Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  Mhairi nodded and they quietly made their way upstairs. She slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. Patrick thumped on Hugo’s door.

  ‘Hey, man, I need your help. There’s a wee dram in it for you.’

  She heard Hugo’s door open.

  ‘Good God, Patrick. Do you really have to make such a din? Some of us are trying to work you know.’

  ‘I need a quick favour. The bracket on my bookcase has come away from the wall and the whole thing’s about to collapse. Won’t take long, I promise.’

  ‘It had better not. I’m at a critical stage in my latest work,’ Mortimer said but she heard them both moving down the hallway.

  Feeling sick with nerves she slipped from her hiding place and into Hugo’s studio. Glancing around, she snapped the works in progress that she could see, but nothing leapt out as a potential forgery. She also photographed all the paints and materials around. Still no sign of him returning. She slipped into the bedroom next, her heart thumping unpleasantly. Quickly, she scanned the room, but couldn’t see anything of interest. Time was passing. She fought the urge to rush and focused, looking more slowly. Still nothing. She was about to let herself out of the bedroom when suddenly she froze. Footsteps. Hurriedly, she squeezed under the bed, praying she wouldn’t have to remain there indefinitely. There was a large black portfolio bag beside her. Fortunately, Hugo went back into his studio. She slid out the case and photographed the contents. This would do nicely. She slid it back under the bed, quietly slipped out of the room, and ran lightly down the stairs.

  Patrick was waiting for her in the shadows under the stairs, with her bag and coat. She gave him a quick hug as he opened the front door for her.

  ‘I always found Nancy Drew sexy,’ he muttered in her ear, causing her to blush. ‘One of these days I’m going to immortalize you on canvas.’

  Like you did with Ailish? The words popped unbidden into her mind, causing her heart to miss a beat. She swiftly made her way down the drive.

  No doubt, Farrell was lurking somewhere in the trees across the road, but she simply walked on down the hill. He would soon catch her up if he was there. Glancing back at the house, she saw a figure silhouetted against the light from an upstairs window. Who it was, she was unable to say, but it made her feel uneasy. She could feel their eyes boring into her back as she continued on her way.

  Chapter Sixty

  Farrell caught up with Mhairi as she reached the car, breathing heavily. He hadn’t left his hiding place, until the person watching Mhairi had drawn the curtains.

  ‘Steady on, sir, you’ll have a heart attack,’ she scolded.

  ‘Wait until you hear what I’ve got to tell you,’ he puffed, opening the car door. Mhairi got in and they pulled out of the car park heading back to Dumfries.

  ‘In your own time,’ she grinned.

  ‘Penelope Spence and Paul Moretti are one and the same.’

  Mhairi’s shock mirrored his own.

  ‘What? You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Oh, but I am. I saw her walking up the hill to Ivy House. She’d a hat on with a scarf wrapped round her face and it was dark, but then at the gate, she pulled it off and I got a clear view. Think about it, the painting of Hugo, the women’s underwear in the cottage, her slight build and height?’

  ‘All this time, she’s been running around right under our noses,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘We’ve been chasing a ghost all along.’

  ‘But why on earth has she created this other identity? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I think it makes perfect sense,’ said Farrell. ‘Remember those canvasses signed by Aaron Sewell? I’ve always wondered how that lot up at Ivy House manage to live the way they do. She muttered something about an inheritance, but I reckon if we scratch the surface that’ll turn out to be another whopper. Basically, she supports them by getting her hands dirty and being a grubby commercial artist,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Hell, if I could paint like that I’d be shouting it from the rooftops, not trying to hide it,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘There’s a lot of snobbery within the art world. She’d be despised by her peers for selling out and painting for the masses. Ridiculous really, but there you have it. Hugo would have a complete fit and no mistake,’ said Farrell.

  ‘And being a forger is somehow better?’

  ‘Perhaps in his mind it is. I think it panders to his ego, as well as boosts the coffers. How did you fare this evening?’

  ‘Patrick helped me get inside Hugo’s studio and bedroom. I got everything I could, but it was a close shave at the end.’

  ‘Patrick helped you? You told him?’

  ‘I did what I had to do to get the job done,’ she said, looking her boss square in the eye. ‘My instinct tells me he’s not involved with any of it.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure …?’

  ‘Completely. I took digital images of all the canvasses and work I could see in Hugo’s studio. I haven’t a clue what images I’ve got there, as I was working so fast I didn’t have time to process what I was seeing. I found his sketches of the missing Turner painting in a folder under the bed. I didn’t see anything sadistic though, nothing similar to the foal pictures. That would have jumped out at me.’

  ‘I don’t like Hugo Mortimer for the murder of Ailish,’ said Farrell. ‘I could see him being implicated in Monro Stevenson’s death, if he was threatening to blow the whistle on the whole forging operation or trying to disengage from it. But the murder of Ailish and those paintings of that animal are a whole other layer of evil.’

  ‘You’d think you would instinctively sense that you were in the presence of a psychopath, wouldn’t you?’ said Mhairi. ‘Like the primitive part of your brain should recognize evil and warn you somehow?’

  ‘Would that it were that easy? Real evil often hides behind the most affable of facades. Psychopaths can learn to mimic social norms.’

  ‘As if I wasn’t creeped out enough already,’ said Mhairi.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. Mhairi kept going over Patrick’s parting words to her about immortalizing her on canvas. He had been involved with Ailish right up until she disappeared. Could he have followed her after she stormed out and killed her in a fit of rage? If so, then maybe that tipped him over the edge and he tried to make sense of it all by turning her into a work of art? A way to render Ailish immortal in his eyes? She’d been so sure that he was innocent. Was she still?

  ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’ asked Mhairi as they turned into Primrose Street.

  ‘Just a quick one, then,’ said Farrell. It was going to be a long day tomorrow, so he didn’t want to be home late.

  Once in her flat, he had to wait while Oscar was placated. Farrell wandered into the tiny but cosy kitchen and stuck the kettle on.

  Mhairi arrived to take over a couple of minutes later.

  Sitting on the couch, he took a sip of her offering and pulled a face.

  ‘What on earth is this?’

  ‘Camomile tea,’ she said with a smirk. ‘I reckoned if we both had coffee, we’d be pinging off the walls all night.’

  She uploaded the images from her phone on to her work laptop and sat beside Farrell on the couch, so they could go through them. As she had previously indicated, there were no grisly ones whatsoever, which tended to back up their theory that Hugo wasn’t involved in Ailish’s murder.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Farrell. ‘Let’s see that ink drawing again. Does it remind you of anyone?’

  Mhairi studied it closely. It was a tasteful nude of a young woman. Her expression was inscrutable. She started to shake her head, but paused.

  ‘She does look familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘You have,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s Nancy Quinn, Monro Stevenson’s girlfriend.’

  ‘But that makes no sense,’ said Mhairi. ‘They hadn’t been going out long. She completely denied knowing anyone from Ivy House,
past or present, when she was interviewed.’

  ‘There’s more. Find that image of Hugo Mortimer that Paul Moretti, sorry, Penelope Spence, painted.’

  ‘Do I have to? It’s totally gross. He’s not exactly Daniel Craig.’

  She pulled up the image.

  ‘Now look at it side by side with the ink drawing of Nancy Quinn. Concentrate on their faces,’ said Farrell.

  ‘Like I’d want to concentrate on anything else,’ muttered Mhairi. ‘Oh wait a minute …’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘She has his nose and eyes. Is it possible they could be related? God, my head is spinning at the implications. I mean, would you paint your daughter naked? Euch, don’t even answer that!’

  ‘It’s possible (a) they might not in fact be related (b) he might not know they are related (c) she might not know they are related or (d) neither might know they are related,’ said Farrell, ticking the options off on his fingers one by one.

  ‘I don’t buy “d” for an instant,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Me neither. My money is on her having tracked him down. There’s no way to guess at her motives.’

  ‘This is going to send Penelope Spence into a meltdown if she ever finds out,’ said Mhairi.

  ‘Agreed. First thing in the morning can you write up a full report on your work tonight? DS Byers can action what information in it he can, while the rest of us head out to Kirkcudbright to support DC Thomson and try and crack open at least one of these damn cases.’

  ‘What should we do about Nancy Quinn?’ asked Mhairi.

  ‘Ask Byers to arrange to keep tabs on her informally. I don’t want her brought in until tomorrow’s op is safely concluded, in case she’s in cahoots with them.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Farrell, shifting in his seat.

  ‘Sophie Richardson was sniffing around The Smuggler’s. She appears to have become privy to some information about Poppy Black’s murder.’

  ‘How? The official line is that we’re treating it as an accidental death.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mhairi. I’m afraid that you’re the source of the leak.’

  Stung, she jumped to her feet.

  ‘How can you say that? I would never …’

  ‘Ian is a journalist,’ said Farrell. ‘It’s true that he’s on a sabbatical to write a novel, but Moira Sharkey said that he’s been feeding Sophie Richardson information for a price. She, in turn, has a source in Sophie Richardson’s camp, which is how she found out.’

  Mhairi sat down heavily.

  ‘I didn’t say a thing to him about work. I wouldn’t. I do remember one night I fell asleep in bed reading the preliminary post-mortem report on Poppy Black. He could have read it when he came through. How could he? I trusted him!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mhairi. Her source did say that he’d followed you to Kirkcudbright one night and saw you with another man.’

  ‘Patrick Rafferty,’ she sighed.

  ‘Maybe that’s what made him decide to do this.’

  ‘I don’t care what his reasons were,’ she snapped. ‘I never want to see him again. I’m so sorry, Frank. I’ll talk to the Super in the morning.’

  ‘No one else needs to know,’ he said. ‘If I were you, I’d simply chalk it up to experience.’

  She let him out, then slumped on the couch, still reeling. Picking up her phone she sent Ian a final text. Then deleted his number and blocked him. It was done. She’d been wrong about Ian. Could she have been wrong about Patrick too?

  Chapter Sixty-One

  DI Moore knew she shouldn’t have accepted Lionel’s invitation to come round for a late supper, but she was so out of her mind with worry about tomorrow she had seized upon the distraction. He’d looked at her quizzically, when she’d asked if she could stay the night. But when she said she had some routine business in the area tomorrow morning he’d happily acquiesced. She wasn’t sure if her colleagues, particularly Frank and Mhairi, would approve of her mixing business and pleasure in this way, but she was surely entitled to some kind of a life outside work. It had been a long time since she had met such an interesting and, let’s admit it, attractive man as Lionel Forbes.

  Usually reserved and reticent, he had a way of enlivening her and drawing her out of her shell that she found most liberating. It was time that she allowed herself to live and love again after her husband’s devastating betrayal twelve years ago. Shot when she was attempting to arrest an armed robber, she had been robbed of the chance to have children. Even now, all those years later it still caused a catch in her throat, when she thought about how ruthlessly he had excised her from his life, like so much dead wood. At least he had moved out of the area finally, so she didn’t have to see him with the new younger improved version and their adorable children. Children that by rights should have been hers. She didn’t know how, as she never talked about it, but somehow Lionel had managed to draw all this poison out of her tonight, aided and abetted by copious amounts of red wine. She was both scared and exhilarated by her own daring. What was happening to her?

  The bathroom door opened and Lionel came and joined her in the bed. He smiled at her and took her in his arms. As their lips met, she felt her body and finally her mind forget itself in the moment.

  ***

  She awoke with a start just after three. Her head was thumping, and her mouth was dry. Good Heavens, she was turning into Mhairi McLeod. They’d be swapping hangover tips at this rate. This would never do. She was far too old to have her head turned by a man in this way. She glanced over at Lionel. He was lying on his back, snoring gently. That’s what must have woken her up. She slipped out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown off the hook. It was too late to go home. She would just have to quietly prowl about, until she could reasonably come back in to grab a shower without looking like a mad woman.

  Padding around in her bare feet, she set about exploring. She was curious about Lionel. He had a way of deflecting her questions in relation to his background in a way that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, but at three in the morning, could feel like he was trying to hide things from her. Now that she was more emotionally invested in him, she had to tread cautiously. She didn’t want the rug pulled out from under her again.

  She started in the living room, putting on a table lamp and enjoying the freedom of checking out his photos and knick-knacks unescorted. There was a picture of an elderly couple who must be his parents. They looked quite bohemian, she was amused to see, and much less formal and serious than Lionel. Moving along the mantelpiece, she saw a family grouping. An unsmiling Lionel, aged about ten, stood a little apart from a younger version of his parents. They had their arms looped around a smiling golden-haired child, who looked to be about eight years old. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Funny, Lionel had never mentioned he had a younger brother. Maybe something had happened to him? He’d already told her that both his parents were dead. Killed in a car accident abroad some years ago. Probably too painful to talk about. Feeling guilty, but unable to stop herself, she drifted like a wraith into his study.

  Aside from a fine collection of books, many of them on art, there were numerous carefully chosen pieces placed around the room, the majority of which she too would have been pleased to choose. Walking past the back of his desk to examine one of these in closer detail, she noticed a piece of thick cream paper poking out of a closed desk drawer. With shaking hands she slowly slid it open. What she saw there made her heart almost stop. How could she have got it so wrong? She hurriedly closed the drawer leaving it the way she had found it. Where was her phone? Thankfully, she’d left her handbag in the lounge. Moving through there, she bit her lip as she slowly extracted it from her bag, every rustle deafening to her heightened senses. She slipped back into the study and gently pulled out the drawer once more to photograph the contents. Quickly she sent the images to her work email account and quietly closed the drawer, leaving it exactly as she found it. On her way back through the kitc
hen she pulled out a glass from a cupboard and left it on a work surface. Heart hammering, she crept back to bed, sliding her phone under her pillow. There, she lay, on her side, trying not to shake with fear at the implications of what she had just seen. When he woke up in the morning she was going to have to pull off the acting job of her life so that he didn’t suspect she was on to him.

  ***

  She awoke as Lionel placed a steaming mug of coffee and some toast on her bedside table. She must have fallen asleep. Forcing herself to smile at him, she gave a lazy stretch.

  ‘Breakfast in bed, you’re spoiling me,’ she said.

  ‘What were you up to last night?’ he asked, watching her with a guarded expression.

  ‘Oh, sorry, did I disturb you? I woke up with a thumping headache. Too much red wine. I should be old enough to know better,’ she laughed. ‘I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water and managed to track down some paracetamol in the bathroom.’

  She had left the glass on the surface in the kitchen, hoping he would notice it. His expression relaxed. He was fully dressed already, and it was only gone seven.

  ‘I hate to rush you, but I’ve got to head up the road to Glasgow soon. I’ve a meeting with an editor about another art column.’

  ‘I’ve got an early start myself,’ she said, sipping the coffee and trying to force the toast down her closed throat.

  ‘Oh, anything interesting?’

  ‘I wish. Staff appraisals at the local nick. This job comes with so much red tape I feel strangled by it some days.’

  ‘Really? I would’ve thought your time would be too valuable to spare you with everything that’s been going on.’

  Oh yes, and you’d know all about that, she thought.

  ‘It won’t take long. Sadly, all our investigations seem to have hit a wall. Hopefully, we’ll catch a break soon. I’d really pinned my hopes on you having come across the artist who painted the foal,’ she said, watching him closely.

  ‘I’d love to know their identity too. An incredible talent.’