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

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She knew her boss never went anywhere except round to DCI Lind’s for the odd meal. She suspected he was lonely.

‘No, I’ll have to check it out,’ he said.

‘Maybe DI Moore would like to check it out as well?’ she blurted out.

Farrell’s jaw tightened.

‘I’m sure DI Moore is more than capable of organizing her own social life,’ he snapped. ‘As am I.’

Ouch, message received loud and clear, thought Mhairi, subsiding into silence. He never used to be this grumpy.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_96bb151e-65d2-5b6c-a936-0eb8ff2db2ed)

Farrell and McLeod entered the mortuary via the back entrance to Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. They nodded at one of the local undertakers who was leaving as they arrived.

Once inside, they were shown into the well-equipped examination room where Bartle-White was already positioned beside the body. As always, he cut an imposing figure.

‘Excellent! I can’t abide tardiness,’ he said, glancing at the clock, which showed one minute to nine o’clock.

The room smelled of formaldehyde with unpleasant undertones of blood and other bodily fluids.

Bartle-White, a tall but stooped man with a taste for bow ties, wasted no time on small talk and got straight to work.

‘Gunshot wound to upper palate is clearly the cause of death. Far more effective than a shot fired into the temple, as it targets the cerebellum resulting in immediate death,’ he said. ‘I believe the gun recovered was a PPK 380 mm?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Farrell. ‘A single bullet was recovered at the scene.’

Bartle-White busied himself once more on Stevenson’s ruined head.

Farrell glanced at Mhairi and saw that she was pale but composed.

‘As I expected,’ muttered the pathologist.

Farrell bit his tongue. Bartle-White was old school and did not tolerate interruptions to his train of thought.

After a few more uncomfortable moments, he suddenly stood upright.

‘The exit wound is consistent with a single shot having been fired. I assume that will be the one recovered from the scene?’

‘The bullet and the gun are both with ballistics,’ confirmed Farrell.

The rest of the post-mortem revealed nothing untoward. As expected for a young man of his age, his organs were healthy and no other possible cause of death was found. His stomach contents were sent off for analysis along with all the other samples taken.

‘There was a near-empty bottle of whisky beside him,’ said Farrell. ‘I’d like to know if there’s any evidence that he consumed it? Also, if there’s any evidence of drugs in his system?’

‘I can’t help you there until we get the results back from toxicology. Currently, they’re taking around four weeks to process. However, judging by the healthy state of his liver, I would doubt very much that he was in the habit of drinking to excess. Are you saying he was a drug user? I saw no evidence of that.’

‘No, I was more wondering along the lines of whether his drink could have been spiked and then the suicide staged while he was unconscious or incapacitated.’

‘Good heavens, isn’t that a bit of a stretch?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Farrell. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘I’ll try and put a rush on the toxicology results, but I can’t promise anything.’

‘Appreciated.’

***

‘It seems pretty clear cut to me,’ said Mhairi, glancing at her boss as they got back in the car.

‘It seems that way,’ said Farrell. ‘There’s just a few things about it that feel wrong to me.’

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_e3719475-b214-5516-930f-668cd43b278c)

Less than two hours later, Farrell parked his car at the harbour in Kirkcudbright, opposite the Tourist Office. The tide was in and the fishing boats bobbed gently up and down with an attendant mob of hungry seagulls screeching overhead. There was a strong smell of fish mingled with the salty tang of the sea. Mhairi consulted the map on her phone and started walking.

‘I think it’s over here.’

They stopped in front of a whitewashed building with the words ‘Kirkcudbright Art Gallery’, painted in eggshell blue on a piece of driftwood. A bell tinkled as they entered. Inside, a middle-aged woman, her face wreathed in smiles, got off the stool, where she had been knitting, and came forward to greet them.

‘Janet Campbell, gallery owner, how can I help you?’

Farrell produced his warrant card, and the smile disappeared.

‘Is this about that poor boy, Monro?’

‘Did you know him?’ asked Farrell.

‘That I did. I have one of his paintings in the gallery.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Let me see, now. It would be a week past Monday. He popped in to let me know he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize. He was so excited. That’s why I can’t believe he would’ve wanted to kill himself. It makes no sense.’

‘Aside from last week, how was his demeanour generally?’ asked Farrell.

‘He seemed happy enough. Like most creative types, he would hit a slump from time to time but, in the main, he appeared to be fine.’

‘Could you show us his painting, please?’

She led them upstairs to a light-filled space and over to a corner. The canvas depicted the same dark-haired girl as the picture they had found wrapped in the deceased’s bedroom. This time, she was sitting in a field of poppies, oozing vitality, smiling into a hand-held mirror as she brushed her hair.

‘Look closer,’ said Janet.

Mhairi exhaled as they realized that the reflection in the mirror didn’t match. It showed the same girl but looking haunted, with bruised eyes and sunken cheeks.

‘Do you know anything about the model?’ asked Farrell.