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

Halliday laughed.

‘Sorry for sounding all bitter and twisted. I’m not the only jobbing artist around here who’s had to put up with that lot lording it over us. They act as though they’re at the forefront of the renaissance instead of some sad middle-aged swingers.’

‘If they’re not commercially successful then what do they live on?’ asked Farrell.

‘Rumour has it that Penelope Spence keeps them all afloat with a family inheritance. I’ve certainly never heard of any of them doing a day’s honest graft for a living.’

Halliday glanced at his watch then got to his feet.

‘If there’s nothing else?’

‘Just one thing,’ said Farrell, ‘I don’t suppose you know the remaining local artist shortlisted? Paul Moretti?’

‘Can’t help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen any of his work, but I believe he’s a committed artist, all right. He’d have to be, to be holed up in that cottage day in day out, painting in the dark. Enough to drive you quietly insane, I should think.’

‘Known associates?’ asked Farrell.

‘None, that I’m aware of.’

‘Does he show his work locally?’

‘No, I’d have heard. I don’t even know what kind of stuff he’s into.’

‘The gallery owner, Janet, said he painted dead stuff, animals and birds?’ said Farrell.

‘Did she now?’ he said, his expression unreadable. ‘I would take that with a pinch of salt. He probably just didn’t want Janet poking her nose in.’

‘Thank you,’ said Farrell. ‘Appreciate you helping us out.’

‘Any time,’ he replied with a warm smile, disappearing off back into his studio.

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_520a05a0-d7d4-51d7-984e-de1e6143d94a)

Ten minutes later they were picking their way up an uneven garden path to the front door of a dark cottage, overshadowed by the looming granite cliff behind. Closed shutters stared sightlessly into the distance, paint peeling like some scabrous disease.

Farrell hammered on the door. The blinds were down but given what they had been told, Moretti could still be in. They were on the verge of giving up when the door opened a crack.

‘Give me a couple of minutes to get away from the light then come in closing the door behind you,’ said a disembodied voice.

OK, this is creepy, thought Mhairi as she followed Farrell in to the dim interior. The house smelled cold and damp.

‘Turn right,’ called the voice.

They felt along the wall to the doorway.

‘Please, come in and take a seat,’ said the voice.

Gingerly, they felt their way to two wingback chairs and sat down. Across from them, the owner of the voice was a darker blot in the gloom.

‘I apologize for the lack of light but, as I’m sure has been explained to you, I cannot tolerate it. How may I help you?’

‘Could you confirm your name and date of birth?’ asked Farrell, hoping he was writing on the correct page in his notebook.

‘Paul Moretti, 2nd August 1973.’

His voice was hoarse, and he was muffled up in many layers to withstand the freezing temperature inside. He wore a hat with flaps over the ears and dark sunglasses.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod from Dumfries,’ said Farrell. ‘We’re investigating the death of Monro Stevenson.’

‘Yes, I heard. A shocking business.’

‘Did you know the deceased?’ asked Mhairi.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Moretti. ‘The art community in Kirkcudbright is very incestuous.’

‘When did you first meet him?’

The figure in the gloom changed position. There was a pause. ‘I didn’t say that I had met him. We’ve never been introduced. However, I knew who he was.’

‘Congratulations on being shortlisted for the Lomax Prize, by the way,’ said Mhairi.

‘Thank you.’

He didn’t sound that happy about it, she thought.

‘Did you know that Monro and another local artist were shortlisted as well?’ asked Farrell.

‘Yes.’

‘When was the last time you saw Monro Stevenson?’ asked Farrell.

‘I don’t see much of anybody. However, I do remember seeing him one night about two weeks ago.’

‘You can’t be more precise?’ asked Farrell.

‘It was the first half of the week, not long after the weekend. So, a Monday or a Tuesday.’

‘What time of day?’

‘It was late, around 10 p.m. I had been out for my nightly walk.’

‘What was he doing when you saw him?’

‘He was having an argument with someone at the top of a close on the High Street.’

‘Who was he arguing with?’ asked Farrell.

‘I couldn’t say. I was some distance away.’