Читать книгу Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 11

Mary Flannigan sat across the table from Farrell, refusing to look him in the eye. The duty solicitor, a lad who looked barely old enough to drink, sat beside her. This time, Farrell had felt it politic to let Stirling conduct the interview and had instructed him to go on a charm offensive at the outset.

Stirling got everyone present to introduce themselves for the tape.

‘I would like to remind you that you are still under caution and that anything you say may be used in evidence against you in court. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not stupid,’ she retorted.

‘Miss Flannigan, aside from these proceedings, first of all let me offer my condolences. I know that this must be very difficult for you. I understand that you had worked for Father Boyd as his housekeeper for some twenty years?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘What did you do before that?’

Farrell realized even he didn’t know the answer to that question. Mary Flannigan looked shifty, embarrassed.

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant?’ she countered.

‘Just answer the question, please,’ insisted Stirling.

Struck a nerve there, thought Farrell.

‘On the advice of my solicitor, no comment.’

Her young solicitor looked somewhat startled, and she tapped the side of her nose at him.

‘Would it be fair to say that Father Boyd relied on you heavily?’ asked Stirling, laying it on with a trowel.

‘Of course he did; the poor man would have been lost without me to take care of him,’ she replied, dabbing at red-rimmed eyes with a tissue.

‘Would you say that you were close?’

The shutters came down.

‘Just what are you insinuating?’ she snapped.

‘Did he confide in you?’

She took her time to reply.

‘No, not really. He was a very private man. Father Boyd took his duties as a man of the cloth very seriously. He didn’t unburden himself to me or to anyone else as far as I’m aware.’

‘In that case, how do you explain the fact that you knew about the anonymous letters he had been receiving? Did he tell you?’

An expression flickered briefly across her sullen face. Shame? Fear? If so, then why?

Her solicitor was signalling that she shouldn’t say anything, but she ignored him.

‘I was putting away his laundry one day and I found them.’

‘Found them where?’ Farrell interjected.

‘In his sock drawer,’ she said, unconvincingly.

‘Why did you destroy the letter we found you with?’ asked Stirling.

‘I wanted to protect his memory,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, so very sorry. I should never have …’ She started weeping, seeming genuinely overcome.

At a nod from Farrell the interview was terminated and she was escorted back to the cells.

Farrell was still getting the feeling that something didn’t ring true but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe his objectivity was being compromised by the past. Stirling again hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He’d thought her behaviour was consistent with the loyalty of a faithful old retainer. Was he imagining things?

Back in his office, he settled down to make some bullet points for the next briefing at 6 p.m., keen to ensure that nothing was overlooked. He weighed up the pros and cons of making it known that Boyd had tried to contact him the day he died but, on balance, decided to keep it to himself for the time being. It would have been different if they had actually spoken but as things stood at the moment there was nothing it could add to the investigation. He didn’t want his past dragged into the present if it could be avoided.

Farrell updated the rest of the team at the next briefing about his impressions of the evidence garnered from the priest and the housekeeper. As an afterthought, he asked DS Byers to try and ascertain what Mary Flannigan had been doing with her life before she worked for Boyd. She had seemed unnecessarily cagey. He also approved for circulation the identikit image of the man seen by the dog walker; although, given that it was a rear view, it didn’t take them much further forward. Finally, having done all that he could think of and with exhaustion settling like sediment in his body, he forced himself to leave and go home.

As he drove along quiet country roads on his way out to the tiny hamlet of Kelton, Farrell lowered the windows to allow the cool night air to chase away the tiredness that was slowing down his brain. The earth smelled moist and rich with unidentifiable scents on the periphery of his memory.

Turning right into the small lane, he dipped his headlights so as not to disturb his neighbours in the surrounding cottages. The stones crunched under his wheels and the tang of salt water from the River Nith drifted up to greet him. Farrell could feel his clenched muscles finally start to unknot.

What on earth …? As he reached the cottage his headlights had picked up a shadowy figure slinking round the side wall from the rear garden. The light illuminated a white face with glittering eyes briefly turned his way.

Farrell skidded to a halt and flung himself out the car and down the lane in hot pursuit. As he stumbled onto the muddy banks of the Nith, running perpendicular to the lane he had just left, the darkness closed in on him. He could only hear the sound of his ragged breathing and the sucking noise of the tidal river. After a couple of minutes, he paused to listen, trying to control his laboured breathing. Someone coughed behind him. He spun round, heart hammering.

‘Police,’ he yelled. ‘Don’t move!’

As he shone the thin light of his torch in the direction of the sound, he met the interested gaze of a belted Galloway cow.

From ahead the faint sound of mocking laughter drifted towards him on the back of the slight breeze that had got up. He spun round to give chase but it was one bit of nifty footwork too many. His feet went from under him, and he landed face down in the brackish mud.

Squelching home, he noticed more than one curtain twitching. Grabbing a torch from his car he circumnavigated the cottage checking for signs of forced entry, but there were none. At least he interrupted the burglar before he had a chance to break in. Not that he had anything worth taking.

After a long hot shower Farrell pulled on a faded pair of jeans and a navy roll-neck sweater. He padded through to the sitting room in his bare feet and inserted some Gregorian chants in the CD player. Pouring himself a generous measure of whisky, he sank back onto the leather couch and lost himself in the soothing rhythms of the music.

Later, as he got up to change the CD Farrell noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Through the door of the sitting room he could see downstairs to the front door. Something was poking out from under the doormat. Warily he went down the stairs and pulled out a single piece of paper. In ragged capitals, it said:

I’M TEMPTED TO CONFESS

YOUR GUILT WILL GROW AND GROW

ONLY YOU CAN STOP ME NOW

JUST LIKE BEFORE

Farrell sucked in his breath. What did it mean? He paced up and down the confines of his small cottage for half an hour before dismissing the letter as a crude prank. It was just a shot in the dark. Everyone had a guilty conscience about something, didn’t they? It clearly had nothing to do with Boyd’s murder at any rate and that was all he was concerned with right now. The lettering was completely different, and Boyd’s anonymous letters had been unambiguously threatening in tone, whereas this one was more couched as a sort of riddle. Probably just some yob who’d figured out he had a copper living near him and decided to have a laugh at his expense.

Utterly exhausted he climbed into his pyjamas and glanced at the towering stack of books on his bedside table. He flicked through the latest sci-fi offering from his favourite author. Tempting though it was, he didn’t have the mental energy to enter another world tonight. Instead, he picked up a well-worn leather volume. Lips moving silently, he read The Divine Office until sleep claimed him.