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

‘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.

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.

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.’

‘Could you describe the man?’

‘He was tall, powerfully built.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He was smoking a cigar. I could see the tip glowing; that’s all I can tell you.’

‘How can you be sure it was Monro Stevenson?’

Again, Moretti paused and shifted in his seat.

‘I’d seen his photo on leaflets in the area and also the local paper.’

Mhairi exchanged a glance with Farrell. She could see Moretti more clearly now that her eyes were adjusting. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room where the darkness seemed even more impenetrable. However, she could tell that he had long legs, suggestive of height, and despite, all the layers, she could see that he was quite slight, possibly even emaciated.

‘Have you always had to live in the dark like this, sir?’ she asked.

‘No. It’s been seven years since my condition first manifested.’

‘May I ask what your condition is?’ asked Farrell.

‘Polymorphic Light Eruption. Basically, an allergy to sunlight.’

‘Did you live in Kirkcudbright, before you developed the allergy?’

‘No.’

It was like pulling teeth, thought Mhairi.