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

Chapter Seventy-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventy-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jackie Baldwin (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#u350febc5-ac4c-5ca2-b3e1-7e331bb5286d)

June 2009

Ailish opened her eyes then closed them again as her head started to throb. She stumbled to her feet, fighting the urge to throw up. Unwelcome flashbacks of the night before painted her face in disgust. Looking at her slight form in the mirror with yesterday’s make-up blurring the lines of her face, she felt older than her nineteen years. She glanced at her phone and tears prickled. It was her mother’s birthday. She could picture her sister and father laughing and chatting as she opened her presents in Ireland. It was as if she had ceased to exist, such was the disgrace she had rained down on them when she ran off with Patrick, three years ago. He had completely turned her head with all his big talk. She had fancied they would live in London, not the tiny harbour town of Kirkcudbright tucked away in a corner of south-west Scotland. Instead of the romantic existence she had pictured for them, they had wound up living in this glorified hippie commune or, ‘The Collective’, as they liked to be known. At first it had been fun, exciting even. A world away from the parochial narrow-minded community she had left behind. She had been proud to be Paddy’s muse and loved nothing more than to bask in the warmth of his regard as he painted her from various angles.

Lately, she had felt Patrick’s love receding like an outgoing tide. He was preoccupied and distant and hadn’t asked her to pose for him in ages. The atmosphere in the house was different as well. She had a feeling they were all keeping secrets from her and each other. They had always used drugs but lately the drugs had become harder and the parties more forced and a little weirder. There was a powerful undertow dragging them all down to God knows where.

Suddenly, as she looked out of the window, she knew with unusual clarity that she didn’t want to be part of this toxic environment anymore. She would lay it on the line with Patrick and ask him to leave with her. He had been holed up in his studio for days now. She’d been warned off disturbing him as he was working on something new. Well, tough! This couldn’t wait. He would see sense. He had to.

After a quick shower she threw on her favourite dress and swept up her long curly hair, just as he liked it. A slick of lipstick and a touch of mascara and she was ready to do battle.

She flung open the door to the studio and stood, open mouthed, tears spilling from her eyes as she took in the scene before her. A beautiful young girl stared back at her insolently, maintaining her pose. She was reclining naked on a velvet chaise longue, one arm positioned behind her head. Only the blush of colour staining her chest betrayed her.

Patrick turned round, and their eyes met. He dropped his gaze. There was nothing left to say. Wordlessly, Ailish spun on her heel and left the studio. She was done. It was time to go home and beg for forgiveness.

Standing at the bottom of the drive, her eyes misted with tears, she looked back up at the brooding Victorian house with no sign of the maggots crawling within. She texted her elder sister, Maureen.

‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m on my way home. Ailish. x’

Walking towards the bus stop, she heard her name being called. Surprised, she glanced behind her. When she saw who it was, she smiled and walked towards him. The bus wasn’t due for another hour. She had time.

Soon she was ensconced in a comfy armchair, knees drawn up under her, a warm mug of hot chocolate clasped in her hands. As she poured out her woes he leaned forward attentively. The drink was comforting, strong and sweet.

She paused. She didn’t feel so good. Her eyes couldn’t focus. She struggled to stand up, but her legs wouldn’t support her and she collapsed back onto the chair. Alarmed now, her heart flopped in an irregular rhythm as she tried to make sense of what was happening to her.

‘Help me,’ she whispered, looking up at him. This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t understand.

He remained where he was, a creeping malevolence revealing itself to her. She was on the verge of losing consciousness when he picked up her unresisting body and carried her into another room. He laid her on a thick plastic sheet.

A last tear tipped from her eyes.

She would never see her home again.

Chapter One (#u350febc5-ac4c-5ca2-b3e1-7e331bb5286d)

7th January 2013

DI Frank Farrell glanced across at Mhairi as the police car slid and bumped its way along an icy farm track towards a small stonewashed cottage. It was 10.10 a.m. and the sky was bright with a pale wintery sun. A young police officer who worked out of Kirkcudbright stood in front of the blue and white tape and walked towards them as they parked alongside the SOCO van.

Farrell exited the car with a feeling of dread in his stomach. In his time as a practising Catholic priest, suicides, in particular, always had a profound effect on him. The thought that someone might be driven to die at their own hand was unfathomable.

‘SOCO nearly done in there, PC McGhie?’

‘Yes, sir, they reckon it’s fairly cut and dried. The police surgeon is in there too. Didn’t exactly have to look for a pulse. Blood and brains everywhere.’

Farrell quelled him with a look.

‘Do we know the name of the deceased yet?’

‘Monro Stevenson, according to the opened mail, sir.’

Silently, Mhairi and Farrell suited up in their protective plastic coveralls and overshoes. Even if it was suicide, care had to be taken not to contaminate the scene, just in case.

‘Right, let’s get this over with,’ said Farrell.

He opened the door and entered with Mhairi.

A middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and cords was packing away his stethoscope in a brown leather satchel in the hall. He straightened up as they approached. Farrell noticed that he had an unhealthy greyish tinge to his face and that his hands were shaking.

‘Morning, Doctor. DI Farrell and DC McLeod.’

‘Dr Allison. Cause appears to be suicide. A terrible business,’ he said. ‘A patient of mine, as it turns out. He was only twenty-seven.’

‘It must be difficult when you know the deceased,’ said Mhairi.

‘Yes, if only he had come to me. I could have got him some help. Anything to avoid this,’ he said, gesturing towards the other room.

‘Any chance you can give us an indication of the time of death?’ asked Farrell.

‘Well, as you know, my role here is restricted to pronouncing life extinct. However, given that rigor is at its peak, I would hazard a guess, strictly off the record, that he died somewhere around fifteen hours ago. However, you’ll need to wait for the preliminary findings from the pathologist for any degree of certainty.’

‘Thanks, Doctor,’ said Farrell. ‘I appreciate the heads-up.’

The doctor turned to leave. Farrell approached the two experienced Scene of Crime officers, Janet White and Phil Tait, who were gathering their stuff together at the rear of the hall.

‘Janet, what have you got for us?’

‘It looks like a suicide,’ she said. ‘Gun placed in the mouth and trigger pulled. We lifted prints from the gun. Gunshot residue on the right hand of the deceased matches that scenario.’