‘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.’
Perfect Dead Page 3