Jackie Baldwin - Dead Man’s Prayer - A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist

‘When did you last see Father Boyd?’

‘It would have been around ten p.m.,’ he murmured. ‘I left him sitting here, reading a book, while I went to bed. Mary had already gone upstairs and he told me he’d lock up.’

‘Did he mention any plans to go out?’

‘No. It was just an ordinary night.’

‘What did you talk about?’

The young priest looked unaccountably furtive.

‘Nothing in particular, just bits and pieces.’

Farrell sat back and stared at Father Malone thoughtfully. What wasn’t he telling him? The silence lengthened. Through the wall he heard the tap running in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes. The young priest continued to avoid his gaze, two spots of colour now staining his cheeks.

‘No unexpected visitors, late phone calls?’

‘Wait, I did hear the phone ring. It woke me then I dozed off again.’

‘Any idea what time that might have been?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Had he seemed himself lately?’ asked Farrell. ‘Anything appear to be worrying him?’

‘He’d received a few crank letters: three, I think. He tried to brush it off but I could tell he was upset by them.’

‘What was in them?’

‘He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t like to pry. He’s … he was a very private man, liked to keep people at a distance.’

‘And you didn’t try and sneak a peek?’

‘Certainly not! I probably wouldn’t even have known about them had I not got up before Father Boyd on one occasion. I saw something lying on the mat and was about to pick it up when Father Boyd yelled at me not to touch it. He was clearly upset. I remember his hands were shaking and he stumbled back against the wall as he was reading it,’ said the priest.

‘These letters, were they posted or hand delivered?’

‘Hand delivered, I believe. Do you think they’ve got anything to do with …?’

‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell. ‘Where did Father Boyd keep the letters?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said the priest.

‘Do I have your permission to search the house?’

‘Yes, of course. Do what you have to,’ said the priest.

‘One more thing. Did Father Boyd keep an appointment diary? It might help if we can track his movements prior to the murder.’

The young priest leapt to his feet with an air of relief and fetched a leather-bound diary from the hall. Farrell turned to the weeks before and after the killing. His eyebrows shot up as he noted that Boyd had met with Father Joe Spinelli, Farrell’s own spiritual adviser, the Friday before he died. Turning the next few pages, Farrell spotted the name Clare Yates. His pulse quickened. She was still here after all these years then. Worse, he was going to have to follow this up.

Still scowling, Farrell went into the kitchen and found DC McLeod sitting beside two mugs of tea on the table. Instantly, he tensed.

‘Where’d she go?’ he demanded.

DC McLeod looked surprised at the urgency in his voice. ‘She said she needed to go to the bathroom. What’s up?’

Farrell didn’t reply but tore out the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. Hearing the sounds of drawers banging shut he raced past the unoccupied bathroom, followed by a perplexed McLeod, and crashed through the door the noise was coming from. The housekeeper was standing with her back to him. He strode over and spun her round, his suspicions realized. She was holding a piece of paper to a cigarette lighter. Farrell snatched the charred bit of paper off her but most of it had been destroyed. Father Malone arrived at the open door and took in the scene.

‘Mary, what have you done?’ he remonstrated.

Farrell was furious. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and unceremoniously handcuffed the housekeeper, whose bravado was now overlaid with apprehension.

‘I am detaining you on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used in evidence against you,’ Farrell snapped.

‘I won’t have you lot trying to blacken his name. He was a good man,’ Mary mumbled, refusing to meet his eye.

‘Did you get that?’ said Farrell to McLeod, who was busily scribbling away in her notebook.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Father Malone gestured helplessly to the handcuffs.

‘Look, is all this really necessary?’

‘Too right,’ said Farrell grimly. ‘She’s destroyed a major piece of evidence.’

‘I didn’t even know she knew about the letters. Father Boyd must have confided in her,’ the priest said, sounding surprised.

At that point two uniforms came in, having been summoned by radio, and led the now sobbing housekeeper away. Farrell followed them out to the waiting squad car. As she was about to get into the back seat she whipped round to face him. It took the combined efforts of the two young officers to hold her steady.

‘They had an argument last night, Father Boyd and that apology for a priest in there. I heard them shouting while I was in bed.’

‘You heard Father Malone shouting?’ asked Farrell, his gaze sceptical.

‘Well, I heard Father Boyd shouting at him, and he must have done something to rile him up so much. There’s a black heart under that cassock, I’m telling you …’

Farrell tried to hide his distaste and looked at her impassively, though he could feel his temper rising.

‘Did you hear what the argument was about?’ he asked.

‘I couldn’t hear from my room.’

She looked down furtively and Farrell resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

‘Did you get up, perhaps, for a drink of water?’ asked Farrell.

‘As it happens I did,’ she said.

‘And?’ snapped Farrell.

‘It was all over by the time I got downstairs. Father Malone brushed past me without so much as a by-your-leave so I got my drink and went back to bed. Poor Father Boyd was never very lucky with his priests now, was he?’ she added for his benefit.

Farrell itched to retaliate and wipe the malicious grin off her face, but instead indicated to the officers that they should proceed, turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

He had intended to ask Father Malone about the argument there and then but the young priest looked about fit to keel over. It could keep. Knowing Boyd and his temper as he did it was probably something and nothing anyway.

‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to turn this place over. Is there anywhere you can go and stay meantime?’

‘There is a couple I’m friendly with. I’m sure they would put me up,’ Father Malone replied, looking as though his legs might collapse from under him at any second.

Farrell glanced at DC McLeod.

‘On it, Sir,’ she said, and escorted the young priest out to more waiting uniforms.

She was holding up well, thought Farrell. It wasn’t at all common for officers in Dumfries to be faced with a murder of this nature. Perhaps there was more to party cop than he’d thought.

Farrell ran an expert eye over Boyd’s bedroom, scanning for likely hiding places. The room was large and comfortably furnished with a liberal smattering of antiques and the odd expensive-looking oil painting. The rich reds and greens of the Axminster carpet threw the drabness elsewhere in the house into sharp relief. The double bed was piled high with a sumptuous quilt and scatter cushions. So much for the vow of poverty, thought Farrell, picking up the lid of a fine cut-glass decanter and sniffing the expensive brandy it contained. He rifled through the good quality suits in the wardrobes, raising an eyebrow at some of the labels. Boyd had clearly developed a taste for the finer things of life. Relentlessly he pressed into every nook and cranny with probing fingers. Nothing. He turned his attention to the walnut bookcase where there were many scholarly theological volumes. On the bottom, pushed self-consciously to the back of the shelf, were a number of paperback thrillers. He flicked briskly through each of these, looking to see if anything was hidden between the pages. Again, nothing.