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

Father Ignatius Boyd lifted the crystal tumbler to his mouth and gulped greedily at the brandy, his shaking hand causing the glass to knock unpleasantly against his teeth.

The ruby velvet curtains and gas fire did nothing to dispel the chill he felt in his soul. It had rattled him seeing Frank Farrell at Mass this evening. His past mistakes had been haunting him of late as his body began to fail him. It would not be long until he met his Creator, and he had a feeling he would be found wanting. He had recently travelled to Rome to confess his sins to an anonymous priest but it had not brought him any comfort. His penance had not been the anticipated repetitions of the rosary, but a harsh command to reveal what had been hidden and to make what restitution was in his power. Until he completed that penance, his immortal soul remained in peril.

When he had seen Farrell at Mass this morning he had felt it was a sign. Before his courage failed he had hurried after him but his shouted greeting had fallen on deaf ears.

Another letter had been waiting on the mat when he returned home. For a moment he had the insane idea it might have been left there by Farrell, but on reflection he acknowledged it wasn’t his style. He picked it up from the floor, where he had flung it in a rage, and studied it helplessly for some clue as to the sender’s identity. The paper was cheap and flimsy, but the words meant business.

It was eleven o’clock. He walked over to the window and moved the curtains a fraction so he could peer out. The darkness pressed against the window as though it was trying to get in. He opened his bedroom door and listened intently. All was quiet and as it should be. Father Malone and the housekeeper did not keep late hours and had already retired to their rooms. Remembering the stricken expression of the young priest earlier, he felt a slight pang of remorse. He could have handled the situation better.

Suddenly the insistent trill of the phone pierced the silence. He swiftly ran down to answer it, his plain black cassock whispering on the stairs. With trembling hands, he picked up the phone, the colour draining from his face as he heard the menacing voice on the other end of the line.

Slowly he replaced the receiver on the hook. With a lingering backwards glance, he opened the back door and slipped out into the still night. It was clammy and not a breath of air disturbed the overhanging trees as he hurried up the narrow lane to the church, his heart thudding uncomfortably against the confines of his chest.

He went in the small door to the rear of the church and paused to listen. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the thump of his heart. As his eyes acclimatized to the darkness he walked slowly towards the confessional box, resisting the urge to flee with every step. He paused outside the Priest’s door. The handle wouldn’t yield. He walked to the Penitent’s door and swung it open. As he sank onto the kneeler the metal grille flew open and Father Boyd reared back with a shout of terror, hearing the sickening crunch of bone against unforgiving stone.

CHAPTER ONE (#u541e492e-6b51-59b8-91b2-291a1ace2bd4)

Detective Inspector Frank Farrell glanced around the tiny impersonal room with its beige walls, grey carpet, and cheap wooden desk strewn with files. Not for the first time he wondered whether he’d done the right thing in accepting a transfer back to Dumfries from the murder squad in Edinburgh. The rain drummed relentlessly on the window behind his desk. He looked out over the town. The swollen grey clouds had leached colour out of the landscape. The first early morning shoppers were dumping their cars in the car park across the road from the station. Beyond the rooftops the Lowther Hills were shrouded in mist.

Turning round, he folded his long body onto the chair behind the desk and, with a frown, pulled a pink slip of paper towards him. It was a message from Father Ignatius Boyd, dated yesterday; the day before he started his new job. Farrell’s jaw clenched. The cheek of the man daring to phone him after all this time! Boyd had even tried to engage him in conversation after Mass yesterday morning, but Farrell had been having none of it. Impulsively he screwed the message up into a tight ball and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. He had better things to do than pander to an elderly priest whose Christian charity could be measured in negative numbers. Ignoring the niggling voice in his head that said he was being unprofessional, Farrell pulled the nearest file towards him and started reading.

He’d almost finished when the phone rang. A nervous voice asked him to go along to Detective Superintendent Walker’s office on the top floor.

Farrell moved quickly knowing that if you got on the wrong side of the super it cast a long shadow. He knocked firmly and a clipped voice bid him enter. The large airy office contained a small compact man behind a large desk. His sleeves were rolled up and Farrell could just make out the tail-end of a tattoo on his left arm. Tufts of fiery red hair stuck out in all directions above milky-white freckled skin. Walker ignored him, continuing to rustle the papers on his desk. Farrell waited patiently. Some men never leave the playground. Eventually, when the silence had started to stretch between them like a steel cable, Walker looked up and treated Farrell to his best ballbreaker stare.

‘Now, Farrell, I hope you realize that we’ll not tolerate any funny business at this station.’

‘Sir?’

Whatever Farrell had expected it wasn’t this. He could feel amusement welling up and struggled to keep his face impassive.

‘You know what I mean, don’t play the innocent with me, lad. I don’t want any papist mumbo jumbo interrupting the smooth running of this station. No speaking in tongues, no Bible-study lunches, and absolutely no bloody exorcisms! Do I make myself clear?’ Walker thundered, looking every inch a candidate for a heart attack.

‘Crystal, Sir.’

‘You want to get up to that sort of thing you do it in your own time, got it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now we’ve got that out the way, welcome aboard.’

Walker proffered a meaty paw, and Farrell shook it. Walker snatched his hand back as though he’d been stung.

‘Why you …’

‘Sir?’ said Farrell.

‘Dismissed!’ bellowed Walker, pale eyes bulging.

I really shouldn’t have done that, thought Farrell, walking away. He’d been so incensed by Walker’s ill-judged assumptions about him that he’d been unable to resist giving him a Masonic handshake as a parting shot. Only his first morning and already he’d landed in hot water.

It wasn’t as if it had been a real exorcism. Last year a complete loony tune had escaped from the local hospital and managed to bag a couple of hostages. As the guy had thought he was possessed by the devil, Farrell had pretended to exorcise the evil spirit and got him to surrender. It had been the quickest way to get the job done. Since then he had never heard the end of it. The big brass in Edinburgh had been falling over themselves to avoid him, like he had something unsavoury they might catch.

Ten minutes later, Detective Chief Inspector Lind stuck his head round the door. Farrell recognized him at once. Although he was only forty-three, the same age as Farrell, Lind was all but bald with a few remaining wisps of blond hair clinging on perilously to the side of his head. Farrell resisted the urge to run his hands through his own thick mop of hair just to check it was still there. Lind’s face cracked open into a wide smile that seemed to light up all the dark corners of the room. Farrell was amused to note that his lean fitness-fanatic friend now had the beginnings of a pot-belly.

‘Frank, welcome to the wild South West.’ Lind plonked himself down in front of the desk. ‘So, how have you been?’

Farrell thought about telling him then decided against it.

‘Oh you know, buried under a mountain of paperwork. Thought I’d see if there was any action down here or if it’s still all cattle rustling and two cop bops.’

‘You’re well behind the times there, sunshine,’ snorted Lind. ‘Breach of the peace is the least of our problems now.’

Farrell smiled warmly at his new boss and old school pal.

‘How’s Laura these days? Not sent you packing yet?’

‘I’m keeping her barefoot and pregnant, just in case.’

‘Another one!’ laughed Farrell. ‘When’s it due?’

‘The middle of September,’ said Lind. ‘You must come over for dinner soon. Laura would love to see you; be just like old times.’

‘Sure,’ said Farrell, smiling until his jaw ached. Even the mention of her name after all this time was enough to unsettle him.

Lind leapt up. ‘Got to dash, I’ve got a departmental meeting. The briefing is at nine thirty.’

Farrell wasn’t sure how he felt about having Lind as his immediate boss. On the one hand, he knew Lind wouldn’t give him any hassle. In fact, he’d probably be falling over himself not to rub his nose in it. On the other hand, he felt a bit uncomfortable having someone around who had once known him so well.

Laura McCarron: the biggest sacrifice he had ever made. Her lingering presence had occasioned him both grief and comfort over the years. To confront the reality of the woman she had become might finally restore some equanimity.

A little cheered, he applied himself to the files again until a few minutes before the scheduled briefing. As he’d suspected, the subject matter was fairly tame compared to what he’d been used to dealing with in Edinburgh.

Wandering down to the briefing room Farrell cast an expert eye over the loose assortment of officers inside. Within a few days they would differentiate into clumps of good cops, bad cops, smart cops, lazy cops and … attractive cops. He looked quickly away but not quickly enough. She’d noticed him staring and was headed straight towards him.

A pair of reserved grey eyes looked up into his and a dainty hand, cool to the touch, reached out to shake his.

‘DI Kate Moore; you must be DI Farrell?’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said with a warm smile.

A faint blush coloured her cheeks and she slid her eyes away from his.

‘If I can be of any help while you’re settling in, don’t hesitate to call on me,’ she replied before walking off rather too smartly to the other side of the room.

Farrell became aware of covert glances from other women dotted around the room. It made him feel uncomfortable and gave him the urge to retreat into himself. He did nothing to encourage female interest. His manner of dressing was low key and he doubted if he could flirt if his life depended on it. It was just a cross he had to bear. A joke by God at his expense.

An old boy with the ruddy complexion of a hardened drinker and hair like a pot scrubber wandered over next to make his acquaintance.