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

the reality of the woman she had become might finally restore some equanimity.

      A little cheered, he applied himself to the files again until a few minutes before the scheduled briefing. As he’d suspected, the subject matter was fairly tame compared to what he’d been used to dealing with in Edinburgh.

      Wandering down to the briefing room Farrell cast an expert eye over the loose assortment of officers inside. Within a few days they would differentiate into clumps of good cops, bad cops, smart cops, lazy cops and … attractive cops. He looked quickly away but not quickly enough. She’d noticed him staring and was headed straight towards him.

      A pair of reserved grey eyes looked up into his and a dainty hand, cool to the touch, reached out to shake his.

      ‘DI Kate Moore; you must be DI Farrell?’

      ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said with a warm smile.

      A faint blush coloured her cheeks and she slid her eyes away from his.

      ‘If I can be of any help while you’re settling in, don’t hesitate to call on me,’ she replied before walking off rather too smartly to the other side of the room.

      Farrell became aware of covert glances from other women dotted around the room. It made him feel uncomfortable and gave him the urge to retreat into himself. He did nothing to encourage female interest. His manner of dressing was low key and he doubted if he could flirt if his life depended on it. It was just a cross he had to bear. A joke by God at his expense.

      An old boy with the ruddy complexion of a hardened drinker and hair like a pot scrubber wandered over next to make his acquaintance.

      ‘DS Stirling; I hear you’re a local man,’ he said.

      ‘That’s right,’ replied Farrell.

      ‘And would you be related to Yvonne Farrell, by any chance?’

      ‘She’s my mother.’

      ‘Is she now?’ said DS Stirling, gazing at him. ‘I know her from the bowling. I didn’t know she had a son. It’s a small world, eh?’

      ‘Some might say too small,’ Farrell replied, feeling the tension in his jaw.

      ‘Come and meet one of the other sergeants: DS Byers.’

      Farrell followed Stirling across the room to where a man in his early thirties with the gym-sculpted body of the truly narcissistic was trying to impress DI Moore. Farrell was amused to note that she looked unmistakably relieved at their approach, which enabled her to extricate herself.

      DS Byers then turned and pumped Farrell’s hand so hard his fingers lost their blood supply.

      ‘DS Byers at your service, Sir, or should I say Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?’

      There was a collective intake of breath as the eyes of all those in the room nervously flicked their way. Farrell, making them sweat, coolly looked around them all and then back at the hapless Byers, who was already regretting his foray into levity.

      ‘I don’t know, Byers, should you?’ Farrell asked.

      Just then DCI Lind entered and the confrontation was over as soon as it began. Farrell took a seat at the back, the better to observe his fellow officers.

      ‘The tourist season is starting to kick off now so we’re going to have to clamp down on Jimmy McMurdo’s wee gang on the Whitesands,’ announced Lind.

      There were a few snickers at this from which Farrell deduced Jimmy McMurdo was filed under ‘local colour’. Lind held his hand up for silence and continued.

      ‘Scintillating repartee with the local winos won’t be at the top of anybody’s holiday wish list. The byelaws are there so use them.’

      They all listened fairly attentively as Lind briefed them on ongoing enquiries and allocated actions for that day. Farrell was impressed; his old friend seemed to run a tight ship.

      Behind him there was a minor commotion as a somewhat dishevelled young woman with bloodshot eyes entered. She tried to slip into the seat beside him only to drop the folder she was carrying with a bang. Malicious eyes pivoted to her and then back to DI Lind. Lind paused mid-sentence and glared, his expression a few degrees before zero.

      ‘Nice of you to join us, DC McLeod,’ he said.

      ‘Sorry, Sir, the bus—’

      ‘I don’t want to hear it. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again. We’re public servants and as such we’re paid to work, not to get up and wander in when we feel like it.’

      ‘No, Sir,’ said the unfortunate constable.

      ‘Moving on then …’ said Lind.

      Farrell tuned out and studied his new neighbour. A faint whiff of stale booze and cigarettes wafted over him causing his nose to prickle in distaste. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been combed and there was a small ladder in her tights. Sensing his scrutiny, she turned and scowled at him. He tried a rueful grin but she was having none of it.

      Suddenly, a young police officer burst through the door with such force that it banged against the wall. Lind opened his mouth to give him a roasting then stopped, taking in the lad’s white face and serious expression.

      Farrell stiffened. Something bad had happened. He could smell it. Lind took the constable to one side, his expression becoming graver as he listened to what he had to say, and then motioned for him to sit.

      ‘Listen up, people. PC Thomson has just informed me that there’s been a murder down at St Aidan’s: the elderly priest there, Father Boyd.’

      Farrell could feel the blood drain from his head and forced himself to surreptitiously take deep breaths until the dizziness receded. He became aware that he was being watched curiously by DC McLeod and gave her a savage glare that caused her to redden and turn away. He brought his whirling thoughts back under control just in time to hear Lind appointing him as Senior Investigating Officer.

       CHAPTER TWO

      Farrell parked across the road from St Aidan’s. Despite the fact that it was June dark clouds still glowered in the sky, sending down a grizzling lament of rain. The sandstone church occupied an elevated position within landscaped grounds, looking down with unfeeling eyes on the flotsam of humanity washed up onto its steps. A tall spire reached for the unobtainable.

      Feeling unnerved by the prospect of what was to come Farrell forced himself to quit the car. PC Thomson was waiting for him. His face had the waxy pallor of a mannequin. Probably the lad’s first murder scene, thought Farrell. He quickly posted the assembled uniforms to search the surrounding area and guard all entrances and exits, then, motioning to PC Thomson to follow him, he reluctantly entered the church. Automatically he extended his fingers to dip in the holy water, but stopped himself in the nick of time. Hardly appropriate; he was here as a copper not a priest today, and he’d do well to remember it.

      ‘Over here, Sir.’

      Farrell saw DS Byers, DS Stirling, and DC McLeod standing behind the outer cordon of blue-and-white tape. Striding over he nodded an acknowledgement and addressed DS Stirling.

      ‘Right, Sergeant, I’m appointing you Crime Scene Manager on this one; you know the drill?’

      ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Stirling.

      Byers looked sour. Stirling posted PC Thomson on the outer cordon with strict instructions to let no one past except on Stirling’s say so. Stirling and Farrell carefully suited up, covering their whole bodies, including feet and hair, in blue plastic.

      ‘Any sign of the perpetrator?’ asked Farrell as they stepped through.

      ‘No, Sir. The church and grounds have been searched.’

      ‘Any sign of forced