PERFECT DEAD
JACKIE BALDWIN

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Broughton House and Garden, in Kirkcudbright, is the Edwardian home and studio of Scottish artist, E. A. Hornel, one of the early twentieth-century Glasgow Boys. It is owned and operated by the National Trust for Scotland. Any and all mentions of Broughton House and the National Trust for Scotland, beyond the mere fact of their existence, in this novel, are entirely fictitious.

KillerReads

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Jackie Baldwin 2018

Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Jackie Baldwin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008294335

Version: 2018-05-22

For Alex and Jenny

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Jackie Baldwin

About the Publisher

Prologue
June 2009

Ailish opened her eyes then closed them again as her head started to throb. She stumbled to her feet, fighting the urge to throw up. Unwelcome flashbacks of the night before painted her face in disgust. Looking at her slight form in the mirror with yesterday’s make-up blurring the lines of her face, she felt older than her nineteen years. She glanced at her phone and tears prickled. It was her mother’s birthday. She could picture her sister and father laughing and chatting as she opened her presents in Ireland. It was as if she had ceased to exist, such was the disgrace she had rained down on them when she ran off with Patrick, three years ago. He had completely turned her head with all his big talk. She had fancied they would live in London, not the tiny harbour town of Kirkcudbright tucked away in a corner of south-west Scotland. Instead of the romantic existence she had pictured for them, they had wound up living in this glorified hippie commune or, ‘The Collective’, as they liked to be known. At first it had been fun, exciting even. A world away from the parochial narrow-minded community she had left behind. She had been proud to be Paddy’s muse and loved nothing more than to bask in the warmth of his regard as he painted her from various angles.

Lately, she had felt Patrick’s love receding like an outgoing tide. He was preoccupied and distant and hadn’t asked her to pose for him in ages. The atmosphere in the house was different as well. She had a feeling they were all keeping secrets from her and each other. They had always used drugs but lately the drugs had become harder and the parties more forced and a little weirder. There was a powerful undertow dragging them all down to God knows where.

Suddenly, as she looked out of the window, she knew with unusual clarity that she didn’t want to be part of this toxic environment anymore. She would lay it on the line with Patrick and ask him to leave with her. He had been holed up in his studio for days now. She’d been warned off disturbing him as he was working on something new. Well, tough! This couldn’t wait. He would see sense. He had to.

After a quick shower she threw on her favourite dress and swept up her long curly hair, just as he liked it. A slick of lipstick and a touch of mascara and she was ready to do battle.

She flung open the door to the studio and stood, open mouthed, tears spilling from her eyes as she took in the scene before her. A beautiful young girl stared back at her insolently, maintaining her pose. She was reclining naked on a velvet chaise longue, one arm positioned behind her head. Only the blush of colour staining her chest betrayed her.

Patrick turned round, and their eyes met. He dropped his gaze. There was nothing left to say. Wordlessly, Ailish spun on her heel and left the studio. She was done. It was time to go home and beg for forgiveness.

Standing at the bottom of the drive, her eyes misted with tears, she looked back up at the brooding Victorian house with no sign of the maggots crawling within. She texted her elder sister, Maureen.

‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m on my way home. Ailish. x’

Walking towards the bus stop, she heard her name being called. Surprised, she glanced behind her. When she saw who it was, she smiled and walked towards him. The bus wasn’t due for another hour. She had time.

Soon she was ensconced in a comfy armchair, knees drawn up under her, a warm mug of hot chocolate clasped in her hands. As she poured out her woes he leaned forward attentively. The drink was comforting, strong and sweet.

She paused. She didn’t feel so good. Her eyes couldn’t focus. She struggled to stand up, but her legs wouldn’t support her and she collapsed back onto the chair. Alarmed now, her heart flopped in an irregular rhythm as she tried to make sense of what was happening to her.

‘Help me,’ she whispered, looking up at him. This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t understand.

He remained where he was, a creeping malevolence revealing itself to her. She was on the verge of losing consciousness when he picked up her unresisting body and carried her into another room. He laid her on a thick plastic sheet.

A last tear tipped from her eyes.

She would never see her home again.

Chapter One
7th January 2013

DI Frank Farrell glanced across at Mhairi as the police car slid and bumped its way along an icy farm track towards a small stonewashed cottage. It was 10.10 a.m. and the sky was bright with a pale wintery sun. A young police officer who worked out of Kirkcudbright stood in front of the blue and white tape and walked towards them as they parked alongside the SOCO van.

Farrell exited the car with a feeling of dread in his stomach. In his time as a practising Catholic priest, suicides, in particular, always had a profound effect on him. The thought that someone might be driven to die at their own hand was unfathomable.

‘SOCO nearly done in there, PC McGhie?’

‘Yes, sir, they reckon it’s fairly cut and dried. The police surgeon is in there too. Didn’t exactly have to look for a pulse. Blood and brains everywhere.’

Farrell quelled him with a look.

‘Do we know the name of the deceased yet?’

‘Monro Stevenson, according to the opened mail, sir.’

Silently, Mhairi and Farrell suited up in their protective plastic coveralls and overshoes. Even if it was suicide, care had to be taken not to contaminate the scene, just in case.

‘Right, let’s get this over with,’ said Farrell.

He opened the door and entered with Mhairi.

A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and cords was packing away his stethoscope in a brown leather satchel in the hall. He straightened up as they approached. Farrell noticed that he had an unhealthy greyish tinge to his face and that his hands were shaking.

‘Morning, Doctor. DI Farrell and DC McLeod.’

‘Dr Allison. Cause appears to be suicide. A terrible business,’ he said. ‘A patient of mine, as it turns out. He was only twenty-seven.’

‘It must be difficult when you know the deceased,’ said Mhairi.

‘Yes, if only he had come to me. I could have got him some help. Anything to avoid this,’ he said, gesturing towards the other room.

‘Any chance you can give us an indication of the time of death?’ asked Farrell.

‘Well, as you know, my role here is restricted to pronouncing life extinct. However, given that rigor is at its peak, I would hazard a guess, strictly off the record, that he died somewhere around fifteen hours ago. However, you’ll need to wait for the preliminary findings from the pathologist for any degree of certainty.’

‘Thanks, Doctor,’ said Farrell. ‘I appreciate the heads-up.’

The doctor turned to leave. Farrell approached the two experienced Scene of Crime officers, Janet White and Phil Tait, who were gathering their stuff together at the rear of the hall.

‘Janet, what have you got for us?’

‘It looks like a suicide,’ she said. ‘Gun placed in the mouth and trigger pulled. We lifted prints from the gun. Gunshot residue on the right hand of the deceased matches that scenario.’

‘There’s a note,’ Phil said. ‘It’s in a sealed envelope. We’ll get you a copy once we’ve done the necessary checks back at the station. We’ve also removed the gun for ballistics analysis.’

‘What was it?’

‘A PPK 380 mm. We recovered the bullet from the wall behind the chair.’

‘How on earth did he get hold of one of those in this neck of the woods?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ shrugged Phil.

‘A suicide note,’ said Mhairi. ‘That means it’s unlikely to be a murder?’

‘Unless he was coerced, or it was staged,’ said Farrell.

A thought occurred to him and he popped his head out the front door.

‘PC McGhie, were the lights on or off when you arrived at the scene?’

‘Off, sir,’ he answered.

Everyone left but Farrell and McLeod. They stood in the doorway to the sitting room. A malodorous smell hung in the air, the coppery scent of blood mingled with gunpowder, faeces, and urine. Not for the first time, Farrell railed at the indignity of death. Wordlessly, he took a small jar out his pocket and offered it to Mhairi. They both smeared menthol beneath their noses to enable them to complete their observations without losing their breakfast; though he figured it might be a close call as he glanced at Mhairi’s white face.

There were two wingback chairs either side of an unlit log fire, with a large rectangular mahogany coffee table between them. In one of the chairs a body was slumped. The face was intact, but the back of the head was a tangled mess of hair, blood, and brain tissue. The corpse was stiff, like a mannequin. On the table there was a half-full bottle of malt whisky. An empty glass lay at the deceased’s end of the table. Farrell walked into the room and crouched down to examine the table’s surface.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘There’s a faint glass rim on the opposite side as well. Could suggest that he’d had company earlier in the evening. Look in the kitchen and see if there’s a matching crystal glass anywhere. The two rims are the same diameter.’

Mhairi left for the kitchen, and he heard the sound of cupboards opening and closing. A short while later she returned.

‘No sign of it, sir.’

‘Now, that’s odd,’ said Farrell.

‘Couldn’t it simply be that the same glass was moved across the table for some reason?’

‘Be a bit of a stretch from his side. No, I reckon he may have had company last night.’

Farrell stood up and turned his attention to the rest of the living room. It was furnished traditionally, with a walnut grandfather clock in one corner, and a carpet in muted greens and gold that had clearly seen better days. There was a photo of a dark-haired smiling young man holding a glass trophy and shaking hands with someone in a suit. Another of him in the middle of two beaming parents. A third showed him with an attractive blonde girl, posing at the top of a snowy mountain in ski gear.

‘He looks so happy in those,’ said Mhairi. ‘Hard to believe he killed himself.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Farrell. ‘Whatever happened here, we owe it to his family to determine the truth, however painful it may be to hear.’

‘I feel sorry for the cleaner that found him. Imagine happening on this with no warning?’ said Mhairi.

‘It’s as well she did,’ said Farrell. ‘It doesn’t take long for a body to become infested.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She’s waiting for us at her home. I thought we could pop over and interview her when we’re finished here. Give her a chance to calm down and gather her wits together.’

They heard the sound of the mortuary van bumping slowly along the track. Leaving the room, they had a quick look round the rest of the cottage. Mhairi opened a door into a bright and airy studio, which contained a jumble of brightly coloured canvasses.

‘He was an artist.’

Farrell studied the works in the room intently. He was no expert in modern art, but the canvasses were visually appealing.

The bedroom was plain with no feminine touches. Only one toothbrush in the bathroom and no prescribed medication to be found.

The sound of muffled voices heralded the arrival of the mortuary van. It was followed by a car that discharged a young officer who looked unfamiliar to Farrell. As he’d been down in the Dumfries area less than a year, there were still plenty of officers sprinkled around the smaller towns and villages he hadn’t happened across yet.

‘Hey, Paul,’ Mhairi, greeted him. ‘You here to accompany the body?’

‘Drew the short straw for the last waltz,’ he said flippantly, before catching sight of Farrell.

Not for the first time, Farrell envied Mhairi her natural ease around people. He nodded awkwardly at the younger man, silenced now by his presence.

Sombrely, the three of them watched together as the corpse was zipped efficiently into a black body bag and loaded into the van. The young officer climbed in as well and the van departed, bumping back down the track bearing the ruined remains of a life.

‘And that was …?’

‘PC Paul Rossi, sir.’

‘We’d better go and interview the cleaner who found the body while it’s all still fresh in her mind.’

After a last look round, they locked the door and left.

As they reached the car, Farrell noticed a small cottage on the same side as the one they had just left, about one hundred metres away. It looked fairly rundown, but he could see the flicker of a TV screen through the front window.

‘Has anyone interviewed the occupant of that cottage?’ he asked PC McGhie.

‘No, sir, I didn’t even notice it when I arrived because it was still fairly dark then.’

‘Right, Mhairi and I will pop by now, just in case the occupant saw or heard anything suspicious.’

‘You’d think they’d have heard the gun go off at the very least,’ said Mhairi. ‘Yet, nobody called it in.’

Chapter Two

They walked along the icy lane to the cottage, the frost biting into their extremities. On the way up the path to the front door, Mhairi’s legs shot out from under her and she’d have fallen if Farrell hadn’t grabbed her.

He rang the doorbell. An old man opened it and peered out at them from beneath several layers of clothing. He was small and wizened with sharp eyes.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod. I’m afraid we have some disturbing news.’

‘Sandy Millar. I figured as much. You’d best come into the warm,’ he said, motioning them through with arthritic fingers to a small lounge where a coal fire was putting up a valiant battle against the frost clinging to the inside of the windows.

DI Farrell and DC McLeod perched on the edge of the hard, threadbare couch while the man settled himself into the chair opposite.

‘I’m afraid to tell you that your neighbour, Monro Stevenson, died last night,’ said Farrell. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘I didn’t even know his name,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Though, I’m sorry he’s dead. Kept himself to himself, he did. When the snow came last month, he didn’t even bother to clear my path or ask if I wanted a bit of shopping.’

‘Were you here last night from 5 p.m. onwards?’ asked Farrell.

‘I’m always here,’ he shrugged.

‘Did you hear or see anything unexpected?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I did, as it happens,’ he said. ‘A car came down the lane around 5 p.m. I looked out the window, as I thought it might be my daughter come to check on me. A big bugger it was. It went by, and I went to make my tea.

‘Later, when I was eating, it came back up the lane heading for the main road, but I never paid it no mind.’

‘Any chance you could hazard a guess at the make and model?’ asked Farrell.

‘It was dark, lad.’

‘Did you hear anything unexpected?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a thing. I had the TV on, mind.’

‘Nothing that could have been a gunshot?’

‘The lad was shot?’

‘A shot may have been fired,’ said Farrell.

‘No, I definitely didn’t hear anything like that. You’d have thought I would have done. The telly wasn’t up that loud as I was waiting for my programme to come on.’

‘What programme would that be?’

‘The six o’clock news.’

‘Thank you,’ said Farrell, rising to go.

‘You’ve been really helpful,’ said Mhairi. ‘If anything else comes to you, please contact myself or DI Farrell,’ she said, passing him her card.

‘Will do, lass,’ he said, hobbling to the door to show them out.

‘Probably someone got lost and came down here by mistake,’ said Mhairi, as they got back in the car. ‘Once in the lane they’d have to keep going. The only place wide enough to turn is right at the end.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Farrell.

The address Farrell had been given for Fiona Murray was a one-bedroom flat in the centre of Kirkcudbright. The block looked rundown and as if it needed a coat of paint.

Farrell rang the bell and a portly middle-aged woman opened the door. She was as white as a sheet.

‘Fiona Murray?’

She nodded. Her eyes were hooded and expressionless.

Still in shock, thought Farrell.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod. We decided to pop round and save you the bother of coming in to the station,’ said Farrell.

‘Thank you. That’s most considerate. Please, come in.’

She swung the door back and motioned them inside.

The interior of the flat was spotless but spartan in the extreme. There were no personal photos or ornaments, except for a wooden, framed picture of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece. Probably the last thing she felt like was dusting round knick-knacks in her line of work, thought Farrell. He sat beside McLeod on the hard sofa, and Fiona Murray dropped straight onto an upright chair facing them.

‘It must have been very distressing coming upon a scene like that this morning,’ said Farrell. ‘Can you confirm what time you found the body?’

‘I go in every Monday morning at 9 a.m., set him straight for the week. As soon as I opened the door I could tell something was badly wrong. I found the body and called you lot right away.’

‘Was the door locked?’ he asked.

‘No, it wasn’t, now you mention it. Even when he was in he usually had the door locked but not today.’

‘Were the lights on when you went in?’ asked Farrell.

She stopped to think.

‘No, they weren’t. I put them on myself when I went in but turned them off when I left. It didn’t seem right to light up … well, you know.’

‘Were the curtains in the room that you found the body open or shut?’ Farrell asked.

‘Shut. And I left them that way. I didn’t want anyone looking in and seeing him like that.’

‘How close did you get to the body?’

‘I went right up to him but I could see there was no hope … that he was gone,’ she said, her voice flat.

Farrell changed tack, bringing up a photo on his phone of the crystal glass from the table.

‘Do you recognize this glass?’

‘It looks like one of Monro’s. He didn’t use them often.’

‘How many did he have of this type?’

‘Only a couple.’

‘Are they both still intact as far as you know?’

‘Well I haven’t broken one. If he did, I wasn’t aware of it.’

‘How long have you been working for Monro Stevenson?’

‘Just under two years. I answered an ad in the local paper.’

‘How well did you know him?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Well enough. I was his cleaner, not his friend. I’m not the chatty type. I think he liked that. I didn’t disturb his concentration when he was working. He kept out from under my feet, paid me on time. It was a suitable arrangement.’

‘Were you aware that he owned a handgun?’ asked Farrell.

‘No, I certainly was not. I never set eyes on such a thing.’

‘Had you noticed any shift in Monro’s mood of late? Did he seem depressed or worried at all?’ asked Farrell.

‘Quite the contrary. He seemed in fine fettle. He was very excited about being in the running for that big art prize.’

‘What art prize?’

‘The Lomax Prize. He said it could launch his career if he won. It’s Edinburgh based, I think. A big deal, apparently.’

‘What about the girl in the photo on his desk? Was he in a relationship?’

The cleaner shrugged.

‘That, I couldn’t tell you. I certainly never met her.’

‘When you were cleaning, were there any signs that a girl had stayed over?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I was his cleaner, not a tabloid journalist,’ she shot back. ‘I wasn’t in the habit of snooping around.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ said Mhairi. ‘Please can you answer the question.’

‘I never saw any evidence of someone sleeping over,’ she replied, her lips compressed as though to hold back the angry words threatening to spill out.

‘Did he have any visitors in the past few weeks?’

‘I have no idea. None that I was aware of.’

‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Murray,’ said Farrell standing up. ‘I know this has been a difficult morning for you.’

‘It’s the parents I feel sorry for,’ she offered, as she was seeing them out. ‘The loss of a child is hard enough to bear without all these unanswered questions.’

Chapter Three

Back in Dumfries, Farrell made his way to DCI Lind’s office on the first floor. He walked in with a cursory tap on the door and surprised his boss and old school friend in a look of misery. It melted into a smile so quickly that Farrell wondered if he had imagined it.

‘Frank, come away in. What’s the score with that body then? Terrible business by the sounds of things.’

‘Well, it looks like a classic suicide,’ Frank said, taking a seat opposite Lind’s desk. ‘He appears to have pulled the trigger all right. There was a note.’

‘But?’

‘Something about it seems off. By all accounts he had everything to live for.’

‘Maybe so, but that’s no defence against mental illness. He could have been depressed and nobody realized.’

‘Possibly. There was also a car passed down the lane a short while before the likely time of death. It stopped too long to have been turning. He may have had a visitor.’

‘Maybe they told him something that pushed him over the edge?’

‘Or maybe he was murdered and the whole thing was staged?’

‘The Super’s going to love that theory,’ said Lind with a grin.

‘He’ll go nuclear,’ said Farrell.

‘You got that right.’ DSup Walker wasn’t renowned for his calm temperament. ‘So, what does your gut tell you?’

‘I think we should consider it a suspicious death meantime.’

‘Agreed. Get the Major Crime Administration room set up and fix an initial briefing for noon. I’m appointing you as Senior Investigating Officer on this one. Assemble your team and let’s get cracking.’

‘Right you are,’ said Farrell, rising to his feet. He remembered that unguarded look when he had walked in. ‘How’s Laura?’

‘She’s doing well, joined a support group.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ said Farrell. Laura and Lind were his oldest friends; their marriage had taken a hammering last year when she had lost a baby at five months.

‘I’ll hear what you’ve got so far in a few hours,’ said Lind.

Farrell took the hint and left him to it. His next port of call was Detective Sergeant Mike Byers, who was working at his desk in the pokey room he shared with DS Stirling. Personally, he couldn’t stand the man. He was casually misogynistic with a gym-sculpted body that spoke to his vanity. However, he had done a solid job of running the MCA room during the Boyd murder case a few months earlier.

‘Byers, I need you to open the MCA room and post a briefing there for noon. The death in Kirkcudbright is being treated as suspicious for the time being.’

‘I thought he topped himself, sir?’

‘We’ve reason to keep an open mind,’ said Farrell.

His stomach growled just as his phone beeped. Time to refuel and take his medication. He headed down to the canteen where he managed to find a limp cheese and pickle sandwich and the muddy dark sludge that passed for coffee. He retreated back to his office and closed the door before sliding out his pill box. Ever since he had come within a whisper of having another breakdown he had been meticulous about taking his maintenance dose of lithium. During their last major case the spectre of insanity had felt his shoulder once more and he had no desire to be reacquainted with that part of his life.

A photocopy of the suicide note was on his desk.

Please forgive me. I have tried to fight this darkness. When I found out about the Lomax Prize I thought it was a lifeline to cling to. I see now that it changes nothing I cannot go on.

Your loving son,

Monro

The note was typed and signed in blue ink. The signature was ragged and uneven, which could suggest heightened emotion, Farrell thought.

There was a knock and Mhairi popped her head round the door. He pushed the note across to her, and she sat down to read it in silence.

‘How do you feel about being the Family Liaison Officer on this one?’

To his surprise, she was silent, looking torn.

‘Spit it out, Mhairi.’

‘I would, sir, if it wasn’t for what happened to my brother.’

Farrell recalled seeing a picture of a smiling young man in uniform at Mhairi’s flat a few months earlier.

‘The soldier?’

‘Yes. He wasn’t killed in Afghanistan.’

‘Oh?’ The penny dropped.

‘He died … later.’

Her face flamed red, and she looked on the verge of tears.

‘Suicide?’

‘Yes. PTSD, they reckoned.’

‘I’m sorry, Mhairi. I’d no idea. Would you prefer to be off the case altogether? It’s not a problem.’

‘No, sir, that won’t be necessary. I can work the case. I just don’t think I could handle being up close to all that emotion.’

‘No worries, there’s more than enough work to go round.’

***

After Mhairi left he pondered who he could appoint as FLO in her place. DC Thomson had recently been made detective but, although hard-working and keen, he didn’t yet have the people skills for such a dual role. He had a lot of growing up to do. PC Rosie Green came to mind. She had recently flowed in to the PC-shaped hole left by DC Thomson and seemed fairly robust and sensible.

He phoned downstairs and, five minutes later, there was a brisk knock on the door.

PC Rosie Green was around twenty-five. She had an air of calm competence about her that Farrell felt would be reassuring to the family. Other than that, he really knew very little about her. As far as he was aware she didn’t seem to be particularly tight with anyone in the department but was well enough liked.

‘Rosie, take a seat,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve heard about the suspicious death in Kirkcudbright early this morning?’

‘Yes, sir, only I thought it was a suicide?’

‘That remains to be determined,’ he said. ‘The reason I asked for you is that I’m looking for a FLO for his family and wondered if you might be interested in taking on that role?’

She paused before answering as if she was thinking it through. Farrell liked that quality. Some might mistake it for slowness, but he would rather have a measured response than an off-the-cuff one to be regretted later.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied. ‘I would definitely be interested.’

‘Excellent. I’ll make that a formal request then and you can get up to speed with everyone else at the briefing. If you find DS Byers he’ll give you a copy of all the information we’ve gathered to date, which isn’t much.’

The phone rang. The parents were here. He asked for them to be shown into the small conference room.

‘As it happens the parents have arrived to speak to us. I know you’re not yet in possession of all the facts, but could you join us in the conference room?’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said, rising to her feet.

Chapter Four

He allowed them a few minutes to settle then entered with Rosie. The couple looked to be in their mid-fifties and introduced themselves as George and Doreen. Doreen’s eyes were red raw with weeping.

Farrell was pleased to see PC Green immediately took the lead, taking Doreen’s hand in hers and offering her condolences. Once the couple had been given their tea, Farrell sat opposite them at the oval table and gently began.

‘When was the last time you saw your son?’

‘He came for lunch on Wednesday, Inspector. He was on top of the world,’ said Doreen, her mouth twisting as she held back tears.

‘Any particular reason for that?’

‘He’d received word the week before that he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize, a major art award. His career was about to take off. It was all starting to happen for him.’

‘How many people knew he’d been shortlisted?’

‘Probably half of Dumfries by the time she’d done shouting about it,’ said George, giving his wife an affectionate pat on the arm. ‘She was that proud of him.’

‘When did you last speak to him?’ asked Farrell.

‘He normally phoned on a Sunday evening, no matter what,’ Doreen said. ‘But we didn’t hear from him last night. Now we know why.’ A thought occurred, and she turned to her husband, her hand over a mouth stretched in agony.

‘Oh God, George, maybe if we’d phoned him, instead of letting it go, we could have stopped him, changed his mind.’ She broke down once more, and PC Green put her arm around her making low soothing noises.

‘You mustn’t think like that,’ said Farrell.

‘We thought he must be out celebrating still with friends, didn’t want to cramp his style,’ said his father.

‘Could you give a list of his friends’ names and addresses to PC Rosie Green, as soon as is convenient? They might be able to help us with filling in a timeline.’

‘Well, the thing is, we’ve never met any of them,’ said Doreen. ‘Not his artist friends anyway. There are a couple of lads he was at school with in Dumfries that he saw once in a blue moon.’

‘I see,’ said Farrell. ‘Did Monro have a girlfriend?’

‘He’d been seeing a Dumfries girl, Nancy Quinn, for a couple months,’ said Doreen. ‘We met her once and she seemed nice enough. They went skiing together in December.’

‘Had he ever suffered from depression?’

His parents looked at each other.

‘You might as well, tell me,’ said Farrell. ‘We’ll have to request his medical records as part of our enquiries.’

‘He suffered from depression a few years ago. He got in with a group of artists,’ said Doreen.

‘Bloody hippie commune, more like,’ said George. ‘From what I could gather they spent as much time on sex and drugs as they did on their art.’

‘It didn’t suit him,’ said Doreen. ‘He wasn’t brought up to that kind of lifestyle. He became very low and so we fetched him home. A few months later he was right as rain. He never looked back, did he George?’

‘How long ago was this?’ asked Farrell.

‘Three years or so,’ replied Doreen.

‘Painted up a storm ever since. A new girlfriend as well. For him to kill himself now? Well it doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ said George.

Farrell was inclined to agree with him, but kept his counsel.

PC Green leaned forward.

‘Doreen have you been in touch with Nancy yet?’

She shook her head, eyes welling with tears once more.

‘Not yet. We thought it best to come in first, so we had some proper information to give her. She lives in Dumfries, so we’ll head there after this.’

‘We’ll need her contact details,’ said Farrell.

Doreen rooted about in her handbag and wrote them down on a scrap of paper, which she then passed across.

‘The note,’ said George. ‘We need to know what it said.’

Wishing he could spare them this pain, Farrell opened the file in front of him and passed a copy across.

Doreen burst into tears and leant against her husband for support. George, however, kept staring at the letter, his brows drawn together as though puzzled.

Farrell leaned forward, sensing his hesitation.

‘Something’s not right about the signature. It’s like it is his writing but it’s not his writing at the same time,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m not making any sense. Doreen, love what do you think?’

She visibly pulled herself together and stared at the words again.

‘I know what you mean but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘There was an almost empty bottle of whisky found beside him. It’s possible he’d been drinking,’ said Farrell.

‘No way!’ said George. ‘He loathed the stuff. Our son was raised in a working-class home, Inspector. He was a beer drinker. He might have had the odd nip to be sociable, but I don’t see him sitting there, knocking it back on his own.’

Farrell noticed it was close to noon. Time to wrap things up.

‘I can promise you one thing,’ he said. ‘At this stage we’re keeping an open mind and considering all possibilities. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Green, who has now been appointed as your Family Liaison Officer and will keep you advised of any further developments.’

‘Once you’ve seen Mr and Mrs Stevenson out, I’d like you to come straight back up for the briefing,’ he said to PC Green.

‘Yes, sir.’

Farrell walked along to the briefing with a heavy heart. He knew he should be relatively immune to the suffering of parents after all these years in the force, but their grief always burrowed its way under his skin.

Chapter Five

Farrell walked in to the MCA room and held up his hand for silence. He noticed a few puzzled faces wondering why they were investigating an apparently open-and-shut case with such vigour. The crime scene photos had been put up on the wall. They showed the deceased slumped over in the chair with the gun on the floor beside him. A copy of the suicide note was up there as well, together with a picture of the whisky bottle and glass on the table.

‘This may or may not be a case of suicide,’ he stated. ‘Although there are some aspects that support a theory of suicide, there are certain elements that don’t fit with that scenario.

‘The preliminary time of death suggests that he died around fifteen hours before he was found by Mrs Murray, at 9 a.m. Rigor was at its peak when the doctor examined him thirty minutes later. That would suggest he died at around 6.30 p.m. the night before. It would have been pitch-black, yet the lights were off and the curtains closed.’

‘Was there a lamp near the body that he could have switched off at the last minute?’ asked DS Byers.

‘There was a standard lamp beside the opposite chair, but not at the one he was sitting in. The other seat was also more worn, which tends to suggest it was where he normally sat. In addition, there were two rim marks on the table, but only one glass. According to the cleaner he had two crystal glasses, but we only found one.’

The faces before him still looked blank.

‘It could be suicide, but we need to exclude foul play and, at the moment, I feel far from being able to do that,’ he said.

‘Did he have a history of depression?’ asked DS Stirling.

‘Once, a few years ago, according to the parents but nothing recently. Can you requisition the medical records? Phone the police surgeon, Joe Allison, Kirkcudbright. Monro Stevenson was his patient as it happens.’

Stirling nodded and made a note. The oldest officer in the room, he was counting down the months to his retirement.

‘A neighbour also mentioned a car going down the lane not long before the likely time of death. There’s no way out from that lane but, rather than doubling back straight away, it didn’t return for a while. So he may have had a visitor in the hour leading up to his death.’

Farrell noticed PC Green slipping into the back.

‘I’ve appointed PC Rosie Green as FLO, everyone. If you need anything from the family, try and go through her as much as possible.

‘His parents indicated that he had been shortlisted for a major art award, the Lomax Prize. DS Byers, can you run that down? Get a list of the other shortlisted candidates and see if they might think it was worth their while to kill the opposition? Find out how much prestige and/or cash was up for grabs?’

Byers nodded.

‘We also require to track down a handwriting expert. His parents seemed to think there was something a bit off about the signature on the suicide note. We need to obtain some samples of his normal handwriting, including his signature. DC Thomson, can you deal with that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Newly made up Detective Constable Thomson was so eager it was painful to watch. Tall and lanky, he looked like he was still growing in to his body. Despite his enthusiasm, Farrell still wasn’t sure that the lad had what it took to be a detective. Time would tell.

‘Did he have a laptop, sir?’ asked DS Byers.

‘Yes, we recovered one from the cottage,’ said Farrell. ‘It was password protected so it’s been handed in to the Tech boys.’

‘Be interesting to see if he saved a copy of the note,’ said Byers.

‘If not, then it might suggest the possibility that it was brought there by someone else and he was coerced into signing it. Good thinking. Let me know the outcome. We’ll reconvene at 6 p.m.’

Byers nodded.

Farrell had no sooner got sat behind his desk when DS Walker marched in. It was like being visited by a short, red-haired Darth Vader, he reflected, as the air temperature seemed to drop a couple of degrees.

‘What’s this I hear about you fannying around with this suicide and whipping it up into a murder investigation?’

Never one for the social niceties, the Super. Preoccupied with the massive changes being wrought by the centralization of the Scottish police force, his bad temper was permanently bubbling under the surface. Judging by the smell of stale whisky that had preceded him into the room, he might be drowning his sorrows in alcohol. Officers like him, who had joined straight out of school and bludgeoned their way up through the ranks, were something of a rarity now.

‘It’s not a murder investigation, yet, sir,’ said Farrell. ‘However, there are some unanswered questions.’

‘Well, get on with it, man. I don’t want this case turning into the same Horlicks that we had last year. I want it wrapped up, pronto.’

Farrell became aware that he was grinding his teeth.

‘I’ll do what I can, sir,’ he snapped.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment before the Super turned on his heel and left. Farrell knew that he was partly to blame for their antagonistic relationship, but the man never missed an opportunity to rile him. Walker harboured a deep mistrust of him, due to the fact he was still a Roman Catholic priest, albeit no longer practising. A bigot through and through, he couldn’t trust what he didn’t understand. The events of last year hadn’t helped matters.

There was a light tap at his door and DI Kate Moore popped her head round it.

‘Got a minute?’

‘For you? Always,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you, Kate?’

She sank gracefully onto the chair in front of his desk, her lovely grey eyes regarding him. They had grown closer of late, but he still felt he had barely scraped the surface, as she was so reserved.

‘I heard about that poor young man this morning,’ she said.

‘It may not be what it seems, Kate,’ he said. ‘My gut’s telling me there’s more to it than a simple suicide.’

‘You suspect foul play?’

‘Possibly. Can’t rule it out yet.’

‘Odd that it happened in Kirkcudbright. You know that case I’m working on, the forgery one?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Farrell.

‘Well, the latest intel from Glasgow is that the forger may be somewhere in the Kirkcudbright area. We caught a break a couple of days ago. A tractor and trailer was involved in an accident on the A75. The driver legged it from the scene, but a forged Hornel painting was recovered beneath the hay bales.’

‘Hornel? Isn’t that the post-impressionist artist that lived in Broughton House, in Kirkcudbright?’

‘The one and the same. I didn’t have you down for an art buff?’

‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘Took my mother for lunch in Kirkcudbright in December. She wanted a whirl around the house and garden. Not my cup of tea,’ he said.

She smiled at him, and he felt those level grey eyes stare right into his soul. After so many years of estrangement from the indomitable Yvonne Farrell, Kate knew that a day trip marked a significant thaw on both sides.

‘The man from this morning,’ he said, suddenly diverted by a thought that had just struck him. ‘He was an artist, a pretty good one by all accounts. You don’t think he was involved in your case at all, do you?’

‘I highly doubt it. Throw a stick in Kirkcudbright and you’ll hit an artist. That’s what it’s known for. It’s officially designated as an Artists’ Town.’

‘True. I might want to poke around in your files at a later date, though.’

‘Be my guest.’ She stood up to go. Cool, elegant, unreachable.

They heard a commotion further along the corridor with muttered apologies and the sounds of files clattering onto the floor.

‘That would be Mhairi back then,’ she said with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’d put money on it,’ Farrell muttered, striding to the door and opening it.

Mhairi came charging in, laden with folders, almost cannoning in to DI Moore.

‘Oops, sorry, ma’am, didn’t see you there. Is this a bad time?’

‘We should really put a bell around your neck to warn of your approach, Mhairi,’ said DI Moore, as she left the room.

Mhairi looked offended and stuck out her tongue at Kate’s departing back, then swung around abashed as she remembered Farrell.

‘I saw that,’ he said.

‘Sorry, sir, I like DI Moore. But, she’s always so perfect and unruffled. Shows the rest of us up.’

Farrell suspected that DI Moore’s apparent serenity, rather like his own, had been hard won; although he didn’t share that thought with Mhairi.

‘When’s the post-mortem, sir?’

‘Tomorrow at nine. You volunteering?’

‘No, sir!’ she looked horrified.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. Seriously, Mhairi, you have to get used to them. Once you’re made up to sergeant, you’ll be expected to attend.’

‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll come.’

‘I reckon we should nip back out to Kirkcudbright for a look around the scene again. It’ll be easier to be objective now that the body’s been removed.’

Chapter Six

Less than an hour later they were driving back down the country lane to the cottage. The pale watery sun had done nothing to melt the icy ground. Farrell groaned as he rounded a bend and saw a media truck blocking the way. Sophie Richardson from Border News was trying to sweet talk her way past a bewildered Sandy Millar. A young man was holding a fuzzy microphone aloft while another was laying down cables. Trying to keep the lid on his temper, Farrell slid to a halt and sprang out the car.

‘Ms Richardson, your truck is blocking the way to and from a crime scene. I need you to move it. Right now, please.’ He stood and glared at her with folded arms.

‘Mr Millar, I suggest you get back inside out of the cold.’

The old man scurried indoors looking relieved.

The reporter scowled then reassembled her features into a winning smile.

‘Here we go. Full charm offensive,’ muttered Farrell out of the side of his mouth to Mhairi who had joined him.

As she walked towards them, he felt an answering smile appear on his face. But only because he was amused to see that beneath her designer baby pink suit there was a pair of matching pink designer wellies.

‘DI Farrell, how lovely to meet you again, but in such sad circumstances. A tragic loss of a young life. I believe he shot himself?’

Farrell noticed the man with the fuzzy microphone again, this time it was hovering overhead.

‘As I’m sure that you’re aware, all I am at liberty to say is that we are treating the matter as a suspicious death and our enquiries are ongoing. Now, unless you and your team wish to be on the news for obstructing police officers in the execution of their duty, I suggest you leave the vicinity at once. You have ten minutes to go down to the turning area and get away from this lane.’

They jumped into the Citroen and followed the news truck as it attempted to navigate the potholes.

‘That woman is such a pain,’ said Mhairi.

‘Once Border News have run with it, the nationals will be circling like vultures,’ said Farrell, with a sigh, pulling up in front of Monro’s cottage.

He fancied the garden had wilted a little since their last visit.

Mhairi shivered beside him.

‘It always gives me the creeps going back into where someone has died violently. I get the feeling that part of them is still hovering, watching us.’

Farrell turned the heavy key in the lock, and the door swung open. They entered. He looked behind the door, frowning.

‘Don’t you think that’s a ridiculous amount of security for a country cottage in the middle of nowhere?’

Mhairi glanced at the series of locks and raised her eyebrows.

‘Definitely overkill. I’ll ask PC McGhie to get on to the landlord and see if he put the locks there or if it was the deceased.’

The miasma of death still hung in the air. Farrell tried to ignore it as he slowly walked around, looking for anything that might have been missed. There was no sign of the second crystal glass. It was always the small things he found so poignant. A half-finished packet of biscuits, the milk in the fridge, a library book waiting to be returned. A life with its forward motion cut short.

Mhairi shouted to him from the bedroom.

‘Sir, come and have a look at this.’

She was rifling through a notepad.

‘He had started working on an acceptance speech. According to his diary, the awards dinner for the shortlisted candidates was due to take place on the first of March.’

‘Doesn’t exactly square with him killing himself,’ said Farrell. ‘Most people in his position would want to stick around and see what happened. If he’d shot himself afterwards, in a fit of artistic pique, that would be more understandable. Bag up that notepad as evidence. We can compare the handwriting with the suicide note to check that it’s genuine.’

Mhairi turned to the antique chest at the foot of the bed and opened it. She pulled out a framed photo of a young woman with long dark hair and an engaging smile. It had clearly been taken in summer. She was wearing shorts and a halter-neck top. Wrapped in an oilskin cloth was a canvas containing a nude portrait of the same woman, executed with considerable skill. It was unsigned.

‘I wonder who this is?’

‘Well it looks nothing like the girl he was seeing recently,’ said Farrell. ‘She was blonde, if she’s the one in the skiing photo. Possibly a previous girlfriend? I’m guessing she ended it rather than him, or he might not have hung on to these mementoes.’

Their final stop was in the spare room, which was flooded with light reflecting off whitewashed walls. Several canvasses were mounted on the walls and there were many works in progress stacked around the room. They both stared at the riot of colour.

‘He was good, wasn’t he?’ said Mhairi. ‘Even though I know nothing at all about art, they kind of take your breath away. What will happen about the competition now, sir?’

‘I don’t know, depends on the rules. You might want to ask DS Byers to check that out. If his entry is null and void then it could provide a motive.’

Sombrely they locked up and returned to the car.

***

‘How’s the studying going, Mhairi?’ asked Farrell.

She groaned and shook her head.

‘Don’t ask. As if I wasn’t depressed enough.’

‘It’s not that bad, surely?’ asked Farrell looking worried, as they got in his dumpy Citroen. He turned the ignition, it spluttered into life, and he coaxed it back down the icy track to the main road.

He had encouraged Mhairi to put in for her sergeant’s exam, as he felt she was more than capable. If she had a focus it might help her curtail her chaotic private life. She was in her late twenties which he’d thought was the ideal age to be going for the promotion. Maybe the added pressure was making things worse?

‘It’s not the work, exactly. It’s just that between job and studying I hardly have time to see Ian.’

‘Ian?’

‘I met him back in November.’

‘You kept that quiet.’

‘I know. Didn’t want to jinx it.’

‘Good guy, is he?’

‘The best. Perfect gentleman. A rare breed these days, present company excepted,’ she said with a glance at her boss.

‘That’s great! What does he do?’

‘He’s a freelance writer, and he’s taking a sabbatical to work on his novel.’

He worried about Mhairi more than he should but ever since her fiancé had dumped her, when she missed their rehearsal dinner because of work, she had tried to bury her heartbreak in meaningless flings. It had been tearing a hole in her soul not to mention causing gossip around the station. This new chap sounded promising.

‘We’re going out tonight for a meal, if I manage to get away on time.’

‘Make sure you scoot off straight after the briefing then.’

‘I’ll try, but I’ve got a “To Do” list longer than my arm,’ she said.

‘You’ve still got to make the time for things that are important,’ he said.

‘I love how you don’t practise what you preach, sir,’ she said.

He contented himself with an enigmatic look.

It was true. Since all that business last year, he had become something of a hermit, but that was also because he felt the lure of his long-dormant vocation, tugging him back to active service as a priest once more. He had shared these feelings with no one. Not even his spiritual adviser and dear friend, Father Joe Spinelli. He needed to be sure he was returning to his vocation for the right reasons and not simply hiding from the pain and trauma of recent events.

As they reached the outskirts of Dumfries, where the River Nith wound along like a serpent beneath the bypass, he was jolted from his reverie.

‘Actually, I bumped into Laura on Saturday night in Spoons.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Farrell. ‘There with Lind, was she?’

‘No, she was out with some woman. A right party animal. Do her good to get out and let her hair down, what with all she’s been through after losing the baby and the stuff with the twins. I took it as a good sign,’ said Mhairi.

Farrell wasn’t so sure.

Chapter Seven

Once back at the station, he logged in the extra evidence bags and headed down to the MCA room to prepare for the last briefing of the day. The small investigative team had started to filter through.

He’d put DS Stirling in charge of HOLMES in the MCA room, as much to keep him out of harm’s way as anything else. He was just months off retirement and so risk averse he was useless in the field, as Farrell had discovered last year. His experience would be useful in here.

A few minutes before 6 p.m., Mhairi slipped in, causing Farrell to do a double take. She must really like this bloke. She was wearing a red jersey dress that fell to her knees, with navy heels, and a dark wool coat over one arm. He wasn’t the only one to look twice. Mhairi was known for vamping it up when she went out. This signalled a change of gear.

‘You must be Mhairi’s classier sister,’ said DS Byers, attracting glares from everyone. It was no secret that he had the hots for Mhairi, and her continued rejection made him spiteful.

Mhairi ignored him and lifted her chin.

‘Right then,’ said Farrell. ‘Let’s get started.’ He nodded a greeting as DI Moore slipped in at the back.

‘Stirling, can you find out what details you can about a group of artists going by the name of The Collective, in Kirkcudbright. The deceased was involved with them a few years ago. Ascertain where they were based? If they’re still in existence?’

‘Sir,’ Stirling replied.

‘PC Green, can you arrange for the girlfriend, Nancy Quinn, to come in and be interviewed? Apart from the picture of them both on a skiing holiday, there was no sign of her presence in the cottage. Seems a little odd in this day and age,’ said Farrell.

‘DS Byers, have you managed to obtain a list of the shortlisted candidates, and is the prize worth killing over?’

‘Fifty grand, but the prestige attached to this competition is immeasurable. It’s launched the careers of quite a few well-known names into the stratosphere. Turns out another two of the six shortlisted authors live in Kirkcudbright, Hugo Mortimer and Paul Moretti. I’ve got addresses for them both from the organizers.’

‘Good work. McLeod and I will track them down tomorrow. Stirling, any joy with the medical records?’

‘Dr Allison wasn’t in the surgery. The practice manager was a bit reluctant, at first, but I banged on about the public interest, and then the deceased’s mother got on the phone. I have them here.’

‘Anything relevant?’

‘Well, no terminal illness or the like. He did suffer from a major bout of depression about three years ago. There was a fairly half-hearted suicide attempt with some pills, but he appeared to recover well and was on no current medication.’

‘OK then,’ said Farrell. ‘Good work, we’ll wrap it up there for tonight.’

He paused as DI Moore raised her hand and walked forward.

‘If I could say a few words, Frank?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, standing aside.

‘As some of you will be aware, I’ve been involved in an investigation into a forging racket being run out of this area. We suspect that the forger may be hiding in Kirkcudbright, camouflaged within the many artists there. I know that it will involve an increased workload, but I’d like a couple of volunteers to straddle both investigations in case there is any overlap.’

Both Mhairi and DC Thomson stuck their hands up.

‘Excellent, can you spare a few minutes after the briefing to get you started?’

Mhairi looked tense and glanced at her watch.

‘Actually, on second thoughts, let’s make it my office at eight, tomorrow,’ said DI Moore.

It had been a long day. Farrell felt weariness settle in his bones like sediment as he headed back home to Kelton. The full moon illuminated the frost in the fields and hedges giving the countryside an ethereal air. Despite the cold, he opened the window to clear his head.

As he pulled in to the space in front of his cottage, he nodded and smiled at a small group of neighbours, bundled up against the cold, standing chatting a few doors down. He knew he should approach them, but had never found it easy to insert himself into conversation with others.

As soon as he opened the door, Henry was there to greet him, doing his best imitation of a fat, hairy anaconda as he wrapped his plump black-and-white body around Farrell’s legs and squeezed, purring loudly.

‘Is it you or your tummy that’s pleased to see me?’ asked Farrell, bending down to pick him up. Henry had been one of Mhairi’s more hare-brained schemes to help him recover from the traumatic events last year, but they had settled into a comfortable routine now. He was undemanding company.

Last year he had fallen heavily for Clare Yates, a forensic psychiatrist consulting on the case, but it had not ended well. Since then, he had been retreating deeper and deeper into himself, feeling the tug back to a more ascetic life.

After he fed and made a fuss of Henry, he shed his suit and pulled on his winter running gear. The cold air hit him like a slap as he ran up the lane, turning right along the road towards Glencaple. His stride lengthened as his long limbs uncoiled from hours of desk work and the adrenalin fired up his muscles for a last explosive burst of energy. He pushed away the images of the lifeless face that kept appearing in his head like some macabre pop-up advert. He couldn’t believe that Monro Stevenson had taken his own life. It didn’t make any kind of sense. He’d been murdered. He was sure of it.

Back at the cottage, he had a steaming hot shower to soothe his aching muscles then pulled on faded jeans and a sweatshirt and padded through to the sitting room. Upstairs he had stunning views over the estuary. Tonight, he shut the darkness of the night out by drawing the curtains and lit the log fire to take the chill off the air. Pouring a small whisky and putting on some Gregorian chants, he stretched out on the sofa. Henry promptly joined him, purring contentedly. He stroked him absentmindedly.

Another murder investigation then. There was none of the thrill of the chase he used to feel while working in Edinburgh. Had the events of last year burnt him out completely? His mind shifted to Lind, married to Laura, the girl he had reluctantly left behind when he set off for the seminary. She had recently lost her baby and was taking time to come to terms with it. Lind was worried about something and hiding it. He should offer to babysit, enable them to get out more. That might help. They had been so happy together when he first arrived back in town. He fervently hoped that his return had not acted as some kind of catalyst for the problems they were experiencing in their marriage.

Chapter Eight

Mhairi walked from Loreburn Street to The Caven’s Arms, where she was due to meet Ian. As she entered the pub, the warmth hit her after the cold outside. Ian waved from a table at the back, and she made her way over to him. He greeted her with a kiss, as she shrugged off her coat. There was a glass of white wine already waiting for her. She picked it up and took a large swallow.

‘God, I needed that,’ she said.

‘Bad day?’ he asked, eyes crinkling in concern. ‘I caught Border News. Kind of weird to turn on the telly and see your girlfriend looking all kickass,’ he grinned.

‘That Sophie Richardson is a monster,’ Mhairi said. ‘Underneath that baby pink exterior beats the heart of a pirate.’

Ian laughed.

‘I mean it!’ she said.

‘I know. That’s what’s so funny.’

‘I hate bloody journalists.’

Ian looked taken aback by her vehemence.

‘What have they ever done to you?’

‘Shortly before you moved down here, I was involved in a couple of high-profile cases. Despite us all busting our chops to catch those responsible, the press turned public opinion against us and made our job ten times harder.’

‘That must have been tough,’ he said.

‘So tough, my boss nearly had a nervous breakdown.’

‘Frank Farrell?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Anyway, when I saw Sophie Richardson today, it brought it all back to me.’

Ian squeezed her hand.

‘It must have been tough seeing that poor bloke this morning.’

‘It goes with the job. I reckon traffic has it worse than we do. The things they have to deal with …’

‘I can’t imagine ever being in such a bad place that I’d consider killing myself,’ said Ian.

‘If he did,’ muttered Mhairi.

‘But, I thought …?’

‘Leave it, Ian. I don’t want to talk about work.’

‘Then let’s not. Hurry up and decide what you’re having. I’m starving!’

He was entertaining company, with a wicked sense of humour, and the rest of the evening flew by. A few short months ago, she would have felt the need to get steaming on a date. With Ian, she could simply relax and be herself.

You’re getting in too deep, a little voice whispered in her ear. He’ll let you get close and then abandon you. Everyone does.

Chapter Nine

Mhairi almost skipped along the corridor to her meeting with DI Moore the next morning. Ian was such a gentleman. He had insisted on paying for dinner but, unlike a lot of lowlifes out there, he hadn’t thought he was paying for something else as well. A goodnight kiss that made her go weak at the knees had rounded off the evening nicely. In fact, Mhairi had had to exercise supreme willpower not to drag him into her flat and rip his clothes off. Even Farrell would approve of Ian, she thought.

DI Moore was sitting behind her desk. She took in Mhairi’s fresh eyes and appearance and welcomed her with a wide smile. Dave Thomson was on the edge of his seat, notepad and pen at the ready.

‘Thank you for volunteering, both of you,’ she said, handing each of them a folder with summaries of the case to date.

‘This art forgery investigation began in Glasgow but has effectively ended up on our patch. Not much is known other than the fact that there appears to be an incredibly talented forger hiding out in Kirkcudbright. Up until a couple of days ago we had no idea of how the paintings were being moved around, though it would seem that they make their way to Ireland and from there are transported all over the world. When the operation started they probably simply smuggled them on the ferry in cars, but since the Port Authority has been taking an active interest, it’s likely that they are employing other methods.’

‘Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, ma’am,’ commented Mhairi. ‘There’s about a gazillion miles of uninhabited coastline they could launch from. Not to mention all the sailing clubs in the area.’

‘You said that a forged Hornel was recovered, ma’am?’ said DC Thomson.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, isn’t it likely the forger took the opportunity to visit Broughton House on several occasions to study his work?’

‘Possibly,’ said DI Moore.

‘I know there’s not much CCTV coverage in Kirkcudbright, but what about at the museum itself? There could be innocent reasons why someone might visit multiple times, but it could point us in the right direction,’ said DC Thomson.

‘Perhaps you could contact the museum and ask? It’s owned by the National Trust, I believe.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, scribbling once more.

God, was I ever that keen? Mhairi smiled to herself.

A thought occurred to her.

‘How do we know that the Hornel recovered is a forgery and not the real deal?’

‘Because luckily the National Trust had a restoration team working at the museum and they confirmed that the original was still there and undisturbed. They did comment on examining ours that it was a very skilful copy and that only an expert would be any the wiser.’

‘If the forgery ring is operating out of Kirkcudbright, is there anyone who can give us the low-down on any potential suspects?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I was coming on to that. Fortunately, we have Lionel Forbes, art historian and critic, in the locality,’ DI Moore murmured, going a little pink. ‘He’s extremely knowledgeable regarding the local art scene, and the Super has authorized his use as a consultant as and when necessary. However, he’s also indicated that we’re not to reveal operational details to Mr Forbes for the time being, given that he lives within the community that we are investigating.’

‘Could I have his contact details in case we need to ask him anything in relation to the Monro Stevenson case?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Certainly,’ replied Moore, rattling them off without consulting her notes. ‘He’s very generous with his time. A real asset to the investigation.’

Is he now? thought Mhairi her antennae twitching.

After the meeting was over, her next stop was Farrell’s office. Through the open door she could see him writing furiously, lost in what he was doing. She waited a few seconds until he sensed her presence and looked up with a start.

‘Mhairi McLeod, are you trying to give me a heart attack? If you’re not bowling along corridors like a wrecking ball, you’re materializing out of thin air like a ghost.’

She glared at him. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people and there was her trying to be considerate. She felt her rosy glow start to dissipate.

‘Hadn’t we better get off to the post-mortem, sir? Bartle-White said he was planning to start at nine sharp.’

Farrell glanced at his watch and sprang up out of his seat as though electrified.

‘I hadn’t realized the time! After the PM, I think we should head straight to Kirkcudbright and take a look at the other two local shortlisted artists.’

‘You really think someone would kill to get closer to winning that prize?’

‘People have killed for a lot less, Mhairi.’

‘While we’re there, sir, it might be worth speaking to Lionel Forbes, art historian. According to DI Moore, he’s a big cheese in the art world. He might be familiar with the artists on the list.’

‘Good idea. Maybe you can phone ahead and arrange for us to look in on him?’

‘Will do.’

Farrell stood up and put his jacket on.

‘Nice meal, last night?’ he asked.

Mhairi knew that wasn’t what he was really asking. She knew he worried about her. In fact he had made her worry about herself.

‘Excellent, went to The Caven’s Arms. Have you been?’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She knew her boss never went anywhere except round to DCI Lind’s for the odd meal. She suspected he was lonely.

‘No, I’ll have to check it out,’ he said.

‘Maybe DI Moore would like to check it out as well?’ she blurted out.

Farrell’s jaw tightened.

‘I’m sure DI Moore is more than capable of organizing her own social life,’ he snapped. ‘As am I.’

Ouch, message received loud and clear, thought Mhairi, subsiding into silence. He never used to be this grumpy.

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?’

Farrell didn’t answer the question, rising instead to his feet, followed by Mhairi.

‘Thank you so much for your time, Mr Forbes. May we contact you, if we have any further questions at a later stage?’

‘Certainly,’ Forbes said, standing to usher them out. ‘Happy to help in any way that I can.’

‘Could I possibly use your bathroom before I leave?’ asked Mhairi.

Forbes paused a fraction too long, then smiled.

‘Yes, of course, let me show you. These old houses are a bit of a maze.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mhairi, and walked with him upstairs.

‘In here,’ he smiled, opening a door into the most lavish bathroom, Mhairi had ever seen. She took her time, applying the expensive hand lotion once she had finished. So this was how the other half lived?

She was a little disconcerted to see him standing outside the door waiting for her and wished she hadn’t been quite so free with the scented toiletries on display.

‘I could have found my own way down,’ she said.

‘Nonsense, I like to take good care of my guests,’ he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jerk, she thought. Probably thought I’d run off with his fancy aftershave. They walked back downstairs in silence.

‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ she said formally as he opened the front door. Farrell was already in the car with the engine running.

‘Goodbye, DC McLeod,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

***

‘Not if I can help it,’ she added silently, as she jumped into the passenger seat.

‘What did you think of him?’ she asked.

‘He seemed all right,’ said Farrell. ‘Bit full of himself but probably an occupational hazard for an art critic.’

‘I thought he was a pretentious poser, but DI Moore certainly seems to rate him,’ said Mhairi.

Farrell visibly relaxed.

‘Oh well then, he must be fairly sound. I trust her judgement,’ said Farrell.

Honestly, for a smart bloke he could be so dense at times, thought Mhairi. Well she wasn’t going to spell it out for him. He’d only take her head off. DI Moore could take care of herself.

‘Are we going to see The Collective now?’ she asked.

‘No, I reckon we’ll hold that over until tomorrow. I want to check back in with the team. These artists. Quite an intense lot, aren’t they?’

‘You can say that again! When all’s said and done, it’s only splashing a bit of paint around, isn’t it?’

‘I’d keep that view to yourself in Kirkcudbright or they’ll run you out of town,’ said Farrell.

The radio crackled into life. The remains of a body had been discovered on Dundrennan Firing Range just a few miles from Kirkcudbright. They were to attend the scene and secure it at once.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Farrell muttered as, glancing at his mirror, he swung the car around in a U turn.

Chapter Fifteen

Back in Dumfries, Lind sighed and, with a heavy heart, picked up the phone. The remains might not be those of Ailish, but he knew that her sister Maureen would want to be told of the grisly find at the earliest opportunity.

‘Hello, can I speak to Maureen Kerrigan, please?’

‘Detective Lind, is that you?’ asked the soft lilting voice. ‘Dear God, have they found her? Is she …?’

‘We’ve found the remains of a body. There’s nothing to say it’s your sister yet, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.’

‘I see,’ she said with a catch in her voice. ‘You’ll keep me in the loop?’

‘Always,’ he said and heard the tears start to come as she replaced the receiver.

He had been the officer in charge of the investigation into her disappearance over three years ago. Given the kind of life she had been living back then, the most likely explanation was that she had simply run off after a tiff with her boyfriend. However, when her elder sister, Maureen, had come over from Ireland to report her missing, he had thought that theory did not sit very well with the text Ailish had sent the morning she disappeared. He had persuaded the Super to let him launch an investigation that had turned up precisely nothing. As with all missing person cases, there had been a number of alleged sightings, but none had turned out to be concrete. He had been left with a niggling feeling of failure. Beyond the bare fact of her disappearance, there had been no evidence then or since to suggest that she had come to any harm. Of course, it might not even be her.

His mobile rang. It was Laura. There was a time not so long ago when unexpectedly hearing her voice lifted his spirits. These days, he was so perplexed and unsettled by her behaviour that his stomach would flip with dread. He accepted the call and frowned as Laura’s voice announced that she was unable to collect the children from school as something had come up. He could hear laughter and music in the background. Her speech was slurred.

‘Laura, I can’t simply drop everything.’

‘But you expect me to?’ she snapped.

‘A body has been found,’ he said, attempting to remonstrate with her.

‘So? If it’s dead, what’s the hurry?’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘And what if I have?’

He could tell this was an argument he wasn’t going to win. Someone was egging her on in the background. Probably that new so-called friend of hers.

‘Fine. I’ll pick them up,’ he said and terminated the call, feeling the first opening salvo of a killer headache.

At least he knew that Farrell was en route to the new crime scene. He could rely on him not to stuff things up. It wasn’t the first time recently that Laura had phoned him out of the blue to collect the kids from school and nursery. He had a feeling she was pushing the self-destruct button. Ever since she had lost the baby last year, she had been various versions of the person he married, but never the same one. He had hoped that the worst was behind them but since she had met that woman at her support group things had deteriorated.

He glanced at his watch. There was a scheduled briefing for the Monro Stevenson case at 4 p.m. He would need to take that in Farrell’s absence, which would still give him time to collect the kids and deposit them somewhere. But where? They were too young to come into the station.

As if in answer to his prayers, DI Moore popped her head around his door. There were deep shadows under her eyes. She looked exhausted.

‘Kate! Shouldn’t you have been away hours ago?’

‘I’m just heading off, John. Been going through the forgery case files forwarded by Glasgow with a fine-tooth comb, but we have so little to go on. I’m still trying to get hold of the CCTV footage from Broughton House. DC Thomson’s idea. Smart lad.’

‘Yes, he’s shaping up nicely. Actually, Kate, I don’t suppose? No forget it. You get along.’

‘John, if you need me to do something, get to the point. I can always say no,’ she said.

‘It’s more in the nature of a personal favour,’ he said.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Could you possibly pick up the kids from school and nursery?’

‘I would LOVE to!’ She beamed, looking suddenly less tired.

‘Really? You honestly don’t mind?’

‘Your kids are adorable, John. It’s hardly a hardship.’

Only to their mother, thought Lind.

‘Brilliant! I owe you one, Kate. I’ll give the nursery a ring to let them know you’ll be collecting them.’

‘What about car seats and whatnot?’ she asked.

‘Both Laura and I have them, and I’m insured for any driver,’ he said, handing her his car keys. ‘I’ll get back as soon as I can.’

‘Take your time. I’m not due on until the morning.’

‘I need to cover the briefing at 4 p.m. then I should be able to relieve you and work from home for a bit.’

‘Is Laura all right? She’s not unwell, is she?’

‘No,’ said Lind. ‘Maybe … to be honest I don’t really know,’ he sighed.

‘Give it time, she’s been through a lot.’

‘You’re right. I need to try harder.’

‘If you ever want a weekend away, I’d be happy to look after them. I could rope Frank in. They love running him ragged.’

‘Thanks, Kate. I might take you up on that!’

‘I hear they’ve found some remains out at Dundrennan?’

‘Frank and Mhairi are down there now, to secure the scene with SOCO. Given where the remains are located, I suspect foul play has been involved. It’s on MoD property, the firing range. They’ll no doubt be sending a couple of officers to breathe down our necks.’

‘Another body, though, in that general area? Could be pertinent to the forgery ring?’

‘Could also be that missing girl from three years ago, Ailish Kerrigan. I had to phone her sister and warn her of the possibility.’

‘That can’t have been an easy call.’

‘No. Her family have been to Hell and back. Anyway, no point in speculating until the pathologist has had a chance to inspect the remains. What with Monro Stevenson and now this? We’re keeping him busy.’

‘I’ll get off then,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you need.’

Chapter Sixteen

Farrell sat in the car fuming beside an equally twitchy McLeod, with her mobile clamped to one ear. In front of them was a barrier with the words:

No entry by order of Ministry of Defence. Danger. Unexploded Ordnance.

Behind them was a car containing a couple of officers from Kirkcudbright.

‘This is ridiculous. We need to get in there now and secure that scene. How long are these jokers going to be?’ said Farrell.

‘You’re not going to like it,’ she said, ending the call.

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘The MoD are sending someone down from Glasgow. It’s going to be around two and a half hours.’

‘Well, there’s no point hanging about here for that length of time. Did you get the details of who discovered the remains?’

‘Yes,’ she said, scrolling through her phone. ‘Ted Jarvis, tenant farmer. Lives down a track beside the range. As such, he’s authorized to go on the land at his own risk for farming purposes.’

‘Right, that settles it. We’ll head off there first.’

Farrell got out and approached the car behind. It was being driven by the officer who had attended the death in Kirkcudbright, PC Calum McGhie.

‘I’m sorry but we can’t advance any further until the MoD arrive, which won’t be for another couple of hours. I’m going to need you guys to wait here until then.’

‘Yes, sir,’ PC McGhie responded, looking glum.

They made a U turn for the second time that day and headed back out to the main road, with Farrell keeping one eye on the satnav. It was so incredibly remote out here that it was nothing short of a miracle the remains had been discovered at all. It was a vast area and ran right alongside the rugged coastline. A thought occurred to him.

‘That forgery case you’re working on with DI Moore, Mhairi, if they’ve disappeared off the radar they may be using this land to smuggle the forged pieces out. It’s so desolate they would have virtually no chance of detection.’

‘It’s possible. Look, there’s the turning there!’

The road was so narrow, Farrell had almost missed it. Little more than a dirt track winding down to a whitewashed farmhouse that had seen better days. A sheepdog ran out barking followed by a wizened old man clad in so many layers he could have passed for a scarecrow. He bade the dog come to heel and stood waiting for them while they parked in his yard, taking care to avoid the clucking disapproval of the hens. A cockerel that reminded Farrell of DS Byers strutted in front of them.

‘Mr Jarvis?’ Farrell said, taking the old farmer’s wrinkled hand in his own. The man’s grip was strong. He wasn’t as frail as he looked.

‘Aye, that’s me, lad. Gave me a fair turn, seeing what I did. Best come in. I’ll stick the kettle on. You too, lass.’

Once they were settled at the kitchen table with mugs of hot sweet tea, he began.

‘I was out with Jess,’ nodding at the dog lying by his feet, ‘looking for a stray sheep, when she raced up that yonder hill into a bit of woodland and stood there barking. I shouted at her, but she wasn’t for budging, so I hauled myself to the top to see what she’d found, thinking it was a dead deer or a fox.’

He paused, relishing the telling of it. This told Farrell that the remains weren’t much more than bones, or he would have been more upset. He figured the old man was lonely, didn’t get the chance to talk often, so let him continue at his own pace instead of trying to hurry him up. He could see Mhairi’s foot jiggling impatiently on the worn tiles, but she too bit her lip.

‘Well, I got up there and could immediately see that the bones were human, so I called off the dog, fetched back here and called you lot. Seemed an odd place to dump a body. Giving yourself all that work slogging up the hill? Didn’t make sense when you could’ve heaved it over the cliffs. It wasn’t even as though the bones were dug up. Just sitting on the surface they were. Mind you, they might have been buried at one point. We had some mighty wild storms this winter.’

Farrell stood up, followed by Mhairi.

‘Can you take us to the remains?’

‘Aye, lad, that I can. It’s a fair way mind. Might be best to take the tractor?’

Farrell ignored the pleading look from Mhairi. He couldn’t run the risk of destroying any trail of evidence. Shanks’s pony it was then. They set off, struggling to keep up with the farmer, who was as fit as a flea. The land was very exposed to the elements, but with spectacular sea views. They could hear the roar below as the waves pounded into the cliffs.

‘What about the unexploded ordnance?’ asked Mhairi, looking as though she expected to be blown to smithereens at any moment.

‘Och, never you mind about that, lass,’ the farmer chortled. ‘More likely to be hit crossing the road.’

After a couple of miles, Jarvis stopped, pointing to a straggly copse of trees on top of a hill.

‘Straight up there. You can’t miss it. Will you be able to find your own way back? I’ve got plenty of stuff to do at the farm.’

Farrell thanked him. He handed a pair of plastic shoe covers to Mhairi and put on some himself. They climbed cautiously up the hill trying not to dislodge any stones or rocks as they went. On reaching the summit, they were breathing heavily. It had been steeper than it looked from a distance. As they moved carefully through the trees they could see the exposed bones lying in a small mossy clearing. They had clearly been placed in a shallow grave.

‘That’s odd,’ said Farrell, frowning. ‘The soil seems to have been turned over recently, but the bones are old.’

‘Look at those marks,’ said Mhairi, pointing to some indentations in the soil.

‘Someone has been up here not long ago, which means the bones were either brought here from elsewhere …’

‘Or someone wanted to take a little trip down memory lane,’ finished Mhairi. ‘About three years ago a girl went missing from this area, an Ailish Kerrigan. It was one of DCI Lind’s cases. He always felt that something bad had happened to her.’

They retraced their steps carefully back down the hill and sat overlooking the sea, while they waited for SOCO. Mhairi perched on a rock and turned her white face up to the winter sun, which was now beating down on them with more fervour than normal for a January afternoon. A buzzard looped lazily around, silent and deadly. The seabirds squabbled endlessly on the cliffs.

Farrell sat awkwardly on another rock. There was something rotten in this sleepy little town. Evil had burrowed under its skin and he was going to have to excise it using all means at his disposal. Comfortable in the silence, he closed his eyes for a few moments and prayed.

‘Sir!’ Mhairi shook his arm, startling him. He should have known better than to think she would give him five minutes’ peace.

‘They’re coming! I can see them in the distance.’

They both scrambled to their feet and waved at the procession of bodies marching determinedly in single file towards them. As the group got closer they could see that there was an army officer leading the two SOCOs, Phil Tait and Janet White, followed by the two Kirkcudbright officers, DS Byers and another army officer bringing up the rear.

As the army officers advanced, with their military bearing very much in evidence, Farrell had to fight the urge to stiffen to attention. He could hear a stifled giggle from McLeod and shot her a quelling glare, which if anything seemed to make her worse.

The leading officer approached Farrell with an outstretched hand. He had been half expecting him to salute.

‘Lieutenant Benjamin Wood, at your service,’ he said.

‘DI Farrell, and DC McLeod,’ answered Farrell. ‘Sorry to drag you all the way here. How did you get down so quickly?’

‘We were at a training course nearby.’

‘What about the risk of unexploded ordnance, Lieutenant?’ Farrell asked.

DS Byers looked worried. Nobody had filled him in then. Mind you, if he ran true to form he would be more concerned about ruining his expensive shoes than getting blown up.

‘Is this part we’re in at the moment safe?’ asked Byers.

‘As far as we know,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘Shells can veer dramatically off course. Don’t touch any suspicious objects, look where you’re placing your feet, and you should be fine.’

‘I’m going up there now with SOCO and, once they’ve done the necessary, the remains can be removed to the morgue at Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary,’ said Farrell. ‘I’m afraid we won’t know much until the pathologist has carried out an analysis and we’ve obtained the results of the lab tests, soil samples etcetera.’

He returned up the hill with Phil and Janet, shrouded in their white plastic overalls and shoe covers. From past experience he didn’t dare to offer to lug Janet’s heavy kit bag for her. The scathing retort the first time he had tried had been enough. She might be small but she must pack some muscle.

He pointed out the salient features of the scene then carefully retraced his steps, leaving the SOCOs to carry on with their work unimpeded. By the time he reached the small group, he saw that relations had thawed to the extent that the younger of the two military men was passing his card to Mhairi. Byers looked like a thundercloud. Farrell wished he could just move on. It was never going to happen.

‘Any further forward, sir?’ Byers asked.

‘Not really, there are markings in the ground that might suggest someone was up there recently.’

‘DS Byers, can you wait here, along with the two local officers, and manage the scene until the remains are removed? DC McLeod and I need to get back to Dumfries and take stock in relation to where we are with the other investigation.’

Byers nodded. Farrell might not like the man but he was efficient and thorough when called upon. Solid backup, unlike DS Stirling, who wouldn’t blow his own nose without a risk assessment.

As they returned to the car, at a brisk pace, Mhairi looked at the gadget on her wrist and announced: ‘That’s me done 20,000 steps so far. Not bad, eh?’

‘I refuse to be drawn in to this insanity,’ said Farrell.

‘You should get one, sir. After all, we do have to be able to catch criminals, don’t we?’

‘Usually, using our minds rather than our bodies, but I could still leave you standing, DC McLeod, so don’t get too cocky.’

Chapter Seventeen

Lind pulled into his driveway and turned off the ignition, leaning his head back against the headrest. He lowered the window and sucked in a lungful of freezing air as if it could push out the blackness that was threatening to engulf him. He couldn’t give in. He had to stay strong for his family. Laura had pulled far away from him and he was at a loss as to how to fix things between them. The stars twinkled remotely, indifferent to his problems.

Sighing, he climbed out of the car, the frosty air stiffening his bones. Hiding out here would solve nothing. Straightening his shoulders, he pasted on a smile in readiness and tried to inject some energy into his steps as he let himself in. The silence was unusual this early. He went into the living room.

DI Moore was sitting on the sofa with his youngest child, Adam, cuddled into her. He was fast asleep. Not for the first time he noticed how comfortable she was around children and thought she would make a wonderful mother. She was reading her Kindle and looked up and smiled as he entered, holding a finger to her lips.

‘He wouldn’t settle,’ she whispered. ‘He was wanting his mum. I’ve only just got him off.’

After he had taken his sleepy son from her and tucked him in to his cot without protest, he returned downstairs.

DI Moore was putting on her jacket.

‘Sorry, I kept you longer than I said, Kate. I thought Laura would have been home by now. I should have checked. Did she phone?’

‘Sorry, no. I expect she was caught up in something and didn’t notice the time,’ she said, ever the diplomat.

‘Kids behave themselves?’

‘We had great fun,’ she said, looking like she meant it. ‘It was a pleasure, John, honestly!’

He imagined coming home to her calm tranquillity every night and pushed the thought away before it had time to take hold. What was wrong with him tonight?

‘Things are certainly hotting up at work,’ she said, as she was leaving.

‘So it would seem. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a very long day,’ said Lind.

He checked in on the kids and found them all fast asleep. Molly was the spitting image of Laura, with her long dark curls spilling over the pillow. However, she wasn’t a tomboy like her mother had been when they were growing up; she was a quiet bookish child who took her role as big sister very seriously. He removed the book from her bed and carefully saved the page, before putting it on her bedside table.

His four-year-old twins, Luke and Hugh, were sprawled in their bunk beds. Since the events of last year they had ceased to dress alike. Their matching duvet covers had gone. Lind felt sad that even that innocent pleasure had been taken from them.

Finally, he looked in on Adam, who was still fast asleep in his cot. Satisfied, he went back downstairs. A murder and the remains of a body all within the space of a few days. Nothing to link them, but it was Kirkcudbright, for goodness’ sake! This was far from normal. There was also a forgery ring running out of there, if intelligence was to be believed. Much would depend on the identity of the bones as to how things went from here. He had a bad feeling about it all that he couldn’t shake. It didn’t help that he knew nothing whatsoever about art. Unless it was a nice watercolour, he was completely at a loss. Fortunately, DI Moore had a fair grasp of the subject. The house felt even emptier now she was gone. Where on earth was Laura?

He decided not to wait up as he knew from recent experience that she was likely to come in spoiling for a fight. He fought the temptation to crack open a couple of beers and took himself off to bed even though it wasn’t yet ten. Things would seem better in the morning.

The sound of laughter woke him. He glanced at his watch and saw it was after three. Laura was clearly drunk, and she had company. This just wasn’t on. If he didn’t get them to call time now, next thing the kids would be awake and it would be a wailing match all round.

He entered the living room and stopped short. Laura was dressed to kill in an electric blue dress he had never seen before, but the make-up had slid off her face giving her a clownish appearance. She was absolutely steaming. There was no point in having it out with her now. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the brassy blonde sitting sprawled beside her on the couch, legs akimbo, her short skirt leaving little to the imagination.

‘Get a good look, did you?’ she said, catching his gaze, giving him a nasty stare.

This woman was trouble. He had met her type before. And now Laura, his gentle sweet wife, was in thrall to this creature. He stifled his rage and said as mildly as he could manage: ‘Laura, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

‘Her name’s Selena,’ she muttered, as if to say it wasn’t really any of his business. Well, tough, he was going to make it his business. If she wasn’t prepared to fight for their marriage he would have to fight hard enough for both of them.

‘My name’s John,’ he said, forcing Selena to take his outstretched hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your second name?’ He leaned towards her, trying not to wince at the stink of stale alcohol and fags on her breath.

‘MacRae,’ she said, now looking wary and sitting up straighter.

‘Well, Selena, can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ he said pleasantly, but she caught the hint of steel in his eyes and stood up, gathering her coat and bag.

‘No thanks, time I hit the road. I’ll see you, pal,’ she said dropping a kiss on the top of Laura’s head on the way out.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.