LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘What department do you work in?’

      There was a pause. Nolan stared at the table.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Child protection,’ he muttered.

      From his vantage point, Farrell could see Stirling clench and then uncurl his fists under the table.

      ‘Look!’ burst out Nolan, shrugging off the restraining arm of his solicitor. ‘I know how this looks but I would NEVER actually harm a child. I’m not even a bloody paedophile. At least, I don’t think I am.’

      Byers leaned across the table, his face reddening with fury.

      ‘Those kids bloody happy to be photographed while those things are done to them, are they?’

      ‘Byers!’ snapped Stirling. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

      Byers subsided, but fury still blazed in his eyes. Farrell wondered if he’d been the architect of the cuts and bruises.

      ‘What do you mean?’ asked Stirling.

      ‘I’ve been depressed. Me and my wife got divorced. I went on a real downer. Had to go on the sick. Thought I was going mad staring at four walls all day. I started watching porn, just for something to do but I couldn’t feel anything. I started to look at harder stuff. Still nothing. Then some random kid stuff came up. It repulsed me but it made me feel something. Breaking that taboo made me scared but it made me feel alive again. I know that sounds bloody crazy but I’m trying to be honest.’

      Too bloody honest, said the annoyed expression on his solicitor’s face.

      ‘Did you tell anyone what you’d been doing?’ asked Stirling.

      ‘Of course not. I knew how people would react. A year ago I would most likely have been one of them.’

      ‘Have you had any unusual phone calls recently?’ asked Stirling.

      ‘Human Resources phoned last week to check on how long I was intending to remain off on the sick. First time they’ve phoned since I went off a year ago. Probably gearing up to sack me, the bastards.’

      Stirling glanced at Byers but he was already writing in his notebook. Not so slow on the uptake as Farrell had thought.

      ‘Have you ordered any replacement credit cards, bank cards, driving licence, passport, anything like that?’ asked Stirling.

      ‘I ordered a new bank card,’ Nolan said. ‘Come to think of it, bloody thing never arrived. I haven’t had a statement for a while either. It’s like you cease to exist when you’re on the sick,’ Nolan said with a self-pitying whine in his voice.

      ‘Have you had anyone at the door trying to sell you anything?’ asked Byers.

      ‘I thought the Jehovah’s Witnesses were bad enough but last week I’d a Catholic priest round trying to get me to sign up for some missionary newsletter.’

      Stirling and Byers looked indifferent to this information, but Farrell frowned. That was odd. The Catholic Church was old school and didn’t cold call as far as he was aware. He waited to see if they asked Nolan for a description, but they didn’t.

      ‘Did you sign anything?’ interjected Byers.

      ‘Eventually, just to get rid of him. Took persistent to a whole new level. And you can’t exactly roughhouse a priest, can you?’

      Plenty have tried, thought Farrell.

      ‘Anyone or anything else?’ asked Stirling.

      ‘That’s all I can think of …’ answered Nolan.

      The interview was terminated, and Nolan was remanded in custody to appear before the Sheriff the next morning.

      Farrell slipped quietly out of the room before they became aware he had been listening in.

      Before he went home he stopped by the MCA room and had a word with the Duty Sergeant. Still nothing concrete had emerged from the investigation. As Lind and Moore appeared to be making all the right moves and coping as well as could be expected, he resolved to focus his complete attention on the Boyd case from now on.

       CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      Farrell breakfasted on a bacon roll and two caffeine tablets washed down with a strong cup of coffee from the canteen. Within a few minutes he could feel the fog in his brain lifting and started to feel more alert. Although it was only the back of six he popped his head round Lind’s door on the way past, not really expecting to see him in this early after what had happened with Laura the other day. Somewhat to his surprise his friend was immersed in paperwork, looking like he’d been sitting there for some time.

      ‘Any leads on the kids’ whereabouts yet?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Not a dickie bird,’ replied Lind. ‘There’s been no ransom note either. Bastard has just spirited them into thin air.’

      ‘What about the car? Nothing doing there?’

      ‘Turns out it was stolen. Owner reported it missing when he got back from work last night. It was found torched in the early hours of the morning out the back of the Labour Club.’

      ‘Anything I can do to help?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘I think we’ve got all bases covered. The boys’ pictures are everywhere: in social media, the papers, on leaflets. Border News televised an appeal by the parents last night. Did you catch it?’

      ‘Just the tail end,’ said Farrell. ‘I take it the phones have been ringing off the hook ever since?’

      ‘We’ve got officers working round the clock on dedicated lines but nothing concrete yet. Right now I need you to prioritize the murder investigation. The bishop is demanding daily updates, and I don’t need to tell you that the super would like nothing more than to dish your head up to him on a silver salver.’

      ‘You got that right. Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll catch a break in the case soon,’ said Farrell, sounding more confident than he actually felt. He turned and left the room without sharing with Lind his plans for the later part of the day.

      Farrell glanced at his watch. It was time to go to the railway station and meet his old friend and spiritual adviser, Father Joe Spinelli. Given that he was in Boyd’s appointment diary, Farrell knew that he ought, by rights, to be conducting the interview at the station, to make things official, but no way was he going to put someone he revered so highly in a smelly interview room and have his soul polluted by the experience. Farrell had invited him to stay at Kelton, where he was sure he would be able to draw out any information that might be pertinent to the investigation.

      Two hours later, as he served the elderly priest a modest helping of chilli, Farrell couldn’t help but feel an anticipatory pang of loss. Joe was now in his late seventies and looking increasingly frail. He had retired from active work in his Edinburgh parish and had an almost ethereal look about him, as if he was not long for this world. After his friend had said grace and eaten a few mouthfuls his pale face relaxed a little.

      ‘I see you still like your Gregorian chants, Frank,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I thought that after all this time your tastes might have become a little more secular.’

      ‘I like my music to transport me not thrash me over the head with an iron bar,’ replied Farrell.

      His friend looked troubled.

      ‘Interesting metaphor,’ he said. ‘It must be a struggle to maintain your connection to the Divine when you are mired in such violence.’

      ‘You’re reading way too much into this. It was just the first random thing that came into my head,’ protested Farrell.

      ‘Exactly,’ said Father Joe.

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