Jackie Baldwin - Dead Man’s Prayer

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First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Jackie Baldwin 2016

Jackie Baldwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Philippe Lesprit/PlainPicture (land); Shutterstock.com(sky)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008200954

Version: 2019-10-31

For Guy

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

June 2012

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

If you enjoyed Dead Man’s Prayer , read on for an exclusive extract from the next thriller in the Frank Farrell series

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

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.

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.