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

‘Police,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t move!’

As he shone the thin light of his torch in the direction of the sound, he met the interested gaze of a belted Galloway cow.

From ahead the faint sound of mocking laughter drifted towards him on the back of the slight breeze that had got up. He spun round to give chase but it was one bit of nifty footwork too many. His feet went from under him, and he landed face down in the brackish mud.

Squelching home, he noticed more than one curtain twitching. Grabbing a torch from his car he circumnavigated the cottage checking for signs of forced entry, but there were none. At least he interrupted the burglar before he had a chance to break in. Not that he had anything worth taking.

After a long hot shower Farrell pulled on a faded pair of jeans and a navy roll-neck sweater. He padded through to the sitting room in his bare feet and inserted some Gregorian chants in the CD player. Pouring himself a generous measure of whisky, he sank back onto the leather couch and lost himself in the soothing rhythms of the music.

Later, as he got up to change the CD Farrell noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Through the door of the sitting room he could see downstairs to the front door. Something was poking out from under the doormat. Warily he went down the stairs and pulled out a single piece of paper. In ragged capitals, it said:

I’M TEMPTED TO CONFESS

YOUR GUILT WILL GROW AND GROW

ONLY YOU CAN STOP ME NOW

JUST LIKE BEFORE

Farrell sucked in his breath. What did it mean? He paced up and down the confines of his small cottage for half an hour before dismissing the letter as a crude prank. It was just a shot in the dark. Everyone had a guilty conscience about something, didn’t they? It clearly had nothing to do with Boyd’s murder at any rate and that was all he was concerned with right now. The lettering was completely different, and Boyd’s anonymous letters had been unambiguously threatening in tone, whereas this one was more couched as a sort of riddle. Probably just some yob who’d figured out he had a copper living near him and decided to have a laugh at his expense.

Utterly exhausted he climbed into his pyjamas and glanced at the towering stack of books on his bedside table. He flicked through the latest sci-fi offering from his favourite author. Tempting though it was, he didn’t have the mental energy to enter another world tonight. Instead, he picked up a well-worn leather volume. Lips moving silently, he read The Divine Office until sleep claimed him.

Promptly at ten the following morning, Farrell and McLeod entered Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. Farrell glanced at McLeod and saw that she was looking apprehensive. For the first time he wondered if he should have brought her along. He’d figured she could use the experience. As they went down in the lift to the mortuary, it felt as though they were descending into the bowels of Hell. As soon as they arrived they were issued with robes and masks then bade to enter the post-mortem room.

As usual, the first thing that hit Farrell was the smell of formaldehyde, although it was the pungent smells creeping under the edges that really did for him. Feeling light-headed, he breathed shallowly and tried not to gag. Boyd’s body was laid out on the slab, and Farrell had to struggle not to avert his eyes. This was the first post-mortem he’d attended where he actually knew the victim. As he saw the pitiably frail body that had been disguised by the magnificent silk vestments of the Church he felt like the worst kind of voyeur. He glanced at McLeod. She was pale but bearing up.

The pathologist gave them a brief nod before starting to dictate. As it was a murder investigation, Bartle-White was assisted by an independent visiting professor of pathology from Glasgow.

After a while the officers were beckoned over by an imperious gloved finger. Bartle-White pointed to the neck of the deceased.

‘Cause of death, I would say, has been strangulation. The ligature seems to have been some kind of chain; see those indentations?’

‘Could it have been a rosary?’ asked Farrell, feeling sick to the pit of his stomach.

The pathologist stepped back, thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s possible, although it would have had to have been very strong to withstand the force applied.’

‘How about this?’ asked Farrell, pulling an evidence bag out of his pocket. ‘This was wrapped round the victim’s hands.’

Bartle-White studied the rosary carefully and turned once more to the deceased.

‘Yes, I should say that in all likelihood that is the murder weapon. Did it belong to the deceased?’

Farrell slapped his head in annoyance.

‘McLeod, once you’re done here, go and see Father Malone and get him to confirm whether or not this rosary belonged to Boyd.’

‘I would say that death occurred between 10 p.m. and midnight and that, judging by the lividity of the corpse, the body was not subsequently moved. There is a depressed fracture of the skull, which is the source of all the blood, but that was not of sufficient severity to have killed him outright,’ continued Bartle-White, in the manner of one discussing the vagaries of the weather.

He then picked up a scalpel, and Farrell tried not to flinch as the first incision was made. The pathologist continued his work dispassionately; his dry words punctuated by the unseemly squelches of a body giving up its secrets.

‘Hang on a moment, what do we have here?’

The pathologist held up a small silver object covered in blood and other gunk.

‘This was lodged in the victim’s digestive system. I would say it is likely it was consumed immediately prior to death,’ he said, sounding bemused.

It appeared to be a small religious icon of a baby Jesus. Bartle-White cleaned it up, popped it into an evidence bag, and signed the label. Farrell co-signed the label and gave it to McLeod.

‘When you go to see Father Malone ask him about this as well. Don’t let on where it turned up; just ask him if it belonged to Boyd or if he’s seen anything like it before. If that draws a blank, then get on to ecclesiastical suppliers; see if there’s anywhere locally it could have been purchased.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said McLeod. ‘Should I get on it right away?’ she asked hopefully.

Farrell took pity on her.

‘Go on, then, scarper.’

She didn’t need to be told twice.

The post-mortem threw up nothing else out of the ordinary. It transpired that Boyd, like so many priests, had turned to the bottle. His liver was shot through with cirrhosis. If he hadn’t been murdered, he would likely have been dead within the year.

As Farrell drove away from the morgue he reflected that, had it not been for Boyd taking the action he did, in another twenty-five years he too might have been a lonely old man seeking solace in a bottle. Although it was out of his way, Farrell drove slowly by St Aidan’s, feeling heartsore at the way things had turned out.

The church was located in a predominantly working-class area. It was a busy parish with a catchment area that took in ghetto-style housing estates where drugs spawned crime and poverty as well as the determinedly genteel areas of those who were either climbing up or sliding down the social scale: a true microcosm of society. Many here turned to religion as a means of combating their despair at the hopelessness of their situation. Others turned their back on God, rejecting Him with all the angry defiance of which they were capable. This could have been his parish had things turned out differently, had Father Boyd not … but the man was dead. It was a matter for God to judge his actions now. As for Farrell, he must now bring his murderer to justice, regardless of his feelings about the man.