She was hanging up her coat in the locker room when a junior officer came looking for her.
‘DI Moore wants you in the small briefing room. Something’s going down.’
She rushed after him, heart thumping.
DI Moore had assembled her core team in the forgery investigation along with DCI Lind. The mood was sombre. There was no knowing what would befall DC Thomson if something went awry with the plan, or his cover was blown. Poppy Black’s murder had shown them just how far the forgery ring was prepared to go.
‘Mhairi, grab a seat. We’ve recently heard from DS Stirling that the forger has taken the bait and sent DC Thomson fresh instructions. He’s to pick up another package from behind the grave at St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, Kirkcudbright and deposit it and the Hornel recovered from the tractor in a trough at a named grave in Dundrennan Abbey Graveyard.’
‘When?’ asked Mhairi, feeling the tension squeeze her innards.
‘Tomorrow. No time specified. Can you stick these up on the wall for me?’ she said, handing a pile of assorted maps and photos across.
Mhairi placed the most recent ordnance survey map on the wall in the small briefing room, along with pictures of the pick-up point at St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, Kirkcudbright and also the graveyard at Dundrennan Abbey.
‘The location for the drop off poses some significant problems for us on the surveillance side,’ DI Moore said. ‘For starters, at this time of the year, and on a Tuesday, there are unlikely to be many visitors. There’s no CCTV and we’ve no way of knowing if the person collecting the painting is already in position.’
‘What about substituting an officer for the person selling tickets, ma’am?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Too risky, for all we know they’ve been paid off already, which would be tipping our hand.’
‘I suppose the same rationale applies to a grave tender or any employee,’ said Mhairi.
‘It’s possible this painting is a dummy run, to see whether Shaun got caught and cut a deal,’ said DI Moore.
‘Are you suggesting that we let Dave go in with no backup whatsoever?’ asked DS Byers.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Yes, I suppose I am. And, no, I don’t like it anymore than you do,’ said DI Moore, the worry lines snaking across her forehead lending credence to her words. ‘I have a feeling that this might be some sort of a test with terrible consequences for failure.’
Farrell groaned on hearing that Moira Sharkey was still waiting in reception. He’d hoped she’d got fed up and left. Now he was going to have to see the wretched woman. They had a long and complicated history, dating back from when he was a young priest and a serial killer had targeted him in the confessional. She was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story. Admittedly, she had given him a useful tip-off in the twin abduction cases last year, but she’d wrung an exclusive out of him first. He loathed her with a very ungodly passion.
‘Fine, send her up,’ he said, slamming the phone down with more force than necessary.
He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Come in,’ he shouted, as she pecked at the door.
‘Ms Sharkey, this is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Her hooded eyes were as dark and malicious as ever, and she took a seat.
‘Looks like your team is up to the neck in it again, DI Farrell. What’s this I hear about another murdered girl? Poppy Black?’
Farrell kept his face impassive. How could she possibly know anything about that? Who had blabbed? If this got out, it would alert the murderer they were on to him, and he might well flee the area before they figured out who he was.
‘If you’re referring to a case of accidental death, we would ask you to refrain from reporting anything until the family has been informed.’
‘I hear that there is no family,’ she smirked.
‘Where are you getting this from?’ snapped Farrell.
‘Steady, Inspector. You know I’m not at liberty to reveal my source.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A little quid pro quo. You know how I love to help an officer of the law. I’m also not entirely enamoured of the bitch in the car park outside.’
‘Sophie Richardson?’
‘I’ll keep my mouth shut, providing you give me an exclusive when it all goes down. I want stuff that no other reporter will get access to.’
‘What can you give me to sweeten the deal?’ asked Farrell.
‘I’m working on that. You know how resourceful I can be.’
‘You keep quiet about Poppy Black, get me something useful that I don’t already have and I’ll get you your exclusive,’ he said.
She held out her skinny fingers with painted red talons, and Farrell shook her hand, trying to hide his revulsion at her touch.
Negotiating with this woman always left him feeling slightly tainted.
Chapter Thirty-Six
DI Moore woke abruptly, her heart racing. She had been plagued all night by dreams of DC Thomson meeting a gruesome end, while she stood by, rooted to the spot, like a formless ghost, powerless to intervene. She glanced across at the leonine face next to her on the pillow. She hadn’t planned to have him stay over after their supper last night. It had been less than a week since their first dinner date. However, he had been very diverting, and she had needed the distraction. He had sensed something was worrying her and tried to get her to open up, but she had managed to convince him her stress was all down to impending job losses in preparation for the formation of Police Scotland. She hadn’t realized she had it in her to be such a good actress.
It wasn’t like her to throw caution to the wind like this, but she felt it was good for her, as though she was slowly learning to trust again. She left a note for Lionel, asking him to put the snib on when he let himself out and thanking him for a lovely evening. She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she recalled exactly how lovely.
She slipped out of the house like a wraith into the early morning mist. In her sports gear and carrying her work clothes in a suit bag, she was first in line at the gym when it opened at 6 a.m. She never saw her vigorous workouts as an indulgence, but as a way of hanging on to her equilibrium.
An hour later, her muscles trembling but her mind steady, she slipped behind her desk, determined to grab the day by the throat and not relinquish her grip until DC Thomson was safely back at the farm in one piece.
Unaware of DI Moore’s silent vigil in Dumfries, DS Stirling and DC Thomson were sitting around the kitchen table at the farm, warming their hands with steaming mugs of tea. Farm tractors were generally out early and so, to attract as little attention as possible, DC Thomson was to set off just before seven heading for Dundrennan Abbey. The last thing he wanted was to get caught up in rush hour traffic heading for the larger towns in the area. He had picked up the package last night from behind the grave in St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard under cover of darkness, but it was in oilskin sealed with red wax. The seal had Latin inscribed on it and was very distinctive. It would be impossible to replicate at short notice. It looked like something a notary public might have used in years gone by. They had sent digital images across to Dumfries, and they’d be trying to source a facsimile now. He also had the previously recovered Hornel with him which, fortunately, hadn’t had a seal.
‘Drive carefully,’ said DS Stirling. ‘The last thing you want is for the tractor to be involved in an accident like before.’
DC Thomson nodded. Despite his brave words to the Super and DI Moore, Stirling could tell that the lad was nervous. And no bloody wonder. Out there without backup, arse to the wind. Too exposed by far.
‘Relax, Sarge,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’s most likely just a dummy run to check that Shaun Finch hasn’t been turned by the coppers. I’ll be back inside the hour, and you can fry us up a storm.’
‘On that old thing?’ said Stirling, casting a glance at the ancient range that had defied all his at
tempts to light it. ‘Dream on, laddie.’
DC Thomson walked out to the yard and hauled himself up into the tractor. It was freezing cold in these bloody things, so he was well padded. It felt good to take action. All the sitting around had been doing his head in and, much as he liked Stirling, he wasn’t the most interesting conversationalist in the world.
He started the engine and put it into gear. His heart was racing with adrenalin. He was going undercover. How cool was that? Okay, admittedly a Maserati would be better than a tractor but, hey, this was Dumfries and Galloway.
He gave a jaunty wave to DS Stirling, framed in the doorway. Turning the wheel, he put his foot on the accelerator and drove out of the yard.
The quiet country roads were virtually deserted. Occasionally he passed a tractor driven by a pimply youth or a hunched old man and tapped his cap in greeting. He narrowly avoided hitting a young deer that slipped across the road in front of him. Deep breaths, Davie boy, he told himself. Deep breaths. As far as he was aware he wasn’t being followed. His senses felt heightened. The smell of the moist earth and hedges was overpowering. Almost as if he had turned into a vampire. Everything somehow more vivid, like the colour palette had been intensified.
After a few miles he reached the village of Dundrennan. Some people were out walking their dogs or buying milk from the corner shop. Not far now. Easy does it. His heart was hammering so loudly he fancied he could almost hear it over the roar of the tractor. He carried on through the village then reached the car park adjacent to Dundrennan Abbey. There was nobody about as the abbey didn’t open for admissions until 10 a.m. He jumped down and stretched, as though he was just away for a wee stroll to ease his cramped muscles. He pulled up the hood of his fleece. If Shaun were to be believed, he’d never met directly with any of the forgery gang, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t followed him and had an idea of what he looked like.
The graveyard beside the abbey was still cloaked in tendrils of morning mist, which made it harder to see into the distance. He opened the gate and strolled casually up and down the rows of headstones, until he saw the one he was looking for. It had a rectangular stone trough with small holes along the length of the stone lid where flower stems could be placed. With a quick glance to left and right to check that he was unobserved he slid aside the heavy lid, observing that the holes had been sealed from the inside with clear plastic. He pulled out both packages from inside his fleece and placed them in the deep trough before sliding the lid back into its normal position and standing up quickly. Forcing himself to walk normally he returned to the tractor and started up the engine. As he turned it along the road he had come, he was startled to see someone in his mirror. A shadowy hooded figure came out the graveyard and watched him for a moment or two, before melting into the darkness. They had been in there with him the whole time. His skin prickled with sweat.
***
When he turned into the farmyard that was providing their temporary home, Stirling pinged out the door like a jack-in-the-box, clearly relieved to see him.
They said nothing until they were both in the kitchen. Stirling handed him a mug of sweet steaming tea and he gulped it gratefully, the reaction starting to set in now.
‘Weren’t you just itching to open the bloody thing?’ asked Stirling.
‘Too right. It could be anything from a forged painting to a Star Wars poster for all we know.’
‘DI Moore is trying to source an identical wax and seal for any future deliveries. I told her you made it back in one piece. She snatched up the phone on the first ring,’ he chuckled.
‘There was someone there,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t aware of him until I was driving away and caught him in my mirror, but I think he wanted me to see him. To know I’d been watched.’
‘Description?’ asked Stirling, flipping open his notebook.
‘He was dressed in black with a hood up. White face. Tall, medium build. Sorry, not much to go on.’
‘Are you sure it was a male?’
‘I assumed it was a man but, looking back, there’s no way I can be sure, now you mention it.’
‘Any sign of a vehicle?’
‘No, he left on foot. Must have parked it elsewhere. I couldn’t see if he had the packages, but they were probably stuffed up his jacket.’
‘Well, that’s the first one under your belt. Hopefully, we can manage some surveillance for the next time, assuming the collection and drop-off points remain the same.’
‘Now then, Sarge, what about that fry-up? I’m starving.’
‘Sausage, egg, and tattie scone coming up, lad. But you’re going to have to work your magic with the range first.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Farrell walked briskly to the front of the MCA room and took his seat beside Lind and Moore. Lind gestured for him to proceed. Only the core investigative team were present. As he was about to speak the door at the back flew open and DS Byers rushed in, looking frazzled. Normally someone who prided himself on his appearance, he was sporting non-designer stubble and his shirt was stained at the armpits. Lind motioned to a chair beside him at the front in recognition of the ridiculous amount of work Byers had been doing coordinating the information flow in the various enquiries. Thus far he had been exceptional.
‘Things have been gathering pace in all three investigations,’ said Farrell. ‘We now have a fourth investigation, the suspicious death of Poppy Black, the housemaid at Kincaid House. It’s likely she has been involved in passing information pertaining to the security of some valuable paintings there, which might or might not link back to the forgery ring in Kirkcudbright. It also bears similarities to Monro Stevenson’s murder. Premeditated and staged to look like an accident in the home. The preliminary post-mortem results indicate she may have put up a fight. Tissue samples were obtained from under her nails, but they don’t appear to be a match for any DNA samples in the database. Given these circumstances I have been appointed SIO.’
‘Any relatives in the picture?’ asked DS Byers.
‘She has no known relatives, as she was abandoned into the care system in Glasgow as a baby. It is essential that we keep this on the down-low to avoid tipping off the perpetrator that we’re on to him. I’m going to get Andy Moran to stick it in the local paper as an accidental death meantime.’
Farrell felt momentarily light-headed. Events were spiralling out of control. With an effort he brought himself back to the room. Had he taken his lithium this morning? He couldn’t remember. With everything going on he was running on fumes. He sat down heavily in the front row. Lind stepped up.
‘Kate, did you liaise with SOCO in relation to the marks found beside the body of Ailish Kerrigan?’ he asked.
‘Yes. They confirmed that the marks were wholly consistent with an easel placed alongside the deceased.’
‘This makes it likely that she was murdered by someone within the local art community. And not just anyone,’ Lind said, his face sombre. ‘A crime of passion is one thing, but it’s staggering to think that having murdered her and disposed of the body, the person then saw fit to take the risk of returning to paint beside the remains. Possibly a number of times.’
‘It would take a fair amount of strength to haul a dead body out to that location and then up the hill,’ said Byers. ‘Would you say that points to a male perpetrator, sir?’
‘More likely than not, unless two people were acting in concert; but I’d like to keep an open mind on gender for the time being. A woman could have managed it with a quad bike and trailer,’ replied Lind.
‘Didn’t that woman in the art gallery, Janet Campbell, say that Paul Moretti paints dead things?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Yes, she did,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s something we should look into but the other artist, Mike Halliday, didn’t seem to put much store by it. He thought it might be Moretti’s way of getting her to stop poking her nose into his business.’
‘Maureen Kerrigan has thankfully been keeping a low profile. I’d worried that she
might try and get too involved in the investigation, possibly putting herself in harm’s way,’ said Lind. He motioned to DI Moore.
‘DS Byers, I hear you’ve been burning the midnight oil,’ she said. ‘Are we any closer to finding a match for the seal and wax that was used for the package?’
‘Not yet, ma’am. I consulted a specialist antiques auctioneer in Edinburgh, and they confirmed that it was similar to an old notary public’s seal. Apparently, this area is littered with them. Virtually every legal firm in Dumfries and Galloway will have these dotted around as ornaments or gathering dust in their safes. Modern notaries don’t use them much.’
‘What about the Latin words?’
‘Qualis artifex pereo.’
‘Have you had a chance to dig into that yet?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, running a hand through hair you could fry chips on. ‘It means, “What an artist dies in me”.’
‘DS Byers has been doing sterling work across these diverse operations, but I’d like a volunteer to assist him with further work, as required?’
Mhairi stuck her hand up.
Byers nodded and shot her a grateful look. They were really missing the input of DS Stirling and DC Thomson. Who knew how long they would be stuck out in the sticks on special assignment?
DI Moore swiftly concluded the briefing, and the team filed out looking pale and tired. Even with additional officers from the outlying stations, they were severely under resourced for these investigations. Everyone was feeling the strain.
Perfect Dead Page 15
