Lind approached Farrell as he was gathering up his papers.
‘Can you hang on a minute, there’s something I need to ask you?’
‘Sure,’ said Farrell. ‘What’s on your mind?’
Lind waited until the last of the stragglers had left and then turned to him.
‘This thing about the easel,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. It has all the hallmarks of a complete nutter.’
‘It rather sounds like it,’ said Farrell. ‘Hopefully, the press won’t get wind of it; they’d have a field day.’
‘I was thinking of reaching out to Clare Yates and asking her to consult on this one.’
‘I see,’ said Farrell.
‘She was tremendously helpful with that case last year, but I wanted to make sure having her around again wasn’t going to cause any difficulty for you?’
‘Water under the bridge,’ said Farrell. ‘No point going to the hassle and expense of getting someone down from the Central Belt, when we’ve got her expertise on our doorstep.’
‘Great, I’ll give her a call then.’
Farrell nodded in what he hoped was an enthusiastic manner and left the room.
In truth, he was less than enthralled at the prospect of having Clare Yates around again. Last year they had become deeply involved, and when he was at his most vulnerable, she had completely bailed on him. It had cut deep. He would have to maintain a professional distance and hope for the best.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Mhairi sat at her dressing table applying make-up. It felt weird now making herself attractive to appeal to another man, one that wasn’t Ian. Even though it was all for work, she couldn’t help but feel like she was betraying him. The fact that she found Patrick Rafferty so attractive didn’t exactly help matters either. She was going to have to convince him to trust her without letting matters get out of hand.
With a last slick of red lipstick, she was done. She was meeting him in The Smuggler’s Arms at 8 p.m. and aiming to get the last bus back to Dumfries at 11 p.m. She’d gone for a dressed-down look of skinny jeans and a leather jacket, with a tight black top.
Farrell had offered to drive her there and would be lurking about somewhere until she was ready to come back home, just to be on the safe side. She also had some mace spray in her bag.
The doorbell rang, and she grabbed her bag and flung open the door. Her face fell.
‘Ian! What are you doing here?’
‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ he said, his expression tightening as he took in her attire. ‘I thought you were planning a quiet night in. I’ll let you get on.’
‘Wait,’ she said, grabbing him by the arm, ‘it’s not what you think. I have to go out … to a work thing.’
‘I could wait for you to get back,’ he said. ‘Keep Oscar company?’
Mhairi felt her face flush. This was not what she needed right now.
‘Look, Ian, I’m sorry. I probably won’t be back until late. Let’s do something at the weekend?’
‘Fine,’ he said, turning away, but not before she had seen the look of hurt on his face.
She was still at the door, watching his receding back, when Farrell pulled over in his beat-up Citroen. No one could accuse Frank Farrell of being flash.
She jumped in to the passenger seat and they were off.
Yet again, the job was taking a toll on her personal life. She winced as she thought about Ian’s defeated expression as he walked away.
‘You OK?’ Farrell asked her, shooting her a concerned look.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied, flashing him a smile. She resolutely put Ian out of her mind and brought her focus back into the present.
Stealing a sideways glance at her boss as he drove, she noticed a muscle twitching in his jaw. His skin was pulled so tautly over his cheekbones it looked all but translucent. She hoped he was looking after himself. He had come so close to mental collapse last year that it had scared her.
‘What are you going to do to amuse yourself in Kirkcudbright?’ she asked.
‘First off, I’m going to pop down to Stirling and Thomson, see if they’re driving each other crazy yet. Then, I’m going to wander about, maybe grab a fish supper.’
‘No one can say you don’t know how to party, sir,’ she teased.
They pulled up round the corner from The Smuggler’s.
‘Now, remember, Mhairi, it’s just a drink. I don’t want any heroics. Do I make myself clear?’
She shot him a sketchy salute and climbed out of the car, watching as the Citroen disappeared from sight.
As she walked into The Smuggler’s Inn, she was pleasantly surprised. Instead of the grubby den of thieves she had been expecting, it was warm and cosy, filled with the aromas of home cooking. The mahogany bar and gantry was adorned with real-ale pumps and bottles of spirits. Two old boys were playing dominoes and there was a log fire taking the chill off the evening. Once her eyes adjusted to the gloom she spotted Patrick Rafferty waving at her from a table near the fire and sauntered over to join him.
‘Mhairi, I half thought you might stand me up,’ he said as he got to his feet and kissed her cheek. ‘What can I get you?’
‘A vodka and Coke, please,’ she replied, slipping off her jacket and noting his appreciative glance, before he walked to the bar.
She sat with her back to the wall, as she waited for him to return, so she could see who else came and went.
Mike Halliday was sitting near the door with an attractive dark-haired woman, who Mhairi thought looked vaguely familiar, but couldn’t quite place. She gave him a small wave, but he turned away, ignoring her, to concentrate on his companion. Charming she thought. Mind you, maybe his girlfriend was the possessive type.
Patrick returned with the drinks and two packets of crisps. Gleefully, she pounced on the cheese-flavoured ones.
‘Do you, know,’ she said, ‘these crisps are the only thing keeping me in Dumfries and Galloway. I’ve never seen them anywhere else.’
‘A cheap date and easy to please,’ he said. ‘Loving it so far!’
So, he had a sense of humour? Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. And, she had to admit, he was easy on the eye. You do know that you’re working! snapped the sharp internal voice that sounded uncannily like her mother.
‘Why on earth did you flee Ireland and come to a full stop here?’ she asked. ‘I thought artists were meant to starve in garrets somewhere romantic like Paris or Rome. Kirkcudbright? Not the most obvious choice, surely? Cheese crisps notwithstanding.’
‘We came across on the ferry from Stranraer and hitched as far as here. That night, we were having a beer in a pub when Hugo and Penelope waltzed in. I still remember how they seemed to light up the place. We got talking. When I mentioned I was an artist and that we were effectively running away to be free spirits, they offered to let us stay for a few nights. When I saw Hugo’s studio I was in awe of his talent, in awe of everything about him I suppose.’
‘How did Ailish get on with them?’ asked Mhairi.
He shot her a sharp look then seemed to relax again.
‘She was up for it at first. Thought they were so sophisticated, a million miles away from her puritanical upbringing. Plus, we were in love.’
His mouth twisted, and she realized that he had been profoundly affected by the discovery of Ailish’s remains. The news had leaked out to the press not long after they had visited Ivy House. The headlines had cast Patrick in the role of villain. He was now enduring trial by social media.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned her. We can talk about something else.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s fine really. It helps to talk. She was murdered. I still can’t get my head round it. I don’t know who else I can trust.’
‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘Ever since she left, I liked to imagine her now and then, maybe in Spain against a cobalt blue sky, maybe in a souk in Morocco. She always had a smile on her face a
nd those long dark curls. To think that all that time she was lying alone in a shallow grave in the middle of a firing range … it makes me want to hit something.’
He drained the rest of his pint and went to the bar, his hands hanging loose by his sides, clenched into fists.
Mhairi picked up the remains of her vodka and Coke and drained it. Things had taken a darker turn and she didn’t know how to get them back on track. He was either a consummate actor or his grief for Ailish was real. That didn’t mean he was innocent of Monro’s murder though. Or the forgery, for that matter. She longed to ask him if he knew Poppy Black, but didn’t dare.
A draft of air caught her attention and she glanced up. Mike and his lady friend were heading out the door. This time he gave her a small wave. Maybe she had imagined him blanking her earlier.
Patrick returned to their table. He was swaying slightly on his feet and she wondered how much he had had to drink before she got there. She decided he was too wound up to take the conversation back to Ailish.
‘Do you know a local artist called Mike Halliday? The guy who was sitting over there with the brunette.’
‘That wasn’t just a brunette,’ he said, sounding bitter. ‘That was Maureen Kerrigan, Ailish’s sister.’
‘Oh,’ said Mhairi, somewhat at a loss. ‘Why didn’t you go over and speak to her?’
‘Because she hates my guts,’ he said. ‘Blames me for her sister’s death along with everyone else. And she’s not wrong.’
He glanced at Mhairi’s frozen expression and laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh.
‘I don’t mean I killed her, although, I’m flattered to think that you thought I might,’ he said with heavy sarcasm.
‘Patrick, I didn’t …’
‘If I hadn’t treated her so badly by taking up with Beth, she wouldn’t have left. This is my fault. I know it. And Maureen does too. She wants my head on a plate and I’m half inclined to give it to her.’
Mhairi stared at him in dismay. At this rate there’d be no second date and she’d have blown her chance to get the inside scoop on The Collective. She had to turn things around.
‘You can’t change the past. All you can affect is the present and the future. If you could wave a magic wand, Patrick, what would you be doing five years from now?’
‘I’d be away from this bloody lot, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I’m going to stick around until Ailish’s killer is found. That’s the only way to honour her memory. Then I’m off. I might give up painting altogether. I don’t think I have the stomach for it anymore.’
‘And here was me thinking you were desperate to paint me,’ she said, trying to lighten the mood.
He turned and gazed at her intently, which made her blush.
‘I meant what I said. You have an expressive face.’
‘With my clothes on?’
‘If you insist,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought that a big scary detective like you would be terrified of a bit of life modelling?’
‘Hey, less of the big!’ she joshed, relieved that his mood had improved. They chatted about safer topics until she realized that it was nearly time for the bus back to Dumfries.
‘I’ve got to head off now, before I turn into a pumpkin,’ she said.
‘I’ll walk you to the bus stop.’
‘Sure,’ she said, groaning inwardly. Now she wouldn’t be able to get a lift back with Farrell but would have to trundle all the way on the bus.
The bus stop was deserted, but she knew that Farrell would be lurking somewhere.
Suddenly, Patrick took her in his arms and kissed her so deeply it sent shivers all the way up her spine.
He grinned at her when he finally released her.
‘You’re good people, DC Mhairi McLeod,’ he said and then whispered something in her ear that caused her cheeks to flame, before walking away.
As if things hadn’t been complicated enough already, she thought, biting her lip as the bus came into view, hoping that Farrell hadn’t seen what had happened. It was bad enough that she had to kiss Patrick. The worst thing was that she had enjoyed it. She thought of Ian’s sad face and the guilt made her feel sick to her stomach.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Farrell was parked in a side street facing the bus stop. His jaw tightened as Mhairi got on the bus. That kiss suggested that she was getting in too deep. As he was about to start the car, he noticed a shadow shift in his peripheral vision. Someone slipped out a shop doorway and moved off, walking quickly. They were wearing a hoodie. Farrell thought about checking it out but decided it was most likely nothing. He turned on the engine and drove behind the bus containing Mhairi all the way back to Dumfries. Parking across the road in the Whitesands until the last few passengers straggled off, he then flashed his lights. Spotting him, she hurried across and jumped in the car.
‘Home?’ he asked, putting the car in gear.
She nodded. Her face pale and tense. He decided not to mention what he had seen. Driving through the town he headed for her flat in Primrose Street, then pulled in to the kerb.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, sounding bone-tired.
‘It’ll keep to the morning.’
‘No, it’s best if I tell you now, while it’s still fresh in my mind.’
He followed her into her comfortably messy flat. The cat flap banged and Oscar stalked in. They settled down with their mugs of coffee.
‘He’s really cut up about Ailish,’ she said. ‘I’m convinced he’s got nothing to do with her murder. No one could be that good an actor.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Farrell. ‘Stay on your guard. I take it you managed to strike up a rapport? I … er … was parked near the bus stop.’
‘You could say that,’ she said, her face flaming.
‘Be careful, Mhairi. I don’t want you getting in over your head. Boundaries can become blurred in no time.’
‘Don’t worry, I can handle it.’ She abruptly changed the subject. ‘Maureen Kerrigan was in the pub with Mike Halliday. They didn’t stay long.’
‘I didn’t know those two were friendly,’ said Farrell. ‘Okay, good work. I’ll get off now and let you rest.’
As he drove away, he hoped that this assignment wasn’t going to put a spoke in the wheel of her new relationship. It had taken long enough for Mhairi to find someone she could trust after her fiancé had ditched her shortly before her wedding. That had been for doing her job as well. Patrick Rafferty was just the type of irresistible charmer she could do without right now, especially if he turned out to be implicated in murder or a forgery ring.
Driving home, the rain came on, matching the greyness of his mood. As he parked outside the cottage, he could tell that it was high tide by the water encroaching on the banks at the foot of the lane.
Fumbling with the key, he heard a plaintive meow from the other side of the door. Henry was not a fan of the rain. He would have checked out the back of the house through the cat flap and be hoping that the front door world would be nice and dry for him.
The cottage felt cold and sterile. These cases had meant that he was out all hours and hardly ever home. Although fatigue had crept into his very bones, he forced himself to sit up for a while with Henry, who was purring away noisily, while having a small nightcap and listening to some classical guitar.
Suddenly he jolted awake. There was someone banging at the front door. Confused and disoriented, he moved a disgruntled Henry off his knee. It was nearly 1 a.m. Who could be calling on him at this time of night?
He ran downstairs to the front door and opened it a crack, ready to slam it shut again if necessary. Seeing who was on the other side, he hastily swung it wide. It was Lind.
‘John, what’s wrong? What are you doing here at this time of night?’
His friend was still in his rumpled work suit and his face looked grey and clammy. He had a deep gash above his right eye that was oozing blood.
‘Frank, I’m sorry for landing on you like this. I had nowh
ere else to go.’
‘In you come, whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out.’
Once his friend was settled on the couch with a tumbler of whisky, Farrell lit the fire, closed the curtains and switched the lamps on. The shadows receded as the cottage looked warm and welcoming once more.
‘Laura and I … well, we had a fight. A bad one.’
‘All couples fight, John. It’s a normal part of …’
‘Not like this.’
‘What happened to your head?’
‘She threw a plate at it.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t mean …’
‘Then she threw another one. And another one.’
‘Had she been drinking?’
Lind laughed mirthlessly.
‘When is she not, these days?’
‘What about the kids?’
‘Staying with my mother, thank God. I’ve had to tell her we’ve been having a few problems. At her age she shouldn’t have to be worrying about my shit. So I can add crappy son to the ever-growing list of areas in which I’m letting my family down.’
‘Your mum would’ve soon figured it out anyway. And she’s as fit as a flea.’
Farrell had fond memories of Margaret Lind. She had given him more succour than his own mother had, growing up, that’s for sure.
‘Would it help if I had a word with Laura?’ asked Farrell.
‘I doubt it. She had a few choice words to say about you too, Frank.’
‘Did she now?’ said Farrell, tensing as he wondered what was coming next.
‘Told me you spoiled her fun on a night out, took her home and put her to bed. Thanks for the heads-up, by the way,’ Lind said with a hint of bitterness.
‘Some low-life predator was skulking around. Laura and her friend were a bit the worse for wear. I thought I’d better intervene.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me she was making a fool of me all over town?’
‘I think you’re blowing this a bit out of proportion, John. It was one night, that’s all. No harm done. I didn’t want to cause any trouble between you, that’s all.’
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