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

‘I met her a few times; she came in with Monro.’

‘Were they ever an item, as far as you know?’ asked Mhairi.

‘They were just friends, I think. He was obviously keen on her, but she was involved with Patrick Rafferty up at Ivy House.’

‘Is she still there?’ asked Farrell.

‘No, she disappeared into thin air. Ran off one morning three years ago and no one has seen or heard anything from her since. Her folks reckoned something bad happened to her. The sister came over, put up posters; the family even offered a reward for information, but nothing came of it.’

‘I see it has a “Sold” sticker,’ said Farrell, pointing to the red dot.

‘Yes, it sold a few months after she went missing. The owner requested that it should remain on show here in the gallery in exchange for a modest annual sum.’

‘Who is the owner?’ asked Farrell.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you. It was all arranged through an Edinburgh solicitor.’

‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Janet smiled. ‘Can’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth though.’

‘The main reason we came here was to speak to Paul Moretti, and this was the address given for his studio?’ said Farrell.

‘He used to rent the studio flat from me, at the back of the gallery, but he left over three years ago.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘Not at all, really. Our paths rarely crossed. He’s allergic to sunlight, poor chap. Breaks out in burns and blisters if he goes out during the day. He had his own key.’

‘Did you know he’s been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize too?’ Mhairi asked.

‘My, he’s a dark horse,’ she said, clearly surprised.

‘Is any of his work hung in here?’ asked Farrell.

She grimaced a little.

‘No, it’s not really my cup of tea. To be honest, I find it distasteful. I believe he sells a fair bit to foreign collectors. Certainly, he always paid his rent bang on the nail, so he must do all right out of it.’

‘Distasteful, how?’

‘He likes to paint dead things, animals, birds, that sort of thing. He showed me one once, wanted me to sell some in the gallery. It was all I could do not to shudder in front of him. There’s a big market for it abroad, he said. I gave the studio a wide berth when he was in it. Worried about what I might find in there. He did leave it spotless when he left though, so I can’t complain.’

‘Do you have his home address?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Yes, he lives at Lavender Cottage. Head back out of town then take the third turning on the right into Silvercraigs Road. The cottage is at the top of the hill on the left.’

Farrell handed her his card.

‘If anything else occurs to you in relation to Monro Stevenson then please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

‘Mike Halliday, the man who lives in the studio now, is an artist too. He might be able to help you. I think he was quite friendly with Monro.’

‘Thank you, we’ll swing by on the way out.’

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_ead966ac-eebb-5b7a-bf00-cdd21e1e4626)

They walked around the side of the building and found the studio entrance. A tall, muscular, clean-shaven man in his early thirties was sitting on a rustic bench against the wall, in a small garden that was overflowing with snowdrops and crocuses. A small blue and white fishing boat sat on a trailer, adding to the charm. He drained the dregs of his cup and stood up as they approached. He smiled at Mhairi, and she smiled back.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ Farrell said, leaning over to shake his hand.

‘Mike Halliday, pleased to meet you,’ he said. His expression became grave.

‘Are you here about Monro?’

‘Yes,’ said Farrell. ‘Did you know the deceased well?’

‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘I would never have had him pegged to do something like that in a million years, though.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Mhairi.

‘He was really sound. Cheery enough whenever I came across him. Mind you, I hadn’t seen him for a while. I used to meet him in the pub for a beer now and then, but he’d been off the grid for the last three or four months I reckon.’

‘Were you aware he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I’d heard that. Funny time to check out.’

‘Did you enter as well?’

‘Me? Heck, no. I’m just a jobbing artist painting pretty pictures for the tourists,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to terms with my place in the pecking order.’

Something about the way his mouth twisted made Farrell suspect he hadn’t come to terms with it at all.

‘I understand he used to be part of a group of artists known as The Collective?’

A flicker of anger flitted across Halliday’s face, so quickly Farrell couldn’t be sure it had ever been there.

‘Aye, well, nobody’s perfect,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Hugo Mortimer was shortlisted as well. Are you familiar with his work?’ asked Farrell.

‘He made quite a name for himself a while back. Even the critics loved him. But, as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t exhibited for years. I was completely gobsmacked when I heard he’d made the cut. I would’ve thought his brain would be completely fried by now.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Well, he’s into all that hallucinogenic crap, isn’t he? Fancies himself a modern-day Byron. Be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic.’

‘So you’re not a fan, then,’ said Mhairi.