Читать книгу Perfect Dead: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked - Jackie Baldwin - Страница 11

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.’