DS Stirling stuck his head round the door after a peremptory knock. He nodded to Farrell.
‘Yes?’ said Lind.
‘The firearms team have got the house surrounded, Sir. There’s been no sign of activity since surveillance commenced.’
‘Right,’ said Lind, jumping to his feet and grabbing his jacket. ‘Let’s get over there and see what we’ve got.’
Farrell parked his car in a nearby cul-de-sac from which he could observe the façade of the rundown semi. The elderly couple in the immaculate adjoining dwelling had been spirited away to Loreburn Street, in a right old tizz, for tea and chit-chat with DC McLeod. Lind pulled in behind him and got out of the car. Farrell made to do likewise but Lind shook his head, motioning for him to stay put as he walked swiftly by with DS Stirling. Farrell watched them closely as they marched up the weed-encrusted driveway. A curtain twitched within the property. Someone was there. Farrell sat bolt upright. It was at times like this that he wished he smoked. Sweat prickled under his arms and an iron fist squeezed his gut. It was always the same when something big was going down. Every cell in his body flooded with adrenalin.
He heard Lind rap firmly on the door; Stirling right beside him. No response. Lind stepped aside and motioned to a member of the armed response team, who burst the lock and charged inside. Farrell knew they would have entered the back door simultaneously. This was it. They would surely catch him now. Farrell tensed at the thought of being confronted with this brother he had never known: spawned, as he himself had been, from evil, and who had lain with him in his mother’s womb. Now it was time to stop regarding this whole mess as an academic exercise and get real.
Two burly officers wearing bulletproof vests erupted from the front door and waved them forward.
Lind stepped past the door, now hanging from its hinges, and motioned for Farrell to follow him. The first thing that he noticed was the smell of incense. As they moved into the tiny living room it became intermingled with the rank smell of stale body odour and unwashed clothes. There was something else? Farrell wrinkled his nose and sniffed like a bloodhound, following the sweet sickly smell into the kitchen where he found the remains of what looked like cannabis resin on the worktop. He left the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs there was a crucifix on the wall. Farrell barely glanced at it but Lind, hot on his heels, halted in front of it.
‘Frank, you’d better see this.’
Farrell slowly turned and looked hard at the crucifix. His eyes widened in shock as he saw that the head of Christ had been removed and a near perfectly proportioned facsimile of his own head substituted. He could feel his skin crawl with revulsion.
‘This is some kind of crude message,’ Farrell said.
‘What do you think he’s trying to get across to you?’
‘How would I know?’ snapped Farrell. ‘You honestly expect me to be able to crawl inside a mind as sick as his?’
‘Frank, I didn’t mean …’
‘Just leave it,’ said Farrell, turning to walk upstairs. ‘If anything occurs to me you’ll be the first to know.’
Turning the corner onto the upstairs landing, Farrell identified another familiar smell. Beeswax. The faint strains of a Gregorian chant wafted towards them. A door at the end of the passage was standing open. Farrell and Lind exchanged glances and moved cautiously towards it.
Standing on the threshold, Farrell stiffened, his heart pounding. The room was lit only by candlelight, and a shadowy figure with his back to them stood by the ruby velvet drapes wearing a long black cassock.
‘Police, put your hands in the air,’ yelled Lind, reaching for his baton.
There was no response.
Farrell strode over to the figure, grabbing it roughly by the shoulder, and felt his heart leap into his mouth as it toppled backwards into his arms.
‘A dummy. Would you believe it?’ he said to his boss.
Lind did not respond but was looking across the room at something behind him. Farrell swung round and beheld the words dripping in red down the back wall of the bedroom. Lind wordlessly hit the light switch.
FORGIVE ME FATHER FOR I HAVE SINNED
Farrell involuntarily crossed himself. There had been evil in this room. He could sense it. Lind was examining the dummy.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said in a voice laced with foreboding.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Farrell said.
‘These robes are yours,’ said Lind.
Farrell slowly walked over to examine the collar. The name tag was blue stitching on cream linen. Father Frank Farrell, in his mother’s painstaking embroidery stitch. The wooden cross around the dummy’s neck was also his, given to him by his mentor, Father Spinelli, on ordination. Beside himself with fury, Farrell lifted it, intent on removing it from this most unholy of rooms. Lind placed a hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Sorry, Frank. It’s evidence. Have to leave it where it is I’m afraid.’
Farrell reluctantly let his hand drop back.
‘He’s closing in,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s as if he’s inside my head.’
‘No, he’s not.’ replied Lind. ‘Listen to me, Frank. That’s what he wants you to think. He’s just a sick son of a bitch who’s getting off on jerking us around. Sooner or later he’ll make a mistake and we’ll nail him.’
‘I pray to God that you’re right,’ said Farrell.