Chapter Fifty
Farrell and Mhairi parked outside and walked up the stairs of Broughton House. To the right of the entrance was a table with a middle-aged woman taking money for tickets and guidebooks.
‘Are you members of the National Trust?’ she enquired.
‘No, I’m afraid we’re here on police business,’ said Farrell, producing his warrant card.
Immediately, her demeanour changed and her eyes flicked nervously from one to the other.
‘Oh, er, how can I help you, officers?’
‘And you are?’
‘Jemima Jones,’ she almost whispered. Her face looked clammy and pale.
‘Is there somewhere a little more private?’ asked Farrell, aware of a group of tourists shamelessly earwigging while pretending to look at a display cabinet.
‘Yes, we can go to the office. I’ll just give Lucy a nudge to cover the desk.’
They made their way downstairs, with Farrell ducking to avoid banging his head, and were shown in to a tiny room that immediately felt crowded, once they were all inside.
‘I’m sure you know why we’re here,’ Farrell said. He then paused and looked at her expectantly.
Jemima shifted in her seat. Her glasses were starting to steam up.
‘Er, no, I’m really not sure …’ she tailed off.
Farrell sat back and folded his arms, his gaze uncompromising. The silence lengthened until Jemima cracked wide open.
‘Look it wasn’t my decision not to report it.’
‘Go on,’ said Farrell.
‘The National Trust told us to take delivery of a very valuable painting. It was just to be for a few nights, until they could put in place the necessary insurance and courier arrangements to take it back to Lord Merton’s estate at Kincaid House.’
‘You said, “take it back”. Had it been stolen? Restored?’
‘I’m not supposed to say anything. I could lose my job.’
‘I should think that’s the least of your concerns right now,’ said Farrell, standing up. ‘Maybe we should continue this in Dumfries, at the station?’
‘No! Please, sit down. I’ll tell you what I know. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I hoped that it would all work out okay if I just kept my mouth shut.’
Farrell glanced at Mhairi who looked as baffled as he was.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ he said.
‘The painting had been stolen from Lord Merton’s country seat at Kincaid House.’
‘When was this?’ asked Farrell. ‘I’m not aware of any report to that effect.’
‘It was never reported,’ she said. ‘It was a Turner and worth millions. The family notified the insurance company and were advised to sit tight pending a ransom demand. The ransom was paid by the insurance company and the painting delivered locally, which is where we came in. The National Trust knew we had a safe here and thought that the painting could sit tight with us until all the necessary arrangements were put in place.’
‘Is it still in there?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Yes, of course. The manager and I are the only one with keys,’ she said.
This was worse than they had thought. A lot worse. Farrell pulled up the footage on his phone of Fiona Murray opening the safe and removing a cylinder. He had no doubt that Jemima’s shock and dismay were genuine.
‘I don’t understand. That’s our cleaner. What’s she doing?’
Abruptly, she jumped up and raced down some steps to the basement, with Farrell and Mhairi in hot pursuit. Opening the door to a somewhat larger office this time, with a key she pulled out from around her neck, she rushed over to the substantial safe in a corner of the room and opened it. Her relief was almost palpable as she pulled out a metal tube from the stacked art works inside. Quickly she opened the tube and carefully extracted the contents.
‘See, it’s still here!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what’s gone on, but there’s obviously been a huge misunderstanding. This is the painting, I’m sure of it,’ she said, looking up at them with hope flaring.
‘It could be,’ said Farrell. ‘I hope that it is. But I’m afraid there’s been a skilled forgery ring operating out of Kirkcudbright for a while now. It’s possible the painting was stolen and a copy returned. You left before the bit where Fiona placed an identical cylinder back in the safe.’
‘But, Fiona can’t be involved. She’s just the cleaner; I never would have imagined she could do something like this.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I’ve no idea. She doesn’t come in until after we’re closed for the night. Her references were spot on. She produced a Disclosure certificate as well.’
‘Do you still have the documentation?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, it’ll be in her file.’ She dashed over to one of the cabinets, pulled out a slim file and handed it to him. Inside was a very decent-looking Disclosure certificate and glowing references from Monro Stevenson and Hugo Mortimer.
‘We’re going to need to have the painting examined by an expert as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m afraid all this is way above my pay grade,’ Jemima said. ‘I’ll probably lose my job over this. I’ll contact the National Trust and get the name of someone you can liaise with.’
Farrell felt sorry for her, but the cleaner should never have been allowed the run of the building when no one else was there.
‘How did she get access to the safe key?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming it wasn’t hanging on a hook somewhere?’
‘No!’ she said, then looked puzzled. ‘Actually, I’ve no idea. I keep my key on a chain round my neck, where no one can see it. The only other key is in a locked drawer in my desk.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had reason to have a locksmith or joiner in the museum, recently?’ he asked.
‘Well yes, as it happens,’ she said, surprised. ‘Fiona reported that the hinges on the office door were starting to …’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘Dammit, I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? It’s my fault. She recommended a joiner and I never thought twice about it.’
‘These people have been fiendishly clever,’ said Mhairi. ‘All you did was place your trust in the wrong person.’
‘I take it you instructed Neil Benson from Dumfries?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, he came early in the morning, just two days after we received the painting.’
‘One final thing before we go. I want you to say nothing about this to anyone. Is that absolutely clear?’ said Farrell.
She nodded.
‘We’re at a very crucial stage in the investigation and lives could be put in jeopardy if they twig that we’re on to them. I’ll phone the contact you gave me in the National Trust and explain everything that’s transpired.’
Again, she nodded.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Farrell. ‘Here’s my personal mobile,’ he said handing over a card. ‘Any problems give me a call. If we don’t get hold of Fiona Murray by the time the museum closes, I’ll send in a couple of undercover officers, ostensibly working on a restoration project to make sure there are no problems overnight.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Farrell and Mhairi drove to the harbour and grabbed two takeaway coffees. Sitting on a bench overlooking the sea, they mulled over their options.
‘What do you think, sir? Should we call in reinforcements to hunt for Fiona Murray?’
‘We’ll track her down ourselves. We now know that she’s potentially implicated in everything but the murder of Ailish Kerrigan. Even if she’s not involved in what happened to Monro Stevenson, she’s definitely in tow with the forging ring. If we flood the area with officers and go in mob-handed, not only might we never catch the real villains, but we put DC Thomson’s life in jeopardy too.’
‘But if we arrest her won’t that put the wind up them?’
‘Not if we get her to talk, and cut a deal for her to walk if she delivers everyone else’s head on a p
late.’
‘We need to lose the squad car then, sir. Doesn’t exactly come with stealth mode.’
‘We’ll try her home first,’ said Farrell.
***
Ten minutes later they were outside Murray’s modest flat. There was no answer to the doorbell. Farrell peered through the letterbox. There was no mail lying on the carpet, so she hadn’t done a runner yet.
They looked for a spare key, but their target was too switched on to be caught out that way. As a result of the CCTV footage they had a search-and-entry warrant, but Farrell didn’t want to leave any trace of their presence, so busting the door down wasn’t an option. He stared at Mhairi intently.
‘What?’ she asked.
He held out a hand.
Mhairi rolled her eyes but fished out a hairpin for him. After a few seconds, the lock yielded. Inside, it was still in immaculate order. There was nothing in the way of home comforts in evidence. Everything was plain and functional to the point of sterility. The only adornment was a small picture of the Virgin Mary in the middle of the mantelpiece.
‘It’s well seeing she cleans for a living,’ whispered Mhairi. They both slipped on latex gloves and methodically went through the flat, room by room. It felt almost monastic, thought Farrell.
‘There’s no family pictures,’ he said. ‘A woman her age, that’s a little unusual.’
‘It feels really impersonal,’ said Mhairi, ‘as if she’s not emotionally invested in the place.’
‘Got something,’ said Farrell, feeling under the thin mattress. He pulled out a large plain padded envelope and emptied the contents on the bed. There was £10,000 in cash and a photo of a beautiful young girl in school uniform.
Mhairi studied it intently.
‘Isn’t that Ailish Kerrigan?’ she asked.
‘It could be,’ said Farrell. ‘But as I understand it, Fiona Murray didn’t start working up at Ivy House until months after Ailish went missing. She couldn’t possibly be implicated in her disappearance.’
‘Maybe she stole the picture from Ivy House. Could be she’s been digging around into Ailish’s disappearance to gain some leverage, perhaps blackmail the killer?’ said Mhairi.
‘Well, if that’s the case she’s a woman who likes to live dangerously,’ said Farrell.
Suddenly, they heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
They stood behind the bedroom door until Murray had entered and closed the front door behind her. She moved into the kitchen, and then Farrell and Mhairi stepped out, standing between her and the exit.
Murray choked back a scream and sagged weakly against the kitchen units.
‘You scared the bejesus out of me! What the devil do you think you’re doing? How did you get in here? You’ve got no right …’
Farrell handed over the search warrant, which she studied closely.
‘Fiona Murray, you’re under arrest for stealing a painting from the safe at Broughton House. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?’
She nodded, her expression unreadable.
‘We’re going to take you to Dumfries police station now for processing. I’m not proposing to put cuffs on if you can assure me you’re not about to do a runner,’ said Farrell.
‘I hardly think I’d get very far,’ she said.
He waited with her in silence while Mhairi retrieved the patrol car.
Back at the station she was processed by the Custody Sergeant. She declined the services of a solicitor. The only visible reaction from her was when he lifted out the photo from the envelope.
‘That’s mine,’ she snapped. ‘Give it to me!’
He ignored her and continued noting the item down in the property register.
‘Cell 5,’ he said, escorting Murray to the door and ushering her inside.
‘Keep a close eye on her,’ said Farrell.
‘Will do, boss,’ he replied.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Farrell and Mhairi did a swerve into the canteen and grabbed coffees and sandwiches. It was already well past lunchtime.
Ten minutes later and they were hurrying up the stairs to the conference room, where the team were assembled.
Farrell quickly brought them all up to speed on the morning’s events.
‘She’s obviously a part of the forgery gang,’ said Lind. ‘That much is self-evident from her actions at Broughton House.’
‘I doubt she’s involved in the creation of the forgeries,’ said DI Moore. ‘She’s no studio space, as far as we’re aware. I think her role is more likely to be logistics, moving things around and whatnot. A cleaner is a perfect vehicle for that. Access all areas yet practically invisible.’
‘You mentioned a photo?’ said Lind.
Farrell produced the evidence bag, and Lind inspected the image through the clear plastic.
‘Yes, that’s Ailish Kerrigan all right. I’m sure of it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t make any sense though.’
‘Unless, she discovered someone in the forgery ring was involved in her murder and has been putting herself a wee insurance packet together,’ said Byers.
‘Given her clear involvement,’ said DI Moore, ‘I reckon the forgers have to be located within Ivy House. Some or even all of them may be implicated.’
‘Monro himself may have been a participant, for all we know,’ offered Farrell.
‘I’m fairly sure Patrick Rafferty isn’t involved in Ailish’s disappearance,’ said Mhairi. ‘He seemed genuinely surprised and distraught about her murder. The forgery ring may well be a different matter.’
‘We still don’t know the real identity of Paul Moretti,’ said Byers. ‘Can you guys remember anything at all that might help us measure him up against the known players we’ve come across so far?’
Farrell and Mhairi glanced at each other in frustration then shook their heads.
‘Like we said before. It was early days in the investigation. He wasn’t a suspect. We’d no reason to doubt his allergy to sunlight condition, as the gallery owner, Janet Campbell, had effectively vouched for it,’ said Farrell.
‘It was virtually dark,’ said Mhairi, ‘apart from one very low energy bulb in a corner.’ He was sat down the whole time, so we can’t take a guess at his height. As to his build, he had so many layers and scarves on, it’s almost impossible to tell with any degree of certainty. But if I had to take a punt, I would say he’s of slight build. If he was fat, he’d have taken up a lot more space on the sofa. Now that I think about it, I reckon he might be quite tall, as I do remember his legs extending quite a way towards us.’
‘That gives us a bit more to go on,’ said Lind. ‘I take it Moretti’s apartment is still under subtle surveillance?’
‘Yes, the local Kirkcudbright boys are handling that,’ said Farrell.
‘My money’s on Hugo Mortimer,’ said DI Moore. ‘He was effectively banished by his peers years ago and has been living a dissolute life down here, yet he manages to pull it out of the bag and get shortlisted for a major competition. Clearly, he must have kept painting up a storm, yet no exhibitions for years? Maybe he was honing his skills, forging all this time. How else are they keeping that show on the road up there?’
‘He’s an arrogant sod, as well,’ said Byers. ‘Forging would appeal to his ego.’
‘Possibly,’ said Lind.
‘What’s the plan for Fiona Murray, then?’ asked Farrell. ‘Get her to roll over on the others in exchange for immunity?’
‘I’d be happier with that, if I can be assured that she’s not involved in any of the three murders,’ said Lind. ‘I’ll give Ailish’s sister Maureen a ring. It might be worth giving her a peek at Murray to see if she knows of any connection between her and Ailish. Murray does have an Irish accent, but we’re so close to Stranraer that’s hardly unusual.’
‘It can’t hurt,’ said Farrell. ‘Give you a chance to fire that warning shot across her bows as well in relation to poking around playing amate
ur detective.’
‘True. Now we’re starting to have an idea of what we’re up against with regard to her sister’s murder, I think she needs to be formally told to back off for the time being.’
‘That’ll give Murray a bit longer to stew in her own juice before we interview her,’ said Farrell.
‘You’ll all remember that we’ve got young Davey out there undercover. I need to know if it’s safe to put him in play tomorrow, or whether to pull him and Stirling out of there pronto,’ said DI Moore.
‘I suggest you and Farrell conduct the interview, Kate. That way, we should be able to cover all the angles of the various investigations. I’ll observe from the room next door. I’ll sound out the procurator fiscal in advance as well, to get an idea of the scope we might have for a plea deal to force her hand. Much depends on how much she can lay out for us,’ said Lind.
DI Moore glanced at her watch.
‘I’ve got Lionel Forbes coming in shortly to assess the paintings recovered from Janet Campbell’s studio flat. I’ll also ask him to look at the digital images of Moretti’s entry for the Lomax Prize. See if he thinks they could possibly have been painted by the same person.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
DI Moore felt unusually flustered as she waited for Lionel Forbes to arrive. Unable to settle, she paced up and down, before taking a small compact out of her bag and applying a fresh coat of lipstick. Her blue eyes were glittering, and she was as jumpy as a basket of frogs. This really wasn’t like her at all. She had to pull herself together, or someone at the station would notice that the resident Ice Queen had defrosted into a soggy mess. A sensible calm woman of thirty-six should most definitely not be behaving like a giddy teenager, she told herself sternly. It didn’t help.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of the paintings and the digital images. Carefully, she slipped on gloves and lifted them out of their wrappings and placed them face up on the table. Her skittish mood immediately dispersed as she took in the suffering of the foal displayed on canvas. She laid the digital image of Paul Moretti’s entry for the Lomax Prize beside them.
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