‘I see,’ he said letting out a low whistle. ‘Should I have a lawyer?’
‘Why? Do you think you need one?’ she asked, widening her eyes and sitting up straighter.
‘Nah, just messing with you,’ he said, a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
He really was very charming, thought Mhairi, feeling like she had a devil perched on her shoulder.
‘Did you know him when he was here before?’ she asked.
‘Sure did.’
‘And?’
‘He was a nice enough bloke. Talented painter. Worshipped Hugo, used to follow him around like a puppy. Hugo said jump. He asked how high. A bit tragic, really.’
‘You sound lukewarm. Did he replace you as the boy wonder around here?’
Rafferty looked annoyed and the smile flickered.
‘I might have had more time for him if he hadn’t had the hots for my girlfriend.’
Mhairi glanced at the walls. She spotted two paintings of nudes, both very beautiful young girls. She did a double take. One of them was the same girl she had found on a canvas wrapped in oilskin in Monro’s flat. The painting looked virtually identical, except that this one was signed. The other girl was a stunning redhead. Both of them looked to be in their teens.
‘Which one was your girlfriend?’ she asked, pointing at the paintings.
‘At the time it was Ailish,’ he said, indicating the dark-haired girl. ‘Thereafter it was Beth.’
‘They look very young,’ she said, trying, and failing, to keep the note of censure out of her voice.
‘Hey, lady, I was very young too,’ he said. ‘I’m only twenty-five now. Besides, I’m an artist and back then my main passion was exploring the female form on canvas.’
I’ll bet, exploring them in bed, more like, thought Mhairi.
He gave her a slow once-over that made her feel he was undressing her with his eyes. She stared coolly back at him, refusing to be intimidated.
‘You might be a suitable subject, if you’re interested?’ he said, the flirtatious manner replaced by a detached professionalism.
‘Great bone structure. It’s about time I painted a mature model, a woman, rather than a girl,’ he said sounding enthusiastic. ‘Please say you’ll consider it? I haven’t come across anyone suitable since Beth. It would be all above board. My interest is strictly professional, I assure you.’
Mhairi was unable to stop the blush staining her cheeks.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,’ she said.
She slipped off her stool and wandered round the studio. As well as the nudes there were many other canvasses, some of which were downright disturbing in a way she couldn’t put her finger on. Tortured phantom images that made her feel a bit queasy.
‘No chocolate boxes?’ She turned to him with a smile.
‘I’d shoot myself first,’ he said, then looked appalled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t …’
‘I know what you meant,’ she said, sitting back down.
There was an awkward silence. She pointed to one of the nudes.
‘The dark-haired girl, Ailish, was she the one who went missing? Hugo mentioned her downstairs.’
‘Yes. I still can’t believe she ran off like that. I often wonder what became of her.’
‘What happened?’
‘Beth happened.’ He pointed at the picture of the redhead. ‘Up to that point I had only painted Ailish, but I wanted to explore other female forms in my work. I made the mistake of trying to hide it from her. She burst into my studio one morning, caught Beth posing for me and stormed off.’
‘Didn’t you go after her?’
‘What was the point? I realized from her reaction that she wanted a more conventional set-up than I could give her, so I let her go.’ He shrugged.
‘Did you ever make any effort to track her down?’
‘No, she clearly didn’t want to be found. Mind you with that family of hers I’m hardly surprised.’
‘What do you mean?’
His lip curled with contempt. ‘They were hard-line Catholics. Narrow-minded people living a narrow life. They lived more for the next world than this one. The best thing I ever did was get her away from them, before they choked the life out of her. I set her free.’
‘Did you ever meet them?’
‘God no, they wouldn’t let me darken their door. The only one I met was the sister, Maureen. She turned up a couple of months after Ailish left. Got quite the tongue on her, that one.’
‘I suppose you can hardly blame her.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Her last text suggested that she was running back to the fold,’ said Mhairi.
‘I refuse to believe it,’ he said. ‘I reckon she came to her senses and didn’t get on that ferry. Took off somewhere else instead.’
‘Did she encourage Monro?’
‘Not deliberately, but she had this ethereal quality about her that drew you in. I reckon he mistook her friendliness for something more.’
‘Did he ever paint her like that?’ she asked, pointing to the nude.
‘Not to my knowledge. As far as I’m aware, she only posed for me. She liked to feel that she was my muse. And I suppose she was … at first.’
‘At first?’
‘She couldn’t accept it when I moved on to another girl.’
‘You expected her to?’
‘I suppose you can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.’
‘Weren’t you from that same small town?’ she asked.
‘Only in body, never in spirit.’
‘How did Monro get along with the other members of the household?’
Rafferty paused, considering.
‘He applied to join us about four years ago; I remember they were really excited about it. Hugo was all fired up about reinvigorating The Collective, drawing in some fresh talent, and making a big splash in the art world. Penelope couldn’t decide whether she wanted to mother him or corrupt him.’
‘Penelope? Not the woman I caught a glimpse of a few minutes ago, surely? She seemed so upright.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Detective,’ he said mocking her. ‘We’re artists, we like to experiment, transgress, push the boundaries. We don’t live in your safe, regulated little world.’
Mhairi stiffened, suddenly seeing herself through his eyes. Dull, unadventurous, a plodding tool of the state. She had to turn this interview around. Put him on the back foot. But how?
‘Did you enter the competition that Monro and Hugo were shortlisted for?’ she asked.
A flicker of annoyance flashed across his handsome face.
‘Yes.’
‘Were you disappointed not to make the cut?’ she asked.
‘Not especially. I’m not a recognition junkie, not like Hugo. He would kill to win that prize.’
There was another awkward silence.
‘I don’t mean literally, of course.’
‘’Course, not,’ said Mhairi, heart thumping nevertheless.
‘For me, it was all about the dosh. Unlike Hugo and Penelope, I have no lake of cash in which to float.’
‘So how do you keep afloat, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I have my ways and means,’ he replied.
‘Legal?’
‘Now, I’m starting to feel like I need a lawyer,’ he said.
Mhairi abruptly changed tack, jumping off the stool once more.
‘I must say you’re very talented,’ she said, walking around the studio, browsing the canvasses, looking for any sign of paintings suggestive of Hornel. There were none.
‘Know much about art?’ he asked.
‘A bit,’ she said, praying he wouldn’t ask her any penetrating questions.
‘I visited the Hornel museum recently.’
‘Oh, what did you think of it?’ he asked.
‘It was interesting to wander round, and the garden is gorgeous. To be honest though, the paintings didn’t
really float my boat. I can see that they’re clever and have taken skill, but would I want one on my wall?’
‘Don’t tell me, you aren’t one of those philistines that choose their art to match their sofa, are you?’
‘No!’ said Mhairi, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Rumbled.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but, I have to ask, just as a formality of course, otherwise my boss will kick off. Where were you on the night of Sunday, 6th of January?’
Rafferty rolled his eyes and scrolled through his phone.
‘I was where I normally am. Here.’
‘All night?’
‘Yes. We all ate together as usual, but then I came back up to the studio.’
‘Thank you for your time,’ said Mhairi, turning to leave.
‘Wait!’ he called after her.
She turned to face him.
‘If you won’t model for me, then at least let me buy you a drink? Unless I’m a suspect that is?’ he said, with a cheeky grin.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said.
He passed her his business card, and she took it from him with what she hoped was a Mona Lisa smile and left the room, closing the door behind her.
She then quickly walked along the landing. None of the other doors were open apart from the one to the ladies, which she cast a longing glance at. She really did need to go to the loo now, but she would have to return to the others, to avoid attracting suspicion. She was really torn about meeting Patrick. On the one hand she knew it was a golden opportunity in relation to the investigation. However, she didn’t want to mess things up between her and Ian. Patrick Rafferty was just the kind of bad boy she was trying to leave behind.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Farrell flicked his eyes towards Mhairi, as she slipped back into the room. Penelope Spence had kept them waiting for goodness knows how long, while she took some supposedly important phone call, and then marched in with an air of authority and requested tea to be brought before they got started. She was an odd one. Try as he might he couldn’t seem to get a handle on her. According to her date of birth she was forty-three, a year older than him, but she had that indefinable fine-boned elegance that could have allowed her to pass for years younger. Although slender, she was tall and wiry. She was wearing a tight-fitting olive tunic, which showed the muscle definition in her arms. Her voice was loud and imperious. Someone who had a clear sense of entitlement. He would wager that she’d been born into the upper classes.
‘I hope that this isn’t going to take long, officers. I am working on a commission.’
‘We’ll keep it as brief as possible,’ said Farrell, earning himself a wintery smile.
‘How well did you know Monro Stevenson?’ asked Byers.
‘Not as well as I would have liked. He was a sweet boy and tremendously talented, but a little fragile. Over time, he became rather too attached to a girl living here. It was amusing at first, but after a while, it caused a bit of friction. He became sullen and resentful, paranoid even.’
‘Could the paranoia have been triggered by drug taking?’ interjected Farrell.
‘Artists have long had a tradition of enhancing their creativity by partaking of the odd illicit substance, Inspector. I don’t expect you to understand.’
Oh I think I understand only too well, thought Farrell.
‘Just answer, the question please,’ he said, striving to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘He may have done. I wasn’t his keeper. What we get up to in our private rooms is our own business. After a while we did start to notice that he was behaving a little oddly. We tried to be supportive, but he was undermining the whole ethos of the community. Eventually we realized he had become mentally unwell and contacted his parents. I seem to recollect that the father in particular was most unpleasant. The way he spoke to me.’ She shuddered. ‘Brute of a man.’
‘Am I correct in understanding that none of you residing here are what might be termed commercial artists?’ asked Byers.
Farrell was starting to think that he had underestimated Byers.
‘Perish the thought,’ she snapped, her face flushing. ‘Commercial artists are effectively the tradesmen of the art world. We, on the other hand, strive to be at the cutting edge, opening up the frontiers and exploring what it is to be truly human,’ she said.
‘So, I assume that you are all independently wealthy?’ asked Byers.
Penelope shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Farrell saw a glimmer of fear in her eyes.
‘I hardly think that our financial position is pertinent to your enquiry, officer,’ she said.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Byers. ‘Easier to have lofty principles when the wolf isn’t howling at the door.’
She scowled, suddenly looking her professed age and then some.
‘I mean look at this place! It’s hardly the stereotypical image of the artist starving in a garret, is it?’
‘Did you enter the art competition yourself?’ asked DI Farrell, taking over before Byers went too far and alienated her completely.
‘No. However, I was delighted that Hugo’s talent had been recognized.’
‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Farrell, ‘but are you and Mr Mortimer a couple?’
She gave him a condescending smile.
‘Such a quaint term,’ she said. ‘I suppose you might define us as that … loosely.’
‘What can you tell me about Paul Moretti?’ asked Farrell.
Penelope’s cup rattled in its saucer as she returned it to the table.
‘Very little. He has never been associated with this household.’
‘Were you aware he too was shortlisted?’
‘Yes, Hugo mentioned it. Is that everything, Inspector? I really must get on,’ she said, standing up, as though itching to be on her way.
‘Please, Ms Spence,’ said Farrell gesturing to her seat.
Reluctantly she sat back down.
‘I understand that you had a young Irish girl living here three years ago?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Ailish something or other. She was involved with Patrick, one of our artists. Pretty young thing, not much substance to her. Very conventional at heart. I knew her little rebellion would soon blow itself out. She had a tiff with Patrick over some girl and disappeared off.’
‘According to her sister, she texted that she was on her way home but never arrived. That didn’t concern you at the time?’
‘Good heavens, no. I reckon she met someone else and sloped off with them. After all she had pulled the disappearing act on her family before.’
‘Were she and Monro ever involved, or was it simply a harmless crush on his part?’
‘They never got together so far as I’m aware. The way he used to look at her. I don’t know how Patrick tolerated him for so long. It became even worse as his mental health started to deteriorate. He would stare at her as though he wanted to devour her,’ she said, an inappropriate smirk turning up the corners of her mouth.
Farrell felt a creeping distaste for her walk up his spine.
There was a crash from the hallway. The housekeeper poked her head round the door with a grimace that passed for an apology.
‘Sorry, tripped over the rug.’
Penelope rolled the whites of her eyes but said nothing.
‘Just a final formality before we let you go,’ Farrell said.
‘Where were you on the evening of Sunday, 6th of January, the night Monro died?’
She flicked through an elegant leather diary she had pulled from her bag.
‘It seems I was here, where I am most nights.’
‘Who else was with you?’
‘I imagine we all ate together, as usual. After coffee, we invariably go back to our studios to work.’
‘You imagine?’ said Farrell.
‘Well, we generally eat together at around 8 p.m.’
‘Didn’t think free spirits would be such creatures of routine,’ commented DS Bye
rs, earning an ugly glare.
‘Will that be everything, officers?’
Farrell stood up.
‘Thank you for your time, you’ve been most helpful,’ he said.
‘Patrick Rafferty, next?’
‘Done and dusted,’ said Mhairi.
They walked back down the long driveway in silence, saying nothing until they were seated in Farrell’s Citroen.
***
‘Something rotten in the state of Denmark,’ opined Byers.
Farrell and Mhairi exchanged glances. What the hell was going on with Byers? Since when did he quote Hamlet?
‘What?’ he said. ‘Just because I’m one hot dude, I can’t have a brain too? I’ve embarked on a course of self-improvement. Ask me why?’
‘Why?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Because I’m worth it.’
Mhairi looked at Farrell and saw his jaw muscles tighten to avoid laughing.
She could see Byers smirking in the mirror. He really was the absolute limit.
‘Mhairi, how did you fare with Patrick Rafferty?’ asked Farrell.
‘Well, he certainly had motive to kill Monro Stevenson, sir. He was besotted with Patrick’s girlfriend, Ailish. Didn’t make much of an effort to hide it either.’
‘That fits with what Penelope told us,’ said Farrell.
‘Bit of a slow burn if it was him,’ said Byers. ‘Three years later?’
‘Revenge is a dish best served cold? Could the fact Monro was shortlisted for the prize have pushed him over the edge?’ asked Farrell.
‘Possibly,’ said Mhairi. ‘I doubt it though. He was certainly keen to win the prize but for him it was more about the money than the prestige. I think he struggles a bit financially but, art wise, he just wants to do his own thing. He did strike me as a genuine free spirit. A lot of charisma, but he had an edge to him as well, like if you pushed the wrong button he might flip. Hard to read.’
‘Any sign of forged art?’
‘No, but he did get a bit twitchy when I made an oblique reference.’
‘One to watch then,’ said Farrell.
‘Oh, er, there’s something else,’ she said, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks.
‘Spit it out,’ said Farrell giving her a sideways glance.
Perfect Dead Page 9
