Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist. Jackie Baldwin
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Название: Dead Man’s Prayer: A gripping detective thriller with a killer twist
Автор: Jackie Baldwin
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Полицейские детективы
isbn: 9780008200954
isbn:
They shook their heads helplessly.
‘Have you had any contact with the social work department?’
The man bristled.
‘No, of course not! What are you implying?’
‘The man who took your sons produced a social work ID. Does the name David Nolan mean anything to you?’
‘No, should it?’ asked Elspeth, anxiously.
‘Is he the bastard who did this? When I get my hands on him I’ll—’
‘Barry! Shut up, you’re not helping. While you’re shouting the odds, some nutter could be harming our children.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just …’ He tailed off into silence.
Farrell had seen this type of bluster a number of times in similar situations. The ungovernable frustration and rage of a man who feels he has failed to protect his family. He shot a sympathetic glance at the man, who had again simmered down.
‘Have you had any unusual telephone calls?’
‘A couple of wrong numbers, nothing out of the ordinary,’ Elspeth answered.
‘Anyone threatened you recently; anyone have a grudge against you?’
‘I’m a car salesman, for God’s sake …’ Barry said. ‘Just a regular bloke …’
Farrell put a finger under his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. He paused, reluctant to clobber them with more unpalatable information.
‘It’s possible there may be a ransom demand in a while.’
‘Is that what this is about, money?’ asked Barry, eyes wide with terror.
‘It’s a possibility,’ replied Farrell.
‘But we have no money. We’re in debt up to our eyeballs,’ said Elspeth in a low voice.
‘It’s the recession. Things haven’t been so good of late …’ said her husband.
So it wasn’t about money, thought Farrell. That didn’t bode well.
‘They haven’t got their comforters with them,’ said Elspeth, on the verge of losing it.
‘Someone will be round shortly to modify your phone so that we can try and trace the call should the abductor try and contact you for any reason. Try not to give up hope. It’s early days yet.’
Farrell stood up, ready to leave.
‘I’ve appointed DC McLeod here as your Family Liaison Officer. She’ll stay here with you for a while in case the man makes contact and also fill you in on any developments. She can also deal with any members of the press that decide to make a nuisance of themselves. I’m taking the other officer with me to help with the search.’
‘Can I come?’ blurted out Barry. ‘Anything’s better than just sitting here … wondering.’
Farrell looked at him. If anything had happened to those two little boys this guy wasn’t going to make it.
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just not possible. In any event, I think your wife needs you here.’
He gestured to Mhairi to walk him out and when they were out of earshot he said to her, ‘keep your eye on him. He’s not thinking straight.’
‘Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll keep on top of the situation,’ McLeod answered, her determination belied just slightly by the worry lines snaking across her forehead.
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.
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