Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘I’ve been here upwards of thirty years and my father was in here before me. He died young, bless him, so I didn’t have much choice really.’

  ‘Are you an artist yourself?’

  ‘I went to art school but, what with running the business and looking after my mother, I never really gave it a proper go. I still paint for pleasure though. It’s relaxing.’

  ‘Do you exhibit your work for sale?’ asked Farrell.

  For the first time they glimpsed the steel behind the amiable facade, as her voice hardened.

  ‘I did in the beginning. I had a big exhibition at a gallery in Edinburgh when I was twenty-five. My mother was so proud. I sold a few pieces on the night. Everything seemed to go so well. The people attending were so complimentary.’

  Her face twisted in remembered pain.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Lionel Forbes happened. That man ruined my life. He wanted to make a name for himself as an art critic and he decided to unleash his vitriol on me. I was savaged, totally hung out to dry. That was me put in my place. And here I have remained,’ she said, belatedly trying to inject a somewhat dismal note of humour.

  ‘You must have been less than thrilled when he ended up in this neck of the woods, then,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Dreadful man, walks about like he’s God’s gift to art. If he stuck his nose in here I would probably throw something at him.’

  ‘Do you have any pieces in your gallery by the artists up at Ivy House?’ asked Lind.

  ‘I might have a piece left by Penelope Spence. She’s really rather good. A sculptress in the main, but she also paints.’

  She disappeared through the back, returned with a bust, and placed it on a tall plinth.

  It was a handsome face that bore more than a passing resemblance to Hugo Mortimer. Smiling in anticipation of their reaction, she removed it and held it out to them. Looking down on it from above, there was a woman’s face inside the head, trying to claw her way up from the depths with skeletal fingers, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a scream or a snarl, it was hard to say. Farrell shuddered. It was unusual for him to have such a visceral reaction to a piece of art.

  ‘Good, isn’t she?’

  Both men nodded in agreement.

  ‘I don’t know why she didn’t enter this piece for the Lomax Prize. Despite being so talented she seems to prefer to stay in the background. I’ve a waiting list for her pieces from serious collectors. She doesn’t like me to exhibit them in the gallery. I’d best put it away before she catches me showing it off. Have my guts for garters she would.’

  ‘You’ve been incredibly generous with your time,’ said Lind. ‘Before we leave you in peace, I wanted to ask you about Paul Moretti.’

  Instantly, Janet wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  ‘You mentioned previously to DI Farrell that he paints dead things,’ said Lind.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask exactly how you came about this information? Was it from Moretti direct?’

  ‘No. Moretti had left the studio flat and Mike Halliday was in the process of moving his stuff in. I was preparing an inventory so we could get on with signing the lease, when I came across a few of his canvasses in the cupboard. It gave me such a turn. Moretti had shown me a painting before, even had the temerity to suggest I might want to sell it in the gallery, but the four in that cupboard were on a whole different level.’

  ‘I know this might be difficult but it’s very important. Could you describe the canvasses to us?’ said Lind.

  ‘It was a foal.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It looked like it was dying. There were a number of other canvasses, each showing a further stage of decomposition in grisly detail. Utterly vile.’

  ‘Do you know what became of them?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Mike Halliday. I don’t know if he left them in the cupboard or tried to get them back to Paul Moretti. He said he’d take care of them, whatever that meant.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘About three years ago. That’s when Mike moved into the studio.’

  ‘Thank you, Janet, you’ve been most helpful. I’m sorry we had to make you remember that unpleasantness,’ said Lind.

  ‘How did you find Moretti as a person?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘I didn’t really have much to do with him. He was very quiet and introverted. Could hardly get a word out of him, rarely made eye contact. I don’t know how much was down to his condition or his personality. He was always so muffled up in scarves and whatnot, there could have been anyone underneath.’ She shuddered.

  ***

  As they walked out of the gallery, Farrell glanced at his phone. There was a message from DI Moore, which he showed to Lind. The forgery operation had been a bust. DC Thomson had gone to the pick-up site, but there was no parcel there. He’d hung about for a while, then went back to the farm with a view to trying again later, should there be another text.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Lind sounded worried. ‘I hope they’re not on to us. We can’t keep everyone on standby indefinitely. I reckon they’re still not sure whether Shaun is a plant or not. We need to figure out a way to earn their trust.’

  ‘How about if he reports back that he saw someone watching the pick-up point?’ said Farrell. ‘That might allay their concerns.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Lind. ‘He could even suggest an alternative site and then we could have the surveillance sorted before they even check it out. I’ll run it past DI Moore, see what she thinks. I’ll meet you down by the harbour.’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  While Lind went off to phone DI Moore, Farrell wandered round the side of the gallery. He smiled and nodded at Mike Halliday, who was saying goodbye to an attractive dark-haired girl. They made a handsome couple. He kept walking until he reached the harbour wall. The beauty of the sun glinting on the sea against the backdrop of pastel-coloured cottages afforded a painful contrast with the evil deeds that had been done in this place.

  Lind interrupted his reverie.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Kate. She’s going to pop out and visit Stirling and Thomson incognito with Mhairi this afternoon. They’re also going to scout for possible pick-up sites that would give us a slim but not too obvious advantage in terms of terrain.’

  ‘Depending on how we get along here, we could perhaps meet them at the farm,’ said Farrell. ‘Before we tackle Moretti, let’s pop in on Mike Halliday and see if those canvasses are still there.’

  There was no sign of the girl when they walked back up. Mike Halliday was sitting on his customary bench with a cup of coffee. A wooden summerhouse displayed a number of his canvasses, scenes of Kirkcudbright in the main. A couple of middle-aged women were selecting two paintings, with much agonizing. Halliday piled on the charm and they happily paid and had their purchases wrapped, before leaving. Farrell and Lind had waited patiently to one side, not wishing to disrupt his business.

  ‘Doing a roaring trade, there,’ commented Farrell.

  ‘It keeps the wolf from the door,’ said Halliday. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, DI Farrell.’

  Farrell introduced Lind, who was staring down at the open sketchbook on the bench.

  ‘That’s some shiner you’ve got there,’ said Halliday. ‘Looks painful.’

  ‘Kick-boxing,’ said Lind, shooting him an unfriendly look.

  ‘Right,’ said Halliday, with a hint of a smirk.

  Farrell jumped in, not sure why there was a sudden undercurrent of hostility shooting between the two men.

  ‘The reason we’re here is on the off-chance that the canvasses by Paul Moretti are still in your cupboard?’

  Halliday’s expression tightened.

  ‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘I might still have them. He certainly never came to claim them. I probably piled my own stuff in on top. Might take a bit of time to excavate them, that’s assuming they’re still here.’

  ‘We’re in no rush, but it might help with one
of our lines of enquiry,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Halliday, disappearing into the cottage. ‘Give me a shout if any customers come in,’ he called back to them.

  Ten minutes later, Halliday re-emerged carrying four canvasses wrapped in oilskin. He slowly unwrapped them, then propped them up against the wall of the summerhouse. Farrell blanched but said nothing.

  ‘Whoever painted these is one sick bastard,’ Lind exploded. ‘You’re not going to tell me this fucking shit is art, are you?’ he said to Halliday, who looked at him, stony-faced, as well he might. Lind was bang out of order, shouting the odds when the guy had only produced the canvasses at their request.

  Farrell cast an apologetic glance Halliday’s way. He nodded, seeming to bite back an angry retort of his own.

  ‘We need to see if we can learn anything from these that might help the investigation, John.’

  Lind reluctantly swivelled his eyes back to the four canvasses.

  ‘Whoever painted this abomination has no imagination whatsoever,’ he snapped. ‘Hell, even I could torture something and photograph it. Where’s the skill in that? It’s a record of suffering, not art at all. Crude rubbish.’

  Farrell did not entirely agree with him, but kept quiet, not wanting to inflame his normally mild-mannered friend any further. Although the subject matter was grim and disturbing, he rather suspected that it had been executed with a surprising degree of skill. He could almost smell the heaving flanks of the sweaty young foal, slick with sweat. However, it was the terror in its eyes that was so realistic. If Moretti had painted this, he was a very fine artist, and in all likelihood a psychopath.

  The first canvas was the worst. In that one the foal was still alive. In the second picture, the spark of life had been extinguished. A light frost covered its body and the shackles had been removed. The third picture showed it decomposing, the eyes had been pecked out and the bloated carcass become infested by all manner of things. Other animals had clearly feasted on the remains, which were now only an echo of the life that had once animated it. The fourth canvas showed merely the skeleton, with a few remaining pieces of fibrous tissue attached.

  ‘Are you sure it was Paul Moretti who painted these?’ Farrell asked Halliday, who was also looking white with anger and as if he was struggling to control his reaction to the scenes before him.

  ‘I can’t say for sure,’ he said. ‘They’re unsigned and I’m not familiar with his work. It was my landlady who said they were his, when I was moving in and she found them in a cupboard. I just covered them up and forgot about them, to be honest.’

  ‘Christ, I don’t know how you sleep at night under the same roof as these,’ said Lind. ‘Give me a nice watercolour like those you’re selling here. Now that’s what I call art.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Halliday in a flat voice. Probably still hacked off by Lind’s outburst.

  ‘Is there any reason you didn’t return them to the artist?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘I figured if he wanted them he’d come knocking. Hardly my job to chase him all over town.’

  ‘We’re going to need to take these with us,’ said Farrell. ‘I assume you have no objection?’

  Halliday’s face was still pale under his tan. Mind you, thought Farrell, artist or not, those pictures were enough to turn anyone’s stomach.

  ‘Sure, glad to be rid of them,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll wrap them up for you.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Mhairi sank into the front seat of her Renault Clio, panting with exertion. She’d only had thirty minutes’ notice that she’d be driving DI Moore to the farm at Kirkcudbright and she’d had two months’ worth of rubbish to get rid of, not to mention clearing all her assorted belongings into the boot. Her boss had very high standards. Standards, which Mhairi acknowledged guiltily, she did not share. She’d changed into a pair of worn denims, hiking boots and a faded sweatshirt, as per instructions. She would act the role of Dave’s girlfriend, if anyone was sniffing around. The prospect of that leaving DI Moore paired with Stirling caused her to snort with laughter.

  ‘Something funny?’ asked DI Moore, through the open window.

  Dammit, how did she do that? Her boss always seemed to catch her on the hop.

  ‘Er, just recalling a scene from The Big Bang Theory, last night,’ she improvised wildly.

  ‘Oh? Which one?’ asked DI Moore, with a hint of a smile.

  ‘Er, just a second, I’d better check the water level,’ said Mhairi, leaping from the car.

  Her boss was wearing jeans and a fleece with her hair up in a ponytail. She looked a lot younger when she wasn’t wearing her starchy work suits.

  Mhairi made a show of examining the water, then jumped back in, turned the ignition, and roared out of the police car park.

  ‘What do you think went wrong, ma’am?’ she asked. ‘I can’t help worrying that they’re on to us and DC Thomson could be in danger.’

  ‘They do rather seem to be always one step ahead of us,’ said DI Moore, sounding worried.

  ‘I can’t see how the real Shaun Finch could have got word out to his family. As a condition of walking away from this, he’s been in protective custody with no devices from the minute we arrested him,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘I’m fairly sure he hasn’t had the opportunity to leak something, although you can never be absolutely sure.’

  ‘What about any of the experts we’ve instructed?’ said Mhairi, choosing her words with care.

  ‘None of them have been told about the undercover op. Besides, there’s only Lionel Forbes, so far, as being pertinent to the forgery operation.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Something to say, DC McLeod?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  They drove in silence for a few miles.

  ‘Is DCI Lind okay, ma’am?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘Yes, as far as I’m aware. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I noticed him leaving with DI Farrell this morning. He seemed to have hurt his eye and not his normal self …’

  DI Moore said brightly, ‘Oh that! Yes, he can be so clumsy. I believe he’s been having trouble with allergies. Probably forgot his antihistamines.’

  You do know I’m a detective? Mhairi wanted to shout at her.

  ‘Ah, that explains it,’ she said instead.

  Half an hour later, they were drawing into the farmyard. Mhairi was pleased to see Farrell’s dumpy blue Citroen.

  Leaping out of the car, she headed straight for the kitchen. Inside, the mood was grim and, as she reached the table and saw the canvasses laid out on it, she knew why.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed, before sitting down abruptly.

  DI Moore, hot on her heels, said nothing but her face tightened in anger.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘They were found in a cupboard, when Michael Halliday moved into the studio flat attached to Janet Campbell’s gallery,’ said Farrell. ‘She maintains they must have been left behind by Paul Moretti. He’d asked her to sell a painting of something dead before but nothing on this scale. Just a brace of pheasants or something,’ said Farrell.

  Mhairi caught DI Moore sending covert glances in Lind’s direction, clearly shocked by the state of his face. Lind was avoiding eye contact with her. None of this boded well, she thought.

  ‘So, your thinking is that whoever killed Ailish may have painted her in the same manner as this?’ asked Stirling, looking like he wanted to punch someone.

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions,’ said Lind. ‘It’s a pertinent line of enquiry, but not the only one.’

  ‘Are you planning to haul Moretti in for questioning?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Lind. ‘I’d like to have the paintings analyzed first to see if we can glean anything else off them that might be useful. Kate, perhaps you could invite Lionel Forbes into the station to give them the once-over? See if he’s ever come across anything like this before?’


  ‘I’ll get on that right away. Let’s wrap them back up for the time being. We need to do everything by the book in case these ghastly things wind up as exhibits in court one day,’ she said.

  DC Thomson had been tight-lipped and silent thus far. Mhairi, who was sitting beside him, bumped him with her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dave. The two cases are totally separate. Whoever painted these or killed Ailish is a complete psychopath.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure. In fact, we don’t know bloody much!’ he said and stormed out the back door.

  ‘He doesn’t mean it,’ said DS Stirling at once. ‘The lad’s feeling the pressure. He was all psyched up and then left high and dry.’

  ‘Did he send the text along the agreed lines?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Yes, went for a bit of a whiny faintly pissed-off tone. He also said he’d had a feeling he was being watched, when he visited the pick-up point, but couldn’t be sure. He said he knew of another place that was better but didn’t specify,’ said Stirling.

  ‘They didn’t bite?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  At that point DC Thomson marched back in, eyes wide with excitement, his earlier outburst forgotten.

  ‘I’ve heard from them. They’ve agreed to the new pick-up. I’ve been texting back and forth. I’ve to deposit the Hornel painting recovered from Shaun along with another package.’

  ‘When?’ asked DI Moore.

  ‘Thursday morning at 6 a.m.’

  ‘Great, that gives us two days,’ said Stirling.

  ‘They said it was a big job and I’d be paid double.’ He paused. ‘They also said I’d better not screw it up or I’d have a target on my back.’

  ‘A big job?’ mused Lind. ‘I wonder what that means?’

  ‘It could mean any number of things. It could mean there are several paintings, or one high-value one,’ said Farrell.

  ‘It hopefully also means they have no idea we’re on to them,’ said DI Moore. ‘We have to make sure that all uniformed police stay off the streets in Kirkcudbright until this goes down. However, I want additional Dumfries Officers posing as tourists and locals to give us sufficient troops to mobilize, if necessary.’