Jackie Baldwin - Perfect Dead - A gripping crime thriller that will keep you hooked

‘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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.