Perfect Dead: A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked

‘Actually, I bumped into Laura on Saturday night in Spoons.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Farrell. ‘There with Lind, was she?’

‘No, she was out with some woman. A right party animal. Do her good to get out and let her hair down, what with all she’s been through after losing the baby and the stuff with the twins. I took it as a good sign,’ said Mhairi.

Farrell wasn’t so sure.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_456ecf2c-a598-5b59-b597-e6bd148c37a2)

Once back at the station, he logged in the extra evidence bags and headed down to the MCA room to prepare for the last briefing of the day. The small investigative team had started to filter through.

He’d put DS Stirling in charge of HOLMES in the MCA room, as much to keep him out of harm’s way as anything else. He was just months off retirement and so risk averse he was useless in the field, as Farrell had discovered last year. His experience would be useful in here.

A few minutes before 6 p.m., Mhairi slipped in, causing Farrell to do a double take. She must really like this bloke. She was wearing a red jersey dress that fell to her knees, with navy heels, and a dark wool coat over one arm. He wasn’t the only one to look twice. Mhairi was known for vamping it up when she went out. This signalled a change of gear.

‘You must be Mhairi’s classier sister,’ said DS Byers, attracting glares from everyone. It was no secret that he had the hots for Mhairi, and her continued rejection made him spiteful.

Mhairi ignored him and lifted her chin.

‘Right then,’ said Farrell. ‘Let’s get started.’ He nodded a greeting as DI Moore slipped in at the back.

‘Stirling, can you find out what details you can about a group of artists going by the name of The Collective, in Kirkcudbright. The deceased was involved with them a few years ago. Ascertain where they were based? If they’re still in existence?’

‘Sir,’ Stirling replied.

‘PC Green, can you arrange for the girlfriend, Nancy Quinn, to come in and be interviewed? Apart from the picture of them both on a skiing holiday, there was no sign of her presence in the cottage. Seems a little odd in this day and age,’ said Farrell.

‘DS Byers, have you managed to obtain a list of the shortlisted candidates, and is the prize worth killing over?’

‘Fifty grand, but the prestige attached to this competition is immeasurable. It’s launched the careers of quite a few well-known names into the stratosphere. Turns out another two of the six shortlisted authors live in Kirkcudbright, Hugo Mortimer and Paul Moretti. I’ve got addresses for them both from the organizers.’

‘Good work. McLeod and I will track them down tomorrow. Stirling, any joy with the medical records?’

‘Dr Allison wasn’t in the surgery. The practice manager was a bit reluctant, at first, but I banged on about the public interest, and then the deceased’s mother got on the phone. I have them here.’

‘Anything relevant?’

‘Well, no terminal illness or the like. He did suffer from a major bout of depression about three years ago. There was a fairly half-hearted suicide attempt with some pills, but he appeared to recover well and was on no current medication.’

‘OK then,’ said Farrell. ‘Good work, we’ll wrap it up there for tonight.’

He paused as DI Moore raised her hand and walked forward.

‘If I could say a few words, Frank?’

‘Be my guest,’ he said, standing aside.

‘As some of you will be aware, I’ve been involved in an investigation into a forging racket being run out of this area. We suspect that the forger may be hiding in Kirkcudbright, camouflaged within the many artists there. I know that it will involve an increased workload, but I’d like a couple of volunteers to straddle both investigations in case there is any overlap.’

Both Mhairi and DC Thomson stuck their hands up.

‘Excellent, can you spare a few minutes after the briefing to get you started?’

Mhairi looked tense and glanced at her watch.

‘Actually, on second thoughts, let’s make it my office at eight, tomorrow,’ said DI Moore.

It had been a long day. Farrell felt weariness settle in his bones like sediment as he headed back home to Kelton. The full moon illuminated the frost in the fields and hedges giving the countryside an ethereal air. Despite the cold, he opened the window to clear his head.

As he pulled in to the space in front of his cottage, he nodded and smiled at a small group of neighbours, bundled up against the cold, standing chatting a few doors down. He knew he should approach them, but had never found it easy to insert himself into conversation with others.

As soon as he opened the door, Henry was there to greet him, doing his best imitation of a fat, hairy anaconda as he wrapped his plump black-and-white body around Farrell’s legs and squeezed, purring loudly.

‘Is it you or your tummy that’s pleased to see me?’ asked Farrell, bending down to pick him up. Henry had been one of Mhairi’s more hare-brained schemes to help him recover from the traumatic events last year, but they had settled into a comfortable routine now. He was undemanding company.

Last year he had fallen heavily for Clare Yates, a forensic psychiatrist consulting on the case, but it had not ended well. Since then, he had been retreating deeper and deeper into himself, feeling the tug back to a more ascetic life.

After he fed and made a fuss of Henry, he shed his suit and pulled on his winter running gear. The cold air hit him like a slap as he ran up the lane, turning right along the road towards Glencaple. His stride lengthened as his long limbs uncoiled from hours of desk work and the adrenalin fired up his muscles for a last explosive burst of energy. He pushed away the images of the lifeless face that kept appearing in his head like some macabre pop-up advert. He couldn’t believe that Monro Stevenson had taken his own life. It didn’t make any kind of sense. He’d been murdered. He was sure of it.

Back at the cottage, he had a steaming hot shower to soothe his aching muscles then pulled on faded jeans and a sweatshirt and padded through to the sitting room. Upstairs he had stunning views over the estuary. Tonight, he shut the darkness of the night out by drawing the curtains and lit the log fire to take the chill off the air. Pouring a small whisky and putting on some Gregorian chants, he stretched out on the sofa. Henry promptly joined him, purring contentedly. He stroked him absentmindedly.

Another murder investigation then. There was none of the thrill of the chase he used to feel while working in Edinburgh. Had the events of last year burnt him out completely? His mind shifted to Lind, married to Laura, the girl he had reluctantly left behind when he set off for the seminary. She had recently lost her baby and was taking time to come to terms with it. Lind was worried about something and hiding it. He should offer to babysit, enable them to get out more. That might help. They had been so happy together when he first arrived back in town. He fervently hoped that his return had not acted as some kind of catalyst for the problems they were experiencing in their marriage.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_ba637c39-5ce8-50c8-8dda-e398b2ab54e8)

Mhairi walked from Loreburn Street to The Caven’s Arms, where she was due to meet Ian. As she entered the pub, the warmth hit her after the cold outside. Ian waved from a table at the back, and she made her way over to him. He greeted her with a kiss, as she shrugged off her coat. There was a glass of white wine already waiting for her. She picked it up and took a large swallow.

‘God, I needed that,’ she said.

‘Bad day?’ he asked, eyes crinkling in concern. ‘I caught Border News. Kind of weird to turn on the telly and see your girlfriend looking all kickass,’ he grinned.

‘That Sophie Richardson is a monster,’ Mhairi said. ‘Underneath that baby pink exterior beats the heart of a pirate.’

Ian laughed.

‘I mean it!’ she said.

‘I know. That’s what’s so funny.’

‘I hate bloody journalists.’

Ian looked taken aback by her vehemence.

‘What have they ever done to you?’

‘Shortly before you moved down here, I was involved in a couple of high-profile cases. Despite us all busting our chops to catch those responsible, the press turned public opinion against us and made our job ten times harder.’

‘That must have been tough,’ he said.