Kitabı oku: «Perfect Dead: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked»
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.’
Ücretsiz ön izlemeyi tamamladınız.
