Читать книгу Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 18

Farrell’s leg jiggled with impatience as he sat in the carpeted reception area of police headquarters at Cornwall Mount. Situated well out of the town centre the light-filled atrium and tasteful foliage creeping unobtrusively around it would not look amiss in a posh hotel. Gloria, the immaculately groomed civilian receptionist, suddenly turned a full-voltage smile on him and told him to go straight on down to the armoury in the basement.

As he rounded the corner, walking past the twenty-five metre firing range, Farrell saw the firearms sergeant briefing his men in quiet emphatic tones. The atmosphere was tense with none of the usual banter. The doors to both the weapons armoury and, across the corridor, the ammunitions armoury, were still open. As his men began to file out to their waiting vehicles Sergeant Forsythe turned his measured gaze on Farrell.

‘Well, Sir, what can I do you for? You’ll need a bulletproof vest for starters.’

‘I’d like the bog standard one, not the heavy-duty version,’ requested Farrell.

The vests that the firearms team wore were damn heavy and he wanted to be able to give chase if necessary. It was well known that the members of the firearms team were among the fittest on the force. They had to be.

‘I believe you’re authorized to carry a firearm, Sir?’

‘Just give me a Taser,’ said Farrell decisively. ‘That’ll do me. Has DS Stirling been down to get equipped?’

‘He’s waiting for you in the car park, Sir.’

By the time Farrell and Stirling had driven over to Hardacre Road, Sergeant Forsythe already had his men in place. A number of uniforms were dispersed around the perimeter of the property awaiting further instructions. A cordon had been set up to keep back members of the public in case things turned nasty. The bungalow looked uncared for, as did the small rectangular garden, which was choked with weeds. There was no sign of movement from within.

Farrell and Stirling approached through the rusty gate that screeched out a warning of their approach. Farrell noticed that Stirling was trembling and chalky white. He’d selected him because of his age and experience, but looking at him now Farrell suspected his backup wouldn’t amount to much. Two of the firearms team took up position behind them on either side of the front door. Farrell knocked briskly, adrenalin flooding his system, causing his heart to pound. There was no response from inside the house.

After a few seconds, he was about to give the order to bust the door down when there was a sound of a bolt sliding back on the other side. A man put his head round the door then promptly ducked back in, trying to slam it shut. Farrell was having none of it. He blocked the door with his shoulder and flashed his warrant card.

‘David Nolan, we are investigating the abduction of two boys and believe that you might have information pertinent to our inquiry.’

The man silently let go of the door and trudged into the interior of the house, followed by Stirling and Farrell. As he turned to face them they could see beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. His sweat gave off a sour odour that Farrell had encountered many times: the smell of fear.

At a nod from Farrell, Stirling proceeded to methodically search the house. Farrell plonked himself down in an armchair and crossed his legs as though this were a social call. Nolan dithered for a few seconds, unsure of how to react, then sank into the chair opposite.

‘You’ll find nothing here,’ he said. ‘Them kiddies going missing has nothing to do with me.’

Farrell was inclined to agree. David Nolan was a sorry specimen of manhood. About five feet seven inches, his hair was sparse and speckled with grey. Flaccid and pale, he had on an old pair of baggy joggers and a khaki sweatshirt that bore traces of previous meals. Hardly credible that a man like him would have the balls to carry off a crime like this. So why did he look so nervous then? What did he have to hide? There was a computer in the corner of the room with a screensaver on and Farrell noticed that Nolan’s eyes periodically slithered towards it and then flicked back to him. Interesting.

Stirling came back in looking disappointed.

‘Nothing, Sir. No sign the boys have ever been here.’

Nolan looked smug. Farrell gave him a hard stare then walked purposefully towards the computer.

Nolan jumped to his feet and shouted, ‘stay away from that, you’ve got no right. Leave it alone.’

‘Oops,’ said Farrell theatrically and stumbled.

As he put out his hands, ostensibly to save himself, he pressed the mouse on the computer and the screensaver vanished. Farrell blanched. Behind him he heard Stirling curse. Hardened as he’d had to become to the darker side of human nature, Farrell had rarely seen anything as horrific as the images of child pornography that dominated the screen. The suffering in the eyes of that small child would haunt him for a long time to come.

‘It’s not mine. Someone’s trying to set me up,’ whined Nolan as Farrell roughly snapped the handcuffs on and read him his rights, barely able to contain his fury.

Farrell left Stirling to supervise the seizure of the computer and search for further evidence then made his way back to the station. If it wasn’t this creep was it possible that the abductor of the twins had flagged him deliberately? Or was it simply a convenient theft of identity? At any rate it would give the vice boys something to chew on and, with a bit of luck, Nolan would give up some other low-lives into the bargain. He didn’t strike Farrell as the stoical type.