sir, I like DI Moore. But, she’s always so perfect and unruffled. Shows the rest of us up.’
Farrell suspected that DI Moore’s apparent serenity, rather like his own, had been hard won; although he didn’t share that thought with Mhairi.
‘When’s the post-mortem, sir?’
‘Tomorrow at nine. You volunteering?’
‘No, sir!’ she looked horrified.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then. Seriously, Mhairi, you have to get used to them. Once you’re made up to sergeant, you’ll be expected to attend.’
‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll come.’
‘I reckon we should nip back out to Kirkcudbright for a look around the scene again. It’ll be easier to be objective now that the body’s been removed.’
Less than an hour later they were driving back down the country lane to the cottage. The pale watery sun had done nothing to melt the icy ground. Farrell groaned as he rounded a bend and saw a media truck blocking the way. Sophie Richardson from Border News was trying to sweet talk her way past a bewildered Sandy Millar. A young man was holding a fuzzy microphone aloft while another was laying down cables. Trying to keep the lid on his temper, Farrell slid to a halt and sprang out the car.
‘Ms Richardson, your truck is blocking the way to and from a crime scene. I need you to move it. Right now, please.’ He stood and glared at her with folded arms.
‘Mr Millar, I suggest you get back inside out of the cold.’
The old man scurried indoors looking relieved.
The reporter scowled then reassembled her features into a winning smile.
‘Here we go. Full charm offensive,’ muttered Farrell out of the side of his mouth to Mhairi who had joined him.
As she walked towards them, he felt an answering smile appear on his face. But only because he was amused to see that beneath her designer baby pink suit there was a pair of matching pink designer wellies.
‘DI Farrell, how lovely to meet you again, but in such sad circumstances. A tragic loss of a young life. I believe he shot himself?’
Farrell noticed the man with the fuzzy microphone again, this time it was hovering overhead.
‘As I’m sure that you’re aware, all I am at liberty to say is that we are treating the matter as a suspicious death and our enquiries are ongoing. Now, unless you and your team wish to be on the news for obstructing police officers in the execution of their duty, I suggest you leave the vicinity at once. You have ten minutes to go down to the turning area and get away from this lane.’
They jumped into the Citroen and followed the news truck as it attempted to navigate the potholes.
‘That woman is such a pain,’ said Mhairi.
‘Once Border News have run with it, the nationals will be circling like vultures,’ said Farrell, with a sigh, pulling up in front of Monro’s cottage.
He fancied the garden had wilted a little since their last visit.
Mhairi shivered beside him.
‘It always gives me the creeps going back into where someone has died violently. I get the feeling that part of them is still hovering, watching us.’
Farrell turned the heavy key in the lock, and the door swung open. They entered. He looked behind the door, frowning.
‘Don’t you think that’s a ridiculous amount of security for a country cottage in the middle of nowhere?’
Mhairi glanced at the series of locks and raised her eyebrows.
‘Definitely overkill. I’ll ask PC McGhie to get on to the landlord and see if he put the locks there or if it was the deceased.’
The miasma of death still hung in the air. Farrell tried to ignore it as he slowly walked around, looking for anything that might have been missed. There was no sign of the second crystal glass. It was always the small things he found so poignant. A half-finished packet of biscuits, the milk in the fridge, a library book waiting to be returned. A life with its forward motion cut short.
Mhairi shouted to him from the bedroom.
‘Sir, come and have a look at this.’
She was rifling through a notepad.
‘He had started working on an acceptance speech. According to his diary, the awards dinner for the shortlisted candidates was due to take place on the first of March.’
‘Doesn’t exactly square with him killing himself,’ said Farrell. ‘Most people in his position would want to stick around and see what happened. If he’d shot himself afterwards, in a fit of artistic pique, that would be more understandable. Bag up that notepad as evidence. We can compare the handwriting with the suicide note to check that it’s genuine.’
Mhairi turned to the antique chest at the foot of the bed and opened it. She pulled out a framed photo of a young woman with long dark hair and an engaging smile. It had clearly been taken in summer. She was wearing shorts and a halter-neck top. Wrapped in an oilskin cloth was a canvas containing a nude portrait of the same woman, executed with considerable skill. It was unsigned.
‘I wonder who this is?’
‘Well it looks nothing like the girl he was seeing recently,’ said Farrell. ‘She was blonde, if she’s the one in the skiing photo. Possibly a previous girlfriend? I’m guessing she ended it rather than him, or he might not have hung on to these mementoes.’
Their final stop was in the spare room, which was flooded with light reflecting off whitewashed walls. Several canvasses were mounted on the walls and there were many works in progress stacked around the room. They both stared at the riot of colour.
‘He was good, wasn’t he?’ said Mhairi. ‘Even though I know nothing at all about art, they kind of take your breath away. What will happen about the competition now, sir?’
‘I don’t know, depends on the rules. You might want to ask DS Byers to check that out. If his entry is null and void then it could provide a motive.’
Sombrely they locked up and returned to the car.
***
‘How’s the studying going, Mhairi?’ asked Farrell.
She groaned and shook her head.
‘Don’t ask. As if I wasn’t depressed enough.’
‘It’s not that bad, surely?’ asked Farrell looking worried, as they got in his dumpy Citroen. He turned the ignition, it spluttered into life, and he coaxed it back down the icy track to the main road.
He
