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

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.

      His eyes turned to the ornately carved crucifix above the bed; the figure on which seemed to be following his progress disapprovingly round the room. Averting his eyes and feeling slightly foolish he took the wooden plaque on which it was mounted and removed it from the wall. He tapped the back. It sounded hollow. Hardly daring to breathe he prised off the back and removed two sheets of paper. Bingo. He yelled for McLeod and she ran into the room. Carefully, he opened a folded sheet of paper. In crude capitals were the words

       I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

      Farrell opened out the second sheet of paper.

       IF IT HAPPENS AGAIN I’LL TELL

       YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL

      Farrell carefully bagged the letters in an evidence bag, and DC McLeod co-signed the label. What on earth had Boyd been up to, he wondered? It was a shame there had been no envelopes with the letters. It might have been possible to obtain a DNA match from any saliva used to seal the envelope.

      Just then PC Thomson walked in. ‘Sir, they’re ready to take the body to the mortuary.’

      Farrell considered him.

      ‘Someone needs to go with the body to the mortuary until it is signed in and sealed. Do you think you can hack it, son?’

      PC Thomson seemed to go even whiter.

      ‘No problem, Sir,’ he said.

      ‘Good lad; Sergeant Stirling will sort you out with the right forms to take with you. We’ll be down in a minute.’

      Farrell turned round to see DC McLeod regarding him with a thoughtful expression. She gestured to the wooden crucifix lying on the bed ready to be removed as evidence.

      ‘Trade secret, Sir?’ she asked.

      ‘Something like that,’ answered Farrell and turned to leave.

      As he supervised the body being loaded into the hearse in its inscrutable black bag, Farrell felt a sense of foreboding. Evil was afoot in his old hometown.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Farrell regarded the last sandwich in the canteen dubiously. It purported to be ham salad but he had his doubts. His stomach gurgled. He grabbed the sandwich, coffee, and a squashed satsuma. Thin pickings. A case like this required physical as well as mental stamina so he scoffed the lot in five minutes and headed back upstairs. It was his responsibility to get this investigation up and running without delay.

      He found DC McLeod already hard at work, brow furrowed in concentration. He picked up the sheaf of papers beside her.

      ‘Are these the statements from the door-to-door enquiries?’

      ‘Some of them, Sir.’

      ‘Anything interesting so far?’

      ‘One man was out walking his dog around 11.30 p.m. when he saw a figure slipping out of the church. It was someone tall with a long dark coat on. Unfortunately, he only got a view from behind. He assumed it was a visiting priest.’

      ‘It’s a start,’ said Farrell. ‘Sergeant Byers should be in the Major Crime Administration room. Bring all the statements.’

      As they entered the MCA room, McLeod made a beeline for the civilian scribes already assembled to input the information gathered into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System. Farrell started writing bullet points on the whiteboard, ready for the first briefing of the case. They didn’t have a lot to go on.

      An hour later the room was a hub of activity. Farrell walked across to the whiteboard and held up his hand for silence. He pointed to a graphic photo of the murdered priest attached to the wall.

      ‘To