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

‘Was there anything going on between them, do you think?’ asked Byers.

Farrell’s jaw tightened. Get a grip man. Why, after all these years, did he still feel a compulsion to protect the reputation of the dead priest, despite all that had happened? He became aware of the silence. Everyone was staring at him.

‘She was willing to risk her own neck to protect his memory. Whether she was also sleeping with him, who can say? However, as Father Malone lived in the same house, I would suggest that it’s unlikely. You can do a bit of digging, if you like. A bit of subtlety wouldn’t go amiss though, if you think you can manage that?’

Byers looked offended. However, there were knowing smirks around the room.

‘Right, if there’s nothing else, everyone get to it. I don’t need to remind you all that the clock’s ticking. Every hour that passes makes catching the murderer that bit harder.’

Farrell headed for the sanctuary of his office and closed the door. He craved solitude like a junkie needing a fix. Sinking into his chair he inhaled deeply. Closing his eyes did not make the nightmare images of Boyd kneeling before him recede. Rather, they seemed to be burned onto his retina. He glanced over at his wastepaper bin and saw the crumpled pink message slip lying where he had hurled it only this morning. The worm of guilt burrowed deep within him. Maybe Boyd had been reaching out to him for help. If he hadn’t been so pig-headed maybe he could have done something to save him.

The phone rang. It was PC Thomson informing him Father Malone had arrived for questioning. He headed for the interview room, collecting DS Stirling on the way. Maybe now the young priest would be more forthcoming than he had been this morning.

Opening the door, he saw that the priest was still deeply shocked. His hands were clasped together in front of him as if in prayer but Farrell suspected it was more to try and stop them shaking than anything else. His left eye had developed a slight twitch that wasn’t there this morning.

Once the tape recorder had been switched on and introductions made Father Malone pushed over a chunky folder, filled with names and addresses.

‘Here’s the parish register. Most of our active parishioners should be included but there are also a fair number of people who turn up to Mass week in and out but don’t seek to become further involved. If they haven’t been baptized, married, or confirmed in the Church, they won’t be noted down anywhere.’

‘Thank you; that’s most helpful,’ said Farrell.

DS Stirling settled back in his chair, letting Farrell take the lead, as agreed earlier.

‘Father Boyd was an old-school priest, very black and white in his views, wasn’t he?’

‘You could say that,’ said Malone, swallowing hard.

‘Not exactly tolerant?’

‘No, he believed very firmly in upholding the teachings of the Church.’

‘A man like that must have made some enemies along the way, surely?’

‘Well, yes, up to a point but nothing to incite a crime of this … magnitude or depravity. It was all small stuff, really.’

‘Maybe not to the people involved?’

‘The kind of thing I’m talking about is refusing religious instruction for kids whose parents want to send them to a secular school rather than the Catholic primary or refusing to do a Requiem Mass for lapsed Catholics. Nothing worth killing over.’

‘So, you’re saying he was petty?’

‘He would see it as principled: setting a strong moral compass for his congregation.’

Petty, vindictive, and narrow-minded, thought Farrell, feeling his ire rising. He pushed the thoughts away and resumed, now with a hard edge to his voice.

‘What were you and the deceased arguing about the night he died?’

Colour flamed in Malone’s face and he dropped his eyes.

‘Well?’ demanded Farrell.

‘If you must know, he said that he doubted my vocation and that I should give some thought to leaving the priesthood. Yes, we argued. For once I stood up to him but I didn’t kill him. In fact, I tried to forgive him … I’m still trying,’ he said in a low voice.

Farrell regarded him. Malone’s version of events certainly tallied with his own memories of Boyd. In any event, they had nothing tangible to suggest he might be a suspect so probably best to cut him loose for now and not antagonize him further. He glanced over at Stirling, who gave a micro shrug in response.

‘Interview terminated at 15.46,’ he said for the benefit of the tape.

He escorted Malone back out to reception and watched until he was out of sight. Stirling had clearly thought the priest was on the level but he still had a niggling feeling he might be missing something. But what?

Feeling his energy levels starting to flag once more he grabbed more coffee and a Mars bar on the way back to the MCA room. His stomach grumbled in protest. This case was giving a whole new meaning to the phrase baptism of fire.

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

Mary Flannigan sat across the table from Farrell, refusing to look him in the eye. The duty solicitor, a lad who looked barely old enough to drink, sat beside her. This time, Farrell had felt it politic to let Stirling conduct the interview and had instructed him to go on a charm offensive at the outset.

Stirling got everyone present to introduce themselves for the tape.

‘I would like to remind you that you are still under caution and that anything you say may be used in evidence against you in court. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not stupid,’ she retorted.

‘Miss Flannigan, aside from these proceedings, first of all let me offer my condolences. I know that this must be very difficult for you. I understand that you had worked for Father Boyd as his housekeeper for some twenty years?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘What did you do before that?’

Farrell realized even he didn’t know the answer to that question. Mary Flannigan looked shifty, embarrassed.

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant?’ she countered.

‘Just answer the question, please,’ insisted Stirling.

Struck a nerve there, thought Farrell.

‘On the advice of my solicitor, no comment.’

Her young solicitor looked somewhat startled, and she tapped the side of her nose at him.

‘Would it be fair to say that Father Boyd relied on you heavily?’ asked Stirling, laying it on with a trowel.

‘Of course he did; the poor man would have been lost without me to take care of him,’ she replied, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes with a tissue.

‘Would you say that you were close?’

The shutters came down.

‘Just what are you insinuating?’ she snapped.