Perfect Dead
Page 8
‘The preliminary results of the post-mortem on Monro Stevenson have come in. Cause of death is by gunshot wound. No surprises there. Hence the gunshot residue on his right hand. The time of death is estimated to be around 5.45 p.m. We’re waiting on toxicology results as it appears he may have been visited by someone in the hour prior to his death. There were two rim marks on the table and only one glass. Furthermore, the lights were off and the curtains drawn. It would be unusual for someone to shoot themselves completely in the dark. We are looking into the possibility that he may have been drugged and the suicide staged.’
He could see a few sceptical looks. Maybe some of them thought he was losing the plot.
‘DC Thomson, how’s that handwriting report coming along? I need to know if the signature on the suicide note was written by the deceased or a third party.’
‘The expert, David Williams, has said he’ll be able to start work on it tomorrow, sir.’
‘PC Green?’
‘Here, sir,’ said a voice from the back.
‘How are the family holding up?’
‘The press has been proving a bit of a nuisance. Since the piece went out on Border News, a few stray reporters have been turning up at the door, calling repeatedly, the usual nonsense. They’ve also had hate mail from a few religious fanatics banging on about how the deceased will be rotting in Hell, that kind of thing.’
‘Swing by and speak to the civilian press officer, Andy Moran. Get the Stevensons to refer all callers to him, meantime.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you spoken to the girlfriend, Nancy Quinn?’
‘No, sir, I haven’t managed to catch her in at all,’ PC Green replied.
‘Don’t you think that’s odd? Can you track down her current whereabouts and arrange for her to come in and help us with our enquiries?’
‘Will, do, sir.’
‘Right, everyone, snap to it. We’ve got three critical investigations here that I don’t want to see get away from us. It’s only a few months since the press were last picking over our bones. I don’t want to give them reason to do so again.’
Chapter Nineteen
Farrell was marching down the corridor when DI Moore caught up with him.
‘A word, Frank?’
‘Sure, Kate. What’s on your mind?’ he asked, surprised when she looked unaccountably furtive.
‘Not here.’
They walked to her office in silence. Once the door was closed she gestured to him to take a seat.
‘This is really rather awkward …’
‘Best just to spit it out, Kate. I’m no mind reader.’
‘It’s John.’
‘What about him?’
‘I think he’s having domestic problems. No one else knows. I thought with you being such good friends you could maybe have a word with him, see if you can do anything to help? I think he’s really struggling, Frank.’
‘Have you tried talking to him about it?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’ She coloured. ‘And people generally don’t find it easy to confide in me. I know I come across as a bit aloof.’
‘Och away with you, Kate, you’ve got a warm heart and most folks round here know that. I take it you mean problems with Laura?’
‘He hasn’t said anything directly. John is loyal to a fault. However, she keeps demanding he go and pick up the kids when he’s working, that sort of thing. I get the impression that she’s out drinking with this new friend to all hours and that her and John are not getting on at all.’
Farrell was worried. He’d sensed something was up. However, given his past relationship with Laura, he felt sure that he would be the last person John would choose to confide in. In no way did he want to come between them.
‘I’ll try and broach the subject, but I may not be the best person.’
‘I know about yours and Laura’s previous history. I think that if anyone can get through to them, it’s probably you.’
‘I’ll have to pick my moment. Maybe we should team up and offer to babysit? I find them a bit of a handful on my own.’
‘Yes,’ she brightened. ‘They could go out for the evening, or even away for the weekend?’
The weekend? He wasn’t sure about that. Wouldn’t it be weird to spend so much time in each other’s company away from work? He squashed down the feelings of panic her suggestion had elicited.
‘Sure, why not?’
‘I take it you’re heading off to Kirkcudbright shortly?’
‘Starting to feel I could drive there in my sleep.’
‘Let me know if you hear anything pertinent to my investigation,’ she said, professional mask in place once more. ‘I’ve prepared a summary of what we already know for distribution to the key members of your team.’
‘Excellent, I’ll pass that round. By the way, Mhairi and I questioned that art consultant, Lionel Forbes.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was helpful enough but by the finish I thought Mhairi was going to bite his ankle. Mind you, she was hungry.’
‘Mhairi should learn not to be so judgemental,’ she said, looking annoyed. ‘He’s an incredibly accomplished man and very well thought of in the art world.’
Farrell stood up to leave.
‘I’m sure he is. I’ll keep you posted on any developments.’
His next port of call was Walker’s office. The Super had been extremely quiet of late apart from the odd snarky comment. He took with him summaries of the three cases.
He knocked on the door, and the voice inside bade him enter.
‘Have a seat, Frank,’ he said.
Okay, this was new, thought Farrell, doing as he was told.
The Super looked even paler than usual. His red curls, normally kept in check by a local barber, had grown into a fuzzy red halo that only served to highlight his bald patch.
‘Thought you’d like a written update on all three investigations, sir,’ said Farrell, placing them on the desk.
The Super glanced at them listlessly but made no effort to pull them towards him. Normally he crackled with energy, much of it malevolent, but today, nothing.
‘I suppose we should savour these,’ he said with a sigh.
‘Sir?’
‘Well, after Police Scotland comes into being in April, that’ll be it. We’ll be lucky if we’re allowed to investigate a stolen cat without the city slickers tanking down from Glasgow to stick their nebs in. Impotent, that’s what we’ll be, son, bloody impotent.’
‘It might not be as bad as you think, sir,’ he said.
The Super gave a snort of laughter.
‘I know the kind of cases you’ve been working on, laddie. Stolen cats aren’t going to hit the spot. You’ll be away back to Edinburgh in the twinkle of an eye.’
‘See, sir, every cloud has a silver lining.’
The Super smirked. That was better.
‘I’m getting too old for all this upheaval, Farrell. Reckon I’ll grab my pension and run for the hills. Let them get on with it. It’s the likes of DI Moore and DCI Lind I feel sorry for. Bloody fine officers, but there’s going to be nothing left here for them to get their teeth into.’
Farrell could find no crumbs of comfort. The imminent amalgamation of all the regional autonomous police forces in Scotland into one centralized force was going to completely change the way Dumfries and Galloway was policed.
‘Don’t let me keep you, Farrell, best get out there and solve these bloody cases. Show the bastards what real police work looks like.’
Chapter Twenty
As they reached Kirkcudbright, having had to suffer the frustration of being trapped behind a line of lorries bound for the ferry at Cairnryan, Farrell turned to McLeod and Byers.
‘These are going to be challenging interviews. The impression we want to convey is that we are just dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s. Everything routine, verging on boredom, that’s the way we want to play it. Let them think Monro’s death is suicide, for now, wit
hout saying as much.’
‘It could still be suicide,’ said Byers.
‘Assuming no one has blabbed, hopefully they will be unaware that bones were recovered yesterday. If you get a chance to see inside their studio space, take it. Look out for evidence of any copied art works, particularly Hornel, who has a very distinctive style.’
‘DI Moore has been giving me and DC Thomson a crash course in fine art,’ Mhairi grumbled. ‘It’s pure torture. I was rubbish at it in school. As for that Hornel? I wouldn’t have his stuff up in my flat if you paid me.’
‘I’ll take the lead with Hugo Mortimer, the other shortlisted candidate. He knew Monro from his time at Ivy House. Perhaps he was the one seen arguing with him not long before he died.’
‘Byers, can you take the lead with Penelope Spence? Check not only her whereabouts on the night Monro was murdered, but also Hugo’s. Remember to ask about the missing girl.’
‘What about me, sir?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I suggest you take Patrick Rafferty, the missing girl’s boyfriend at the time. He might open up more to you as you’re younger.’
They left their car by the grass verge outside and walked through a pair of massive sandstone pillars with twisted gargoyles leering down at them. The driveway wound round a large walled garden that had gone to seed. An imposing granite townhouse with flaking paint stood at the end of the drive. It too had gargoyles peering down with sightless eyes. The whole appearance was suggestive of a gradual decline into poverty. Beyond the property, the wind howled through the trees in Barrhill Wood.
Mounting the well-worn steps to the front door, Farrell lifted the faded brass knocker and let it fall with a thud that reverberated throughout the house. His eyes widened in surprise when the door swung open to reveal Fiona Murray. A brief expression of annoyance, perhaps fear, flickered across her face.
‘Can I help you, officers?’ she asked, looking like she was fighting the impulse to slam the door in their faces.
Farrell smiled at her.
‘Sorry, Mrs Murray, I’m afraid we keep turning up like the proverbial bad pennies. We’re simply here as part of our routine enquiries into the death of Monro Stevenson.’
‘It’s a sad business, to be sure. Is there anyone in particular you’d like to speak to?’
‘I’d like to start with Hugo Mortimer and then work my way round everyone who lives here. I’ve brought DC McLeod and DS Byers with me, so we can move things along quicker and be out of your hair as soon as possible.’
She motioned to them to come in.
‘I’ll tell them you’re here.’
They stood inside the vestibule. Mrs Murray approached a tall patrician-looking woman at the end of the hall. They had a muttered exchange in low voices then the woman glided up the stairs without acknowledging them, her spine rigid with displeasure.
They were led in to the kitchen and sat down at a refectory-style monk’s bench and table. Farrell hoped in vain for a cup of coffee. Suddenly his eyes were drawn to some scales and a baking tray on the counter top. Following his gaze, Mrs Murray walked over and threw them in the sink, running the tap and squirting washing up liquid over the top. Interesting. What else was she willing to cover up for her employers?
‘Mr Mortimer will be down shortly,’ she said, looking flustered and almost running out of the kitchen.
Maybe it was time to look in to the ubiquitous housekeeper further, mused Farrell.
They heard brisk footsteps coming across the parquet flooring in the hall, heralding the arrival of Hugo Mortimer, whose presence seemed to quickly expand to fill the room.
‘Officers, delighted to meet you. I wish it wasn’t under such distressing circumstances.’
Tall and broad-shouldered he was dressed in Levi’s and a cotton open-necked shirt with a red neckerchief tied at the throat. A thick shock of unruly jet-black hair and piercing green eyes set off his handsome though slightly louche face. He looked to be in his early forties.
He held Mhairi’s hand just a touch too long for propriety, staring deep into her eyes with a small smile that betrayed he was quite aware of his effect on the opposite sex.
Farrell and Byers glanced at each other and shared an unusual moment of complete accord. Mhairi gently detached her hand and sat at the table, all business.
‘I understand that you knew the deceased?’ said Farrell.
‘Yes, in fact, as I’m sure that you already know, Inspector, he used to be part of our household. Until he became, how shall I say it, unwell?’
‘You mean, had a breakdown?’ said Farrell.
‘Yes. I blame myself of course,’ he said, with a sigh that Farrell was fairly sure was more down to theatrics than any genuine regret.
‘Oh, how so?’ said Byers.
‘I didn’t realize how sensitive he was. I should have known that someone from such a conservative background could never fully integrate here.’
Farrell had a fair idea of what he meant by integration and tried to keep his expression neutral.
‘Who was he closest to when he lived here?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Let me see. I would say he got along with everyone but, if I had to choose, I would say Ailish Kerrigan.’
‘The missing Irish girl?’ said Farrell, his pulse quickening.
‘Yes, they were very close.’
‘How close?’ asked Byers.
Mortimer laughed, sounding faintly patronizing.
‘Let’s just say, not as close as he would have liked. Ailish was strangely conventional to be living in a fluid situation such as ours. She couldn’t seem to break the “mind-forged manacles” of the Catholic Church.’
‘William Blake,’ said Byers, surprising his colleagues.
‘Quite,’ said Mortimer, shooting him a glance. ‘He became unwell shortly after she left. Delusional, in fact. At first I thought he’d taken something illicit, had a bad reaction. After a couple of months of his behaviour becoming increasingly erratic, I called his parents and they came to get him. Salt of the earth types. Hard to believe the soul of an artist flourished amidst such pedestrianism.’
Mhairi was looking less enamoured by the minute and sat back in her seat with a stony expression.
Farrell changed tack. He was too damn cocky by far this guy. He needed to shake him out of his comfort zone.
‘I gather he was an extremely talented artist,’ he said.
‘He showed early promise,’ said Mortimer. ‘He wouldn’t have been admitted to The Collective otherwise. It was a serious artistic endeavour.’
‘Was? How about now?’ said Byers.
‘That goes without saying,’ snapped Mortimer.
‘Were you aware that Monro was shortlisted for the Lomax Prize?’ asked Farrell.
‘I was delighted to hear it.’
Were you though? wondered Farrell.
‘Did you have the opportunity to congratulate him in person, before his untimely demise?’ he asked.
‘No. I hadn’t seen him for around three months before his death. I rarely venture out these days. Too busy working on my new exhibition.’
‘When was the last time you had a major exhibition of your work?’ asked Farrell.
Mortimer shifted in his seat and bared his teeth in an attempt to smile.
‘Not for some time. The artistic life ebbs and flows, Inspector. Fashions come and fashions go.’
‘Be a welcome boost for your career if you win this prize then,’ said Byers.
‘Indeed. Even to be shortlisted confers prestige,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir, you’ve been most helpful,’ said Farrell.
Mortimer got to his feet, looking relieved.
***
As he left the room, McLeod leaned over to Farrell.
‘He could be the person Moretti saw having an argument with Monro in the High Street. He’s tall, powerfully built and reeks of cigars,’ she said, screwing up her nose.
‘I don’t think that was cigars,’ said Byers.
‘True enough,’ she replied.
‘Mhairi, I need you to have a poke around while ostensibly searching for the ladies. If you can get into any of the studios, keep in mind what you’re looking for.’
Byers, who was facing the door, gave her a nudge with his foot and she got up and left.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mhairi climbed the stairs slowly, her senses heightened as she listened intently. The sound of music playing drew her along the upstairs hall to a half-open door. Giving a light tap she stuck her head round, prepared to ask where the loo was if necessary.
The door opened into a bright, cluttered studio space. Standing in front of an easel, daubing at a canvas, was an absolutely gorgeous man. He greeted her with a smile which made her momentarily feel the need to sit down. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Diet Coke ad. Get a grip, Mhairi, she told herself firmly. You’re on the job here.
‘Mind if I come in?’ she asked flashing her brightest smile.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, pointing to a wooden stool. She perched on it as he kept painting, wondering how to best engage him in conversation.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, putting down his paintbrush and pulling up a stool opposite her, too close for comfort.
Her mouth went dry, and her hands became clammy. This is so not happening, she told herself fiercely. Think about Ian.
‘I’m up here with a team of officers from Dumfries.’
‘Police?’ he asked, his warmth fading.
‘Yes, DC Mhairi McLeod at your service.’ She stuck out her hand, and he shook it slowly, almost mockingly.
‘Patrick Rafferty. So, why are you lot here? Come to crack down on the wacky baccy?’
‘Hardly. No, we’re looking into the death of Monro Stevenson.’
He frowned.
‘But that was a suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘All I’m at liberty to say is that we’re investigating all possible avenues of enquiry.’