Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  He was worried about Dave Thomson as well. Not that he wasn’t shaping up nicely. More that he was a bit too keen. Might make him push a bit hard and take excessive risks. Hopefully, being paired with Stirling, who was the most risk-averse copper Farrell had come across, would rein him in a bit.

  According to the not so subtle hints that Mhairi had been dropping, Kate seemed to be drawn to that art critic, Lionel Forbes. Normally she was even more reserved than he was. However, Forbes might well be slowly and inexorably creeping under her guard. He felt a tinge of something unaccustomed pierce him. He couldn’t be jealous, could he? Since when did he have those kinds of feelings for Kate? Shocked at the direction his thoughts were taking him, he sat down on a flat rock and poured a cup of steaming coffee. Now that he had stopped, the cold stole over him like anaesthetic. He wished it could numb his mind as well as his body. The water looked dark and deadly as it spit foam at the rocks. He shivered despite his warm coat.

  Before Monro’s murder, he had felt himself drifting away from his earthly ties again, like a ship that had slipped its mooring. Whether it was simply a reaction to all that had gone on last year or not, he didn’t know. Since then, though, he had felt himself being drawn back reluctantly into the temporal world and its very concrete problems. He would not be able to decide where his future lay until the three murder cases had been solved. The family of the victims deserved answers.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  DI Moore could not remember a time when she had felt more flustered. She was in a taxi heading for Primo Piano in Dumfries in a grade one tizzy. What on earth had possessed her to agree to meet Lionel Forbes for dinner? He was simply a consultant on a case she was working, she reminded herself. After all, Farrell had dated that forensic psychologist they were working with last year, hadn’t he? Yes, screamed the voice of reason and look how well that turned out? She shouldn’t be so thrown by a simple invitation but, it had been so long, she wasn’t quite sure how to react. It’s only a meal, she told herself firmly on exiting the taxi. Keep it light and professional and you will come out of this unscathed.

  Inside, she glanced around the warmly lit interior until she spotted him in a corner. He stood as she approached, helped her off with her coat and slid the chair out for her, before seating himself.

  ‘Kate, what a charming dress, how lovely to see you!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Lionel, how kind of you to invite me! This is one of my favourite restaurants.’

  An attentive waiter hovered round them until they had selected from the extensive menu.

  ‘Can I offer you something from the wine list?’ Lionel asked.

  ‘Aren’t you driving?’ she asked. Way to sound like a copper, Kate, she chided herself.

  ‘No, as it happens, I’ve an exhibition to review at Gracefield Arts Centre tomorrow, so I’m staying the night in the Cairndale Hotel.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll have a glass of red wine, please,’ she said.

  He ordered a bottle, and there was a slight lull in the conversation.

  ‘So, what do you like to do in your spare time, Lionel?’

  ‘My biggest passion, aside from art, is gardening. Not so much the weeding, pruning, mowing and whatnot but the plants themselves. They can be things of extraordinary beauty and complexity. I’ve created a small zen garden to escape into. I need to get out there and do some pruning before spring.

  ‘I was attempting to cut back a rather large Buddleia today which nearly had my eye out,’ he said, pointing to a livid scratch near his eye.

  ‘Ouch,’ she laughed. ‘How did you get started as an art critic? Were you ever an artist yourself?’

  ‘I dabbled a little when I was younger, like a lot of young men. I graduated art school but soon realized that I wasn’t suited to life as a penniless artist. I then did a Masters and slowly carved out a reputation as a serious reviewer, culminating in columns in the broadsheets and publication of a number of books on aspects of the art world.’

  ‘Do you still paint?’

  ‘When the mood takes me. What I do is not for public consumption, however.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame, I would love to see some of your work,’ she said then felt her skin flush under her make-up. What is wrong with you, Kate? she berated herself in the awkward silence that followed. Asking to look at his etchings?

  Lionel gave her a charming smile.

  ‘Believe me when I tell you, you wouldn’t thank me for it, my dear.’

  ‘I used to paint watercolours. These days, it’s hard to find the time.’

  ‘Or the weather,’ he said. ‘You can’t beat having the scene you are painting right in front of you.’

  ‘You must make a lot of enemies in your line of work?’

  ‘Goes with the territory. Nobody wants bland reviews. Not even the artist. Artists thrive on controversy. They want a strong visceral reaction to their work. It garners them more exposure.’

  ‘I’m guessing not all of them take it well?’

  ‘You could say that …’

  ‘Nothing recent, I hope?’

  He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Simply someone venting. I’d rather not …’

  ‘Tell me,’ she demanded, slipping back into professional mode.

  ‘I thought this was a dinner date, not an interrogation,’ he snapped.

  She’d come on too strong. A man like him wasn’t used to feeling like a victim. Deliberately softening her voice and body language, she tried once more.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ she began, but he immediately reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, forgive me. It has been rather weighing on me.’

  ‘When did it start?’

  ‘Not long after I moved down here, so about four years ago.’

  ‘What form do the threats take? Letters? Phone calls?’

  ‘At first it was letters, quite laughable really. The old cliché of words cut out of a newspaper. Appears to be a reader of The Times newspaper, quite clearly aggrieved by a review I had written.’

  ‘Have you kept them?’

  ‘Well, no. I simply scrunched them up and threw them away. Didn’t really give it much thought. They were abusive rather than threatening. Along the lines of “Who do you think you are?” That kind of thing.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The phone calls started. Not that often, perhaps once a month.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Impossible to tell. The voice was muffled, as though speaking through some sort of filter. The tone switched to downright threatening. “You’re going to be sorry you started this” … “I’ll be behind you when you least expect it.” “Better get your affairs in order.”’

  ‘Are you sure the letters were sent by the person who made the calls?’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing. How many enemies can one man have living in a backwater like this? That said, it’s unlikely to be someone down in this neck of the woods. Anyone could find my details on LinkedIn or any one of a variety of platforms.’

  ‘Do you have a list of all the reviews you have done?’

  ‘I could probably compile one from old diaries, but I think you’ve got quite enough on your plate without worrying about me. I don’t want to add to your burden.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘It would set my mind at rest. I would be particularly interested in reviews that are unflattering to the artist and also linked to this area.’

  He held his hands up in mock surrender.

  ‘Very well, DI Moore, I’ll do as you ask. Now do you think we might talk of something a little more pleasant before I lose my appetite altogether?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And do please call me Kate. As you so rightly pointed out, I’m not on duty.’

  They busied themselves with ordering the meal and then sat back and regarded each other. Kate felt herself starting to relax as the red wine warmed her. He really was a very attractive man, she thought. Sh
e had always been drawn to cultured men. The only other person she had been this attracted to in recent years was Frank Farrell, but she had no intention of acting on it.

  Her beef stroganoff was cooked to perfection. Half way through, Lionel ordered another bottle of wine. She was starting to feel a little light-headed by now and filled up her water glass. At this rate she was going to have a rare hangover in the morning. Then, without warning, the question she always dreaded.

  ‘Do you have any children?’

  She could feel the heat flood her face and paused a fraction of a second too long before replying.

  ‘No, do you?’

  His warm brown eyes crinkled in concern and again he reached across and laid his hand on hers, giving it a light squeeze, before removing it.

  ‘Two, a boy and a girl, both in their twenties. They went to live in France with their mother after we divorced some years ago.’

  ‘That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘No. So, Kate, what else do you enjoy doing when you’re not working?’

  She was grateful for the swift change of subject.

  ‘I love to travel,’ she said. ‘I’ve been known to go to Venice for the day, when I’m feeling particularly hemmed in by the confines of the job.’

  ‘For the day?’ he laughed. ‘My, that’s keen. Do you speak Italian?’

  ‘Enough to get by,’ she smiled. ‘That day, I came back with a beautiful painting I found in a tiny gallery there.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ he smiled.

  ‘Want to know the best bit?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was Valentine’s Day. There I was on a day trip to Venice, as the only singleton on the plane, beside all these loved-up couples.’

  He laughed out loud, causing the glances of others to briefly flick their way.

  ‘I do admire a woman possessed of an independent spirit.’

  He lowered his voice and topped up her glass.

  ‘Talking of art, how’s your investigation going?’

  ‘I can’t really talk about it but, suffice to say, I think we’re on the verge of a major breakthrough.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news, Kate. Be a real feather in your cap if you break this case.’

  ‘I often wonder whether forgers are real artists or simply technicians, incapable of original thought,’ she mused.

  ‘It takes incredible skill to replicate the brush strokes of an artist, not to mention replicating the materials used,’ he said. ‘It’d also require a complete mastery of the medium through years of study. Only the most accomplished artist could have any hope of producing anything but the most pedestrian facsimile.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that, but a forger might not have the imagination and feeling to become successful in his own right. In such cases aren’t they just an opportunistic parasite feasting on the flesh of the artist’s work?’

  He looked momentarily taken aback by her vehemence.

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ he smiled. ‘But, you’re right of course. The mechanical art of copying the work of another bears no merit compared to the spark of original creation.’

  They were the only diners left in the restaurant by this time. After insisting on settling the bill, he helped her into her coat. She felt a shiver of desire as his bare fingers touched her neck and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  As she turned to face him she felt almost mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze.

  ‘Would you care to join me for a nightcap back at my hotel?’ he asked.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  DS Stirling trudged about the rundown farmhouse with a glum expression. Dressed in his gardening clothes, so as to look the part, he winced as he thought back to the tongue-lashing his wife had given him before he left on this assignment. Vera had been less than impressed that he was effectively going undercover at this late stage in his career, leaving her to cope alone with his elderly mother, who had recently moved in with them and wasn’t renowned for her sunny disposition. He shivered as he stuck the kettle on. There was no heating in the damn place. If the forgery gang didn’t get him, the cold probably would.

  ‘Dave,’ he yelled out the back door, ‘fancy a cuppa?’

  DC Thomson appeared from round the side of the tractor he had been tinkering with, looking alarmed.

  ‘Sir, er, shouldn’t we use our undercover names all the time, just in case?’ he whispered.

  Stirling rolled his eyes but had to admit the younger officer was right.

  ‘Yes, lad, I suppose you’re right. The last thing we want is for you to fail to answer to your name.’

  ‘Mine’s milk and two sugars then, Gordon,’ said DC Thomson, with a grin.

  Stirling resisted the urge to box his ears and poured the tea into two chipped mugs. They sat down at the pockmarked wooden table. Thomson put his new phone between them, and they both stared at it, willing it to ring. They had been at this malarkey for about a week now, and despite sending a text to Shaun’s former contact in the gang, no message had been received. The real Shaun was stashed away in a safe house for the duration, with his family having been told he was off partying in Ibiza with some girl he had met online. ‘If only …’ had been his glum response.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Thomson. ‘Why haven’t they called?’

  ‘Could be a number of reasons,’ said Stirling, still struggling to wrap his tongue round the name Shaun. ‘They might not have another painting ready yet, for one. There’s been plenty of heat surrounding the finding of Ailish Kerrigan and the murder of Monro Stevenson. If they’ve got wind that Poppy Black has been found then that might unsettle them too.’

  ‘Even if they do know Poppy Black’s body has been discovered, as far as they’re aware we’ve bought the accidental death, so they won’t realize we’re on to them.’

  ‘It would have been a different story if the young lass had had any family,’ said Stirling. ‘It would seem there’s no one to miss her.’

  ‘At her age, I would’ve been in the same boat,’ said Thomson.

  ‘Aye, well there’s plenty that would miss you now, lad. That Mhairi McLeod would be weeping and wailing like a banshee, so she would.’

  Thomson laughed.

  ‘I reckon you’re right. Proper bosses me about, so she does.’

  ‘I bet they’re hanging fire until the initial fuss has died down. Then they’ll be in touch. They might even have eyes and ears on us here, watching and waiting for us to slip up.’

  ‘I can’t believe the owner let us move in here,’ said Thomson.

  ‘Aye, well it wasn’t entirely out the goodness of his heart. He’s getting paid rent for as long as we need it. This place had been on the market for months, with not a nibble from a buyer.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the old boy that used to live here,’ said Thomson. ‘All that thankless toil, eking out a living, then his son sticks him in a home and tries to sell the farm from under him.’

  ‘How’s that tractor coming along?’

  ‘All oiled and ready to go. I run the engine for a few minutes every day, just in case. Don’t want it seizing up at a critical time.’

  ‘I’m seeing a whole new side of you, Davie boy,’ said Stirling, grinning. ‘Never had you pegged as knowing your way round a bloody tractor. With you being sent away to school, I reckoned your hands would be soft as a lassie’s.’

  ‘I grew up on a massive farm not far from here. My dad was a widower, worked his way up to farm manager.’

  ‘So, how come you never went to the local school then?’ asked Stirling.

  ‘My dad was killed when I was eight. Got on the wrong side of a combine harvester.’

  ‘Hell’s bells,’ said Stirling. ‘I’d no idea.’

  ‘The farmer felt responsible for me, I suppose. Sent me away to school in Edinburgh. In the holidays, I worked on the farm.’

  ‘Like leading a double life,’ said Stirling, topping up their tea from the teapot on the table.

>   ‘Exactly like that,’ said Thomson. ‘Turned me into a bit of a chameleon, I suppose.’

  Aye and a mite too easy to please, thought Stirling. No bloody wonder.

  ‘Are you sure there’s no one round here liable to recognize you?’

  ‘Positive. Like I say I didn’t mix with the local kids because I was away at school. Then, in the holidays, I was always working. Anyhow, with the new hairdo, I doubt anyone would recognize me. Have to see if blondes really do have more fun?’ he said, lightening the mood.

  ‘Aye, that Shaun is a fan of the bleach, for sure,’ said Stirling with a matching grin. ‘You wouldn’t look out of place in Ibiza Uncovered with a hairdo like that.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll keep it,’ said Thomson. ‘Imagine the Super’s face!’

  The smiles slipped off their faces when the phone on the table vibrated. Thomson snatched it up and read the text out loud.

  ‘“Collect item from usual location tomorrow. Take tractor to graveyard Dundrennan Abbey. Place that package and previous package in flower trough Alan Blake. Payment on completion”.’

  ‘We’re on,’ said Stirling, reaching for his mobile and hitting the speed dial.

  After he had imparted the necessary information to DI Moore, they sat back to await her instructions, no longer in the mood for conversation.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  As she arrived at Loreburn Street early in the morning, Mhairi scowled to see Sophie Richardson and her crew outside the station again. As if that wasn’t bad enough she saw a different media truck glide into the car park opposite. Ailish’s murder had all the right ingredients for a media feeding frenzy. Fortunately they hadn’t yet got wind that Poppy Black had been murdered as well. The post-mortem had confirmed their theory. Bartle-White had stated that the blow to the head had been with a blunt object and couldn’t have been caused by simply falling against the table. The blood must have been smeared on the table afterwards. The pressure was on. Marching into reception, she faltered on catching sight of the hooked nose and hooded lids of the woman sitting there. Moira Sharkey, tabloid journalist and muckraker extraordinaire. The cold predatory eyes raked over her, but she knew there was only one person she was here to see and that was Frank Farrell.