‘We’ll have your back, Dave, don’t worry,’ said Mhairi, squeezing his arm.
Chapter Forty-Five
Farrell and Lind returned to Kirkcudbright and parked down a side street near the sheriff court. It was only mid-afternoon, but Farrell felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. They’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Time to refuel.
‘I’m just going to grab us a couple of rolls and coffee from the deli across the street. Give you time to figure out how you want to approach Moretti.’
Despite his lean physique, Farrell had always performed better with food in his belly.
Once back in the car, running scared from the marauding seagulls, Farrell took a large glug of coffee that tasted a whole lot better than the muck down the station.
Lind did likewise and fell upon his chicken mayo roll like he hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘Moretti is a bit of a strange one,’ said Farrell. ‘It goes way beyond his medical condition.’
‘Do we have anyone objective vouching that he even has a medical condition?’ asked Lind, energized by the caffeine.
‘No,’ said Farrell. ‘You think he might be faking it?’
‘No idea but it should be pinned down. He could be the murderer, hiding right under our noses, or he could be completely innocent.’
‘Either way, we need to do a bit of poking around,’ said Farrell.
They left the car where it was. Crossing the High Street, they walked up the hill until they reached the cottage at the top.
Like before, the heavy drapes were drawn and the house was deathly still. Farrell rapped heavily on the door. The sound echoed through the building, but there was no answer.
‘So where is he then, if he’s unable to go out during the day?’ said Lind.
Farrell shrugged. They waited a few minutes longer then turned and retreated back down the path.
‘We need to find out if he owns the house, or if it’s rented,’ said Farrell. ‘Right now, this man is a ghost. We don’t have a single piece of substance on him.’
‘Apart from the fact he was shortlisted in that competition,’ said Lind.
Farrell contacted the station to speak to Byers.
‘Can you do a full background check on Paul Moretti, last two known addresses: Studio Flat, Kirkcudbright Art Gallery, and Lavender Cottage, Silvercraigs Road, both Kirkcudbright. I want every last grain of information you can find. Dig deep. It could be crucial to the girl’s murder. Cheers. Heading back now.’
At the station in Dumfries, Farrell posted a briefing for 5 p.m. His brain was whirling with all the possible permutations and combinations of the cases. Potentially they could all be linked or completely separate. Until some of the missing pieces clicked into place, they would have to continue operating in the dark.
PC Rosie Green knocked and stuck her head round his door. He motioned her in.
‘I didn’t realize that Fiona Murray worked at Broughton House too, sir,’ she said.
‘Neither did I,’ said Farrell. ‘She certainly gets around. Cleaners often have more than one job, though.’
‘Perhaps. Most of the time her activity seems what you would expect, tidying, polishing, mopping floors.’
‘Go on.’
‘But in this one bit of video, I saw her down where the safe is in the basement office.’
‘And?’
‘At first I didn’t think anything of it. She was emptying the bin, polishing the desk, but then she started to look a bit furtive and I realized she was over by the large safe in the corner.’
Farrell quickly went down to the computer suite with her. PC Green called up the footage in question.
Fiona Murray kept up a convincing pretence of dusting and polishing right the way across the room, but then sank to her knees and quickly opened the safe. She removed a metal-coloured tube and substituted it with an identical one, which she withdrew from her large bucket of cleaning materials. She then quickly closed the safe and stood up, still flicking with her duster as she moved towards the door. The whole process had taken only half a minute. Had PC Green not been so eagle-eyed and conscientious, they might never have known.
‘Great work,’ he told her. ‘This could be the breakthrough we’re looking for. Make sure you’re at the briefing at 5 p.m. DI Moore will be well made up when she hears this. She should be back in the building in another half hour or so.’
‘There’s something else,’ she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘On the 28th of December, there was clearly a special delivery to Broughton House. An armoured security van pulled up at 8 a.m., before the place is open, and unloaded something. Look at this, sir.’
Farrell stared at the images on the screen. Two security men wearing helmets, flanked a third man in a suit carrying a large cylindrical metal tube. They were escorted inside by two women, one of whom locked the door behind them. Five minutes later the two security guards and the man who had been carrying the package reappeared and departed in the security van. The whole operation had taken less than fifteen minutes. With the level of security and the tense stance of the staff, glancing nervously all around as the package was escorted inside, he doubted very much that it was a Hornel painting. What had really been stolen from the safe and why hadn’t the National Trust reported it?
Chapter Forty-Six
As Farrell entered the room, Lind put the phone down. His grey complexion was only relieved by the darkening hues of the blues around his eye.
‘That’s the search warrant requested for tomorrow morning,’ he said, running his hand reflexively through his thinning hair.
‘I wonder if Moretti’s done a bunk?’ said Farrell. ‘Depending on what we find when executing the warrant, I reckon we need to detain him for questioning as soon as possible. I’d just like a bit more to strengthen our hand than the assertion of one gallery owner. At the moment, all he needs to say is that the paintings were there when he moved in as well. Difficult to disprove.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lind. ‘We also need to know if his purported medical condition is genuine or simply a convenient smokescreen.’
There was a knock at the door and Byers stuck his head round.
Lind waved him in to join them, and he pulled up a chair beside Farrell.
‘Byers, have you managed to pin down Moretti, yet?’
Byers sighed and shook his head.
‘Man’s a bloody ghost. Officially he doesn’t exist. No social security number or trace of him anywhere in official records. Something well off, there. Be a bugger to trace if he’s done a runner.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Farrell. ‘If he’s been faking his medical condition, all he has to do is remove the scarves and walk away. Mhairi and I visited him and didn’t even get close enough to know what he looks like under all those layers.’
‘Could be sitting in the staff canteen and we’d be none the wiser,’ muttered Lind.
‘Did you contact the organizers of the Lomax Prize?’ asked Farrell. ‘I assume he had to give them some kind of brief bio to go along with the submission?’
‘Yes, but it drew a complete blank. The judging was blind. Bios were only to be produced after the shortlist was announced, to prevent bias. In any event, he’s withdrawn his work from the competition.’
‘Despite being shortlisted?’ said Lind.
‘I know, right?’ said Byers, scratching his head. ‘Who does that?’
‘Someone with something to hide,’ said Farrell. ‘The question is what? Do we have an image of the original piece?’
‘No, due to the fact it was withdrawn, the trustees say that they had to delete all digital images on the instructions of the artist.’
‘Is the entry still with the organizers?’ asked Farrell.
‘No, it was couriered back to Moretti two days ago,’ said Byers. ‘Apparently it was brilliant, but disturbing.’
‘It’s a long shot,’ said Farrell, ‘but it might be worth having a local copper go round and speak to all s
taff involved, see if any of them snapped an image on their phones when no one was looking. Guarantee anonymity.’
‘Sounds like you’re liking this guy for the murder of the girl,’ said Byers.
‘Her name’s Ailish Kerrigan,’ snapped Lind, causing Byers to sit up in surprise.
‘Too early to say,’ said Farrell sending Byers a warning look. ‘He’s certainly a person of interest, if his links to the paintings in Janet Campbell’s studio flat can be proven.’
‘It would be premature to say anything to Maureen Kerrigan for now,’ said Lind.
‘Does she have long dark hair?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’ said Lind.
‘I saw a dark-haired young woman with Mike Halliday today in Kirkcudbright,’ said Farrell.
‘Dark hair isn’t exactly uncommon in these parts,’ said Lind.
‘Even so,’ said Farrell. ‘Whether that was her or not, I hope she’s not poking around, asking questions. Especially now that it’s at least a possibility that we’re dealing with an out-and-out psychopath.’
‘True, I’ll give her a ring. Try and get her to at least relocate to Dumfries for the time being,’ said Lind.
‘Have you spoken to Clare Yates yet, in relation to gaining some insight into the mind of the killer?’ asked Farrell, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
Lind glanced at his watch and looked horrified.
‘About that …’
His words were interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ muttered Farrell.
‘I asked her to swing by to give her thoughts on the paintings we recovered today,’ Lind said, looking awkward.
Byers made heroic efforts to control a smirk trying to escape as he stood up with the other men.
Lind strode to the door and opened it wide. There on the other side was his former girlfriend, even more gorgeous than the last time he had seen her. Her smile slipped as she took in Lind’s ruined face and then Farrell standing awkwardly behind him. Lind took control.
‘Clare, thanks so much for coming in. I thought we might be more comfortable in the conference suite. I’ll arrange for the paintings and coffee to be sent up there.’
‘Excellent,’ she said, sending a strained smile of acknowledgement in Farrell’s direction. She walked off with Lind, who was managing to dredge up a superhuman amount of small talk as they went.
‘Awkward, much?’ said Byers, in his usual tactless manner.
Farrell sent him a glare, which should, by rights, have turned him into a pillar of salt, and marched off in the opposite direction.
He knew Lind had done the right thing in calling Clare in. He had thought he wouldn’t be affected by seeing her again. He was wrong. It had devastated him when she called time on their relationship last year. He’d been considering leaving the priesthood and seeking a papal dispensation to be released from his vows. However, she hadn’t wanted to take on his considerable baggage and, in all honesty, he couldn’t blame her. As he walked along, all he could feel was the imprint of her body in his arms like a phantom limb. The faint vapour trail of her perfume left hanging in the corridor taunted him. He had to get out of here. Fast.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lind sat opposite Clare Yates in the conference room. There was an awkward silence as he realized that he had exhausted his supply of social chit chat. The coffee and paintings had yet to arrive. He knew that she was wondering about his bruised eye. Dammit, that was the thing about psychiatrists, they sat there in silence until you rushed to fill it, revealing God knows what in the process. He had used the technique himself to great effect in the interview room, but never had the tables reversed, until now. Just as he was on the verge of cracking wide open and muttering something unconvincing about walking into a door, he was saved by a tap on the door.
PC Green came in with the labelled paintings, closely followed by one of the admin staff, bearing a tray of coffee that she placed at the far end of the table.
‘Thank you, both. Rosie, I hear you’ve been doing sterling work with the CCTV footage.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, carefully depositing the paintings on the oval table in front of them. ‘I’d best get back to it.’
Carefully, he removed the paintings from their protective covering and laid them out in front of Clare, who was sitting opposite. Reflexively, she gasped, her hand shooting up to her mouth.
‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it,’ said Lind. ‘And for all the wrong reasons.’
‘Such ferocity,’ she murmured, struggling to regain her composure. ‘The suffering of that poor animal. Trapped on its back like that. Those eyes … turned towards the artist …’
‘The other three appear to document the moment of death and subsequent stages of decomposition,’ said Lind. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Well, I’m no expert on art,’ she said, ‘but I think that whoever painted these pictures is most likely a psychopath. A lot of planning and effort has gone into this endeavour.’
‘Assuming you’re right, is it possible that the perpetrator might move on to kill a young woman in the same fashion?’ asked Lind.
‘Well, yes, God forbid, that’s entirely possible. Cruelty to animals, as I’m sure that you’re aware, is one of the predictors for someone evolving into a murderer, even a serial killer. How long ago were these painted?’
‘No clue. According to the gallery owner they were left by Paul Moretti, a previous tenant. We’ve got a warrant for his arrest, but he’s disappeared into thin air.’
Lind reached into the folder he had brought with him and took out a picture of Ailish Kerrigan’s remains in situ. Clare studied it carefully.
‘I’m wondering,’ said Lind, ‘if it’s at all likely that the same person who painted these pictures may have conducted a similar study on the deceased. Look,’ he said leaning over the table, ‘see these marks here …? We’re wondering if the murderer set up an easel in the clearing.’
‘How long ago did this girl go missing?’
‘Three years,’ said Lind.
‘Then we have to face the possibility that the killer may strike again or, indeed, they may have already done so.’
‘You reckon there might be other canvasses like this out there, only with human remains as their subject?’
‘There could well be,’ she said. ‘From what you told me on the phone, these ones were only discovered by chance in a remote location. It’s possible that painting his victims in this way might be a pattern of behaviour for him that is very ritualistic. He probably feels a compulsion to repeat it.’
‘What do you think about the fact that the dead foal is a male?’ said Lind.
Clare looked again at the painting of the desperate animal.
‘I should have noticed that. It does muddy the waters a little as to the underlying motive, assuming we are talking about the same perpetrator. Of course, the means and opportunity may have influenced the choice, but I doubt that, somehow.’
‘Any guesses as to what might have been going on in the perpetrator’s head when he was doing these paintings?’ asked Lind.
‘Could be a number of things,’ she said. ‘Assertion of mastery and complete dominion over a living thing? Has it been possible to establish whether the deceased girl was sexually assaulted?’
‘No,’ said Lind. ‘Impossible to say.’
‘I’m not getting any overt sexual imagery looking at the picture of the foal again. Another possibility is that cruelty isn’t the main motive at all.’
‘What then?’ asked Lind.
‘Well, think of the medium he’s chosen to record his crimes in? I think it’s entirely possible that he’s a megalomaniac, who sees this as great art and is out to make a name for himself.’
‘Then, he’s deluded,’ said Lind.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Clare. ‘I hasten to add that I’m in no position to evaluate the art, but I wouldn’t be surprise
d if it was considered well executed. It has an undeniable power about it.’
‘What nutter would want these hanging on their wall?’ said Lind.
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said. ‘Overseas collectors on the dark web would pay an absolute fortune for human images like this. I remember reading a paper on an analogous matter fairly recently.’
Lind leaned back in his chair and sighed, feeling weary to his very bones.
‘And I thought the world us coppers inhabited was dark,’ he said.
***
After he had shown her out and returned the paintings to the evidence room, he returned to his office. He’d been putting it off long enough. It was time to phone his wife and see if he could salvage anything from the wreck of his marriage, before it completely foundered.
The phone went straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. It looked like he was staying another night with Frank then.
***
Forcing his mind away from his domestic problems, he went in search of DI Moore. Perhaps she could get an indication from that art critic as to how much skill had gone into producing those monstrosities. He tapped lightly on the open door. She was bent over some bulging files, her brow furrowed in concentration. Looking up she smiled wearily, motioning him to take a seat.
‘John, what can I do for you?’
‘That art critic of yours.’
‘Lionel Forbes?’
‘Yep, that’s the one. Just how expert is he?’
‘Very. Why?’
‘And you can vouch for him?’
‘Of course. I checked him out thoroughly before inviting him to consult in the first place. Nothing in his background gave me cause for concern.’
‘I’d like you to show him the pictures we recovered. Ascertain if he’s seen anything like it before, or if there’s any clue as to the identity or ability level of the artist.’
‘You really think that the same person might have painted our dead girl?’
‘All supposition at the moment but, yes, I think that’s a distinct possibility,’ said Lind.
Perfect Dead Page 19
