Читать книгу Dead Man’s Prayer - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 7

Detective Inspector Frank Farrell glanced around the tiny impersonal room with its beige walls, grey carpet, and cheap wooden desk strewn with files. Not for the first time he wondered whether he’d done the right thing in accepting a transfer back to Dumfries from the murder squad in Edinburgh. The rain drummed relentlessly on the window behind his desk. He looked out over the town. The swollen grey clouds had leached colour out of the landscape. The first early morning shoppers were dumping their cars in the car park across the road from the station. Beyond the rooftops the Lowther Hills were shrouded in mist.

Turning round, he folded his long body onto the chair behind the desk and, with a frown, pulled a pink slip of paper towards him. It was a message from Father Ignatius Boyd, dated yesterday; the day before he started his new job. Farrell’s jaw clenched. The cheek of the man daring to phone him after all this time! Boyd had even tried to engage him in conversation after Mass yesterday morning, but Farrell had been having none of it. Impulsively he screwed the message up into a tight ball and lobbed it into the wastepaper basket. He had better things to do than pander to an elderly priest whose Christian charity could be measured in negative numbers. Ignoring the niggling voice in his head that said he was being unprofessional, Farrell pulled the nearest file towards him and started reading.

He’d almost finished when the phone rang. A nervous voice asked him to go along to Detective Superintendent Walker’s office on the top floor.

Farrell moved quickly knowing that if you got on the wrong side of the super it cast a long shadow. He knocked firmly and a clipped voice bid him enter. The large airy office contained a small compact man behind a large desk. His sleeves were rolled up and Farrell could just make out the tail-end of a tattoo on his left arm. Tufts of fiery red hair stuck out in all directions above milky-white freckled skin. Walker ignored him, continuing to rustle the papers on his desk. Farrell waited patiently. Some men never leave the playground. Eventually, when the silence had started to stretch between them like a steel cable, Walker looked up and treated Farrell to his best ballbreaker stare.

‘Now, Farrell, I hope you realize that we’ll not tolerate any funny business at this station.’

‘Sir?’

Whatever Farrell had expected it wasn’t this. He could feel amusement welling up and struggled to keep his face impassive.

‘You know what I mean, don’t play the innocent with me, lad. I don’t want any papist mumbo jumbo interrupting the smooth running of this station. No speaking in tongues, no Bible-study lunches, and absolutely no bloody exorcisms! Do I make myself clear?’ Walker thundered, looking every inch a candidate for a heart attack.

‘Crystal, Sir.’

‘You want to get up to that sort of thing you do it in your own time, got it?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Now we’ve got that out the way, welcome aboard.’

Walker proffered a meaty paw, and Farrell shook it. Walker snatched his hand back as though he’d been stung.

‘Why you …’

‘Sir?’ said Farrell.

‘Dismissed!’ bellowed Walker, pale eyes bulging.

I really shouldn’t have done that, thought Farrell, walking away. He’d been so incensed by Walker’s ill-judged assumptions about him that he’d been unable to resist giving him a Masonic handshake as a parting shot. Only his first morning and already he’d landed in hot water.

It wasn’t as if it had been a real exorcism. Last year a complete loony tune had escaped from the local hospital and managed to bag a couple of hostages. As the guy had thought he was possessed by the devil, Farrell had pretended to exorcise the evil spirit and got him to surrender. It had been the quickest way to get the job done. Since then he had never heard the end of it. The big brass in Edinburgh had been falling over themselves to avoid him, like he had something unsavoury they might catch.

Ten minutes later, Detective Chief Inspector Lind stuck his head round the door. Farrell recognized him at once. Although he was only forty-three, the same age as Farrell, Lind was all but bald with a few remaining wisps of blond hair clinging on perilously to the side of his head. Farrell resisted the urge to run his hands through his own thick mop of hair just to check it was still there. Lind’s face cracked open into a wide smile that seemed to light up all the dark corners of the room. Farrell was amused to note that his lean fitness-fanatic friend now had the beginnings of a pot-belly.

‘Frank, welcome to the wild South West.’ Lind plonked himself down in front of the desk. ‘So, how have you been?’

Farrell thought about telling him then decided against it.

‘Oh you know, buried under a mountain of paperwork. Thought I’d see if there was any action down here or if it’s still all cattle rustling and two cop bops.’

‘You’re well behind the times there, sunshine,’ snorted Lind. ‘Breach of the peace is the least of our problems now.’

Farrell smiled warmly at his new boss and old school pal.

‘How’s Laura these days? Not sent you packing yet?’

‘I’m keeping her barefoot and pregnant, just in case.’

‘Another one!’ laughed Farrell. ‘When’s it due?’

‘The middle of September,’ said Lind. ‘You must come over for dinner soon. Laura would love to see you; be just like old times.’

‘Sure,’ said Farrell, smiling until his jaw ached. Even the mention of her name after all this time was enough to unsettle him.

Lind leapt up. ‘Got to dash, I’ve got a departmental meeting. The briefing is at nine thirty.’

Farrell wasn’t sure how he felt about having Lind as his immediate boss. On the one hand, he knew Lind wouldn’t give him any hassle. In fact, he’d probably be falling over himself not to rub his nose in it. On the other hand, he felt a bit uncomfortable having someone around who had once known him so well.

Laura McCarron: the biggest sacrifice he had ever made. Her lingering presence had occasioned him both grief and comfort over the years. To confront 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.