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

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‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Farrell.

‘I think we’ve got all bases covered. The boys’ pictures are everywhere: in social media, the papers, on leaflets. Border News televised an appeal by the parents last night. Did you catch it?’

‘Just the tail end,’ said Farrell. ‘I take it the phones have been ringing off the hook ever since?’

‘We’ve got officers working round the clock on dedicated lines but nothing concrete yet. Right now I need you to prioritize the murder investigation. The bishop is demanding daily updates, and I don’t need to tell you that the super would like nothing more than to dish your head up to him on a silver salver.’

‘You got that right. Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll catch a break in the case soon,’ said Farrell, sounding more confident than he actually felt. He turned and left the room without sharing with Lind his plans for the later part of the day.

Farrell glanced at his watch. It was time to go to the railway station and meet his old friend and spiritual adviser, Father Joe Spinelli. Given that he was in Boyd’s appointment diary, Farrell knew that he ought, by rights, to be conducting the interview at the station, to make things official, but no way was he going to put someone he revered so highly in a smelly interview room and have his soul polluted by the experience. Farrell had invited him to stay at Kelton, where he was sure he would be able to draw out any information that might be pertinent to the investigation.

Two hours later, as he served the elderly priest a modest helping of chilli, Farrell couldn’t help but feel an anticipatory pang of loss. Joe was now in his late seventies and looking increasingly frail. He had retired from active work in his Edinburgh parish and had an almost ethereal look about him, as if he was not long for this world. After his friend had said grace and eaten a few mouthfuls his pale face relaxed a little.

‘I see you still like your Gregorian chants, Frank,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I thought that after all this time your tastes might have become a little more secular.’

‘I like my music to transport me not thrash me over the head with an iron bar,’ replied Farrell.

His friend looked troubled.

‘Interesting metaphor,’ he said. ‘It must be a struggle to maintain your connection to the Divine when you are mired in such violence.’

‘You’re reading way too much into this. It was just the first random thing that came into my head,’ protested Farrell.

‘Exactly,’ said Father Joe.

Farrell glared at him, exasperated.

‘While we’re on the subject of my job there’s something I need to ask you, Joe.’

‘I’ll answer if I can,’ the priest replied.

‘Father Boyd was due to meet with you. Can you tell me what about?’

The elderly priest sighed and looked away.

‘I was his spiritual adviser, just as I am yours.’

‘For how long?’ asked Farrell, trying hard to keep the feeling of betrayal out of his voice.

‘Does it matter?’ asked the priest. ‘Long enough. Longer than you. Your paths didn’t cross until afterwards. I thought you would get over it. I thought I could help you resolve the hatred and bitterness within your heart. I was wrong, I see that now.’

Farrell felt trapped in a maelstrom of emotion that threatened to overwhelm his carefully constructed defences. He had to focus, concentrate on the case rather than what this meant for him personally.

‘I must bring his murderer to justice, Joe, don’t you see? Maybe, in the process of doing so, I can finally begin to forgive him for what he put me through. I need to know if there was something in his past that might provide a motive for someone to kill him. You were his confessor, his spiritual adviser, maybe even his friend. Be his advocate. Tell me what I need to know,’ begged Farrell, clasping the priest’s hand.

Father Joe initially struggled, like his hand was a captive bird, but then the fight went out of him and he slumped in his seat.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I don’t have all the answers you’re looking for. If I did, I would have been in touch before now. However, I can tell you there were a number of things troubling him shortly before his death.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Farrell.

‘I used to meet with him up in Edinburgh once every two months, more if required. The last time I saw him was the Friday before he died.’

Farrell leaned forward in his seat. ‘Go on.’

‘He was concerned about the young priest, Father Malone. He believed he was struggling to maintain a celibate lifestyle.’

‘A woman?’ asked Farrell.

‘Would that it was that simple,’ said the priest with a heavy sigh.

‘You don’t mean …?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Was Boyd going to take the matter to the bishop?’

‘I believe that was his intention, yes. He was going to give Father Malone one further opportunity to—’

‘To what? Toe the party line or else?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but in essence …’

‘The housekeeper mentioned she’d overheard them arguing the night Boyd was murdered,’ said Farrell.

Father Joe clutched the table.

‘What are you saying? You don’t think that …?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied Farrell. ‘If Boyd had simply been hit over the head with a vase in the heat of the moment I might figure maybe it was Malone, but the way he was killed … that was real evil at work.’

‘Unless it was calculated to throw you off the scent; convince you that you were dealing with something entirely different in character.’

Farrell sat back in his chair and regarded the elderly priest quizzically.

‘I can’t believe you just came out with that,’ he said.

‘I don’t know why you find it surprising,’ Father Joe said with a sad smile. ‘After a lifetime of service in the Church I have seen how the human soul can transcend its existence and become a thing of beauty no matter what its earthly travail. I have also seen how easily a Godless soul can be polluted by evil until it is a scream of agony contaminating everything it touches.’

‘And here’s me thinking a man of the cloth like you just sits in his ivory tower counting rosary beads all day,’ said Farrell, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Father Joe laughed and the tension momentarily left his shoulders.

‘Did Father Boyd know that he was running out of time?’ asked Farrell.

‘He was aware he had months rather than years left to live.’

The elderly priest paused and looked away.

Farrell leaned forward in his chair. ‘What is it, Joe? What aren’t you telling me? There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘He talked about you, that last Friday.’

‘Me? What about me?’ asked Farrell.

‘The way he had behaved towards you in the past. I got the impression that it was weighing heavily upon him and that he wished to make amends. He also seemed to think he had wronged your mother.’

‘My mother? What’s she got to do with anything?’

‘It’s probably nothing. He’d had a couple of brandies after dinner, said it helped with the pain. I didn’t like to press him.’

Farrell suddenly became aware that Father Joe was looking exhausted and felt a prickle of guilt. He poured two coffees and led the elderly priest upstairs to a comfortable seat in the lounge with panoramic views over the River Nith to the rolling hills beyond. In companionable silence they sat together enjoying the view to the uplifting strains of Bach.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#ulink_aa242be4-45ac-564c-8d85-9d2ddcb01686)

The next morning, Farrell arrived at the Crichton Hospital and ducked into the men’s room before announcing himself at reception. He splashed his face with cold water. The face that looked back at him out of the mirror gave nothing away. Good, that was how he wanted it.

Sitting in the waiting room, he remembered the last time he had been waiting here to see Dr Clare Yates. Mental illness was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. It stripped you bare, turned you inside out for others to gawp at. A lot of what had happened to him was mercifully blank. He could still, however, remember the gut-wrenching terror afforded by the paranoid delusions. The episode of psychosis had never reoccurred although the fear that it might was like a persistent needle in the psyche that never let him alone.

He had had to submit to a stringent psychiatric evaluation when he joined the police and had to submit an annual report from his psychiatrist in Edinburgh to confirm that he was still of sound mind and cooperating with his treatment plan. He seriously doubted that there was any point in taking the tiny maintenance dose prescribed but he didn’t feel inclined to make a fuss. He had been lucky to be taken on back then and he knew it.

Clare Yates had been like a cool drink of water to a man dying of thirst. Back then, still in her twenties, she had the effortless poise and confidence enjoyed by the alpha female at the top of her game. After years of depriving himself of female company he had fallen for her like a ton of bricks, mistaking clinical passion and concerned glances for something else. Recalling the moment when he had leaned across and kissed her on the mouth he remembered with shame the revulsion he had seen on her face. After that, he’d been referred to someone else, a senior male psychiatrist, who’d eventually stitched his shattered self back into something capable of masquerading as normality. Over time, the pretence became real.

Farrell gave himself a mental shake. He hadn’t thought about Clare Yates for years. What was the matter with him? It must be being here in this room that had triggered all these unwanted memories. He was a police inspector now, a grown man in a position of authority not some broken-down washed-up priest. She’d better not try and stonewall him or she’d soon see he meant business.