Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘I’ll ring him and see how soon he can come in here,’ she said.

  Lind moved to get up, but she reached across the desk and laid her hand on his. He froze.

  ‘John,’ she said, ‘your face … what happened?’

  ‘It was the funniest thing …’ he started to bluster.

  ‘John, it’s me you’re talking to … what really happened?’

  Lind sighed and dropped back in the seat.

  ‘Don’t overreact. It was a plate. Laura. She flung it in my direction. I’m sure she didn’t mean …’

  ‘Has she ever done anything like this before?’

  ‘No! Of course not! We have a good marriage. She’s not like that.’

  ‘You’ve both been through a lot, I know that … but still, John … it’s spousal abuse.’

  ‘I’m handling it,’ he said, uncomfortably aware that he wasn’t handling it at all.

  ‘If you need any help … with anything … don’t hesitate to call on me.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said with a quick smile, getting to his feet. ‘Let me know what Lionel makes of the paintings. We could really do with a break in this case.’

  ***

  Lind headed back to his office. The desk was overflowing with paper. All four investigations were gathering momentum and he was starting to feel like he was being sucked under by an undercurrent of fatigue. There was some time before the last briefing of the day. He couldn’t allow his marriage to founder on the rocks of his career, like so many coppers before him. It was time to put up a fight for his family. Everything else would have to wait. Grabbing his jacket, he left the building and swiftly drove home.

  Letting himself quietly in the front door, he stood and listened. The familiar sounds of the house welcomed him back. The kids were still staying with their granny. He could hear a muffled noise coming from the lounge. Opening the door he saw Laura curled in a ball on the sofa sobbing wretchedly into a cushion. Without even thinking about it, he rushed over and scooped her up into his arms.

  ‘John,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m turning into a monster. Look at your poor face. You must hate me.’

  ‘Shush,’ he soothed. ‘As if I could ever hate you. It’s a rough patch. All marriages hit them.’

  ‘I love you,’ she sobbed, louder now.

  ‘I know you do. And I love you. I think we might need some help figuring stuff out though.’

  ‘Counselling?’

  ‘Can’t hurt,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘You hate the idea of spilling your guts to strangers,’ she said.

  ‘True. But I hate the thought of losing you more.’

  ‘Ever since I lost the baby I’ve felt filled with a murderous rage. The only thing that dulls it down is alcohol. I look at you sometimes, John, and I feel like I hate you; like you’ve abandoned me and left me to go through this all on my own.’

  ‘I have to work, Laura. I have to keep people safe.’

  ‘You didn’t keep me safe,’ she said.

  They remained sitting there, each lost in their own thoughts, as the sun set and the shadows lengthened.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Farrell’s alarm went off at 5 a.m., as usual. At least he’d had a decent night’s sleep, because Lind had returned home to try and repair his marriage. He resolved to keep well out of Laura’s way as he didn’t want to unsettle her further. It was likely that she felt drawn to him due to their shared history and also because he represented a time when she was carefree, before her life had spiralled downwards and she became mired in grief.

  He pulled on his running gear and headed up the lane. As his feet slapped down rhythmically on the road, he tried to empty his mind of the cases troubling him, but images kept slipping through like some jumbled slideshow. The face of Monro’s girlfriend, Nancy, was in there. Her expression in the photo reminded him of something, but who or what? The more he probed, the hazier the image became, until he had to let it slide away.

  It was replaced by the face of Maureen Kerrigan. She hadn’t returned Lind’s calls yesterday. If she started poking around, asking too many questions, the killer might decide to silence her for good. The shadowy form of Paul Moretti crept in next. Farrell was frustrated and annoyed that they hadn’t gone after him quicker. Worse, they had no clue what he even looked like. He had been hiding in plain sight and no one had even thought to question it because of his alleged condition. If those paintings really were his, he could be out in the daylight stalking his next victim, with no one being any the wiser.

  Then there was the forgery ring, operating with seeming impunity right under their noses. He was worried that young Davey wouldn’t have the experience to handle himself, if everything went belly up. He was convinced both Monro Stevenson and Poppy Black had been murdered to ensure their silence. He would never be able to forgive himself if anything happened to one of his junior officers. Lind was doing his best, but clearly wasn’t at the top of his game at the moment due to his domestic strife. What it really boiled down to was that Farrell must carry the whole situation on his shoulders and keep everyone safe. He prayed that he would be equal to the task.

  Back in the cottage, he fed Henry and had his usual power shower. He then lit the fat creamy candle on the low table and knelt facing the small wooden crucifix above. Closing his eyes, he tried to push out the ugliness in his head, as the familiar scent of beeswax from the heated candle rose up in the air. His breathing slowed and gradually he lost all sense of himself. His soul reached up towards God, the well-worn incantations slipping through his mind like smooth pebbles. After half an hour, the pain in his knees reminded him it was time to focus on the temporal plane once more. Grimacing, he made the sign of the cross and got to his feet, with less grace than he would have liked. At this rate, he would have to give in and get himself a kneeler, like some old codger.

  A few minutes later, dressed in one of his identical black suits and a grey shirt, he was tucking into scrambled eggs and toast, having already taken his lithium. Henry lazily stretched and stalked out into the garden, causing a group of small birds to scatter noisily.

  With a sigh, Farrell locked up the house and folded himself inside his dumpy blue Citroen. He couldn’t continue to go on, caught between two worlds like this. He was going to have to make a decision: return to life as an active priest, or commit to his career in the police and undergo laicization. To remain as he was would be tantamount to moral cowardice. He had been dodging his spiritual adviser, Father Joe Spinelli, for a few months now as he knew he would ask the kind of searching questions he hadn’t been ready to answer. He felt doubly guilty because the elderly priest, who lived in Edinburgh, was becoming frailer and might not be with them for much longer.

  At the station, they had a conjoined briefing at 8 a.m. Lind was looking less tense about the face, Farrell noted with relief. He signalled to Farrell to start.

  ‘Byers, have we got the search warrant for Moretti’s place?’

  ‘Yes, sir, courtesy of a very grumpy sheriff last night,’ he said, waving a sheet of paper in the air.

  ‘Excellent, Mhairi and I will head out to Kirkcudbright to execute that first thing.’

  ‘What about Moretti?’ asked Byers. ‘I hear he’s disappeared into thin air.’

  ‘Looks rather like it,’ said Farrell. ‘The Kirkcudbright lads have been keeping a discreet eye on the property and there’s been no apparent activity.’

  ‘I take it there’s no way he could slip in and out from the rear of the property?’ asked Byers.

  ‘No, the garden backs on to a sheer crag. You’d need proper climbing gear to tackle it.’

  ‘Hopefully, we’ll find something of interest in the property itself,’ said Farrell. ‘Who was looking into the staff administering the Lomax Prize?’

  PC Rosie Green’s hand shot up.

  ‘Only one person admitted taking a digital image before deleting them. The officer who spoke to her sent it
to me this morning.’ She bent over her iPad and in a few seconds the image appeared on the whiteboard on the wall. It was stunning and shocking in equal measure. It was impossible not to have a strong reaction to it.

  ‘Isn’t that …?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘Hugo Mortimer,’ said Farrell.

  There was silence as they all stared at the image. The canvas was huge and showed the handsome patrician features of Mortimer staring into a mirror, full lips curled in a smile, but with a bacchanalian image reflected back. Two small horns were budding from his head. He stood clothed in faded jeans and an artist’s smock but with bare, misshapen feet. A man’s neck was crushed under one foot and a woman’s under the other. A naked young woman with long dark hair knelt before him in supplication, but her face couldn’t be seen. There were what looked like claw marks down the tightly bunched muscles of her back. The approach towards Mortimer was littered with broken naked bodies, lifeless glassy eyes staring into infinity. It was without doubt the best and the worst painting Farrell had ever seen.

  ‘Moretti painted this?’ said DI Moore, sounding shocked.

  ‘Apparently so, ma’am,’ said PC Green.

  ‘Could that be Ailish, sir?’ asked Mhairi, pointing to the kneeling girl and voicing what they were all thinking.

  ‘I bloody hope not,’ Lind replied. ‘Let’s not get carried away. It’s just a painting remember, not a literal depiction of actual events.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ said DS Byers.

  ‘Even so,’ said Mhairi. ‘If it’s meant to depict Hugo Mortimer, could it also imply he had a relationship with Ailish, or worse than that, raped or killed her?’

  ‘Can you imagine if it had won?’ said DI Moore. ‘Hugo Mortimer would have been a laughing stock. Paul Moretti and he must have some serious bad blood between them.’

  ‘I’ll call Clare Yates in on this,’ said Lind. ‘See what she makes of it, because I’m at a complete loss. I reckon this is another one for Lionel Forbes as well, Kate. I don’t know about you, but I can’t even begin to fathom what’s going on between all these artists. Even allowing for artistic temperament, this seems … extreme. You’ll have to swear him to secrecy, mind. Moretti can have no idea we’ve stumbled upon this image.’

  ‘He’s coming in later,’ DI Moore said. ‘I’m sure that we can count on his discretion.’

  Farrell noticed Mhairi stiffen slightly. She glanced away, refusing to meet his eyes. What was that about? he wondered.

  ‘PC Green, I want you to get the police in Edinburgh back out to the Lomax Prize office. They’re going to need to seize that phone as evidence, pending us finding the original painting,’ said Lind.

  ‘We need to detain the housekeeper, Fiona Murray, for questioning,’ said Farrell. ‘Mhairi and I can pick her up on the way here from Kirkcudbright. I reckon she knows way more than she’s been letting on. Unfortunately, I suspect she’ll clam up and request a solicitor as soon as she knows we have her on the CCTV removing an item from the safe.’

  As they were all dispersing, Lind turned to Farrell and muttered under his breath.

  ‘I don’t like it, Frank. I don’t like it at all. Keep me looped in on each and every development in these cases. I have a feeling more lives could be at risk.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  As they were leaving Dumfries, Mhairi’s phone beeped. It was a text from Ian suggesting they meet up that night. A worm of guilt twisted within her. She’d been fobbing him off ever since she’d met up with Patrick. Ian deserved better.

  Farrell glanced across at her.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  Honestly! Sometimes she could swear he could see right into her soul.

  ‘Just a text from Ian,’ she said, her voice flat.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘I’m meant to be meeting Patrick tonight. He’s invited me to Ivy House for supper. Give me an opportunity to sniff around a bit, pick up on any undercurrents.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything at the briefing?’

  ‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’

  Farrell looked worried. She didn’t blame him, but she was as sure as she could be that Patrick wasn’t involved in any of the crimes they were investigating. His feelings of guilt and grief over Ailish had seemed genuine. She hadn’t detected one false note.

  ‘I hate to bring it up, but are you sure your judgement isn’t being impaired? You seem quite drawn to him.’

  Mhairi snorted in derision, but her thumping heart told a different story.

  ‘He’s someone I’m using as a source of information to further the case. I’m going out with Ian, remember?’ she snapped.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better text him back,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I will do. Later.’

  They continued in silence until they arrived in Kirkcudbright. Farrell parked the squad car outside Lavender Cottage. They walked up the stone path to the door, and Farrell knocked loudly.

  ‘Police! Open up!’

  They could hear the sound echoing down the hall inside, but there was no response.

  Farrell tried the door. It was no surprise to find it was locked.

  ‘Shall we bust it down, sir?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘I doubt that’ll be necessary,’ said Farrell, producing the key from the inside of a stone planter.

  ‘How did you …?’

  ‘Prayed to St Anthony. Works every time,’ he said with a triumphant glint in his eyes.

  ‘Hmm,’ muttered Mhairi, as Farrell swiftly opened the door.

  They both stood motionless in the long dim hall. A mantel clock chimed the hour, making them jump. The air felt stale, as though it hadn’t been disturbed for days. At the rear of the hall, they could see a strip of light under the closed door. They moved towards it, checking the four doors opening off the hall on the way. Each room had heavy drapes drawn across the window. The furniture was old and dilapidated, as though it had been plucked randomly from a charity shop. Mind you, he was a bloke, thought Mhairi.

  Reaching the end of the hall they opened the door and their eyes widened in shock.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Mhairi, turning to Farrell, who was looking as surprised as she was. They were standing in a bright open-plan studio space, flooded with natural light from a skylight. There were canvasses everywhere in various stages of composition. A number of them looked familiar but Mhairi couldn’t pinpoint why. DI Moore would know. She was the culture vulture in the station. Carefully, she took digital images of all the art work she could see. A few were signed Aaron Sewell. There were none that resembled the horrendous images they had recovered from his previous flat.

  ‘It’s clear to me now that Paul Moretti is simply a disguise, probably created because he’s someone reasonably prominent in the local community,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I’m going to look in the wardrobes,’ said Mhairi. ‘Might give us some clues as to his real identity.’

  The bedroom was to the front of the house. The bed was neatly made. She felt under the pillow, but there were no pyjamas. She rifled through the bedside table. There were a couple of pairs of black lacy underwear stuffed in the back of the drawer behind a couple of pairs of boxers and some grey socks. There were very few clothes in the wardrobe. The whole place had the vibe of a creepy hotel room, rather than somewhere someone actually lived. There was a reading light and a few scuffed paperbacks. Try as she might she could find nothing to suggest an alternative identity for Moretti. She headed for the bathroom next. There was only one toothbrush and no obvious signs of a woman’s presence. Moretti clearly had good taste in bath oil, she thought, opening the expensive bottle to take a sniff. Not the kind of thing you’d use if you suffered from an allergic skin reaction. There was no emollient cream in sight. The whole illness thing had clearly been a big con, she thought, cross with herself for having been taken in.

  Farrell stuck his head round the bedroom door.

  ‘Have you found the painting from the competition yet?’ she ask
ed.

  ‘No sign of it.’

  ‘Do you think that the real Paul Moretti might be someone we’ve already met?’ she asked.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Farrell.

  His face was strained and Mhairi guessed that he was beating himself up as much as she was for letting him slip through their fingers.

  ‘I’m off to do the sitting room. I’m going to keep the curtains drawn, just in case we’re being watched,’ he said.

  They continued with their search, taking care to leave everything exactly as they found it in case Moretti returned.

  The writing bureau in the living room contained an untidy jumble of papers and bills, nothing remarkable. However, Mhairi’s probing fingers struck lucky as she nudged a small lever, which opened a secret compartment at the back of the drawer. She extracted a number of letters addressed to Aaron Sewell.

  ‘That’s the name on some of the canvasses,’ said Farrell peering over her shoulder, ready to swoop with an evidence bag.

  ‘Do you think that they’re one and the same person?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘Impossible to say,’ said Farrell. ‘If Moretti is simply another artist, then why all the subterfuge? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Who’d have thought painting pictures could be such a nasty business?’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Where there’s money there’s a motive for murder.’

  ‘I haven’t found any paperwork to suggest Moretti had a bank account. What do you suppose he lived on?’

  ‘Probably income derived from his main identity, Aaron Sewell,’ said Farrell. He pulled out his phone.

  ‘Byers, can you look into the artist Aaron Sewell for me? That may be the real identity of Paul Moretti. I also want his financials run down. The fact that Sewell’s correspondence appears to come here, and that there are canvasses signed by him in Lavender Cottage, should give you sufficient cause. Cheers.’

  They gave the property a final check before locking the door and replacing the key.

  ‘Where to now, sir?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘I think it’s time to pick up Fiona Murray and see what she has to say for herself. But before we do that, we’re going to pay Broughton House a little visit and see what they’ve been storing in that safe.’