Nearly two hours later they pulled into the visitor’s car park at Barlinnie, on the outskirts of Glasgow, where the dregs of society were left to fester behind high brick walls topped with coils of barbed wire. Most of the souls inside were damaged beyond repair: brutalized by what they had had done to them and what they themselves had meted out.
Farrell recalled the stir that the Barlinnie Special Unit had caused. It had been a bold experiment in its day. They had taken a number of hardcore offenders that were causing problems within the jail and put them away from the other inmates. They tore up the rule book and started giving them intensive art lessons; the opportunity to create something good out of all the mayhem. Jimmy Boyle was a graduate of the Unit; carved out a whole new life for himself as a sculptor and writer. He had gone to hear him speak once and been impressed. Some had said he was just working the system and that beneath that polished presentation there still lurked a black heart. Farrell had chosen to believe otherwise.
As they were buzzed through to the reception area Farrell noticed Mhairi was looking pale.
‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.
‘Never.’
‘Don’t worry. Maximum security means just that. It’s perfectly safe,’ said Farrell, omitting to tell her about the time he had briefly been taken hostage there five years ago.
‘Here I am worrying about how I feel,’ said Mhairi. ‘And you’re going to meet your …’
‘Whatever else he may be, he’s not THAT.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I’m just a bit on edge.’
They passed over their warrant cards and explained the purpose of their visit. Ten minutes later they were cleared to enter the visitors’ room. With a dull hiss of hydraulics the doors slid apart and then closed behind them with an air of finality. A jangle of keys heralded the arrival of another blank-faced prison officer. He led them further into the bowels of the prison; opening and locking doors behind them as they moved along featureless beige corridors with strip lighting. A smell of sweat mingled with disinfectant seemed to become stronger as they pressed deeper into the interior. Eventually, they were shown into a small room with a plastic table and four orange chairs, all bolted to the floor.
Farrell glanced out the small window with its thick metal bars and tensed as he saw a powerfully built man in handcuffs being escorted across the yard between two prison officers. As he passed the outside of the window the man turned and their eyes met. Farrell’s skin crawled and he had to exert every ounce of willpower he possessed not to look away.
The door was unlocked and the man in handcuffs was escorted in by two grim-faced prison officers. The man had a feral presence that expanded to fill the room,
‘Sit down, Mr McWhirter,’ Farrell said.
‘Well, well,’ sneered McWhirter. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
‘We’re here to ask you some questions about the murder of a priest.’
‘And here’s me thinking it was a social call,’ drawled McWhirter. ‘Put a clean pair of boxers on in honour of the occasion,’ he said, leering at Mhairi.
Mhairi glanced at her watch and stifled a yawn. Farrell saw the annoyance flare in McWhirter’s eyes.
Farrell cautioned McWhirter then leaned back in his seat, studiedly nonchalant.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions relating to the rape of Yvonne Farrell in Dumfries over forty years ago.’
‘That was no rape,’ said McWhirter. ‘She was gagging for it that one. Like a bitch on heat. Is it details you’re after?’
Farrell felt nauseous but strived to keep his expression neutral.
‘Have you ever been visited by someone claiming to be a product of that rape?’
‘What? Before today, you mean?’
Farrell intercepted a worried look from Mhairi. He fought for self-control: clenching his jaw and balling his hands into tight fists under the table. ‘You just answered my question,’ Farrell replied. ‘How else would you have known what I looked like? You deliberately weren’t given my name in advance of our meeting.’
‘Think you’re so bloody clever, don’t you, Mr high and mighty fucking copper.’
‘Give us a name,’ snapped Farrell, thumping his fist on the table, causing Mhairi to flinch.
‘Or you’ll what? Rattle your rosary beads? I’m so scared I’m crapping my pants.’
‘He told you that I was a priest?’
‘Laughed myself silly when I heard. Gonnae put in a good word for me at the pearlies?’
‘How did you find him?’ asked Farrell.
‘He found me. Social worker stuck her neb in. Wee bastard had such a shite life he thought if he could only meet me everything would be fine and dandy. The nutter heid genes must come from that slag mother of yours.’
‘How long have you been seeing him?’
‘For about a year on and off,’ said McWhirter. ‘You jealous … son?’
He reached out to stroke Farrell’s hand in a parody of parental affection. Farrell removed his hand and pressed on.
‘Did you put him up to the murder of a Catholic priest?’
‘The only good priest is a dead priest as far as I’m concerned,’ McWhirter hissed. ‘Present company not excepted. However, much as I would like to take the credit it was nothing to do with me. He had an old score to settle there. Why would I stand in his way?’
Farrell decided to take a shot in the dark.
‘And what about the three-year-old kid?’ said Farrell grimly. ‘Was he an old score as well?’
McWhirter dropped his eyes and looked uncomfortable for the first time.
‘Aye well, that’s a different kettle of fish. That’s where him and I had a parting of the ways.’
‘You messed with his head,’ said Farrell. ‘Tipped him over the edge.’
‘Hey, don’t try and pin this one on me,’ shouted McWhirter. ‘How was I supposed to know he was gonnae start taking weans? I’m no’ fucking psychic. He’s a complete nut job.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Farrell.
The fight seemed to go out of McWhirter. His shoulders sagged.
‘Two months ago. He told me what he was planning wi’ the weans.’
‘And what exactly was that?’
‘He said one gets to live; one gets to die. He said God decides which one goes home and which goes wi’ him tae the pearlies.’
‘What else did he say? Think man!’
‘Nothing, ’cos I telt him tae get the fuck away from me. A bit o’ slap and tickle is one thing but I wouldn’ae take a wean. No fucking danger.’
‘Prove it,’ said Farrell with a hard edge to his voice. ‘Give us the name he operates under and the last address you had for him.’
‘On yer bike,’ sneered McWhirter.
‘He’s not done, you know. If you don’t help us out here, the next kid he takes will be down to you.’
‘What’s in it for me?’ asked McWhirter.
‘The knowledge that for once in your miserable existence you did the right thing?’
McWhirter leaned forward close enough for Farrell to smell his fetid breath.
‘Suppose we say that you’ll owe me one, be in my debt like?’ offered McWhirter with an evil grin.
Mhairi tugged at his arm, but Farrell ignored her. It cost him dear to owe this monster that had created him but he had to hold on to the bigger picture. Lives were at stake.
‘As long as it doesn’t involve breaking the law I think we can agree on that,’ said Farrell, hiding his repugnance as best he could.
McWhirter stared at him then. A long hard stare. Farrell stared coolly back.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘He goes by the name of Michael Black,’ said McWhirter, as though the words were stuck in his throat. ‘The last address I have for him is 21 Harrison Road, Dumfries.’
Wordlessly, Farrell got up and left the room with Mhairi close behind.
‘Don’t forget you owe me!’ yelled McWhirter. The sound of his mirthless laughter followed them down the corridor.