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

‘DS Stirling; I hear you’re a local man,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ replied Farrell.

‘And would you be related to Yvonne Farrell, by any chance?’

‘She’s my mother.’

‘Is she now?’ said DS Stirling, gazing at him. ‘I know her from the bowling. I didn’t know she had a son. It’s a small world, eh?’

‘Some might say too small,’ Farrell replied, feeling the tension in his jaw.

‘Come and meet one of the other sergeants: DS Byers.’

Farrell followed Stirling across the room to where a man in his early thirties with the gym-sculpted body of the truly narcissistic was trying to impress DI Moore. Farrell was amused to note that she looked unmistakably relieved at their approach, which enabled her to extricate herself.

DS Byers then turned and pumped Farrell’s hand so hard his fingers lost their blood supply.

‘DS Byers at your service, Sir, or should I say Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?’

There was a collective intake of breath as the eyes of all those in the room nervously flicked their way. Farrell, making them sweat, coolly looked around them all and then back at the hapless Byers, who was already regretting his foray into levity.

‘I don’t know, Byers, should you?’ Farrell asked.

Just then DCI Lind entered and the confrontation was over as soon as it began. Farrell took a seat at the back, the better to observe his fellow officers.

‘The tourist season is starting to kick off now so we’re going to have to clamp down on Jimmy McMurdo’s wee gang on the Whitesands,’ announced Lind.

There were a few snickers at this from which Farrell deduced Jimmy McMurdo was filed under ‘local colour’. Lind held his hand up for silence and continued.

‘Scintillating repartee with the local winos won’t be at the top of anybody’s holiday wish list. The byelaws are there so use them.’

They all listened fairly attentively as Lind briefed them on ongoing enquiries and allocated actions for that day. Farrell was impressed; his old friend seemed to run a tight ship.

Behind him there was a minor commotion as a somewhat dishevelled young woman with bloodshot eyes entered. She tried to slip into the seat beside him only to drop the folder she was carrying with a bang. Malicious eyes pivoted to her and then back to DI Lind. Lind paused mid-sentence and glared, his expression a few degrees before zero.

‘Nice of you to join us, DC McLeod,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Sir, the bus—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. We’re public servants and as such we’re paid to work, not to get up and wander in when we feel like it.’

‘No, Sir,’ said the unfortunate constable.

‘Moving on then …’ said Lind.

Farrell tuned out and studied his new neighbour. A faint whiff of stale booze and cigarettes wafted over him causing his nose to prickle in distaste. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed and there was a small ladder in her tights. Sensing his scrutiny, she turned and scowled at him. He tried a rueful grin but she was having none of it.

Suddenly, a young police officer burst through the door with such force that it banged against the wall. Lind opened his mouth to give him a roasting then stopped, taking in the lad’s white face and serious expression.

Farrell stiffened. Something bad had happened. He could smell it. Lind took the constable to one side, his expression becoming graver as he listened to what he had to say, and then motioned for him to sit.

‘Listen up, people. PC Thomson has just informed me that there’s been a murder down at St Aidan’s: the elderly priest there, Father Boyd.’

Farrell could feel the blood drain from his head and forced himself to surreptitiously take deep breaths until the dizziness receded. He became aware that he was being watched curiously by DC McLeod and gave her a savage glare that caused her to redden and turn away. He brought his whirling thoughts back under control just in time to hear Lind appointing him as Senior Investigating Officer.

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

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.