ripple of hilarity wound round the room, dying down as Farrell’s face remained expressionless. He gave them all a hard stare. Some shifted nervously in their seats.

‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘what you’re telling me is that we don’t yet have a single hot lead in this investigation?’ He paused for effect and then thundered. ‘That’s not good enough. Get back out there; keep interviewing till you uncover something worthwhile. Interview parishioners, the sewing circle, the postman. I want no avenue of enquiry left unexplored. A man has died a horrible death. We owe it to him to apprehend the killer and by God that is what we’re going to do.’

Farrell swept out of the room and there was a flurry of activity as the door shut behind him. He was troubled by the lack of progress in the case. The first forty-eight hours in a murder investigation were crucial and so far they had next to nothing to go on.

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_2b27510c-fb49-5b24-925a-21513af71f53)

Farrell was hard at work compiling charts in his office when DCI Lind burst through the door like a tornado startling him out of his concentration. He could see at once from Lind’s face that it was bad news.

‘John, what’s happened?’

‘It’s Laura.’

Farrell felt his heart scud against his chest like it was trying to get out.

‘She’s been taken up to the Infirmary. They called me from the ambulance. Seems she had a fall. The baby … might not make it.’ Lind sagged against the side of the desk, as though his legs were going from under him.

‘John, I’m really sorry.’ Farrell felt helpless. He awkwardly patted his friend on the shoulder.

‘Laura’s mother is still in Carlisle, shopping. I can’t get hold of her. I was wondering—’

‘Anything, anything at all,’ butted in Farrell.

‘Do you think you could nip to my place and babysit the kids? A neighbour is minding them just now but she has to leave soon. I don’t have time to find anyone else. I need to get to the hospital right away.’

‘Sure,’ said Farrell. ‘Now get yourself off, I’ll sort the kids out.’

Lind handed him a key and started to rush out the door then paused and slowly turned round.

‘One more thing,’ he said.

‘Name it,’ Farrell said.

‘Could you … pray for us? I know I’m being a hypocrite, being an atheist and all that but …’

‘Try and stop me,’ said Farrell. ‘Now, away you go.’

Lind tore off, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Twenty minutes later, Farrell pulled up outside a semi-detached Victorian house in a leafy street in the old part of town. The warm brown sandstone had tendrils of pink clematis and sweet-smelling honeysuckle probing randomly into nooks and crannies. A homemade swing hung from the spreading branches of an ancient beech tree over the well-maintained lawn. Tucked in one corner was a sandpit with a bunch of buckets and spades.

As Farrell inserted the key into the lock, he felt his skin crawl with envy at the thought of John coming home each night to find Laura waiting for him. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the unwelcome thought away.

Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, as he had known it would be, with sanded wooden floors and brightly coloured rugs. From the hallway a palette of warm reds and yellows led into the various rooms. The neighbour, her eye on the clock, rushed past him apologizing for not being able to stay longer. As he shut the door behind her and found his way into the living room he was immediately clocked by four pairs of eyes. Crikey, kids weren’t exactly his specialist subject. At a guess he’d say the girl and three boys ranged in age from eighteen months to six years with the girl being the eldest.

Adopting a falsely hearty tone that convinced no one, he introduced himself, babbling inanely all the while like an Energiser Bunny. The children sat motionless on the couch saying not a word; their behaviour good to the point of scary. The only sound was the youngest sucking rhythmically on an old cotton blanket when Farrell paused for breath. He regarded them quizzically. They stared at him. One of the youngest boys started to speak, but was immediately shushed by his older sister.

‘We’re not allowed to speak to strangers,’ she announced in a clear voice.

‘Quite right too,’ said Farrell. ‘But I’m not a stranger.’

‘That’s what a stranger would say. We’ve never met you before,’ said the girl with unanswerable logic.

The lower lips of two of the boys started to wobble. Farrell was twisting like a fish on a hook. Suddenly, he had it. Rummaging about in his wallet he produced an old photograph of him, Laura, and John taken when they were around eighteen. He showed it to the girl, who solemnly inspected it.

‘It’s you, mummy and daddy. Daddy’s got hair!’ she said, sounding surprised.

‘Can we play with him, now, Molly?’ asked one of the little boys.

Molly nodded decisively and with a loud whoop the boys launched themselves at him.

‘Let’s play wrestling,’ they shouted, catching Farrell off balance.

He was then run ragged for the next hour until he received a polite tap on the shoulder from Molly, who had been reading a book, holding herself aloof from the boys’ antics.