Perfect Dead: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked

Chapter Ten

Farrell and McLeod entered the mortuary via the back entrance to Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. They nodded at one of the local undertakers who was leaving as they arrived.

Once inside, they were shown into the well-equipped examination room where Bartle-White was already positioned beside the body. As always, he cut an imposing figure.

‘Excellent! I can’t abide tardiness,’ he said, glancing at the clock, which showed one minute to nine o’clock.

The room smelled of formaldehyde with unpleasant undertones of blood and other bodily fluids.

Bartle-White, a tall but stooped man with a taste for bow ties, wasted no time on small talk and got straight to work.

‘Gunshot wound to upper palate is clearly the cause of death. Far more effective than a shot fired into the temple, as it targets the cerebellum resulting in immediate death,’ he said. ‘I believe the gun recovered was a PPK 380 mm?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Farrell. ‘A single bullet was recovered at the scene.’

Bartle-White busied himself once more on Stevenson’s ruined head.

Farrell glanced at Mhairi and saw that she was pale but composed.

‘As I expected,’ muttered the pathologist.

Farrell bit his tongue. Bartle-White was old school and did not tolerate interruptions to his train of thought.

After a few more uncomfortable moments, he suddenly stood upright.

‘The exit wound is consistent with a single shot having been fired. I assume that will be the one recovered from the scene?’

‘The bullet and the gun are both with ballistics,’ confirmed Farrell.

The rest of the post-mortem revealed nothing untoward. As expected for a young man of his age, his organs were healthy and no other possible cause of death was found. His stomach contents were sent off for analysis along with all the other samples taken.

‘There was a near-empty bottle of whisky beside him,’ said Farrell. ‘I’d like to know if there’s any evidence that he consumed it? Also, if there’s any evidence of drugs in his system?’

‘I can’t help you there until we get the results back from toxicology. Currently, they’re taking around four weeks to process. However, judging by the healthy state of his liver, I would doubt very much that he was in the habit of drinking to excess. Are you saying he was a drug user? I saw no evidence of that.’

‘No, I was more wondering along the lines of whether his drink could have been spiked and then the suicide staged while he was unconscious or incapacitated.’

‘Good heavens, isn’t that a bit of a stretch?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Farrell. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘I’ll try and put a rush on the toxicology results, but I can’t promise anything.’

‘Appreciated.’

***

‘It seems pretty clear cut to me,’ said Mhairi, glancing at her boss as they got back in the car.

‘It seems that way,’ said Farrell. ‘There’s just a few things about it that feel wrong to me.’

Chapter Eleven

Less than two hours later, Farrell parked his car at the harbour in Kirkcudbright, opposite the Tourist Office. The tide was in and the fishing boats bobbed gently up and down with an attendant mob of hungry seagulls screeching overhead. There was a strong smell of fish mingled with the salty tang of the sea. Mhairi consulted the map on her phone and started walking.

‘I think it’s over here.’

They stopped in front of a whitewashed building with the words ‘Kirkcudbright Art Gallery’, painted in eggshell blue on a piece of driftwood. A bell tinkled as they entered. Inside, a middle-aged woman, her face wreathed in smiles, got off the stool, where she had been knitting, and came forward to greet them.

‘Janet Campbell, gallery owner, how can I help you?’

Farrell produced his warrant card, and the smile disappeared.

‘Is this about that poor boy, Monro?’

‘Did you know him?’ asked Farrell.

‘That I did. I have one of his paintings in the gallery.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Let me see, now. It would be a week past Monday. He popped in to let me know he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize. He was so excited. That’s why I can’t believe he would’ve wanted to kill himself. It makes no sense.’

‘Aside from last week, how was his demeanour generally?’ asked Farrell.

‘He seemed happy enough. Like most creative types, he would hit a slump from time to time but, in the main, he appeared to be fine.’

‘Could you show us his painting, please?’

She led them upstairs to a light-filled space and over to a corner. The canvas depicted the same dark-haired girl as the picture they had found wrapped in the deceased’s bedroom. This time, she was sitting in a field of poppies, oozing vitality, smiling into a hand-held mirror as she brushed her hair.

‘Look closer,’ said Janet.

Mhairi exhaled as they realized that the reflection in the mirror didn’t match. It showed the same girl but looking haunted, with bruised eyes and sunken cheeks.

‘Do you know anything about the model?’ asked Farrell.

‘I met her a few times; she came in with Monro.’

‘Were they ever an item, as far as you know?’ asked Mhairi.

‘They were just friends, I think. He was obviously keen on her, but she was involved with Patrick Rafferty up at Ivy House.’

‘Is she still there?’ asked Farrell.

‘No, she disappeared into thin air. Ran off one morning three years ago and no one has seen or heard anything from her since. Her folks reckoned something bad happened to her. The sister came over, put up posters; the family even offered a reward for information, but nothing came of it.’

‘I see it has a “Sold” sticker,’ said Farrell, pointing to the red dot.

‘Yes, it sold a few months after she went missing. The owner requested that it should remain on show here in the gallery in exchange for a modest annual sum.’

‘Who is the owner?’ asked Farrell.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. It was all arranged through an Edinburgh solicitor.’

‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Janet smiled. ‘Can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth though.’

‘The main reason we came here was to speak to Paul Moretti, and this was the address given for his studio?’ said Farrell.

‘He used to rent the studio flat from me, at the back of the gallery, but he left over three years ago.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Not at all, really. Our paths rarely crossed. He’s allergic to sunlight, poor chap. Breaks out in burns and blisters if he goes out during the day. He had his own key.’

‘Did you know he’s been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize too?’ Mhairi asked.

‘My, he’s a dark horse,’ she said, clearly surprised.

‘Is any of his work hung in here?’ asked Farrell.

She grimaced a little.

‘No, it’s not really my cup of tea. To be honest, I find it distasteful. I believe he sells a fair bit to foreign collectors. Certainly, he always paid his rent bang on the nail, so he must do all right out of it.’

‘Distasteful, how?’

‘He likes to paint dead things, animals, birds, that sort of thing. He showed me one once, wanted me to sell some in the gallery. It was all I could do not to shudder in front of him. There’s a big market for it abroad, he said. I gave the studio a wide berth when he was in it. Worried about what I might find in there. He did leave it spotless when he left though, so I can’t complain.’

‘Do you have his home address?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Yes, he lives at Lavender Cottage. Head back out of town then take the third turning on the right into Silvercraigs Road. The cottage is at the top of the hill on the left.’

Farrell handed her his card.

‘If anything else occurs to you in relation to Monro Stevenson then please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

‘Mike Halliday, the man who lives in the studio now, is an artist too. He might be able to help you. I think he was quite friendly with Monro.’

‘Thank you, we’ll swing by on the way out.’

Chapter Twelve

They walked around the side of the building and found the studio entrance. A tall, muscular, clean-shaven man in his early thirties was sitting on a rustic bench against the wall, in a small garden that was overflowing with snowdrops and crocuses. A small blue and white fishing boat sat on a trailer, adding to the charm. He drained the dregs of his cup and stood up as they approached. He smiled at Mhairi, and she smiled back.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ Farrell said, leaning over to shake his hand.

‘Mike Halliday, pleased to meet you,’ he said. His expression became grave.

‘Are you here about Monro?’

‘Yes,’ said Farrell. ‘Did you know the deceased well?’

‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘I would never have had him pegged to do something like that in a million years, though.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Mhairi.

‘He was really sound. Cheery enough whenever I came across him. Mind you, I hadn’t seen him for a while. I used to meet him in the pub for a beer now and then, but he’d been off the grid for the last three or four months I reckon.’

‘Were you aware he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I’d heard that. Funny time to check out.’

‘Did you enter as well?’

‘Me? Heck, no. I’m just a jobbing artist painting pretty pictures for the tourists,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to terms with my place in the pecking order.’

Something about the way his mouth twisted made Farrell suspect he hadn’t come to terms with it at all.

‘I understand he used to be part of a group of artists known as The Collective?’

A flicker of anger flitted across Halliday’s face, so quickly Farrell couldn’t be sure it had ever been there.

‘Aye, well, nobody’s perfect,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Hugo Mortimer was shortlisted as well. Are you familiar with his work?’ asked Farrell.

‘He made quite a name for himself a while back. Even the critics loved him. But, as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t exhibited for years. I was completely gobsmacked when I heard he’d made the cut. I would’ve thought his brain would be completely fried by now.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Well, he’s into all that hallucinogenic crap, isn’t he? Fancies himself a modern-day Byron. Be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic.’

‘So you’re not a fan, then,’ said Mhairi.

Halliday laughed.

‘Sorry for sounding all bitter and twisted. I’m not the only jobbing artist around here who’s had to put up with that lot lording it over us. They act as though they’re at the forefront of the renaissance instead of some sad middle-aged swingers.’

‘If they’re not commercially successful then what do they live on?’ asked Farrell.

‘Rumour has it that Penelope Spence keeps them all afloat with a family inheritance. I’ve certainly never heard of any of them doing a day’s honest graft for a living.’

Halliday glanced at his watch then got to his feet.

‘If there’s nothing else?’

‘Just one thing,’ said Farrell, ‘I don’t suppose you know the remaining local artist shortlisted? Paul Moretti?’

‘Can’t help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen any of his work, but I believe he’s a committed artist, all right. He’d have to be, to be holed up in that cottage day in day out, painting in the dark. Enough to drive you quietly insane, I should think.’

‘Known associates?’ asked Farrell.

‘None, that I’m aware of.’

‘Does he show his work locally?’

‘No, I’d have heard. I don’t even know what kind of stuff he’s into.’

‘The gallery owner, Janet, said he painted dead stuff, animals and birds?’ said Farrell.

‘Did she now?’ he said, his expression unreadable. ‘I would take that with a pinch of salt. He probably just didn’t want Janet poking her nose in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Farrell. ‘Appreciate you helping us out.’

‘Any time,’ he replied with a warm smile, disappearing off back into his studio.

Chapter Thirteen

Ten minutes later they were picking their way up an uneven garden path to the front door of a dark cottage, overshadowed by the looming granite cliff behind. Closed shutters stared sightlessly into the distance, paint peeling like some scabrous disease.

Farrell hammered on the door. The blinds were down but given what they had been told, Moretti could still be in. They were on the verge of giving up when the door opened a crack.

‘Give me a couple of minutes to get away from the light then come in closing the door behind you,’ said a disembodied voice.

OK, this is creepy, thought Mhairi as she followed Farrell in to the dim interior. The house smelled cold and damp.

‘Turn right,’ called the voice.

They felt along the wall to the doorway.

‘Please, come in and take a seat,’ said the voice.

Gingerly, they felt their way to two wingback chairs and sat down. Across from them, the owner of the voice was a darker blot in the gloom.

‘I apologize for the lack of light but, as I’m sure has been explained to you, I cannot tolerate it. How may I help you?’

‘Could you confirm your name and date of birth?’ asked Farrell, hoping he was writing on the correct page in his notebook.

‘Paul Moretti, 2nd August 1973.’

His voice was hoarse, and he was muffled up in many layers to withstand the freezing temperature inside. He wore a hat with flaps over the ears and dark sunglasses.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod from Dumfries,’ said Farrell. ‘We’re investigating the death of Monro Stevenson.’

‘Yes, I heard. A shocking business.’

‘Did you know the deceased?’ asked Mhairi.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Moretti. ‘The art community in Kirkcudbright is very incestuous.’

‘When did you first meet him?’

The figure in the gloom changed position. There was a pause. ‘I didn’t say that I had met him. We’ve never been introduced. However, I knew who he was.’

‘Congratulations on being shortlisted for the Lomax Prize, by the way,’ said Mhairi.

‘Thank you.’

He didn’t sound that happy about it, she thought.

‘Did you know that Monro and another local artist were shortlisted as well?’ asked Farrell.

‘Yes.’

‘When was the last time you saw Monro Stevenson?’ asked Farrell.

‘I don’t see much of anybody. However, I do remember seeing him one night about two weeks ago.’

‘You can’t be more precise?’ asked Farrell.

‘It was the first half of the week, not long after the weekend. So, a Monday or a Tuesday.’

‘What time of day?’

‘It was late, around 10 p.m. I had been out for my nightly walk.’

‘What was he doing when you saw him?’

‘He was having an argument with someone at the top of a close on the High Street.’

‘Who was he arguing with?’ asked Farrell.

‘I couldn’t say. I was some distance away.’

‘Could you describe the man?’

‘He was tall, powerfully built.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He was smoking a cigar. I could see the tip glowing; that’s all I can tell you.’

‘How can you be sure it was Monro Stevenson?’

Again, Moretti paused and shifted in his seat.

‘I’d seen his photo on leaflets in the area and also the local paper.’

Mhairi exchanged a glance with Farrell. She could see Moretti more clearly now that her eyes were adjusting. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room where the darkness seemed even more impenetrable. However, she could tell that he had long legs, suggestive of height, and despite, all the layers, she could see that he was quite slight, possibly even emaciated.

‘Have you always had to live in the dark like this, sir?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s been seven years since my condition first manifested.’

‘May I ask what your condition is?’ asked Farrell.

‘Polymorphic Light Eruption. Basically, an allergy to sunlight.’

‘Did you live in Kirkcudbright, before you developed the allergy?’

‘No.’

It was like pulling teeth, thought Mhairi.

‘Would you say Monro had any enemies?’ asked Farrell.

‘I wouldn’t have thought that he was sufficiently interesting to make enemies,’ said Moretti. ‘Anyway, I heard he killed himself?’

Wow, thought Mhairi. Say what you really mean, why don’t you?

‘We’re looking into all possibilities,’ said Farrell.

‘I see,’ said Moretti. ‘Perhaps he was interesting after all?’

They stood up to leave.

‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ said Farrell. They left the way they came and returned to the car.

***

‘That was one seriously creepy guy. And before you jump onto the moral high ground, it’s got nothing to do with his condition,’ said Mhairi.

‘I agree. It felt like he was hiding from more than the light.’

‘I don’t know about you, but I got the feeling he knew more about Monro than he was willing to let on. But why?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to figure out,’ replied Farrell.

Chapter Fourteen

Their final port of call was a handsome stone building in the High Street, a few doors down from Broughton House which held the Hornel Collection.

‘Not short of a bob or two then,’ said Farrell.

‘Must be nice,’ sighed Mhairi.

Farrell looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one, so he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop. Moments later the door swung back and a familiar face appeared. It was Fiona Murray, the housekeeper who had happened upon the body of Monro Stevenson. Dour as ever, she didn’t crack a smile but simply stood aside to let them enter.

‘Mr Forbes is expecting you,’ she said, gesturing to a door on the right of the handsome wood-panelled hall. ‘He’ll be down shortly.’

The door led into a study, exquisitely furnished with antiques. Mhairi wandered over to the marble fireplace and inspected the photos. Her eye then alighted on an embossed invitation to a weekend shooting party at some big toff’s house. So he was a fully paid up member of the hunting and shooting brigade? She loathed that crowd.

Lionel Forbes entered the room and strode towards them exuding bonhomie and more than a hint of expensive cologne. Tall, broad and muscular, he was wearing fine tweed trousers teamed with a lilac shirt and purple silk waistcoat. He definitely had charisma, thought Mhairi. A wee bit too much finesse for her taste though. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him eating a fish supper in front of the telly like her Ian. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine DI Moore doing that either.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ said Farrell stepping forward to shake his hand.

‘How can I be of assistance, officers? But first, where are my manners? Can I offer you some tea?’ he asked, gesturing to a rich brown leather couch, which made Mhairi want to kick off her shoes as soon as she sat down.

‘Thank you, no,’ said Farrell.

Mhairi resisted the urge to glare at him. Her stomach was starting to rumble. Farrell had no conception of what low blood sugar could do to a girl.

‘I understand that you’ve recently been assisting DI Moore with an art fraud investigation,’ Farrell said.

‘Yes, a challenging case from what I can gather.’

His interest sounded purely professional. No warmth towards DI Moore that she could detect. She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate! This was what happened when she got hungry. Her mind lurched all over the place like a drunken sailor.

‘As someone who is very well connected to the art world we were wondering if you could give us some additional information about a number of local artists?’ asked Farrell.

‘In relation to the fraud case?’ Forbes asked, looking puzzled.

‘No. In relation to the death of Monro Stevenson,’ said Farrell.

‘But I thought that was suicide? That’s what everyone is saying.’

‘At this stage we must consider all possible avenues of enquiry,’ said Farrell.

Was hunger causing paranoia to set in or did Forbes look a little startled, wondered Mhairi, detecting the aroma of something delicious seeping under the door.

‘What do you want to know?’ Forbes asked, settling back on the couch opposite.

‘What can you tell me about The Collective?’

Forbes grimaced.

‘A bunch of dilettantes. They live in that crumbling mansion, Ivy House, heading out towards Dundrennan.’

‘One of them has been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize,’ said Farrell.

‘Hugo Mortimer. I was rather surprised when I heard. Don’t get me wrong. His early work showed great promise. Twenty years ago, he was the latest rising star in the art world. Instead of knuckling down and cementing his reputation, however, he succumbed to the wildest excesses and fetched up here. A broken down dissolute has-been.’

His colour had risen as he spoke.

‘A bit harsh?’ ventured Mhairi.

Forbes gave her a charming smile.

‘Perhaps. I simply hate to see real talent squandered. He could have been one of the best artists of his generation. I shall view his work with interest once it is released for public consumption.’

‘Are you aware of any particular connection between him and the deceased?’ asked Farrell.

‘Other than the fact that they were both artists, you mean? Well, Monro used to be in cahoots with that lot. He lived with them for over a year. Fortunately, he came to his senses and finally saw them for what they were.’

‘How many of them are there up there?’ asked Farrell.

‘Currently three, although the place used to be stuffed with hippie types. Looked like most of them needed a good wash,’ Forbes said, wrinkling his nose.

‘So, Hugo Mortimer and who else?’ asked Farrell.

‘Penelope Spence and Patrick Rafferty.’

‘All artists, I take it?’

‘Yes, all talented in their own way, particularly Penelope, but broken. They live in their own squalid bubble and have a rather inflated sense of their own importance.’

A lot of that going around, thought Mhairi.

‘How familiar are you with their work?’ asked Farrell.

‘I used to be, until around three years ago when that young Irish girl ran away. After that, they rather dropped off the radar. Mine and anyone else who matters.’

‘Until now,’ said Farrell.

‘Yes, I have to admit my curiosity has been rather piqued as to the nature of the work that so impressed the judges.’

‘What about the other shortlisted candidate?’ asked Farrell.

‘Paul Moretti?’

‘Yes. What can you tell us about him?’

‘Bit of an enigma. He keeps himself to himself. I’ve never even seen his work. Rumour has it that it is rather out there, even by Turner Prize standards.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I believe he is sought after by private collectors who are looking for something a little more exotic. Of course, that’s only a rumour. Nobody knows for sure.’

‘Did you know him prior to his allergies developing?’

‘No. He moved here from elsewhere. I had never heard of him. It could all be a cunning marketing ploy of course, creating an aura of mystery.’

‘And the deceased, Monro Stevenson?’

‘Very talented. Tragic to see an emerging artist cut off in his prime like that.’ Forbes sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret.

‘When was the last time you saw him, sir?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Let me think … It would be two days before the body was found. I walked past him down by the harbour sitting on a bench and staring out to the sea. He looked rather wretched, which I thought was odd given recent events. I didn’t wish to intrude, so I bade him good morning and continued on my way. I believe he may have suffered from depression in the past?’