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

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      ‘Mary, Father Boyd would expect us to forgive his killer.’

      ‘Father Boyd believed in an eye for an eye. He wasn’t like the namby-pamby young priests they turn out of the seminary these days,’ she added, darting a contemptuous look at Father Malone.

      Farrell looked at the portly woman sitting across from him, lines of bitterness scored into her face. He tried but failed to find the woman she had been when they first met, beneath the layers of fat and anger. What had happened to her? He might get more out of the priest if she wasn’t there. He doubted there was any degree of collusion between them, but best to interview them separately for now.

      ‘DC McLeod, could you please take Miss Flannigan to the kitchen until I am ready to interview her and also obtain details of Father Boyd’s next of kin, please.’

      At a gesture from Farrell, McLeod gently helped Mary Flannigan to her feet and went off to the kitchen with her.

      The priest sat silent, his face grey to match his socks.

      ‘When did you last see Father Boyd?’

      ‘It would have been around ten p.m.,’ he murmured. ‘I left him sitting here, reading a book, while I went to bed. Mary had already gone upstairs and he told me he’d lock up.’

      ‘Did he mention any plans to go out?’

      ‘No. It was just an ordinary night.’

      ‘What did you talk about?’

      The young priest looked unaccountably furtive.

      ‘Nothing in particular, just bits and pieces.’

      Farrell sat back and stared at Father Malone thoughtfully. What wasn’t he telling him? The silence lengthened. Through the wall he heard the tap running in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes. The young priest continued to avoid his gaze, two spots of colour now staining his cheeks.

      ‘No unexpected visitors, late phone calls?’

      ‘Wait, I did hear the phone ring. It woke me then I dozed off again.’

      ‘Any idea what time that might have been?’

      ‘I couldn’t say.’

      ‘Had he seemed himself lately?’ asked Farrell. ‘Anything appear to be worrying him?’

      ‘He’d received a few crank letters: three, I think. He tried to brush it off but I could tell he was upset by them.’

      ‘What was in them?’

      ‘He wouldn’t say, and I didn’t like to pry. He’s … he was a very private man, liked to keep people at a distance.’

      ‘And you didn’t try and sneak a peek?’

      ‘Certainly not! I probably wouldn’t even have known about them had I not got up before Father Boyd on one occasion. I saw something lying on the mat and was about to pick it up when Father Boyd yelled at me not to touch it. He was clearly upset. I remember his hands were shaking and he stumbled back against the wall as he was reading it,’ said the priest.

      ‘These letters, were they posted or hand delivered?’

      ‘Hand delivered, I believe. Do you think they’ve got anything to do with …?’

      ‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell. ‘Where did Father Boyd keep the letters?’

      ‘I really have no idea,’ said the priest.

      ‘Do I have your permission to search the house?’

      ‘Yes, of course. Do what you have to,’ said the priest.

      ‘One more thing. Did Father Boyd keep an appointment diary? It might help if we can track his movements prior to the murder.’

      The young priest leapt to his feet with an air of relief and fetched a leather-bound diary from the hall. Farrell turned to the weeks before and after the killing. His eyebrows shot up as he noted that Boyd had met with Father Joe Spinelli, Farrell’s own spiritual adviser, the Friday before he died. Turning the next few pages, Farrell spotted the name Clare Yates. His pulse quickened. She was still here after all these years then. Worse, he was going to have to follow this up.

      Still scowling, Farrell went into the kitchen and found DC McLeod sitting beside two mugs of tea on the table. Instantly, he tensed.

      ‘Where’d she go?’ he demanded.

      DC McLeod looked surprised at the urgency in his voice. ‘She said she needed to go to the bathroom. What’s up?’

      Farrell didn’t reply but tore out the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. Hearing the sounds of drawers banging shut he raced past the unoccupied bathroom, followed by a perplexed McLeod, and crashed through the door the noise was coming from. The housekeeper was standing with her back to him. He strode over and spun her round, his suspicions realized. She was holding a piece of paper to a cigarette lighter. Farrell snatched the charred bit of paper off her but most of it had been destroyed. Father Malone arrived at the open door and took in the scene.

      ‘Mary, what have you done?’ he remonstrated.

      Farrell was furious. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pockets and unceremoniously handcuffed the housekeeper, whose bravado was now overlaid with apprehension.

      ‘I am detaining you on suspicion of attempting to pervert the course of justice. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used in evidence against you,’ Farrell snapped.

      ‘I won’t have you lot trying to blacken his name. He was a good man,’ Mary mumbled, refusing to meet his eye.

      ‘Did you get that?’ said Farrell to McLeod, who was busily scribbling 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, СКАЧАТЬ