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

They were ushered into the house by PC Thomson, who had been waiting with the parents until Farrell could get there. The first thing that met their eyes on going into the hall was a studio portrait of the family. Farrell paused to study it, allowing Mhairi to precede him into the lounge. An attractive woman with honey blonde hair and dimples had her arms resting on the shoulders of two mischievous-looking toddlers, who were dressed alike and had an identical smattering of freckles across upturned noses. Their eyes were sparkling with merriment as though the photographer had just made them laugh. Positioned slightly self-consciously to the rear was a short thickset man whose eyes rested on his family rather than on the camera.

Farrell walked into the lounge feeling a weight settle on his chest. Mhairi was sitting with her arm round a shaking woman, who Farrell took to be the mother. Despite the fact that she still had her work suit on she bore little resemblance to the confident immaculately groomed woman in the photograph. Her hair was straggly and unkempt and mascara ran down channels gouged by tears.

PC Thomson looked ill at ease and as if he wished he were someplace else. Tough, thought Farrell; there was more to being a copper than running around in panda cars, chasing baddies, and the sooner the lad realized it the better.

He walked over to the woman and sat beside her on the large couch, folding both her manicured hands inside his own.

‘DI Farrell. I’m so sorry that this has happened to your family. You have my assurance that we will not rest until your little boys have been returned to you.’

Dead or alive, added Farrell grimly in his own head.

‘Elspeth Summers,’ she said, raising her eyes to meet his.

‘Can you tell me exactly what each of the boys was wearing today? The nursery teacher wasn’t completely sure.’ He signalled to PC Thomson, who took out his notebook, pen at the ready.

‘Mark had on red joggers, a white T-shirt, and navy cardigan with Thomas the Tank Engine on the pocket, and white trainers. Jamie had green joggers, a yellow T-shirt, and a cream knitted jumper. My mother knitted it. Oh God, my mother! She doesn’t know yet.’

‘All in good time,’ soothed Farrell. ‘Jamie’s shoes?’

‘Black trainers.’

‘Are they identical twins or fraternal?’

‘Identical.’

Farrell heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway with a spurt of gravel and turned his head to see a man running to the front door. Gently, he disengaged himself from Elspeth and stood up.

A red-faced man burst into the room, causing the door to slam against the wall. His eyes were frantic with anxiety and flecks of spittle sprayed out when he spoke.

‘Who’s in charge here?’

‘That would be me, DI Farrell.’

‘Why are you here? Why aren’t you out looking for my sons? Anything could be happening to them while you’re here … anything.’

The man started to sway, and Farrell quickly grabbed an upright chair and caught him as his legs buckled, pushing his head down between his knees until the light-headedness went.

‘Barry!’ remonstrated his wife from the settee, getting to her feet unsteadily. ‘My husband doesn’t mean it, Inspector; he’s just worried sick. We both are.’

Farrell looked them both in the eyes and spoke with quiet urgency.

‘Be assured that right now we’ve got every available officer on the streets searching high and low for Mark and Jamie. Our press officer is liaising with the media to ensure as wide coverage as possible. By lunchtime today every library, post office, school, and the town centre will be plastered with pictures of your sons and offering a reward for any information leading to their safe return. We have experts in social media sending out alerts on every possible site. We know our business and we will stop at nothing to ensure a good outcome for you and your family. The reason I’ve come is to try and ascertain whether you can give us any additional information that might narrow the search.’

‘Like what?’ asked the father, quietly this time.

‘Have you noticed anyone hanging around, looking suspicious?’

‘No, no one,’ they said in unison.

‘Have you had any cold callers? Anyone on the doorstep trying to sell you anything? Any unfamiliar cars parked nearby, particularly grey Primera cars?’

They shook their heads helplessly.

‘Have you had any contact with the social work department?’

The man bristled.

‘No, of course not! What are you implying?’

‘The man who took your sons produced a social work ID. Does the name David Nolan mean anything to you?’

‘No, should it?’ asked Elspeth, anxiously.

‘Is he the bastard who did this? When I get my hands on him I’ll—’

‘Barry! Shut up, you’re not helping. While you’re shouting the odds, some nutter could be harming our children.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He tailed off into silence.

Farrell had seen this type of bluster a number of times in similar situations. The ungovernable frustration and rage of a man who feels he has failed to protect his family. He shot a sympathetic glance at the man, who had again simmered down.

‘Have you had any unusual telephone calls?’

‘A couple of wrong numbers, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Elspeth answered.

‘Anyone threatened you recently; anyone have a grudge against you?’

‘I’m a car salesman, for God’s sake …’ Barry said. ‘Just a regular bloke …’

Farrell put a finger under his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. He paused, reluctant to clobber them with more unpalatable information.

‘It’s possible there may be a ransom demand in a while.’

‘Is that what this is about, money?’ asked Barry, eyes wide with terror.

‘It’s a possibility,’ replied Farrell.

‘But we have no money. We’re in debt up to our eyeballs,’ said Elspeth in a low voice.

‘It’s the recession. Things haven’t been so good of late …’ said her husband.

So it wasn’t about money, thought Farrell. That didn’t bode well.

‘They haven’t got their comforters with them,’ said Elspeth, on the verge of losing it.

‘Someone will be round shortly to modify your phone so that we can try and trace the call should the abductor try and contact you for any reason. Try not to give up hope. It’s early days yet.’

Farrell stood up, ready to leave.

‘I’ve appointed DC McLeod here as your Family Liaison Officer. She’ll stay here with you for a while in case the man makes contact and also fill you in on any developments. She can also deal with any members of the press that decide to make a nuisance of themselves. I’m taking the other officer with me to help with the search.’

‘Can I come?’ blurted out Barry. ‘Anything’s better than just sitting here … wondering.’

Farrell looked at him. If anything had happened to those two little boys this guy wasn’t going to make it.

‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just not possible. In any event, I think your wife needs you here.’

He gestured to Mhairi to walk him out and when they were out of earshot he said to her, ‘keep your eye on him. He’s not thinking straight.’

‘Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll keep on top of the situation,’ McLeod answered, her determination belied just slightly by the worry lines snaking across her forehead.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Farrell’s leg jiggled with impatience as he sat in the carpeted reception area of police headquarters at Cornwall Mount. Situated well out of the town centre the light-filled atrium and tasteful foliage creeping unobtrusively around it would not look amiss in a posh hotel. Gloria, the immaculately groomed civilian receptionist, suddenly turned a full-voltage smile on him and told him to go straight on down to the armoury in the basement.

As he rounded the corner, walking past the twenty-five metre firing range, Farrell saw the firearms sergeant briefing his men in quiet emphatic tones. The atmosphere was tense with none of the usual banter. The doors to both the weapons armoury and, across the corridor, the ammunitions armoury, were still open. As his men began to file out to their waiting vehicles Sergeant Forsythe turned his measured gaze on Farrell.

‘Well, Sir, what can I do you for? You’ll need a bulletproof vest for starters.’

‘I’d like the bog standard one, not the heavy-duty version,’ requested Farrell.

The vests that the firearms team wore were damn heavy and he wanted to be able to give chase if necessary. It was well known that the members of the firearms team were among the fittest on the force. They had to be.

‘I believe you’re authorized to carry a firearm, Sir?’

‘Just give me a Taser,’ said Farrell decisively. ‘That’ll do me. Has DS Stirling been down to get equipped?’

‘He’s waiting for you in the car park, Sir.’

By the time Farrell and Stirling had driven over to Hardacre Road, Sergeant Forsythe already had his men in place. A number of uniforms were dispersed around the perimeter of the property awaiting further instructions. A cordon had been set up to keep back members of the public in case things turned nasty. The bungalow looked uncared for, as did the small rectangular garden, which was choked with weeds. There was no sign of movement from within.

Farrell and Stirling approached through the rusty gate that screeched out a warning of their approach. Farrell noticed that Stirling was trembling and chalky white. He’d selected him because of his age and experience, but looking at him now Farrell suspected his backup wouldn’t amount to much. Two of the firearms team took up position behind them on either side of the front door. Farrell knocked briskly, adrenalin flooding his system, causing his heart to pound. There was no response from inside the house.

After a few seconds, he was about to give the order to bust the door down when there was a sound of a bolt sliding back on the other side. A man put his head round the door then promptly ducked back in, trying to slam it shut. Farrell was having none of it. He blocked the door with his shoulder and flashed his warrant card.

‘David Nolan, we are investigating the abduction of two boys and believe that you might have information pertinent to our inquiry.’

The man silently let go of the door and trudged into the interior of the house, followed by Stirling and Farrell. As he turned to face them they could see beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. His sweat gave off a sour odour that Farrell had encountered many times: the smell of fear.

At a nod from Farrell, Stirling proceeded to methodically search the house. Farrell plonked himself down in an armchair and crossed his legs as though this were a social call. Nolan dithered for a few seconds, unsure of how to react, then sank into the chair opposite.

‘You’ll find nothing here,’ he said. ‘Them kiddies going missing has nothing to do with me.’

Farrell was inclined to agree. David Nolan was a sorry specimen of manhood. About five feet seven inches, his hair was sparse and speckled with grey. Flaccid and pale, he had on an old pair of baggy joggers and a khaki sweatshirt that bore traces of previous meals. Hardly credible that a man like him would have the balls to carry off a crime like this. So why did he look so nervous then? What did he have to hide? There was a computer in the corner of the room with a screensaver on and Farrell noticed that Nolan’s eyes periodically slithered towards it and then flicked back to him. Interesting.

Stirling came back in looking disappointed.

‘Nothing, Sir. No sign the boys have ever been here.’

Nolan looked smug. Farrell gave him a hard stare then walked purposefully towards the computer.

Nolan jumped to his feet and shouted, ‘stay away from that, you’ve got no right. Leave it alone.’

‘Oops,’ said Farrell theatrically and stumbled.

As he put out his hands, ostensibly to save himself, he pressed the mouse on the computer and the screensaver vanished. Farrell blanched. Behind him he heard Stirling curse. Hardened as he’d had to become to the darker side of human nature, Farrell had rarely seen anything as horrific as the images of child pornography that dominated the screen. The suffering in the eyes of that small child would haunt him for a long time to come.

‘It’s not mine. Someone’s trying to set me up,’ whined Nolan as Farrell roughly snapped the handcuffs on and read him his rights, barely able to contain his fury.

Farrell left Stirling to supervise the seizure of the computer and search for further evidence then made his way back to the station. If it wasn’t this creep was it possible that the abductor of the twins had flagged him deliberately? Or was it simply a convenient theft of identity? At any rate it would give the vice boys something to chew on and, with a bit of luck, Nolan would give up some other low-lives into the bargain. He didn’t strike Farrell as the stoical type.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Back at the station, Farrell dodged into the washroom and soaped his face and arms up to the elbows then did it again for good measure. Sometimes this job made him feel so polluted he imagined the grime seeped right into his soul. As he rinsed off he caught a glimpse of his enraged face in the mirror and slammed his fist into the wall beside it, wishing it was Nolan’s face. The pain would help to calm him. He didn’t often lose his self-control, which had been hard won over the years, but right now he was spoiling for a fight. Anything to get those images elbowed out of his mind. Struggling for composure, he took a few deep breaths and gradually regained mastery over his emotions. Checking in the mirror that his face was once more cool and impassive, giving nothing away, he strode back out into the corridor.

As he passed the conference suite, he glanced through the glass door and saw Border TV setting up for a televised appeal. Mhairi was inside with DI Moore and the family. He caught her eye and beckoned to her and she excused herself and hurried over.

‘How are they holding up?’ Farrell asked, but really he wanted to see how she was holding up, since he had taken something of a gamble in having her appointed as FLO.

‘Not so good, Sir,’ she replied. ‘But, I guess that’s to be expected. We had all been hoping that Nolan had them at the house so that was a massive blow. Do you think he knows the kidnapper, Sir?’

‘I doubt it but he might know something that we can use. He’s being interviewed shortly by DCI Lind and DS Byers. And how are you managing, Mhairi?’

‘Fine, Sir. I mean it’s challenging and exhausting but nothing compared to what the parents are going through.’

Farrell could see the parents, Elspeth and Barry, being led to the table by DI Moore and the reporter taking up her position in readiness.

‘You’d better get back in there. I reckon they’re about to start. Keep me posted.’

‘Will do, Sir.’

Farrell’s radio beeped. He’d asked Byers to let him know when Nolan was due to be questioned as he wanted to watch the interview take place from behind the one-way mirror in the adjacent room. There was nothing further he could do on the Boyd case for the time being and he wanted to keep up to speed on the missing boys just in case Lind needed backup. DI Moore seemed to have things well under control but he didn’t yet fully have her measure. His old friend hadn’t had an opportunity to grieve for his lost daughter yet, and a case of this sort was hard enough at the best of times. It would also give him an opportunity to observe Byers in action as he hadn’t been all that impressed with what he had seen so far.

David Nolan cut a forlorn figure slumped in a plastic chair in the interview room, which, like the table, was bolted to the floor. He appeared to be sporting a few cuts and bruises more than the last time Farrell had clapped eyes on him, which he struggled to feel sorry about. Nolan’s young solicitor was obviously a local man as Byers and Stirling seemed to know him and had been exchanging small talk while setting up the recording equipment.

The parties introduced themselves for the benefit of the tape, and Farrell learned the solicitor was called Brian Whitelaw. Stirling kicked off the questioning.

‘I am reminding you that you are still under caution and that anything you say can be used against you in court, do you understand?’

Nolan nodded.

‘For the tape, please?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is your full name David Henry Nolan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Date of birth?’

‘Fourteenth of the first, seventy-three.’

‘How long have you been a social worker with Dumfries and Galloway Council?’

‘Ten years.’

‘What department do you work in?’

There was a pause. Nolan stared at the table.

‘Well?’

‘Child protection,’ he muttered.

From his vantage point, Farrell could see Stirling clench and then uncurl his fists under the table.

‘Look!’ burst out Nolan, shrugging off the restraining arm of his solicitor. ‘I know how this looks but I would NEVER actually harm a child. I’m not even a bloody paedophile. At least, I don’t think I am.’

Byers leaned across the table, his face reddening with fury.

‘Those kids bloody happy to be photographed while those things are done to them, are they?’

‘Byers!’ snapped Stirling. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Byers subsided, but fury still blazed in his eyes. Farrell wondered if he’d been the architect of the cuts and bruises.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Stirling.

‘I’ve been depressed. Me and my wife got divorced. I went on a real downer. Had to go on the sick. Thought I was going mad staring at four walls all day. I started watching porn, just for something to do but I couldn’t feel anything. I started to look at harder stuff. Still nothing. Then some random kid stuff came up. It repulsed me but it made me feel something. Breaking that taboo made me scared but it made me feel alive again. I know that sounds bloody crazy but I’m trying to be honest.’

Too bloody honest, said the annoyed expression on his solicitor’s face.

‘Did you tell anyone what you’d been doing?’ asked Stirling.

‘Of course not. I knew how people would react. A year ago I would most likely have been one of them.’

‘Have you had any unusual phone calls recently?’ asked Stirling.

‘Human Resources phoned last week to check on how long I was intending to remain off on the sick. First time they’ve phoned since I went off a year ago. Probably gearing up to sack me, the bastards.’

Stirling glanced at Byers but he was already writing in his notebook. Not so slow on the uptake as Farrell had thought.

‘Have you ordered any replacement credit cards, bank cards, driving licence, passport, anything like that?’ asked Stirling.

‘I ordered a new bank card,’ Nolan said. ‘Come to think of it, bloody thing never arrived. I haven’t had a statement for a while either. It’s like you cease to exist when you’re on the sick,’ Nolan said with a self-pitying whine in his voice.

‘Have you had anyone at the door trying to sell you anything?’ asked Byers.

‘I thought the Jehovah’s Witnesses were bad enough but last week I’d a Catholic priest round trying to get me to sign up for some missionary newsletter.’

Stirling and Byers looked indifferent to this information, but Farrell frowned. That was odd. The Catholic Church was old school and didn’t cold call as far as he was aware. He waited to see if they asked Nolan for a description, but they didn’t.

‘Did you sign anything?’ interjected Byers.

‘Eventually, just to get rid of him. Took persistent to a whole new level. And you can’t exactly roughhouse a priest, can you?’

Plenty have tried, thought Farrell.

‘Anyone or anything else?’ asked Stirling.

‘That’s all I can think of …’ answered Nolan.

The interview was terminated, and Nolan was remanded in custody to appear before the Sheriff the next morning.

Farrell slipped quietly out of the room before they became aware he had been listening in.

Before he went home he stopped by the MCA room and had a word with the Duty Sergeant. Still nothing concrete had emerged from the investigation. As Lind and Moore appeared to be making all the right moves and coping as well as could be expected, he resolved to focus his complete attention on the Boyd case from now on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Farrell breakfasted on a bacon roll and two caffeine tablets washed down with a strong cup of coffee from the canteen. Within a few minutes he could feel the fog in his brain lifting and started to feel more alert. Although it was only the back of six he popped his head round Lind’s door on the way past, not really expecting to see him in this early after what had happened with Laura the other day. Somewhat to his surprise his friend was immersed in paperwork, looking like he’d been sitting there for some time.

‘Any leads on the kids’ whereabouts yet?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a dickie bird,’ replied Lind. ‘There’s been no ransom note either. Bastard has just spirited them into thin air.’

‘What about the car? Nothing doing there?’

‘Turns out it was stolen. Owner reported it missing when he got back from work last night. It was found torched in the early hours of the morning out the back of the Labour Club.’

‘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.’