Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘He asked me to model for him. Er, he does life drawing.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ said Farrell.

  ‘Bastard chancer,’ muttered Byers in back.

  ‘I said no! What do you take me for? He then asked if I wanted to meet up for a drink. He could give me the low-down on the art scene in Kirkcudbright, not to mention get my foot in the door at Ivy House.’

  ‘Mhairi, there’s a limit to what I expect my officers to do for the job. Aside from other considerations, of which there are plenty, this man could potentially be dangerous,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I know that, sir! I’m not stupid,’ said Mhairi. ‘But, I don’t see what harm a drink could do?’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ said Farrell.

  Both men maintained a tight-lipped silence all the way back to Dumfries.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Farrell had a banging headache by the time he got back to the station. He needed food and plenty of it. A fast metabolism and a lean physique meant he was universally loathed by dieters. The staff canteen was buzzing, as it was still the tail end of lunchtime. He stood in the doorway undecided. His stomach grumbling with rage forced him over the threshold. Loading up his tray with macaroni cheese and chips he searched for an empty table, before he spied Lind, huddled in a corner with his back to the room, at a table for one. He looked bummed-out and as if he was withdrawing into himself. This couldn’t be allowed to continue. Breezily he nudged Lind’s tray with his own and pulled up a chair with his other hand. Lind appeared anything but pleased to see him.

  ‘Hey, mind if I join you?’ asked Farrell, sitting down before his boss and old friend had a chance to open his mouth.

  ‘Frank,’ Lind said, a wan smile flickering across his face. ‘How did you get on this morning?’

  OK, now he was worried. Something was definitely amiss. But this wasn’t the time or the place to get into it.

  ‘There’s a briefing scheduled for 4 p.m., so I won’t bore you with all the details. Suffice to say that The Collective seems rotten to the core. They’ve obviously got plenty to hide, but whether it’s stuff pertinent to our investigation or just general drug taking and debauchery, I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘They identified the bones,’ said Lind, his voice flat. ‘Stirling and Thomson attended the post-mortem while you were away.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They belong to Ailish Kerrigan, the girl who went missing. It’s now a murder enquiry. She was stabbed, apparently. At least twice. That’s how many times the knife nicked her ribs. Her sister Maureen is on her way over from Ireland. Ailish visited a local dentist with an abscess, so we were able to identify her from his records.’

  ‘I can tell that case really got under your skin,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I suspected foul play. She was a nice kid by all accounts, if a bit misguided. I didn’t have her pegged for someone who would put her family through the anguish of not knowing if she was dead or alive.’

  ‘It appears that the deceased artist, Monro Stevenson, had developed quite an obsession with her.’

  ‘Wasn’t a nude painting of a dark-haired girl recovered in his cottage?’

  ‘Yes, but according to Mhairi, Patrick Rafferty maintained that she only posed for him. Quite adamant about it he was. There’s also the fact that the painting was unsigned.’

  ‘Maybe he copied it?’

  ‘That would be creepy,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Any sign that she reciprocated Monro’s affection?’

  ‘None yet, but we’ll keep digging. I suppose that given what we discovered about Monro’s obsession with Ailish, we also have to consider the possibility that he was the one who killed her three years ago and the guilt is what caused his breakdown back then.’

  ‘That would mean that he did commit suicide,’ said Lind.

  ‘Or that someone found out and dispensed summary justice,’ said Farrell.

  He paused, wrestling with his conscience. They had a potential in at the house but he was letting his concern for Mhairi get in the way of the case. She was a dedicated and capable officer and he should not be standing in her way like this.

  ‘Whatever it is, just tell me,’ said Lind pushing away his half-eaten tray.

  ‘Mhairi went off on her own to interview Patrick Rafferty and got a nosey round his studio. We thought he might be more forthcoming if she appeared to happen upon him by chance.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘It would seem so. He asked her to model for him. She said no, of course! He then invited her to meet up with him for a drink.’

  ‘It would give us the ideal opportunity to monitor what’s going on in there if you think any of them might be implicated in the two deaths or even the forgery ring. It’s the one thing that connects Ailish and Monro, after all.’

  ‘It’s a regular viper’s nest, full of strong, egotistical characters.’

  ‘What does Mhairi say about it?’

  ‘She’s all for it.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get Kate to discuss it with her. Make sure she is fully aware of the implications.’

  ‘Something else occurred to me,’ said Farrell. ‘If he knows she is police and invited her into Ivy House, it could mean he’s completely innocent.’

  ‘Either that or a dangerous egotist who gets off on taking risks,’ said Lind.

  ‘Are we going to run Ailish Kerrigan’s murder as a separate investigation?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Given that we now have three ongoing cases based in Kirkcudbright and the potential overlap between all three, not to mention our modest manpower, I reckon we should conjoin them. Each investigation requires a Senior Investigating Officer; therefore I will assume that role for the Kerrigan murder. If we conjoin briefings and have regular side meetings between the three of us that should ensure that all bases are covered and nothing is overlooked.’

  Farrell nodded agreement.

  ‘We can start the ball rolling at the 4 p.m. briefing,’ he said.

  Lind stood up and left, his shoulders hunched and his eyes cast downward. He seemed to have aged somehow, or maybe he had lost the spring in his step. For whatever reason, Farrell had the feeling his friend was headed into choppy waters. With a sigh he continued to eat his macaroni, but his appetite had deserted him and he had to force it down.

  Grabbing another carton of the gut-rot that passed for coffee in these parts, he was on his way up the stairs when he saw Kate leaning over the top bannister.

  ‘Frank, I’ve been looking for you. We’ve had a breakthrough in the forgery case. I need your input on this.’

  The normally unflappable DI Moore was hopping from one foot to the other with impatience.

  Wishing his stomach wasn’t bouncing with macaroni like a rubber ball, he ran up the stairs, trying to avoid the scald from coffee splashing over his hand.

  ‘Do hurry!’ she called down from the third floor.

  Crikey, was she trying to give him a heart attack? he thought, as he increased his pace. Next time he was having a salad.

  Breathing hard and trying to disguise it, he followed her departing back to her office and gratefully sank into a chair.

  ‘The person who was driving the tractor has been apprehended, hiding out in a barn near the town of Newton Stewart, name of Shaun Finch.’

  ‘Was he a local man or higher up the food chain?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Localish. Family hails from Annan, so a fair distance from Kirkcudbright. Bent screws the lot of them.’

  ‘Is he talking?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Surprised you didn’t hear him singing in the canteen.’

  ‘No solicitor?’

  ‘Nope. His family don’t have the greatest respect for the legal profession. Something to do with his brother being banged up and the sentence increased when his solicitor inadvisably appealed.’

  ‘That would do it,’ said Farrell with a smile.

  ‘He’s visited his brother in Barlinnie and is wriggling like a fish on a hook n
ot to join him there.’

  ‘What’s he been able to give you so far?’

  ‘He’s confirmed that the forger lives in Kirkcudbright.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Farrell, leaning forward.

  ‘He doesn’t know. He would receive a text telling him where to pick up the package and transport it to a layby on the outskirts of Stranraer. He then had to go to the Black Heart pub on foot and wait there, until he received a text that he was to return. The money would be in a locked metal toolbox that was bolted to the floor of the tractor.’

  ‘So what now? Did he confess he left the painting behind when he legged it?’

  ‘No, he didn’t dare. As far as they know, he took it and ran. He’s been told they’ll contact him to arrange a drop off in the next week.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s in over his head,’ said Farrell.

  ‘We have him for another five hours. I was hoping you would join me for the next interview?’

  ‘Of course, Kate, be happy to,’ said Farrell. A thought occurred to him. ‘You’re not planning to have this lad wear a wire, are you?’

  She sighed but said nothing.

  ‘What age is he?’

  ‘Twenty-two,’ she folded her arms.

  ‘You’d be placing him in considerable danger,’ said Farrell. ‘If he gets caught wearing a wire, he’s most likely a goner.’

  She slumped down in her seat.

  ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. This case has been driving me crazy. I’m desperate to crack it. I needed someone to rein me in.’

  ‘Has he ever met any of his contacts face to face?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘No, not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Well, we’d have to explore that further, but have you considered the possibility of sending someone in undercover to replace him?’

  ‘It would have to be someone who’s a good fit in terms of age and accent. What about DC Thomson? He’s already involved in the investigation and he’s keen as mustard.’

  ‘I don’t know, Kate. He’s still fairly green. Do you think he could handle it? If anything happened to him …’

  ‘He’s local to Kirkcudbright, got the right accent, give or take. And he’s the correct age as well.’

  ‘Let me think about it. Wasn’t Dave sent away to boarding school? Maybe he would sound too different?’

  ‘I’ve heard him on the phone and he switches back into the local accent without thinking twice about it.’

  ‘We’ll see what transpires in the interview.’

  ‘I’m planning to resume questioning him in a few minutes. We took a comfort break. One of the artists you’ve been speaking to may be implicated, so you might pick up on something I could miss.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  They walked down the stairs to the interview rooms.

  ‘How do you want to play this, Kate?’

  ‘I reckon you make a much better bad cop, than me,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you … I think. We should lay out Shaun’s choices. Either, go back in himself wearing a wire and have his communications monitored, or he can give us sufficient information to send someone else in undercover. The lad would have to stay in a safe house for the duration though. We can’t have him running amok, blabbing to his meathead friends and family.’

  ‘Agreed. There would have to be a total ban on contacting his family for now. If they interfered with the investigation in any way, it could put DC Thomson in severe jeopardy.’

  ‘We’ll need a cover story that will appease them, and it can’t be that he’s helping us, or he’ll be banished six feet under,’ said Farrell. ‘I know how these types of family operate.’

  They reached the interview room on the ground floor. As they swung open the door, the smell of pine disinfectant fought for supremacy against that of sweat and stale body odour and lost. Farrell sat at the table and glowered at the pimply faced young man opposite him. Shaun Finch tried faint-heartedly to glare back at him, but soon dropped his gaze.

  DI Moore switched on the tape recorder and video.

  ‘Resuming interview at 15.33. Please identify yourselves for the tape.’

  ‘DI Frank Farrell.’

  ‘DI Kate Moore.’

  ‘Shaun Finch,’ the lad mumbled, his sulky mouth turned down in a frown.

  ‘Can you confirm again for the tape, Shaun, that you’ve been advised of your right to a solicitor and choose to proceed without one,’ said DI Moore.

  ‘Aye, let’s get this over with,’ he muttered, squirming in his seat. A restless ball of energy with no place to go.

  Farrell leaned forward and stared at the youth, who flinched away from his gaze.

  ‘Have you any idea how much bother you’re in here, Shaun?’

  ‘I was only the driver, that’s all you can pin on me,’ he said, slouching further down in his seat.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Farrell. ‘But what I think you’ve not quite grasped is that you are art and part liable in the whole criminal enterprise, not just for your wee bit in it.’

  ‘What’s he talking aboot?’ Shaun asked DI Moore.

  ‘You’ve been engaged in a joint criminal enterprise, so you’re liable for the forgeries, their delivery and resultant fraud. In other words, you’ll be up the road to Barlinnie and they’ll throw away the key. Make the rest of your family look like regular pillars of society,’ said Farrell.

  ‘No way!’ he spluttered, flecks of saliva spraying out through misshapen teeth.

  ‘How else did you think this was going to end?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘I thought I was going to cut a deal, like,’ he said.

  ‘Trouble is, Shaun, you don’t have much to bargain with, do you?’ said Farrell, his tone slightly more conciliatory. He glanced at DI Moore, and she took his cue, leaning forward as Farrell settled back in his seat, looking like he needed to be convinced.

  ‘Come on, Shaun,’ she said. ‘Do yourself a favour, lad. Nobody wants to see someone as young as you wasting their youth locked up in that nuthouse. There must be something else you can tell us.’

  Shaun’s low brow frowned in concentration. Farrell felt like he could almost hear the cogs turning slowly. He wasn’t going to get there on his own.

  ‘Surely, even if you haven’t seen any of the players, you must have some idea of who could be involved locally or what else is being planned?’ he said.

  ‘Would it make a difference, like? I don’t know anything for definite.’

  ‘When you said before, in the earlier interview, that the forger is in Kirkcudbright, how did you know that?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Well, it made sense given the pick-up site.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Behind one of the graves in St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard. Only somebody local to Kirkcudbright would think to put it there. Stands to reason,’ he said, growing bolder now.

  Farrell weighed up his options. The last thing he wanted to do was lead the witness and have the tape ruled inadmissible at a later date in court.

  ‘What pub do you drink in?’ he asked, changing tack.

  ‘The Smuggler’s Inn,’ Shaun said.

  Farrell was aware of it though had never been in. It was the local watering hole in Kirkcudbright for anyone remotely shifty, where they could shoot the breeze with kindred spirits.

  ‘Have you heard any rumours in general about dodgy artists?’ he asked.

  Shaun scratched his head. It was torturous to watch.

  ‘There was meant to be a big heist going down. The theft of a priceless painting from one of them posh houses. Proper gentry like.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Kincaid House. The kitchen maid from there was in The Smuggler’s wi’ her man a few weeks back. He gave her the evils and dragged her away. Never heard nothing else. Never seen them since.’

  ‘Do you know her name?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Poppy something.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Not a local boy. Sounded
like he was from Glasgow.’

  ‘What about the artists that live in Ivy House, on the edge of Kirkcudbright?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Right bunch of mingers that lot.’

  ‘Aside from their lifestyle, have you any reason to believe that any of them is involved in the forgery ring?’

  Shaun scratched his head and thought. The clock ticked on. Farrell ground his teeth together but bided his time. They needed his cooperation.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ he eventually asked, his shaking voice belying the bravado of his words.

  ‘A free pass out of jail, if the fiscal’s willing to come on board,’ said DI Moore. ‘You would have to be placed in protective custody until the conclusion of the operation.’

  ‘What? Like in the films?’ he asked, looking not displeased by the idea.

  ‘Exactly like in the films,’ said Farrell.

  ‘But for that to happen, for that free pass to be issued, we’re going to need you to cough up every bit of information you know,’ said DI Moore.

  ‘If you can’t or won’t give us what we need, then there’s no deal,’ said Farrell, looking as severe as he knew how. ‘You’ll be staring at serious jail time. Tick Tock!’ he said, gathering his papers together as though about to leave. DI Moore did likewise, started to stand.

  ‘Aw right, keep yer hair on,’ Shaun scowled. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

  Farrell and Moore sat down again.

  ‘The Collective?’ said DI Moore.

  ‘I know at least one of them is involved.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Well, I wanted a bit of insurance like, so I went to the pick-up site early and hid.’

  ‘The pick-up site? Is it always the same?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, up past Ivy House and turn up to the left. You go through the gate, turn left following the wall and it’s the grave tucked right in the corner.’

  ‘Who dropped off the parcel?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘I couldn’t make them out. It was nearly dark, and they were all muffled up.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  Shaun shrugged.

  ‘Couldn’t say.’

  ‘How do you know it’s someone from The Collective, then?’ asked Farrell.