Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ said McLeod and then followed the other three out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Farrell and Mhairi drove straight through Kirkcudbright. He’d already checked that Lord Merton was in residence. The secretary had sounded reluctant to make an appointment, but he’d been insistent. They carried on for a further fifteen minutes before coming to the imposing grounds of Kincaid House. Driving up through the immaculate grounds, he hoped he was on a wild goose chase and that he would find the housemaid unharmed. However, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of foreboding. The house was magnificent, a relic from a bygone era.

  ‘If I’d known we were coming here, I’d have dressed for the occasion,’ muttered Mhairi.

  He rang the doorbell half expecting to be admonished for not using the tradesman’s entrance. A rather stern woman in a navy suit showed him into the drawing room.

  Seconds later, Lord Merton arrived. He appeared to be in his fifties and greeted them politely enough, but he looked pale and strained. A noticeable twitch caused his eyelid to flicker, and he quickly averted his gaze from Farrell after introducing himself. He didn’t invite them to sit.

  ‘We’ve received a tip-off that a valuable painting may have been stolen from Kincaid House, sir,’ said Farrell. ‘I thought I’d best pop out and see whether such an event has already occurred or might potentially occur.’

  The man in front of him swayed slightly like he was about to faint.

  ‘Good Heavens! I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip. That is simply not possible. All of my paintings are present and correct and we have quite stringent security measures to keep them that way. Now if there’s nothing else?’

  ‘Just one thing, sir. Would it be possible to speak to your housemaid?’

  ‘My housemaid? Good heavens, man, what on earth for?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, sir,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Oh, very well. I’ll get the housekeeper to send her up. I take it you’ve finished with me?’

  ‘For the time being, sir.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll bid you both good day,’ said Lord Merton, leaving the room.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, there was a light tap on the door and the woman who had let him into the house entered. She, too, looked strained and was clutching a folder to her chest.

  ‘Hello, officer, my name is Susan Dawson. I’m afraid the housemaid is no longer with us. I haven’t got round to filling the position yet.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Poppy Black. She left last week. No notice, just sent us a letter saying she was moving on and wouldn’t be back. Why she couldn’t have simply told me to my face, I don’t know.’

  ‘Did she offer a reason?’

  ‘She’s eighteen. People come and go all the time in this line of work.’

  ‘Do you have the letter?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, pulling out an A4 sheet from the top of the folder.

  ‘Known associates?’

  ‘Really, I have no idea. I believe she had a boyfriend; staff aren’t encouraged to bring people back to the house.’

  ‘What about a photo?’

  ‘Well yes, she had one taken for her security pass.’ She handed him a copy of the pass. Poppy Black had an impish smile and a mass of red hair, caught up in an untidy bun.

  ‘Do you have her current address, as well as her previous one?’

  ‘Yes, they should be in here somewhere,’ she said, rifling through the hefty folder. ‘Here we are.’ She scribbled down the addresses on a piece of paper and passed it across.

  ‘Did you take up references for her?’

  ‘Yes, of course. She worked in Glasgow before she fetched down here.’

  ‘May I see them?’

  She flicked through the file and produced two sheets of paper in poly pockets. One of them was on cream stationery that resembled the suicide note, purportedly from Monro Stevenson, and the other was typed on plain A4 printer paper.

  ‘Did you follow these up with phone calls?’ asked Farrell.

  Dawson was flustered now, a visible pulse beating at her temple.

  ‘Well, no. She was only a housemaid. I had no reason to doubt them.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to take these for now,’ said Farrell. ‘I need to trace this young woman to ascertain that she is unharmed.’

  ‘You think something might have happened to her?’

  ‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell.

  There was definitely something going on in this house but, if he had no evidence that a crime had been committed, he would have to shelf it for now. It was likely that Poppy Black had been a low-level plant, to gain information for a robbery. A robbery that Lord Merton seemed to have no inclination to either report or prevent. The question remained. Had she scarpered, or had she been silenced for good?

  Chapter Thirty

  Farrell and McLeod pulled up outside the address given for Poppy Black in Kirkcudbright. It was a very rundown block of four flats and the communal entrance smelled of urine and stale tobacco.

  ‘Poor girl,’ said Mhairi. ‘Imagine having to come home to this hole at the end of a day working at Kincaid House.’

  ‘No wonder she was vulnerable to a bribe,’ said Farrell.

  He knocked on the door to her flat. There was no reply and only silence when he put his ear to the letterbox.

  ‘I don’t want to bust the door down, in case she’s perfectly fine,’ said Farrell. ‘I don’t suppose you have a hairpin in that nest of hair by any chance?’

  ‘Frank Farrell, you say the nicest things. I do, as it happens.’ She fidgeted about inside her complicated updo and produced a long pin.

  Farrell straightened it out and jiggled it inside the lock for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly, they heard a click.

  ‘Teach you that in the seminary, did they,’ said Mhairi.

  Farrell threw her a look. The door swung open. Immediately they became aware of an unpleasant smell and an angry buzzing sound that could only mean one thing. Farrell closed the door behind them and pulled on a pair of latex gloves and plastic overshoes. Mhairi did likewise. Slowly they advanced into the flat. The door to the living room opened off the hall. They paused at the doorway. Poppy Black was lying awkwardly on the floor beside a heavy wooden coffee table. There was congealed blood on the side of her head and also some blood on the side of the coffee table. A stepladder had been knocked over, which presumably had been positioned under the central light. A smashed bulb lay near the deceased.

  ‘You buying this, sir? Seems a bit too convenient.’

  ‘Not for a single minute,’ replied Farrell. ‘Come on, we’d best scarper until SOCO and the police surgeon arrive. Can’t risk contaminating the scene.’

  As they shut the door behind them, there was an elderly woman with a pinched, grey complexion standing at the open door of the neighbouring flat.

  ‘What’s happened to Poppy?’ she asked, with a quaver in her voice. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  Farrell glanced at Mhairi, and they walked over.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mhairi. ‘May we come in?’

  The old woman sagged against the door, and they helped her into the flat and sat her down on a threadbare sofa. Mhairi sat beside her, and Farrell filled the kettle and made her a cup of strong tea. The flat was cold, bare and none too clean.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Poppy is dead,’ said Mhairi, enfolding a gnarled arthritic hand in her own.

  ‘How can she be? I don’t understand.’

  ‘She appears to have fallen off a stepladder and banged her head,’ said Mhairi, choosing her words carefully.

  The old lady’s rheumy eyes spilled tears as she gulped at her tea.

  ‘Did you know her well?’ she asked.

  ‘She would come in and sit with me sometimes. Said I reminded her of her gran. I haven’t been able to get to the shops for a while and she’d pick me up a few bi
ts and pieces whenever I asked. Under all that bluster she was a good lass.’

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend? Anyone call on her recently?’

  The old woman pursed her lips.

  ‘There was a boyfriend a while back. Lennie, I think she called him. He barged past me on the stairwell once, knocked me clean off my feet. Just carried on up like nothing happened. She sent him packing a couple of weeks ago. I’ve not seen anybody since.’

  They took their leave of the neighbour and went round the other two flats, but no one was in. They then climbed back into Farrell’s car after making enquiries of the remaining two neighbours. No one had seen or heard a thing.

  ‘We’ve got to catch this bastard,’ snapped Mhairi.

  ‘He’ll slip up sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ***

  They sat in bleak silence until they saw the SOCO van pull in to the kerb. The mortuary van wouldn’t be far behind.

  The police surgeon arrived right on cue. It was Dr Allison. There were only two police surgeons on call locally. They got out of the car and walked over to meet him.

  ‘One of your patients again, Doctor?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘No, not this time.’

  They led the doctor up to the flat. As he saw the flies swarming over the slightly bloated corpse, he flinched but walked over to her, feeling for a pulse.

  A few minutes later, he rose to his feet and formally pronounced life extinct.

  ‘I’m afraid that I can’t give you any worthwhile estimate as to time of death on this one,’ he said. ‘The pathologist will have a better idea.’

  SOCO moved past, setting their equipment up in the hall.

  ‘I reckon this has been staged to look like an accidental death,’ said Farrell, joining them inside.

  ‘If that’s the case then they’ve done a bloody good job,’ said Janet. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As sure as I can be,’ replied Farrell.

  They got to work processing the scene. After a while, Janet motioned to Farrell to come over. She pointed at the floor behind the coffee table.

  ‘It’s been moved,’ she said.

  The track marks on the carpet told their own story. The coffee table had been moved at least 12 inches to fit the scenario.

  Phil was gathering up the remnants of the electric bulb. He scrutinized them carefully.

  ‘It’s not a match for the light above,’ he said. ‘The right size and shape but the wrong clip.’

  ‘The killer must have brought it with him,’ said Farrell. He looked in the kitchen drawers but found no other bulbs. There were no empty packets in the bin either.

  Eventually, the body was loaded into the van, to be accompanied by PC McGhie, who had been summoned from the local station.

  Farrell and Mhairi looked around the gloomy flat in silence. Poppy’s bedroom was surprisingly childlike with stuffed toys on the bed and Disney pyjamas. There was a nightlight plugged into the wall. She had nothing of value. A life lived on the margins of society, snuffed out before it had even really begun.

  ‘Whoever did this is one cold bastard,’ said Farrell. ‘He’s willing to kill anyone who gets in his way.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It had been a long, tiring day. Mhairi could feel the beginnings of a headache as she walked out of the station. Now that there had been another death she was worried sick about the upcoming assignment. She kept seeing the crumpled body of Poppy Black. If anything were to happen to her, it would break her parents. They had already suffered the loss of her brother.

  ‘Mhairi, hold on a minute.’ Farrell came up behind her. ‘A word …?’

  He opened a door into an empty room, and she went inside and flopped down on the seat in front of the desk.

  ‘You know I’m not happy about this Ivy House assignment,’ he began.

  Her expression softened. She could see he was worried about her.

  ‘I’m going to get them to give you a normal mobile with a fake contract and it will have all the usual social media nonsense you young ones like. We’ll make it close enough to your usual phone, so you’ll need to hand that into the Tech boys to copy stuff across. I’m going to get a fake phone myself and do likewise. I’m your cousin, Darren, who lives in Edinburgh. That way you can text or phone me any time.’

  Mhairi grinned, her mood lifting.

  ‘Thanks, sir. That would definitely help.’

  ‘Off you go then, lots to do tomorrow,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I’m meeting Ian for a bar supper, but I’ll make sure I get an early night.’

  ‘Ian! I forgot about Ian. What are you going to tell him?’

  ‘Just that I’m on special assignment. It’ll be fine. It wouldn’t occur to him to go to Kirkcudbright.’

  ***

  Mhairi arrived home and felt the energy drain from her as the reaction set in to her day. Although she was excited about her upcoming assignment, she was also worried about getting too close to Patrick Rafferty. This was the last thing she needed. Guilt twisted within her. All she wanted to do was climb into her PJs, pour a large glass of wine and have a TV dinner, while catching up on Coronation Street. She opened a sachet of food for Oscar and then collapsed onto the sofa, looking longingly at the TV. She really wanted to cry off, but this might be the last time she got to see Ian in a while. Shouldn’t she be running out the door in her best finery then, instead of feeling … what exactly? She was just wiped, that’s all. With a sigh, she peeled herself off the sofa, before she got too comfortable, and padded through to the shower.

  An hour later, she was ensconced at a table for two in a cosy country pub at Kingolm Quay. Ian was regaling her with a funny story about his wayward sister. Normally, she would have laughed like a drain, but she was bone-tired and struggling to appear interested. Her thoughts seemed to ping back to Poppy Black and the forthcoming assignment like they were sewed on to a piece of elastic.

  Suddenly she became aware of a lull in the conversation. She must have zoned out completely. Her eyes fell to her plate, and she realized she had simply been moving the food around instead of eating it. Ian had finished his meal. She raised her gaze to his and, to her horror, she could feel her eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Ian, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.’

  He gently placed his hand over hers on the table.

  ‘Hey, there’s no need for tears. If you’d rather not see me again, just say. I’d be disappointed, but I promise I won’t throw myself off a cliff,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Mhairi, squeezing his hand. ‘You know what my job is. Sometimes it gets overwhelming and fills every nook and cranny of my life. The truth is, I’m exhausted and there’s no end in sight. This is the first time in a long while I’ve even tried to have a relationship for that reason.’

  ‘Would it help to talk about it? I know a bit about what’s been going on. I presume you’re embroiled in the two murders Sophie Richardson has been banging on about.’

  ‘You know I can’t say anything, but thanks for the offer. I’m sorry to have been so out of it tonight. I might not even be able to see you for a while, as I’m going to be on special assignment.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, motioning for the bill, ‘let’s get you home. Somebody needs an early night.’

  ***

  Once back in Primrose Street, he bundled her off to bed.

  ‘Drat, my phone’s nearly out of charge,’ she muttered.

  ‘I’m going to stay up for a bit and watch telly,’ said Ian. ‘Give it here and I’ll stick it on in the living room for you. I’ll pop it beside your bed later.’

  ‘You’ll let me know if anyone rings?’

  ‘Of course, I will.’

  He dropped a kiss on her forehead, switched off the light and left the room. Mhairi lay in the dark for a few moments then switched on her bedside light. Yawning, she delved in to her briefcase at the side of the bed to go over her case notes. There must be something th
ey’d missed. Her eyes grew heavier. She scowled and rubbed them. Within minutes, the report she was reading had slid to the floor and she was snoring gently.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Farrell couldn’t settle. Usually able to subdue his inner turbulence, he felt agitated beyond endurance. He’d tried to pray but it felt like nobody was home. Music often provided solace, but he felt more like AC/DC than Gregorian chants tonight and that would only ramp up his mood further. A run? Too risky. He’d done his usual five miles before going in to work. Didn’t want to pull a hamstring. A copper was no use if he couldn’t chase criminals. What then? He felt the walls were closing in on him. Glancing out of the round window looking on to the estuary, he noticed the tide was in. He had it. Grabbing a few extra layers and his heavy duty woollen coat, he went downstairs to the kitchen to make a flask of coffee and headed for the car. On nights like this, he wished he had something with a bit more revs than his dumpy Citroen. Resisting the urge to spin his wheels on the gravel like a boy racer, he drove up the lane and turned left, towards the coast.

  With the car heater fighting valiantly against the frosty fingers on his windows, he skirted the town to take the Dalbeattie Road. Half an hour later he reached the quiet beach of Powillimont. As he’d expected, his was the only car. Pulling onto the grass at the end of the bay, he turned off the ignition and left the relative warmth. The waves crashing ferociously against the rocks calmed him, along with the salty tang of the sea and the fishy smell of seaweed. He clambered down until he could walk along the shoreline, his way lit by the silvery gleam of a full moon.

  He recognized now what had been bugging him. It was the feeling that his friends were all heading into danger and into outcomes that he couldn’t control. It was one thing putting himself in jeopardy, that was something he got a buzz out of, if he was honest. It was quite another watching junior officers walking into hazardous situations. The death of Poppy Black had really rattled him. It smacked of cold, predatory ruthlessness. Someone who didn’t operate inside the norms of human behaviour. He could understand impulsive crimes, fuelled by anger, a momentary rush of blood to the head. But both Monro Stevenson and Poppy Black had been killed in cold blood. It made the murderer that much more unpredictable. He hoped that Lind wouldn’t be too distracted by what was going on with Laura. The thought of Mhairi having to insinuate herself into the company of that degenerate artist, Patrick Rafferty, made him clench his fists in impotent rage. She talked a good game, but he knew she wasn’t half as tough as she liked to make out. She could be drugged, raped, or anything behind those walls, and he would be sitting tight while she ran the gauntlet of all that risk.