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

Farrell told Mhairi to wait for him at the car and swung by Lind’s office on the way out. He was worried about how his friend would be coping given his own recent tragedy. However, when he walked in to Lind’s spacious office he came face to face with a wall of people to whom Lind was competently issuing orders. As the last officer ran out the door with Lind’s instructions ringing in his ears Farrell updated him, each of them conscious of the clock ticking.

‘I don’t like it,’ Lind said. ‘Bastard has done his homework. Probably been planning this for some time.’

‘Did the super sign off on the firearms team?’ asked Farrell.

‘Yes, we’re going in at 12.30. I want you there, Farrell. There’s just enough time for you and DC McLeod to get round to the parents first. The father should be back home by now. He’d been on the way to Glasgow when the kids were taken.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_4428fae9-244e-5e0d-b8ea-543abf552811)

Farrell and McLeod drew up outside a detached redbrick house on the Lomax Estate out on the Edinburgh Road. There was a large grassy recreation area to one side with a sign saying ‘NO BALL GAMES’.

‘Must have a few bob,’ said McLeod, taking in the gleaming red 4x4 in the driveway.

Farrell wondered what drove people to live in these fancy little boxes with their upwardly mobile neighbours breathing enviously down their necks. He didn’t fancy it, that’s for sure.

Two little bikes with round chubby wheels and stabilizers were propped up against the side of the house. Farrell glimpsed a state-of-the art climbing frame in the back garden, despite the fact they had passed a swing park not two hundred metres away.

They were ushered into the house by PC Thomson, who had been waiting with the parents until Farrell could get there. The first thing that met their eyes on going into the hall was a studio portrait of the family. Farrell paused to study it, allowing Mhairi to precede him into the lounge. An attractive woman with honey blonde hair and dimples had her arms resting on the shoulders of two mischievous-looking toddlers, who were dressed alike and had an identical smattering of freckles across upturned noses. Their eyes were sparkling with merriment as though the photographer had just made them laugh. Positioned slightly self-consciously to the rear was a short thickset man whose eyes rested on his family rather than on the camera.

Farrell walked into the lounge feeling a weight settle on his chest. Mhairi was sitting with her arm round a shaking woman, who Farrell took to be the mother. Despite the fact that she still had her work suit on she bore little resemblance to the confident immaculately groomed woman in the photograph. Her hair was straggly and unkempt and mascara ran down channels gouged by tears.

PC Thomson looked ill at ease and as if he wished he were someplace else. Tough, thought Farrell; there was more to being a copper than running around in panda cars, chasing baddies, and the sooner the lad realized it the better.

He walked over to the woman and sat beside her on the large couch, folding both her manicured hands inside his own.

‘DI Farrell. I’m so sorry that this has happened to your family. You have my assurance that we will not rest until your little boys have been returned to you.’

Dead or alive, added Farrell grimly in his own head.

‘Elspeth Summers,’ she said, raising her eyes to meet his.

‘Can you tell me exactly what each of the boys was wearing today? The nursery teacher wasn’t completely sure.’ He signalled to PC Thomson, who took out his notebook, pen at the ready.

‘Mark had on red joggers, a white T-shirt, and navy cardigan with Thomas the Tank Engine on the pocket, and white trainers. Jamie had green joggers, a yellow T-shirt, and a cream knitted jumper. My mother knitted it. Oh God, my mother! She doesn’t know yet.’

‘All in good time,’ soothed Farrell. ‘Jamie’s shoes?’

‘Black trainers.’

‘Are they identical twins or fraternal?’

‘Identical.’

Farrell heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway with a spurt of gravel and turned his head to see a man running to the front door. Gently, he disengaged himself from Elspeth and stood up.

A red-faced man burst into the room, causing the door to slam against the wall. His eyes were frantic with anxiety and flecks of spittle sprayed out when he spoke.

‘Who’s in charge here?’

‘That would be me, DI Farrell.’

‘Why are you here? Why aren’t you out looking for my sons? Anything could be happening to them while you’re here … anything.’

The man started to sway, and Farrell quickly grabbed an upright chair and caught him as his legs buckled, pushing his head down between his knees until the light-headedness went.

‘Barry!’ remonstrated his wife from the settee, getting to her feet unsteadily. ‘My husband doesn’t mean it, Inspector; he’s just worried sick. We both are.’

Farrell looked them both in the eyes and spoke with quiet urgency.

‘Be assured that right now we’ve got every available officer on the streets searching high and low for Mark and Jamie. Our press officer is liaising with the media to ensure as wide coverage as possible. By lunchtime today every library, post office, school, and the town centre will be plastered with pictures of your sons and offering a reward for any information leading to their safe return. We have experts in social media sending out alerts on every possible site. We know our business and we will stop at nothing to ensure a good outcome for you and your family. The reason I’ve come is to try and ascertain whether you can give us any additional information that might narrow the search.’

‘Like what?’ asked the father, quietly this time.

‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around, looking suspicious?’

‘No, no one,’ they said in unison.

‘Have you had any cold callers? Anyone on the doorstep trying to sell you anything? Any unfamiliar cars parked nearby, particularly grey Primera cars?’

They shook their heads helplessly.

‘Have you had any contact with the social work department?’

The man bristled.

‘No, of course not! What are you implying?’

‘The man who took your sons produced a social work ID. Does the name David Nolan mean anything to you?’

‘No, should it?’ asked Elspeth, anxiously.

‘Is he the bastard who did this? When I get my hands on him I’ll—’

‘Barry! Shut up, you’re not helping. While you’re shouting the odds, some nutter could be harming our children.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He tailed off into silence.

Farrell had seen this type of bluster a number of times in similar situations. The ungovernable frustration and rage of a man who feels he has failed to protect his family. He shot a sympathetic glance at the man, who had again simmered down.

‘Have you had any unusual telephone calls?’

‘A couple of wrong numbers, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Elspeth answered.

‘Anyone threatened you recently; anyone have a grudge against you?’

‘I’m a car salesman, for God’s sake …’ Barry said. ‘Just a regular bloke …’

Farrell put a finger under his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. He paused, reluctant to clobber them with more unpalatable information.