Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Thanks, guys, we’ll take it from here,’ said Farrell, switching on the recording device and attending to the usual formalities.

  Seen under the harsh lighting, Hugo Mortimer was a ruin of a man. He reminded Farrell of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Years of excess and selfishness were written in the lines of his still-handsome face. Undaunted, he sent a roguish smile in Mhairi’s direction. Playing along, she flashed back one of her own. Only Farrell could see her fists clenched under the table.

  ‘For the record, can you confirm you’ve declined your right to legal representation?’ he said, sending Mhairi a warning look.

  ‘Let’s just get on with this, DI Farrell. Some nonsense about alleged forgery, I believe?’

  This guy was too cocky by half, thought Farrell. Time to wipe the grin off his face.

  ‘So, how long have you been sleeping with your daughter?’ he asked, launching the grenade.

  Mortimer turned white, then shook his head as if to rid himself of what had just been said.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ he snapped.

  ‘Are you telling me you don’t have a daughter?’ said Farrell.

  Silence.

  ‘Well?’ pressed Farrell.

  ‘I may have a daughter, but you’re wrong. We’ve never met. I could never …’

  He looked so sick that Farrell almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘We have established that Nancy Quinn is your biological daughter.’

  ‘But why would she? How could she? Oh my God, does Penelope know?’ He sank his head into his hands and groaned.

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure she’ll find out one way or the other. We have evidence that she was obsessed with you and insinuated her way in to your life,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Did she ever contact you, ask to meet?’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Yes, on her eighteenth birthday. I told her I wasn’t interested. I’m not proud of it.’

  ‘Did you ever tell Penelope she’d got in touch?’ he asked.

  ‘No, why would I? It was finished business as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want Penelope getting all steamed up about it.’

  ‘I take it you knew she was Monro Stevenson’s girlfriend?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘Yes, it was no big deal. I’m polyamorous myself.’

  ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’ muttered Mhairi.

  Farrell glared at her and nodded towards the tape recorder. She looked abashed.

  ‘What did Monro have to say about it?’ asked Farrell.

  ‘He didn’t know.’

  ‘Bet he wouldn’t have been quite so willing to forge for you, if he knew you were cavorting with his girlfriend?’ said Farrell.

  Mortimer looked wary once more.

  ‘I don’t know where you’re getting this forgery business from. I’m an artist, not a forger.’

  ‘Takes money to bankroll a place the size of Ivy House,’ said Farrell. ‘And yet, you seem to have no discernible income stream?’

  ‘Penelope has enough money from an inheritance to keep us comfortable,’ he said.

  ‘So you sponge off Penelope, while flaunting your polyamorous lifestyle right in front of her? You’re quite the catch,’ snapped Mhairi.

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Mortimer. ‘Save me from the moral rectitude of the great unwashed.’

  ‘What if I were to suggest to you that there is no inheritance?’ said Farrell.

  ‘What do you mean? Of course there’s an inheritance. We’ve been living off it for years.’

  ‘What if I were to tell you that Penelope Spence is the real identity of Aaron Sewell, the incredibly successful commercial artist?’

  Mortimer went slack-jawed.

  ‘No way, I don’t believe you. It’s not possible.’

  ‘Oh, but it is,’ said Mhairi. ‘She also goes by the name of Paul Moretti.’

  ‘That freak? No way!’ shouted Mortimer, thoroughly rattled now.

  ‘Bit of a shock to discover that your bohemian lifestyle has been funded by the graft of a successful commercial artist,’ said Farrell.

  ‘I can’t believe she kept it from me all this time,’ he said.

  ‘We know all about the forgery ring,’ said Farrell. ‘Arrests have been made and the stolen painting has been recovered.’

  ‘I’m delighted for you, DI Farrell, but I can assure you that it’s nothing to do with me,’ Mortimer said, folding his arms.

  ‘What if I were to suggest to you that Lionel Forbes has laid it all out for us. How you were the boss and he was only involved giving advice on the periphery?’

  Mortimer’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  ‘You really think that a man like Lionel Forbes wouldn’t throw you under the bus to save his own skin?’ mocked Farrell. ‘I didn’t have you figured for being that naive.’

  Still nothing. Farrell continued, hoping the bluff would pay off.

  ‘Forgery is a serious offence, but it doesn’t top murder, of course.’

  ‘Murder? I didn’t murder anyone!’ said Mortimer.

  ‘We know that either you or Lionel Forbes murdered Monro Stevenson,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘What if I were to suggest to you that Lionel Forbes might be willing to testify that you murdered Monro, because he wanted out of your little racket and threatened to spill the beans?’

  ‘He said that? Lionel said that?’

  Farrell remained impassive.

  ‘That bastard! I know nothing about any murder. Yes, I might have copied a few pictures, but where’s the harm in that? Lionel was the hard-ass, not me. I’m an artist. I simply relished the challenge.’

  ‘And the money?’ said Farrell.

  ‘It was a victimless crime. The money wasn’t to be sniffed at but I’m sure Lionel creamed off the lion’s share. He was the brains behind the whole thing. All I did was paint pictures. That was the beginning and end of it. There, are you satisfied?’

  ‘So, what you’re really saying is that you were Lionel’s tame artist in exchange for some pin money?’ said Mhairi. ‘Penelope’s sounding cooler by the minute.’

  Farrell pushed over a piece of paper.

  ‘I want details of every picture you’ve forged, along with approximate times and dates. If it matches up with the information already in my possession, then I’ll consider whether to indicate to the procurator fiscal that you cooperated with us.’

  Mortimer picked up the piece of paper and started writing.

  Chapter Seventy

  Penelope Spence sat ramrod straight in her chair. She could have been carved from stone. Across the table, DI Moore and DS Stirling glanced at each other.

  ‘We can’t help you if you don’t talk to us,’ said Moore. ‘I understand that all of this has come as something of a shock.’

  ‘You think?’ shot back Spence.

  ‘You yourself are not in any significant bother here,’ Moore pressed on. ‘You’re entitled to call yourself whatever you want in Scots law, as long as it’s not for a fraudulent purpose.’

  Spence’s shoulders relaxed a little.

  ‘The worst you’re facing is obstructing a police investigation. I think it’s entirely possible that, if you cooperate fully from this point on, the procurator fiscal might let you walk.’

  ‘I intend to cooperate,’ she said. ‘I had no intention of getting caught up in all this mess. When the police seemed to be focusing their attention on me I panicked and was scared to return to Lavender Cottage in case I was arrested.’

  ‘DI Farrell mentioned that you met a man upstairs in The Smuggler’s Inn. Can you confirm who that was, please?’

  ‘Miles Prescott, the Edinburgh agent for my Aaron Sewell identity. He thinks I’m simply an intermediary.’

  ‘You’ve told us you didn’t know Hugo Mortimer was involved in this forgery ring,’ said Moore.

  ‘I still can’t believe he would rip off other artists in this way.’

  ‘There’s something else we really need your help with.�
�

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’re still investigating the murder of Ailish Kerrigan. At first, we thought your alter ego, Paul Moretti, might have done it,’ said Moore.

  Spence let out a nervous laugh.

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Because of these paintings,’ said Moore, signalling to DS Stirling to unwrap them.

  The horror that flitted across Spence’s face was clearly genuine.

  ‘These are revolting,’ she muttered.

  ‘Can you remember if they were in a cupboard in the studio that you rented from Janet Campbell when you moved in?’ asked Moore.

  ‘I’d have got rid of them if they had been.’

  ‘Janet Campbell assumed they were yours, because you’d asked her to sell a painting of some dead stuff that she thought was pretty gross too,’ said Stirling.

  ‘That was only a painting of a dead brace of pheasants I picked up in a charity shop to deter her from poking around in my business,’ she said.

  ‘So you haven’t seen any other work locally that could potentially have been painted by the same artist?’ Moore asked. ‘We believe the murderer could still be in the area.’

  Spence pulled the paintings towards her and frowned in concentration as she studied them for several long minutes.

  ‘I can’t be completely sure, but the uncompromising nature of the pieces and something about the brushwork point to Mike Halliday.’

  ‘Mike Halliday?’ said DS Stirling, surprised. ‘Isn’t he the one who paints the pretty pictures for tourists?’

  ‘He’s also the one who lied to us about the paintings being in the cupboard when he took over the studio,’ said Moore.

  ‘He applied to join The Collective a few years ago and had to submit some work,’ said Spence. ‘He was undeniably talented, but he got off his face with us one night and the stuff he came out with was a bit freaky. We didn’t want to live with him. Patrick Rafferty handled it. Said we didn’t feel his work was of a sufficiently high standard. We could hardly say we simply didn’t like him! He took it hard, I gather.’

  ‘Is there any chance you might still have his submission, or was it returned to him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can find out,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Moore. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  She hesitated, then switched off the recording device.

  ‘Interview terminated,’ she said.

  ‘There’s something else you need to know. This may be hard to hear.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Spence.

  ‘That young woman who we brought in with Hugo?’

  ‘What of her? Floozies come and floozies go,’ she said, compressing her lips into a straight line.

  ‘Now Hugo had no idea of this, whatsoever, until we told him, but it appears she may be your daughter.’

  Spence went white and swayed in her seat. DI Moore poured some water and handed it to her.

  ‘It appears that she contacted Hugo when she turned eighteen. He sent her off with a flea in her ear, saying that neither of you wanted anything to do with her.’

  ‘He had no right,’ she said, silent tears running down her face.

  ‘She was determined to insinuate herself into your lives, in some bizarre form of revenge.’

  ‘We were very young. I was besotted with Hugo. I wanted to keep her. I thought he would come round once he met her. She’d only been in the world one hour when he gave me an ultimatum.’ Her voice broke. ‘I chose him.’

  DI Moore summoned PC Rosie Green, who had been waiting nearby.

  ‘I have to leave you now with PC Green. You can stay here while we process your release on police bail and ascertain how the fiscal wishes to proceed.’

  ‘I’m getting out?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Moore. ‘You won’t be allowed to go back to Ivy House yet, or have any contact with certain individuals, but subject to that, you’ll be free to go.’

  ‘What about my daughter?’ she said, as if the word was stuck in her mouth. ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘The best I can do is relay to her that you knew nothing of Hugo’s rejection and would like to see her. It won’t be allowed until the legal process has concluded, however.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed DI Moore’s hand, taking her by surprise.

  ‘I mean it. I’m in your debt.’

  ‘Great interview, boss,’ said DS Stirling, as they walked away along the corridor.

  Moore smiled wearily. It had been a long and harrowing day and they were nowhere near done yet.

  Farrell intercepted them as they were leaving the custody suite. He looked tense.

  ‘Any word from Lind?’ he asked.

  ‘No, isn’t he back yet?’ asked Moore.

  ‘No one’s seen or heard from him since the arrests in Kirkcudbright this morning. Something’s wrong. I’m sure of it. I need to get down there.’

  ‘Agreed. We also need to arrest Mike Halliday for the murder of Ailish Kerrigan. Seems the canvasses were his after all. You’ll need a fair-sized team with you, as he’s clearly dangerous. The only thing we have going for us is the element of surprise. We need to get to him before he realizes we’re on to him,’ said Moore.

  ‘Halliday? Are you sure? He seemed so harmless,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Yes. Sure as I can be anyway.’

  ‘Wait a minute, didn’t you say earlier that Lind planned to visit Janet Campbell at her studio? Perhaps he discovered something and Halliday nobbled him. Shit! We need to get down there, right now,’ he snapped, spinning on his heel.

  DI Moore grabbed his arm.

  ‘Yes, we do. But you need to take a breath first.’

  At first Moore thought he was going to shrug her off and bolt. But, slowly, he regained his control and nodded. She let go.

  ‘Here’s what we’re going to do. You head down to Kirkcudbright with Mhairi.’ She looked at DS Stirling and hesitated.

  ‘I want to go too, ma’am. I know the locale best after my undercover work. I won’t rest until I know the DCI is safe,’ Stirling said.

  ‘Good to have you,’ said Farrell, knowing how much it had cost Stirling to place himself in harm’s way once more.

  ‘I’ll tell the Super, hold a briefing for everyone else and run the show with Byers from the MCA room,’ said Moore. ‘I’ll send DS Forsyth and the firearms team down behind you for backup. I’ll also get PC McGhie and the Kirkcudbright boys back in play.’

  ‘Can you handle Laura?’ asked Farrell. ‘I need to stay focused.’

  ‘You got it,’ she said. ‘Now go!’

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Lind woke up with a start. It was pitch-black, and he had no idea where he was. He was lying on his back on a hard, uneven surface. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they met with resistance and he heard the clank of metal on metal. Shit, he was shackled. Not good. He could hear a muted roar and realized he was near the sea. He licked his lips and tasted salt. The earth smelled damp and there was a musty smell. Seaweed? His teeth chattered with the cold. His clothes had been removed. Fear flared within him as he remembered that he was being held captive by Ailish’s killer.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Farrell had driven to Kirkcudbright like a maniac, Mhairi, pale and quiet beside him. Stirling followed in another car behind, having scooped up DC Thomson. He had discharged himself from hospital and insisted on coming. DS Forsyth and his team were meeting them at the harbour.

  It was already dark, and they slid like shadows through the still night, until they reached the studio where Halliday lived. Farrell felt sweaty and nauseous, the fear for his friend gnawing at his guts. The strain of the last few days was beginning to unravel his mind and he prayed silently for the strength to see him through the coming ordeal. He had to save Lind or die trying. Failure wasn’t an option.

  The property was surrounded. Shrouded in darkness there was no sign of activity within. Janet Campbell had b
een evacuated out of harm’s way by PC McGhie. Bracing himself, Farrell gave the order to advance. The firearms team burst the door open, and Farrell and Mhairi ran in the door behind them.

  It didn’t take long to establish that the flat was empty.

  ‘Shit!’ yelled Farrell, punching the wall in frustration.

  DS Stirling and DC Thomson ran in a few moments later.

  ‘The shed and summerhouse are empty, boss,’ reported Stirling.

  Farrell swayed on his feet, suddenly light-headed. He could see Mhairi staring at him anxiously. They were all waiting for him to direct them, and he had nothing. He sought divine inspiration, but the murderous rage he was feeling blocked that avenue. He examined the interior minutely looking for a wisp of a clue. Anything that might tell him where Halliday had gone. Nothing. There wasn’t even an unwashed coffee cup. How could the lair of a crazed psychopath look so unremarkable? His men had fallen silent. He could feel the heat of their suppressed impatience, like bloodhounds waiting to be unleashed. Taking one of the powerful torches, he went out into the yard. He stood there and slowly directed the torch in an arc, praying for something, anything, to leap out at him. It felt as though the world was holding its breath.

  Suddenly, he had it. The last time he had swung by with Lind, there had been a boat and trailer in the yard. They had gone, along with Halliday’s black Land Rover.

  ‘He’s taken the boat,’ he yelled. ‘Down to the harbour.’

  They ran straight there, and after a few minutes’ search they found the Land Rover, tucked down the side of a parked lorry. The harbour master’s office was closed, but there was an emergency contact number.

  Farrell rang it at once.

  ‘DI Farrell, here. I need to know when Mike Halliday launched his boat tonight. He’s abducted one of our officers. That’s good to know … Do you know what kind of boat it is?’

  Farrell hung up. ‘He couldn’t have launched before 6.15 p.m., because the tide was too low. His boat’s a twentysix-foot motor boat, painted blue and white. Stirling, can you liaise with the coastguard? We need a boat launched and standing by, as well as a search-and-rescue helicopter.’