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

‘what you’re telling me is that we don’t yet have a single hot lead in this investigation?’ He paused for effect and then thundered. ‘That’s not good enough. Get back out there; keep interviewing till you uncover something worthwhile. Interview parishioners, the sewing circle, the postman. I want no avenue of enquiry left unexplored. A man has died a horrible death. We owe it to him to apprehend the killer and by God that is what we’re going to do.’

      Farrell swept out of the room and there was a flurry of activity as the door shut behind him. He was troubled by the lack of progress in the case. The first forty-eight hours in a murder investigation were crucial and so far they had next to nothing to go on.

       CHAPTER NINE

      Farrell was hard at work compiling charts in his office when DCI Lind burst through the door like a tornado startling him out of his concentration. He could see at once from Lind’s face that it was bad news.

      ‘John, what’s happened?’

      ‘It’s Laura.’

      Farrell felt his heart scud against his chest like it was trying to get out.

      ‘She’s been taken up to the Infirmary. They called me from the ambulance. Seems she had a fall. The baby … might not make it.’ Lind sagged against the side of the desk, as though his legs were going from under him.

      ‘John, I’m really sorry.’ Farrell felt helpless. He awkwardly patted his friend on the shoulder.

      ‘Laura’s mother is still in Carlisle, shopping. I can’t get hold of her. I was wondering—’

      ‘Anything, anything at all,’ butted in Farrell.

      ‘Do you think you could nip to my place and babysit the kids? A neighbour is minding them just now but she has to leave soon. I don’t have time to find anyone else. I need to get to the hospital right away.’

      ‘Sure,’ said Farrell. ‘Now get yourself off, I’ll sort the kids out.’

      Lind handed him a key and started to rush out the door then paused and slowly turned round.

      ‘One more thing,’ he said.

      ‘Name it,’ Farrell said.

      ‘Could you … pray for us? I know I’m being a hypocrite, being an atheist and all that but …’

      ‘Try and stop me,’ said Farrell. ‘Now, away you go.’

      Lind tore off, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

      Twenty minutes later, Farrell pulled up outside a semi-detached Victorian house in a leafy street in the old part of town. The warm brown sandstone had tendrils of pink clematis and sweet-smelling honeysuckle probing randomly into nooks and crannies. A homemade swing hung from the spreading branches of an ancient beech tree over the well-maintained lawn. Tucked in one corner was a sandpit with a bunch of buckets and spades.

      As Farrell inserted the key into the lock, he felt his skin crawl with envy at the thought of John coming home each night to find Laura waiting for him. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the unwelcome thought away.

      Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, as he had known it would be, with sanded wooden floors and brightly coloured rugs. From the hallway a palette of warm reds and yellows led into the various rooms. The neighbour, her eye on the clock, rushed past him apologizing for not being able to stay longer. As he shut the door behind her and found his way into the living room he was immediately clocked by four pairs of eyes. Crikey, kids weren’t exactly his specialist subject. At a guess he’d say the girl and three boys ranged in age from eighteen months to six years with the girl being the eldest.

      Adopting a falsely hearty tone that convinced no one, he introduced himself, babbling inanely all the while like an Energiser Bunny. The children sat motionless on the couch saying not a word; their behaviour good to the point of scary. The only sound was the youngest sucking rhythmically on an old cotton blanket when Farrell paused for breath. He regarded them quizzically. They stared at him. One of the youngest boys started to speak, but was immediately shushed by his older sister.

      ‘We’re not allowed to speak to strangers,’ she announced in a clear voice.

      ‘Quite right too,’ said Farrell. ‘But I’m not a stranger.’

      ‘That’s what a stranger would say. We’ve never met you before,’ said the girl with unanswerable logic.

      The lower lips of two of the boys started to wobble. Farrell was twisting like a fish on a hook. Suddenly, he had it. Rummaging about in his wallet he produced an old photograph of him, Laura, and John taken when they were around eighteen. He showed it to the girl, who solemnly inspected it.

      ‘It’s you, mummy and daddy. Daddy’s got hair!’ she said, sounding surprised.

      ‘Can we play with him, now, Molly?’ asked one of the little boys.

      Molly nodded decisively and with a loud whoop the boys launched themselves at him.

      ‘Let’s play wrestling,’ they shouted, catching Farrell off balance.

      He was then run ragged for the next hour until he received a polite tap on the shoulder from Molly, who had been reading a book, holding herself aloof from the boys’ antics.

      ‘Excuse me, what’s for tea?’

      Farrell foraged in the freezer and discovered some pizza and chips. He sat the kids together on the couch while it was heating in the oven. The eldest child, Molly, had such a look of Laura about her it made his breath catch in his throat. The same dark brown curls, solemn blue eyes, and dimpled chin. Already she was like a little mother hen: soothing baby Adam on her knee and silencing the two boys, Luke and Hugh, who had started to argue over a toy car.

      The microwave interrupted his reverie with a ping, and he was then run off his feet for what felt like hours; shovelling food into a reluctant mouth, a stinky nappy, baths, and story time. Eventually, come 8 p.m., the kids were all settled in bed, and Farrell collapsed into a chair, more tired than he’d been for years.

      Keeping his voice low, he telephoned the station and was put through to DS Stirling.

      ‘Just checking in. Any developments?’

      ‘Sod all,’ said Stirling, sounding frustrated. ‘Door-to-door enquiries revealed diddly-squat. Nobody seems to have seen or heard a thing.’

      Farrell could picture the scene only too well. Everybody pumped up on caffeine and adrenalin ready to charge out the door and catch a killer. How could such a violent murderer have retained sufficient self-control to slip away leaving no obvious clues behind him? The trail was already starting to go cold, which didn’t bode well. He couldn’t share his worries with Stirling though; it was important to keep morale and energy high.

      ‘Early days, yet. Once we get forensics back I’m sure that will open up a few lines of enquiry.’

      ‘Any word on how John’s wife is doing? She’s a lovely lass, doesn’t seem fair,’ said Stirling.

      ‘Nothing yet. Keep me posted.’ He terminated the call and listened carefully. Not a sound from upstairs.

      After a while the silence started to feel oppressive, and Farrell took out the rosary he carried everywhere and began to pray for Laura and the baby, lips moving silently as he repeated the soothing incantations. Such was his concentration he failed to notice that John had slipped in and was regarding him with troubled eyes. A polite cough had him stuffing the rosary in his pocket and leaping up out of the chair like he’d been caught doing something illicit.

      ‘How is she?’ he asked.

      ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Lind wearily.

      ‘And the baby?’

      ‘Didn’t