‘Good guy, is he?’
‘The best. Perfect gentleman. A rare breed these days, present company excepted,’ she said with a glance at her boss.
‘That’s great! What does he do?’
‘He’s a freelance writer, and he’s taking a sabbatical to work on his novel.’
He worried about Mhairi more than he should but ever since her fiancé had dumped her, when she missed their rehearsal dinner because of work, she had tried to bury her heartbreak in meaningless flings. It had been tearing a hole in her soul not to mention causing gossip around the station. This new chap sounded promising.
‘We’re going out tonight for a meal, if I manage to get away on time.’
‘Make sure you scoot off straight after the briefing then.’
‘I’ll try, but I’ve got a “To Do” list longer than my arm,’ she said.
‘You’ve still got to make the time for things that are important,’ he said.
‘I love how you don’t practise what you preach, sir,’ she said.
He contented himself with an enigmatic look.
It was true. Since all that business last year, he had become something of a hermit, but that was also because he felt the lure of his long-dormant vocation, tugging him back to active service as a priest once more. He had shared these feelings with no one. Not even his spiritual adviser and dear friend, Father Joe Spinelli. He needed to be sure he was returning to his vocation for the right reasons and not simply hiding from the pain and trauma of recent events.
As they reached the outskirts of Dumfries, where the River Nith wound along like a serpent beneath the bypass, he was jolted from his reverie.
‘Actually, I bumped into Laura on Saturday night in Spoons.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Farrell. ‘There with Lind, was she?’
‘No, she was out with some woman. A right party animal. Do her good to get out and let her hair down, what with all she’s been through after losing the baby and the stuff with the twins. I took it as a good sign,’ said Mhairi.
Farrell wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Seven
Once back at the station, he logged in the extra evidence bags and headed down to the MCA room to prepare for the last briefing of the day. The small investigative team had started to filter through.
He’d put DS Stirling in charge of HOLMES in the MCA room, as much to keep him out of harm’s way as anything else. He was just months off retirement and so risk averse he was useless in the field, as Farrell had discovered last year. His experience would be useful in here.
A few minutes before 6 p.m., Mhairi slipped in, causing Farrell to do a double take. She must really like this bloke. She was wearing a red jersey dress that fell to her knees, with navy heels, and a dark wool coat over one arm. He wasn’t the only one to look twice. Mhairi was known for vamping it up when she went out. This signalled a change of gear.
‘You must be Mhairi’s classier sister,’ said DS Byers, attracting glares from everyone. It was no secret that he had the hots for Mhairi, and her continued rejection made him spiteful.
Mhairi ignored him and lifted her chin.
‘Right then,’ said Farrell. ‘Let’s get started.’ He nodded a greeting as DI Moore slipped in at the back.
‘Stirling, can you find out what details you can about a group of artists going by the name of The Collective, in Kirkcudbright. The deceased was involved with them a few years ago. Ascertain where they were based? If they’re still in existence?’
‘Sir,’ Stirling replied.
‘PC Green, can you arrange for the girlfriend, Nancy Quinn, to come in and be interviewed? Apart from the picture of them both on a skiing holiday, there was no sign of her presence in the cottage. Seems a little odd in this day and age,’ said Farrell.
‘DS Byers, have you managed to obtain a list of the shortlisted candidates, and is the prize worth killing over?’
‘Fifty grand, but the prestige attached to this competition is immeasurable. It’s launched the careers of quite a few well-known names into the stratosphere. Turns out another two of the six shortlisted authors live in Kirkcudbright, Hugo Mortimer and Paul Moretti. I’ve got addresses for them both from the organizers.’
‘Good work. McLeod and I will track them down tomorrow. Stirling, any joy with the medical records?’
‘Dr Allison wasn’t in the surgery. The practice manager was a bit reluctant, at first, but I banged on about the public interest, and then the deceased’s mother got on the phone. I have them here.’
‘Anything relevant?’
‘Well, no terminal illness or the like. He did suffer from a major bout of depression about three years ago. There was a fairly half-hearted suicide attempt with some pills, but he appeared to recover well and was on no current medication.’
‘OK then,’ said Farrell. ‘Good work, we’ll wrap it up there for tonight.’
He paused as DI Moore raised her hand and walked forward.
‘If I could say a few words, Frank?’
‘Be my guest,’ he said, standing aside.
‘As some of you will be aware, I’ve been involved in an investigation into a forging racket being run out of this area. We suspect that the forger may be hiding in Kirkcudbright, camouflaged within the many artists there. I know that it will involve an increased workload, but I’d like a couple of volunteers to straddle both investigations in case there is any overlap.’
Both Mhairi and DC Thomson stuck their hands up.
‘Excellent, can you spare a few minutes after the briefing to get you started?’
Mhairi looked tense and glanced at her watch.
‘Actually, on second thoughts, let’s make it my office at eight, tomorrow,’ said DI Moore.
It had been a long day. Farrell felt weariness settle in his bones like sediment as he headed back home to Kelton. The full moon illuminated the frost in the fields and hedges giving the countryside an ethereal air. Despite the cold, he opened the window to clear his head.
As he pulled in to the space in front of his cottage, he nodded and smiled at a small group of neighbours, bundled up against the cold, standing chatting a few doors down. He knew he should approach them, but had never found it easy to insert himself into conversation with others.
As soon as he opened the door, Henry was there to greet him, doing his best imitation of a fat, hairy anaconda as he wrapped his plump black-and-white body around Farrell’s legs and squeezed, purring loudly.
‘Is it you or your tummy that’s pleased to see me?’ asked Farrell, bending down to pick him up. Henry had been one of Mhairi’s more hare-brained schemes to help him recover from the traumatic events last year, but they had settled into a comfortable routine now. He was undemanding company.
Last year he had fallen heavily for Clare Yates, a forensic psychiatrist consulting on the case, but it had not ended well. Since then, he had been retreating deeper and deeper into himself, feeling the tug back to a more ascetic life.
After he fed and made a fuss of Henry, he shed his suit and pulled on his winter running gear. The cold air hit him like a slap as he ran up the lane, turning right along the road towards Glencaple. His stride lengthened as his long limbs uncoiled from hours of desk work and the adrenalin fired up his muscles for a last explosive burst of energy. He pushed away the images of the lifeless face that kept appearing in his head like some macabre pop-up advert. He couldn’t believe that Monro Stevenson had taken his own life. It didn’t make any kind of sense. He’d been murdered. He was sure of it.
Back at the cottage, he had a steaming hot shower to soothe his aching muscles then pulled on faded jeans and a sweatshirt and padded through to the sitting room. Upstairs he had stunning views over the estuary. Tonight, he shut the darkness of the night out by drawing the curtains and lit the log fire to take the chill off the air. Pouring a small whisky and putting on some Gregorian chants, he stretched out on the sofa. Henry promptly joined him, purring contentedly. He stroked him absentmindedly.
Ano
ther murder investigation then. There was none of the thrill of the chase he used to feel while working in Edinburgh. Had the events of last year burnt him out completely? His mind shifted to Lind, married to Laura, the girl he had reluctantly left behind when he set off for the seminary. She had recently lost her baby and was taking time to come to terms with it. Lind was worried about something and hiding it. He should offer to babysit, enable them to get out more. That might help. They had been so happy together when he first arrived back in town. He fervently hoped that his return had not acted as some kind of catalyst for the problems they were experiencing in their marriage.
Chapter Eight
Mhairi walked from Loreburn Street to The Caven’s Arms, where she was due to meet Ian. As she entered the pub, the warmth hit her after the cold outside. Ian waved from a table at the back, and she made her way over to him. He greeted her with a kiss, as she shrugged off her coat. There was a glass of white wine already waiting for her. She picked it up and took a large swallow.
‘God, I needed that,’ she said.
‘Bad day?’ he asked, eyes crinkling in concern. ‘I caught Border News. Kind of weird to turn on the telly and see your girlfriend looking all kickass,’ he grinned.
‘That Sophie Richardson is a monster,’ Mhairi said. ‘Underneath that baby pink exterior beats the heart of a pirate.’
Ian laughed.
‘I mean it!’ she said.
‘I know. That’s what’s so funny.’
‘I hate bloody journalists.’
Ian looked taken aback by her vehemence.
‘What have they ever done to you?’
‘Shortly before you moved down here, I was involved in a couple of high-profile cases. Despite us all busting our chops to catch those responsible, the press turned public opinion against us and made our job ten times harder.’
‘That must have been tough,’ he said.
‘So tough, my boss nearly had a nervous breakdown.’
‘Frank Farrell?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Anyway, when I saw Sophie Richardson today, it brought it all back to me.’
Ian squeezed her hand.
‘It must have been tough seeing that poor bloke this morning.’
‘It goes with the job. I reckon traffic has it worse than we do. The things they have to deal with …’
‘I can’t imagine ever being in such a bad place that I’d consider killing myself,’ said Ian.
‘If he did,’ muttered Mhairi.
‘But, I thought …?’
‘Leave it, Ian. I don’t want to talk about work.’
‘Then let’s not. Hurry up and decide what you’re having. I’m starving!’
He was entertaining company, with a wicked sense of humour, and the rest of the evening flew by. A few short months ago, she would have felt the need to get steaming on a date. With Ian, she could simply relax and be herself.
You’re getting in too deep, a little voice whispered in her ear. He’ll let you get close and then abandon you. Everyone does.
Chapter Nine
Mhairi almost skipped along the corridor to her meeting with DI Moore the next morning. Ian was such a gentleman. He had insisted on paying for dinner but, unlike a lot of lowlifes out there, he hadn’t thought he was paying for something else as well. A goodnight kiss that made her go weak at the knees had rounded off the evening nicely. In fact, Mhairi had had to exercise supreme willpower not to drag him into her flat and rip his clothes off. Even Farrell would approve of Ian, she thought.
DI Moore was sitting behind her desk. She took in Mhairi’s fresh eyes and appearance and welcomed her with a wide smile. Dave Thomson was on the edge of his seat, notepad and pen at the ready.
‘Thank you for volunteering, both of you,’ she said, handing each of them a folder with summaries of the case to date.
‘This art forgery investigation began in Glasgow but has effectively ended up on our patch. Not much is known other than the fact that there appears to be an incredibly talented forger hiding out in Kirkcudbright. Up until a couple of days ago we had no idea of how the paintings were being moved around, though it would seem that they make their way to Ireland and from there are transported all over the world. When the operation started they probably simply smuggled them on the ferry in cars, but since the Port Authority has been taking an active interest, it’s likely that they are employing other methods.’
‘Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, ma’am,’ commented Mhairi. ‘There’s about a gazillion miles of uninhabited coastline they could launch from. Not to mention all the sailing clubs in the area.’
‘You said that a forged Hornel was recovered, ma’am?’ said DC Thomson.
‘Yes?’
‘Well, isn’t it likely the forger took the opportunity to visit Broughton House on several occasions to study his work?’
‘Possibly,’ said DI Moore.
‘I know there’s not much CCTV coverage in Kirkcudbright, but what about at the museum itself? There could be innocent reasons why someone might visit multiple times, but it could point us in the right direction,’ said DC Thomson.
‘Perhaps you could contact the museum and ask? It’s owned by the National Trust, I believe.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, scribbling once more.
God, was I ever that keen? Mhairi smiled to herself.
A thought occurred to her.
‘How do we know that the Hornel recovered is a forgery and not the real deal?’
‘Because luckily the National Trust had a restoration team working at the museum and they confirmed that the original was still there and undisturbed. They did comment on examining ours that it was a very skilful copy and that only an expert would be any the wiser.’
‘If the forgery ring is operating out of Kirkcudbright, is there anyone who can give us the low-down on any potential suspects?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I was coming on to that. Fortunately, we have Lionel Forbes, art historian and critic, in the locality,’ DI Moore murmured, going a little pink. ‘He’s extremely knowledgeable regarding the local art scene, and the Super has authorized his use as a consultant as and when necessary. However, he’s also indicated that we’re not to reveal operational details to Mr Forbes for the time being, given that he lives within the community that we are investigating.’
‘Could I have his contact details in case we need to ask him anything in relation to the Monro Stevenson case?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Certainly,’ replied Moore, rattling them off without consulting her notes. ‘He’s very generous with his time. A real asset to the investigation.’
Is he now? thought Mhairi her antennae twitching.
After the meeting was over, her next stop was Farrell’s office. Through the open door she could see him writing furiously, lost in what he was doing. She waited a few seconds until he sensed her presence and looked up with a start.
‘Mhairi McLeod, are you trying to give me a heart attack? If you’re not bowling along corridors like a wrecking ball, you’re materializing out of thin air like a ghost.’
She glared at him. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people and there was her trying to be considerate. She felt her rosy glow start to dissipate.
‘Hadn’t we better get off to the post-mortem, sir? Bartle-White said he was planning to start at nine sharp.’
Farrell glanced at his watch and sprang up out of his seat as though electrified.
‘I hadn’t realized the time! After the PM, I think we should head straight to Kirkcudbright and take a look at the other two local shortlisted artists.’
‘You really think someone would kill to get closer to winning that prize?’
‘People have killed for a lot less, Mhairi.’
‘While we’re there, sir, it might be worth speaking to Lionel Forbes, art historian. According to DI Moore, he’s a big cheese in the art world. He might be familiar with the artists on the list.’
‘G
ood idea. Maybe you can phone ahead and arrange for us to look in on him?’
‘Will do.’
Farrell stood up and put his jacket on.
‘Nice meal, last night?’ he asked.
Mhairi knew that wasn’t what he was really asking. She knew he worried about her. In fact he had made her worry about herself.
‘Excellent, went to The Caven’s Arms. Have you been?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She knew her boss never went anywhere except round to DCI Lind’s for the odd meal. She suspected he was lonely.
‘No, I’ll have to check it out,’ he said.
‘Maybe DI Moore would like to check it out as well?’ she blurted out.
Farrell’s jaw tightened.
‘I’m sure DI Moore is more than capable of organizing her own social life,’ he snapped. ‘As am I.’
Ouch, message received loud and clear, thought Mhairi, subsiding into silence. He never used to be this grumpy.
Chapter Ten
Farrell and McLeod entered the mortuary via the back entrance to Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. They nodded at one of the local undertakers who was leaving as they arrived.
Once inside, they were shown into the well-equipped examination room where Bartle-White was already positioned beside the body. As always, he cut an imposing figure.
‘Excellent! I can’t abide tardiness,’ he said, glancing at the clock, which showed one minute to nine o’clock.
The room smelled of formaldehyde with unpleasant undertones of blood and other bodily fluids.
Bartle-White, a tall but stooped man with a taste for bow ties, wasted no time on small talk and got straight to work.
‘Gunshot wound to upper palate is clearly the cause of death. Far more effective than a shot fired into the temple, as it targets the cerebellum resulting in immediate death,’ he said. ‘I believe the gun recovered was a PPK 380 mm?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Farrell. ‘A single bullet was recovered at the scene.’
Bartle-White busied himself once more on Stevenson’s ruined head.
Perfect Dead Page 4
