‘You know the worst thing?’ Lind said, his voice breaking as he strove for control. ‘She told me she married the rebound guy. After all these fucking years she says that to me. Can you believe it?’
This was worse than he had thought.
‘She was lashing out, trying to hurt you. That’s all it was.’
‘I thought that she’d got over you. I really did. But since you came back to the town …’
Farrell didn’t like where this was going.
‘It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with me, John, and everything to do with losing the baby. She’s angry and depressed, not herself. Surely you can see that?’
‘I don’t know what to think anymore,’ his friend said, his teeth starting to chatter in spite of the fire as the reaction set in. ‘Can you honestly tell me that you weren’t tempted?’
‘I would never …’ said Farrell.
‘That’s not the same thing,’ said Lind.
‘Laura and I were still teenagers when we split up,’ said Farrell. ‘Even if I hadn’t gone away to the seminary, we most likely wouldn’t have lasted. It’s you she chose to marry.’
‘I know you did nothing to encourage her,’ said Lind, attempting a smile. ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
‘You’re going to have a shiner tomorrow,’ said Farrell. ‘Talking of shiners, do you remember that time we had a punch-up with those two boys from Glasgow? Self-styled hard nuts?’
Lind flexed his knuckles as though remembering the pain.
‘Sent them hame greetin’ for their mammies. And you were an altar boy the next day, looking like something from Die Hard.’
‘I thought my mother was going to spontaneously combust, she was that mad,’ said Farrell, laughing.
They reminisced about their boyhood exploits for a while, until Lind’s face had lost some of its tension. He had lost weight, too, his cheekbones looked as if they were trying to come through his skin and the collar of his shirt was far too loose. His old friend was heading for the rocks and Farrell felt powerless to help him.
***
Although it was already after three in the morning, Farrell knelt for a further hour praying in the privacy of his room, his face a mask of concentration as he reached for the Divine with all the determination he could muster. When at last he opened his eyes again, the walls were bathed in a silvery glow from the moon. A shrill scream rent the air from some hapless creature caught in the jaws of a predator. No matter what our earthly travail, life goes on, thought Farrell, stretching wearily and pulling back the duvet.
It was an answer of sorts.
Chapter Forty
The following morning Farrell dropped Lind off in town to avoid any raised eyebrows at them arriving together. He went looking for DS Stirling and found him heading for DI Moore’s office with DC Thomson. Both were still attired in their farming gear and looked tense.
‘Mind if I sit in, Kate?’ he asked, poking his head round the door. ‘It’s hard to see where one investigation ends and the other begins at the moment. Safest if we all have an overview of what’s going on.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she said, smiling. ‘In you come, everyone. Love the clobber, guys. You never know, it might catch on.’
Stirling and Thomson exchanged rueful glances.
‘Got your mobile switched on?’ she asked DC Thomson.
‘Yes, ma’am, always.’
‘I decided to pull them both back to Dumfries,’ she said to Farrell. ‘We can’t have two such experienced officers stuck out of the way in a remote farmhouse when we’re undermanned as it is. They’ll still sleep on the farm for the time being but spend their mornings here doing normal duties. That way, DC Thomson can still be seen out on his tractor.’
‘What if there’s a tail on Thomson?’
‘He goes shopping for small agricultural supplies. All the kind of things you might expect. We bring him here lying down in an unmarked police car.’
‘Did Shaun Finch give any idea as to how often deliveries were being made?’ asked Stirling.
‘It averaged out at one a week but not at a predictable day or time. If a phone call comes in when Thomson’s down here, he’ll take off straight away. The officers in Kirkcudbright have their instructions. Assuming the exchange takes place in the same manner as before, we should have people ready to tail the pick up next time.’
‘Are you planning to lift him at that point?’ asked Stirling.
‘No, we want to keep him or her under observation in the hope that they’ll lead us to the actual forger. Lackeys are two a penny. It’s the forger we need to put behind bars. That kind of skill isn’t easy to find. It would shut the whole operation down here.’
‘It’s possible that Monro Stevenson may have been involved,’ said Farrell.
‘It could explain why he was murdered. Maybe he wanted out and threatened to cut a deal and blab,’ said Stirling.
‘He also left The Collective around the same time Ailish did,’ said Farrell. ‘His breakdown came a few months after she went missing. He was obsessed with her. Perhaps he went after her and she rebuffed him. He could even have killed her?’
‘A crime of passion is one thing,’ said Stirling. ‘Dragging her body up to the Dundrennan Firing Range and painting it is a whole different level of crazy.’
‘I still feel that the announcement of the shortlist to the Lomax Prize has got to figure in there somewhere,’ said DI Moore. ‘Could Monro have been so elated by his inclusion and the promise for the future it held that he refused to forge anymore paintings, for example?’
‘The Prize Committee have agreed to let us view the shortlisted works,’ said DC Thomson. ‘They’re being held at the Royal Scottish Academy in Edinburgh.’
‘Excellent. I’ll ask them to send down slides,’ said DI Moore.
‘Lionel Forbes is already familiar with the work of the artists we’re interested in, all apart from Paul Moretti. Strangely, he’s never seen any of his work. Rather odd, now I think about it?’
‘I’ve been wondering about him,’ said Farrell. ‘Given that Kirkcudbright is a small town and all the artists seem to know each other, isn’t he a bit too much of an enigma? There was also that throwaway comment by the gallery owner, Janet Campbell, that he paints dead things.’
‘You’re liking him for Ailish Kerrigan’s murder?’ asked DI Moore.
‘Too early to say.’
‘What about his medical condition, sir?’ asked DC Thomson.
‘He’s able-bodied, just allegedly allergic to sunlight. He could paint her by the light of the moon or even take a hurricane lamp with him.’
‘You think he might be faking it?’ asked Stirling.
‘Possibly,’ said Farrell. ‘To what end though?’
‘DC Thomson, I left you in charge of the CCTV footage of Broughton House before you were given your present assignment. Have you passed it off to someone else to take forward?’ said Farrell.
‘Yes, sir. PC Green was at a loose end with the family not needing her so much now. She’s organized a team to go through it all.’
DC Thomson’s phone suddenly vibrated, making them all jump. He snatched it up and looked at the text.
‘It’s a go,’ he said. ‘I’m to collect the package by two o’clock and drop it off in the same place as before.’
‘Right,’ said DI Moore taking charge. ‘You and Stirling drive back to the farm. We’ve already filled the boot of your car with farming supplies. I’ll contact the officers we have standing by in Kirkcudbright to get into position.’
‘Hopefully, this time we’ll manage to stick a tail on the pick-up guy and get the next chain in the link,’ said Farrell.
‘Can’t I be there at Dundrennan as a tourist or something? Give the lad a bit of extra cover? None of them have ever met me,’ said Stirling.
‘As far as you’re aware,’ said DI Moore. ‘They may have had the farm under surveillance and know what you look like. I get that you want to h
elp Dave, but it’s simply too risky, Ronnie.’
‘I wonder if someone has already dropped off the parcel at St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard?’ said DC Thomson. ‘I take it we have surveillance in place?’
‘Yes, but further away than we would like. Hopefully, they’ll be able to follow the person depositing the canvas back to their point of origin. There are multiple access points,’ said DI Moore. ‘The drive from there to the graveyard at Dundrennan Abbey is around six miles.’
DS Stirling and DC Thomson got to their feet, looking tense but resolved.
‘Off you go then,’ said DI Moore. ‘Stay alert, DC Thomson and, remember, no heroics!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, and they both turned and rushed out the door.
DI Moore sank back into her seat. Farrell didn’t envy her. It was never easy sending junior officers into what could be a dangerous situation.
Farrell waited patiently while she phoned her contact in Kirkcudbright.
‘DI Moore, speaking. The operation is a go. Collection by two o’clock and drop off at usual site … yes … keep me updated, please.’
Farrell stood. He’d hoped to bend her ear about Lind but now clearly wasn’t the time.
‘Let me know if you need a hand, Kate.’
‘Thanks Frank, will do,’ she said, reaching once more for the phone with a distracted look on her face.
Chapter Forty-One
Farrell tracked down PC Green and her team of four constables, who were all sitting in front of their computer screens, like zombies, watching endless CCTV footage.
‘How’s it going? Much in the way of repeat visits? Any by the artists we gave you photos of?’
‘I was about to give you a shout, sir. The main repeat visitor, so far, is Monro Stevenson,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve isolated and copied the frames in which he appears. It would’ve taken us a lot longer without the facial recognition software.’
The young man who strode about Broughton House in the footage with such vigour and confidence had no idea that his life would soon be extinguished. He seemed fascinated with the paintings, snapping occasional digital photos and making copious notes.
‘None of the other artists you mentioned made an appearance over the six months apart from Hugo Mortimer, but he was there just the once and didn’t take such a keen interest as Monro Stevenson.’
‘Mortimer didn’t linger in front of any particular painting?’ asked Farrell.
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Lionel Forbes, the art critic, visited a couple of times too,’ said PC Green.
‘I didn’t know you were keeping an eye out for him as well,’ said Farrell.
‘DC McLeod added him, sir.’
‘Did she now?’ said Farrell. Mind you, it was hardly surprising, given that he had made a particular study of Edward Hornel. Probably writing a freelance article for some arty magazine.
‘Good work, Rosie, keep me updated on your progress.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, rubbing her neck and bending her eyes to the screen in front of her once more.
***
His next port of call was PC Calum McGhie, who was splitting his time between the Dumfries and Kirkcudbright stations.
‘Any luck in tracking down the locksmith?’
‘Yes, turns out Stevenson used a Dumfries firm: Neil Benson is his name.’
‘Did he tell him why he needed the extra security?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Another dead end then.’
‘He did mention that he was also asked to fit improved window locks on all the windows.’
‘Seems a bit excessive,’ said Farrell.
‘Especially in Kirkcudbright, sir. The local criminals aren’t exactly sophisticated.’
‘Until now,’ said Farrell.
***
He headed off for the canteen. They hadn’t got a lot of sleep last night. He’d fortify himself with coffee and a Mars Bar, then go and tackle Lind. He really should take a couple of personal days to try and sort out his marriage, but Farrell knew there was no point in even suggesting it, with his team embroiled in such active investigations.
Grabbing two coffees to go and a couple of Mars Bars, he swiftly ascended to Lind’s room, where he found his friend and boss staring at the papers on his desk as though he couldn’t read English. His black eye was colouring up into a gothic riot of purples and greens.
‘Get you a few chains and a ripped T-shirt and you can start a punk revival band,’ he joked.
Lind didn’t react. It was as if his words hadn’t penetrated. It must be some kind of delayed shock. Farrell had never seen Lind look so out of it. At this rate it would get back to the Super and that wouldn’t do at all! He made a snap decision.
‘Come on, grab your jacket, we’re going to Kirkcudbright,’ he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
‘What? Why? I can’t possibly …’ Lind stuttered, slowly coming back to life. He reached for the coffee and gulped it down.
‘DC Thomson is doing another pick up this afternoon, so we’re in play with the forgery op. Won’t hurt to be on hand if the proverbial hits the fan.’
‘Same place as before?’
‘Yes, and drop off. I think the first one was just a dummy run to check Shaun Finch hadn’t rolled over.’
‘It was a gamble letting it run with no backup for the lad.’
‘I know, but it looks like it paid off,’ said Farrell. ‘I also want to have another crack at Paul Moretti,’ he continued. ‘The owner of that gallery, Janet Campbell, said he used to paint dead things. I reckon we need to look into him further. Kate’s holding the fort here. Plenty to get on with. You up for it?’
‘Be better than moping about here, I suppose,’ Lind said with a mirthless smile.
Before Farrell turned the key in the ignition, he glanced at his watch and took out a pill from the container in his jacket pocket, washing it down with a slug from his water bottle.
Lind glanced at him.
‘How’s your health been? Sorry, I’ve been so caught up in my own problems, I hadn’t even thought to ask.’
‘Fine,’ said Farrell. It was a relief in a way that the team now knew he’d been close to another breakdown last year. ‘Still on a maintenance dose of lithium and probably always will be.’
‘When was your last check-up?’
‘The end of December. I’m having them six monthly instead of yearly for the time being. Reassures the brass, if nothing else. Plus a wee day out in Auld Reekie never hurt anyone.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ said Lind, ‘I reckon I’d have been driven barmy if I’d had to face what you did last year. Three murders and a forgery ring feels like a walk in the park compared to that, eh?’
‘Aye, but we’re not done yet. Tell me that when we’ve got everyone bang to rights,’ said Farrell.
His phone pinged.
‘Get that will you, John?’ he said, thinking it was probably an update in relation to the case.
Lind grabbed the phone. Silence.
‘Well?’
‘It’s Laura. Since when have you and Laura been text buddies?’
‘Since never,’ said Farrell, hoping Lind believed him. ‘Read it out then. Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘“I need to see you”,’ intoned Lind robotically. ‘“Call me”.’
Farrell sighed. This was just peachy. Now Laura was trying to drag him into the middle of their mess too. He hoped Lind realized it was nothing more.
‘Look, John, don’t you think you and Laura should sit down together with a counsellor or something? Relationship mending is not my strong suit.’
‘I’ve already tried that,’ said Lind. ‘She walked out. Maybe if you suggested it …?’ he said with more than a hint of bitterness.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Farrell, suddenly aware that he was grinding his teeth. The pair of them really did need their heads knocking together.
They drove in stony silence until
they reached Kirkcudbright.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘We should visit the gallery first, speak to Janet Campbell,’ said Farrell. ‘She’s a nice enough woman, loves to gossip. I reckon we’ll get more out of her if you turn on your usual charm.’
They parked by the harbour. The tide was in and the fishing boats long gone. Determined seagulls stalked those tourists unwise enough to be eating food from the nearby chippy. A short walk brought them to the gallery. A sleeping tabby cat lay on a cushion in the mullioned window. Janet Campbell was chatting with a couple of tourists. Farrell and Lind walked a bit up the road giving her the space to close the deal, and then turned and went in when they saw the beaming couple exit with a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. At least she’d be in a good fettle then, thought Farrell.
‘DI Frank Farrell,’ she beamed, as the tinkling bell announced their arrival. ‘I was wondering if you’d be back to see me. And who’s this gentleman with you?’
‘DCI John Lind,’ he said, advancing to shake her hand.
‘Someone’s been in the wars!’ she said, peering at Lind’s black eye. He was temporarily lost for words. Farrell rescued him.
‘Chasing criminals isn’t without its dangers,’ he said.
‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, suitably impressed. She rushed to the door and turned the sign to ‘Closed’.
‘I’ve been rushed off my feet all morning. It’s time I had a break anyway.’ She plopped down on a stool behind the desk.
‘I’ve been meaning to call you, DI Farrell. I had Maureen Kerrigan in here yesterday asking all sorts of questions about Ailish. Who her friends were? Did I know of any bad blood between her and anyone else? I answered them as best as I could, poor lass. However, I don’t think it’s safe for her to be poking around on her own like this. Who knows what hornet’s nest she might stir up?’
‘Thank you for letting us know,’ Farrell replied. ‘You’re right to be concerned.’
‘May I ask how long your gallery has been in Kirkcudbright?’ asked Lind.
Perfect Dead Page 17
