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

‘So tough, my boss nearly had a nervous breakdown.’

‘Frank Farrell?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Anyway, when I saw Sophie Richardson today, it brought it all back to me.’

Ian squeezed her hand.

‘It must have been tough seeing that poor bloke this morning.’

‘It goes with the job. I reckon traffic has it worse than we do. The things they have to deal with …’

‘I can’t imagine ever being in such a bad place that I’d consider killing myself,’ said Ian.

‘If he did,’ muttered Mhairi.

‘But, I thought …?’

‘Leave it, Ian. I don’t want to talk about work.’

‘Then let’s not. Hurry up and decide what you’re having. I’m starving!’

He was entertaining company, with a wicked sense of humour, and the rest of the evening flew by. A few short months ago, she would have felt the need to get steaming on a date. With Ian, she could simply relax and be herself.

You’re getting in too deep, a little voice whispered in her ear. He’ll let you get close and then abandon you. Everyone does.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_32bf5018-07bd-5e0c-94fa-1eff88428309)

Mhairi almost skipped along the corridor to her meeting with DI Moore the next morning. Ian was such a gentleman. He had insisted on paying for dinner but, unlike a lot of lowlifes out there, he hadn’t thought he was paying for something else as well. A goodnight kiss that made her go weak at the knees had rounded off the evening nicely. In fact, Mhairi had had to exercise supreme willpower not to drag him into her flat and rip his clothes off. Even Farrell would approve of Ian, she thought.

DI Moore was sitting behind her desk. She took in Mhairi’s fresh eyes and appearance and welcomed her with a wide smile. Dave Thomson was on the edge of his seat, notepad and pen at the ready.

‘Thank you for volunteering, both of you,’ she said, handing each of them a folder with summaries of the case to date.

‘This art forgery investigation began in Glasgow but has effectively ended up on our patch. Not much is known other than the fact that there appears to be an incredibly talented forger hiding out in Kirkcudbright. Up until a couple of days ago we had no idea of how the paintings were being moved around, though it would seem that they make their way to Ireland and from there are transported all over the world. When the operation started they probably simply smuggled them on the ferry in cars, but since the Port Authority has been taking an active interest, it’s likely that they are employing other methods.’

‘Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, ma’am,’ commented Mhairi. ‘There’s about a gazillion miles of uninhabited coastline they could launch from. Not to mention all the sailing clubs in the area.’

‘You said that a forged Hornel was recovered, ma’am?’ said DC Thomson.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, isn’t it likely the forger took the opportunity to visit Broughton House on several occasions to study his work?’

‘Possibly,’ said DI Moore.

‘I know there’s not much CCTV coverage in Kirkcudbright, but what about at the museum itself? There could be innocent reasons why someone might visit multiple times, but it could point us in the right direction,’ said DC Thomson.

‘Perhaps you could contact the museum and ask? It’s owned by the National Trust, I believe.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, scribbling once more.

God, was I ever that keen? Mhairi smiled to herself.

A thought occurred to her.

‘How do we know that the Hornel recovered is a forgery and not the real deal?’

‘Because luckily the National Trust had a restoration team working at the museum and they confirmed that the original was still there and undisturbed. They did comment on examining ours that it was a very skilful copy and that only an expert would be any the wiser.’

‘If the forgery ring is operating out of Kirkcudbright, is there anyone who can give us the low-down on any potential suspects?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I was coming on to that. Fortunately, we have Lionel Forbes, art historian and critic, in the locality,’ DI Moore murmured, going a little pink. ‘He’s extremely knowledgeable regarding the local art scene, and the Super has authorized his use as a consultant as and when necessary. However, he’s also indicated that we’re not to reveal operational details to Mr Forbes for the time being, given that he lives within the community that we are investigating.’

‘Could I have his contact details in case we need to ask him anything in relation to the Monro Stevenson case?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Certainly,’ replied Moore, rattling them off without consulting her notes. ‘He’s very generous with his time. A real asset to the investigation.’

Is he now? thought Mhairi her antennae twitching.

After the meeting was over, her next stop was Farrell’s office. Through the open door she could see him writing furiously, lost in what he was doing. She waited a few seconds until he sensed her presence and looked up with a start.

‘Mhairi McLeod, are you trying to give me a heart attack? If you’re not bowling along corridors like a wrecking ball, you’re materializing out of thin air like a ghost.’

She glared at him. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people and there was her trying to be considerate. She felt her rosy glow start to dissipate.

‘Hadn’t we better get off to the post-mortem, sir? Bartle-White said he was planning to start at nine sharp.’

Farrell glanced at his watch and sprang up out of his seat as though electrified.

‘I hadn’t realized the time! After the PM, I think we should head straight to Kirkcudbright and take a look at the other two local shortlisted artists.’

‘You really think someone would kill to get closer to winning that prize?’

‘People have killed for a lot less, Mhairi.’

‘While we’re there, sir, it might be worth speaking to Lionel Forbes, art historian. According to DI Moore, he’s a big cheese in the art world. He might be familiar with the artists on the list.’

‘Good idea. Maybe you can phone ahead and arrange for us to look in on him?’

‘Will do.’

Farrell stood up and put his jacket on.

‘Nice meal, last night?’ he asked.

Mhairi knew that wasn’t what he was really asking. She knew he worried about her. In fact he had made her worry about herself.

‘Excellent, went to The Caven’s Arms. Have you been?’