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

The sound of muffled voices heralded the arrival of the mortuary van. It was followed by a car that discharged a young officer who looked unfamiliar to Farrell. As he’d been down in the Dumfries area less than a year, there were still plenty of officers sprinkled around the smaller towns and villages he hadn’t happened across yet.

‘Hey, Paul,’ Mhairi, greeted him. ‘You here to accompany the body?’

‘Drew the short straw for the last waltz,’ he said flippantly, before catching sight of Farrell.

Not for the first time, Farrell envied Mhairi her natural ease around people. He nodded awkwardly at the younger man, silenced now by his presence.

Sombrely, the three of them watched together as the corpse was zipped efficiently into a black body bag and loaded into the van. The young officer climbed in as well and the van departed, bumping back down the track bearing the ruined remains of a life.

‘And that was …?’

‘PC Paul Rossi, sir.’

‘We’d better go and interview the cleaner who found the body while it’s all still fresh in her mind.’

After a last look round, they locked the door and left.

As they reached the car, Farrell noticed a small cottage on the same side as the one they had just left, about one hundred metres away. It looked fairly rundown, but he could see the flicker of a TV screen through the front window.

‘Has anyone interviewed the occupant of that cottage?’ he asked PC McGhie.

‘No, sir, I didn’t even notice it when I arrived because it was still fairly dark then.’

‘Right, Mhairi and I will pop by now, just in case the occupant saw or heard anything suspicious.’

‘You’d think they’d have heard the gun go off at the very least,’ said Mhairi. ‘Yet, nobody called it in.’

They walked along the icy lane to the cottage, the frost biting into their extremities. On the way up the path to the front door, Mhairi’s legs shot out from under her and she’d have fallen if Farrell hadn’t grabbed her.

He rang the doorbell. An old man opened it and peered out at them from beneath several layers of clothing. He was small and wizened with sharp eyes.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod. I’m afraid we have some disturbing news.’

‘Sandy Millar. I figured as much. You’d best come into the warm,’ he said, motioning them through with arthritic fingers to a small lounge where a coal fire was putting up a valiant battle against the frost clinging to the inside of the windows.

DI Farrell and DC McLeod perched on the edge of the hard, threadbare couch while the man settled himself into the chair opposite.

‘I’m afraid to tell you that your neighbour, Monro Stevenson, died last night,’ said Farrell. ‘Did you know him well?’

‘I didn’t even know his name,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Though, I’m sorry he’s dead. Kept himself to himself, he did. When the snow came last month, he didn’t even bother to clear my path or ask if I wanted a bit of shopping.’

‘Were you here last night from 5 p.m. onwards?’ asked Farrell.

‘I’m always here,’ he shrugged.

‘Did you hear or see anything unexpected?’ asked Mhairi.

‘I did, as it happens,’ he said. ‘A car came down the lane around 5 p.m. I looked out the window, as I thought it might be my daughter come to check on me. A big bugger it was. It went by, and I went to make my tea.

‘Later, when I was eating, it came back up the lane heading for the main road, but I never paid it no mind.’

‘Any chance you could hazard a guess at the make and model?’ asked Farrell.

‘It was dark, lad.’

‘Did you hear anything unexpected?’ asked Farrell.

‘Not a thing. I had the TV on, mind.’

‘Nothing that could have been a gunshot?’

‘The lad was shot?’

‘A shot may have been fired,’ said Farrell.

‘No, I definitely didn’t hear anything like that. You’d have thought I would have done. The telly wasn’t up that loud as I was waiting for my programme to come on.’

‘What programme would that be?’

‘The six o’clock news.’

‘Thank you,’ said Farrell, rising to go.

‘You’ve been really helpful,’ said Mhairi. ‘If anything else comes to you, please contact myself or DI Farrell,’ she said, passing him her card.

‘Will do, lass,’ he said, hobbling to the door to show them out.

‘Probably someone got lost and came down here by mistake,’ said Mhairi, as they got back in the car. ‘Once in the lane they’d have to keep going. The only place wide enough to turn is right at the end.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Farrell.

The address Farrell had been given for Fiona Murray was a one-bedroom flat in the centre of Kirkcudbright. The block looked rundown and as if it needed a coat of paint.

Farrell rang the bell and a portly middle-aged woman opened the door. She was as white as a sheet.

‘Fiona Murray?’

She nodded. Her eyes were hooded and expressionless.

Still in shock, thought Farrell.

‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod. We decided to pop round and save you the bother of coming in to the station,’ said Farrell.

‘Thank you. That’s most considerate. Please, come in.’

She swung the door back and motioned them inside.

The interior of the flat was spotless but spartan in the extreme. There were no personal photos or ornaments, except for a wooden, framed picture of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece. Probably the last thing she felt like was dusting round knick-knacks in her line of work, thought Farrell. He sat beside McLeod on the hard sofa, and Fiona Murray dropped straight onto an upright chair facing them.

‘It must have been very distressing coming upon a scene like that this morning,’ said Farrell. ‘Can you confirm what time you found the body?’

‘I go in every Monday morning at 9 a.m., set him straight for the week. As soon as I opened the door I could tell something was badly wrong. I found the body and called you lot right away.’

‘Was the door locked?’ he asked.

‘No, it wasn’t, now you mention it. Even when he was in he usually had the door locked but not today.’

‘Were the lights on when you went in?’ asked Farrell.

She stopped to think.

‘No, they weren’t. I put them on myself when I went in but turned them off when I left. It didn’t seem right to light up … well, you know.’

‘Were the curtains in the room that you found the body open or shut?’ Farrell asked.

‘Shut. And I left them that way. I didn’t want anyone looking in and seeing him like that.’

‘How close did you get to the body?’

‘I went right up to him but I could see there was no hope … that he was gone,’ she said, her voice flat.

Farrell changed tack, bringing up a photo on his phone of the crystal glass from the table.

‘Do you recognize this glass?’

‘It looks like one of Monro’s. He didn’t use them often.’

‘How many did he have of this type?’

‘Only a couple.’

‘Are they both still intact as far as you know?’

‘Well I haven’t broken one. If he did, I wasn’t aware of it.’

‘How long have you been working for Monro Stevenson?’

‘Just under two years. I answered an ad in the local paper.’

‘How well did you know him?’ asked Mhairi.

‘Well enough. I was his cleaner, not his friend. I’m not the chatty type. I think he liked that. I didn’t disturb his concentration when he was working. He kept out from under my feet, paid me on time. It was a suitable arrangement.’

‘Were you aware that he owned a handgun?’ asked Farrell.

‘No, I certainly was not. I never set eyes on such a thing.’