Silently Stirling swung the door of the confessional open. Farrell sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever he had expected, nothing could have prepared him for this … this … obscenity. Acid flooded his mouth and he forced it back down his throat. Stirling swore under his breath then looked mortified. An unmistakable whiff of incense overlaid other more noxious smells emanating from the confined space.
Farrell shoved away feelings of revulsion and steadily regarded the crime scene. Father Ignatius Boyd was propped up on his knees in the small confessional; his hands bound tightly together with rosary beads in a parody of prayer. From his bulging eyes and protruding tongue it looked as though the cause of death may have been strangulation, though there was also a fair amount of blood with its unmistakable rusty odour. Underneath the dead priest’s hands was a white sheet of paper, but Farrell didn’t dare disturb anything until the police surgeon and the Scenes of Crime Officers had done their stuff.
A man in his fifties with a ruddy, weather-beaten complexion came hurrying into the church.
‘Bill Forster, Sir, police surgeon,’ said Stirling at Farrell’s elbow.
Farrell thought the man looked more like a farmer than a doctor. Although he would be no stranger to dead bodies, Farrell was willing to bet Forster had never seen anything like this before. As the confessional door swung back on its hinges the doctor gave an audible gasp, seemingly rooted to the spot; then getting a hold of himself he conducted a brief examination with meticulous professionalism, careful to disturb the body as little as possible. He then straightened up and followed Farrell back through the cordons into the interior of the church.
‘What can you tell me, Doctor?’ asked Farrell.
‘Well, I can confirm that life is extinct; no surprises there.’
‘Can you give me a preliminary cause of death?’
‘I’m not qualified to comment on that, Inspector. You know the limitations of my role here.’
Farrell ground his teeth in frustration but knew better than to press him further.
Two SOCOs arrived, as the doctor was leaving, laden with the paraphernalia of their trade. Nodding in recognition to Stirling, they introduced themselves to Farrell as Phil Tait and Janet White. Quietly and efficiently they then got to work under the capable direction of Stirling, as CSM. Farrell dispatched five pairs of uniforms on door-to-door enquiries. He asked them to complete Personal Description Forms for everyone they interviewed. This murder was undoubtedly Category ‘A’, and he was leaving nothing to chance.
Farrell’s concentration was interrupted by a heated altercation between PC Thomson and DS Byers. Rolling his eyes skywards he went to investigate. Byers was clearly struggling to hang onto his temper. The young constable was flushed but resolute.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ snapped Farrell.
‘This impudent young bugger won’t let me through the cordon,’ blustered Byers.
‘You mean you’re bitching about the fact that he’s doing his job? You know as well as I do that cross contamination of the scene is to be avoided at all costs.’
‘I thought it would help if I saw the set-up with my own eyes,’ muttered Byers.
‘Afraid you’ll have to make do with the video, like everyone else.’
Byers marched off in high dudgeon, and Farrell winked at PC Thomson.
‘Well done, lad.’
‘You might want to come and see this, Sir,’ yelled Stirling.
Farrell swiftly approached. Janet was holding something up in her gloved hands for him to inspect. It was the white piece of paper that had been trapped under the hands of the deceased. Written on it, in what appeared to be blood, were the smudged words ‘mea culpa, mea culpa’. The paper was carefully bagged, signed, and then sealed.
‘Looks like a real whack job,’ said Stirling.
‘You got that right,’ replied Farrell. ‘Did you notify the duty fiscal?’
‘Yes, Sir, but, if it’s OK with you, I decided not to let him view the scene,’ replied Stirling.
Farrell nodded acquiescence then stepped out of the church. He couldn’t even begin to get his head around this. Seeing the incident van, he walked over. Together with a number of uniforms, DC McLeod was questioning members of the public. Word had evidently got about and a sizable crowd was gathering, kept at a distance by hastily erected barriers. An opportunistic burger stand was setting up on a patch of waste ground. Hungry coppers were turning a blind eye.
A media truck arrived and started to send cables snaking around. Two young public-school types with trendily sculpted hair started walking around importantly with big furry microphones held aloft. A young blonde woman in skyscraper heels and a powder blue suit descended and glanced around, selecting her prey. To Farrell’s horror she started to approach him with a determined expression on her painted face. This he could do without. Fixing him with a basilisk stare and thrusting out her hand, she left him with no choice but to advance reluctantly and shake her hand. Where the blazes was the civilian press officer?
‘Sophie Richardson, Border News,’ she said, drawing her lips back over impossibly white teeth.
‘DI Frank Farrell, Senior Investigating Officer.’
‘Can you confirm the identity of the deceased, DI Farrell?’
‘Not until the family has been informed.’
‘What can you tell us?’
‘Simply that enquiries are ongoing. We are treating this matter as a suspicious death. Excuse me, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.’
Farrell turned on his heel and started to walk back into the church. The crowd was growing in size and becoming more vocal. The local hacks looked ecstatic at the prospect of a juicy murder to report on for once. Did no one actually care that a man had lost his life today?
An alarm on Farrell’s watch beeped. Glancing round to make sure he was unobserved he surreptitiously popped a pill into his mouth and swallowed. Straightening his shoulders, he then pulled open the heavy oak door and strode back into the church. If only he had swallowed his pride and spoken to Boyd yesterday. He was tormented by the thought that he might have been able to prevent his murder.
Farrell glanced at his watch. His stomach growled with hunger. It was about time he went and interviewed the remaining parish priest and housekeeper. He cast around for someone free to accompany him and his eye lighted on DC McLeod, who was looking pale and drawn. Time to get her out of here. He beckoned her over.
‘Sir?’
‘Come with me, DC McLeod. We’re going to interview Father Malone, the other parish priest.’
‘I didn’t know there were two of them, Sir. I’m not of the, er … same persuasion.’
Farrell led the way round the back of the church and up a narrow paved lane that led to a detached sandstone house. It had been many years since he had called it home. He knocked firmly on the door.
A slight young man, who looked to be in his late twenties, opened the door. He was clean-shaven and formally dressed in an immaculate black suit with a clerical collar. There were dark shadows under his pale blue eyes that were suggestive of more than one sleepless night.
‘Father Malone?’ asked Farrell. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Yes of course. Please, come in,’ the priest said in a flat voice.
He swung the door open and they followed him along a dark hall into a comfortable, if rather old-fashioned, living room. Farrell felt a sense of dislocation as though he had inadvertently stepped back