he pulled in to the space in front of his cottage, he nodded and smiled at a small group of neighbours, bundled up against the cold, standing chatting a few doors down. He knew he should approach them, but had never found it easy to insert himself into conversation with others.
As soon as he opened the door, Henry was there to greet him, doing his best imitation of a fat, hairy anaconda as he wrapped his plump black-and-white body around Farrell’s legs and squeezed, purring loudly.
‘Is it you or your tummy that’s pleased to see me?’ asked Farrell, bending down to pick him up. Henry had been one of Mhairi’s more hare-brained schemes to help him recover from the traumatic events last year, but they had settled into a comfortable routine now. He was undemanding company.
Last year he had fallen heavily for Clare Yates, a forensic psychiatrist consulting on the case, but it had not ended well. Since then, he had been retreating deeper and deeper into himself, feeling the tug back to a more ascetic life.
After he fed and made a fuss of Henry, he shed his suit and pulled on his winter running gear. The cold air hit him like a slap as he ran up the lane, turning right along the road towards Glencaple. His stride lengthened as his long limbs uncoiled from hours of desk work and the adrenalin fired up his muscles for a last explosive burst of energy. He pushed away the images of the lifeless face that kept appearing in his head like some macabre pop-up advert. He couldn’t believe that Monro Stevenson had taken his own life. It didn’t make any kind of sense. He’d been murdered. He was sure of it.
Back at the cottage, he had a steaming hot shower to soothe his aching muscles then pulled on faded jeans and a sweatshirt and padded through to the sitting room. Upstairs he had stunning views over the estuary. Tonight, he shut the darkness of the night out by drawing the curtains and lit the log fire to take the chill off the air. Pouring a small whisky and putting on some Gregorian chants, he stretched out on the sofa. Henry promptly joined him, purring contentedly. He stroked him absentmindedly.
Another murder investigation then. There was none of the thrill of the chase he used to feel while working in Edinburgh. Had the events of last year burnt him out completely? His mind shifted to Lind, married to Laura, the girl he had reluctantly left behind when he set off for the seminary. She had recently lost her baby and was taking time to come to terms with it. Lind was worried about something and hiding it. He should offer to babysit, enable them to get out more. That might help. They had been so happy together when he first arrived back in town. He fervently hoped that his return had not acted as some kind of catalyst for the problems they were experiencing in their marriage.
Mhairi walked from Loreburn Street to The Caven’s Arms, where she was due to meet Ian. As she entered the pub, the warmth hit her after the cold outside. Ian waved from a table at the back, and she made her way over to him. He greeted her with a kiss, as she shrugged off her coat. There was a glass of white wine already waiting for her. She picked it up and took a large swallow.
‘God, I needed that,’ she said.
‘Bad day?’ he asked, eyes crinkling in concern. ‘I caught Border News. Kind of weird to turn on the telly and see your girlfriend looking all kickass,’ he grinned.
‘That Sophie Richardson is a monster,’ Mhairi said. ‘Underneath that baby pink exterior beats the heart of a pirate.’
Ian laughed.
‘I mean it!’ she said.
‘I know. That’s what’s so funny.’
‘I hate bloody journalists.’
Ian looked taken aback by her vehemence.
‘What have they ever done to you?’
‘Shortly before you moved down here, I was involved in a couple of high-profile cases. Despite us all busting our chops to catch those responsible, the press turned public opinion against us and made our job ten times harder.’
‘That must have been tough,’ he said.
‘So tough, my boss nearly had a nervous breakdown.’
‘Frank Farrell?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said, glaring at him. ‘Anyway, when I saw Sophie Richardson today, it brought it all back to me.’
Ian squeezed her hand.
‘It must have been tough seeing that poor bloke this morning.’
‘It goes with the job. I reckon traffic has it worse than we do. The things they have to deal with …’
‘I can’t imagine ever being in such a bad place that I’d consider killing myself,’ said Ian.
‘If he did,’ muttered Mhairi.
‘But, I thought …?’
‘Leave it, Ian. I don’t want to talk about work.’
‘Then let’s not. Hurry up and decide what you’re having. I’m starving!’
He was entertaining company, with a wicked sense of humour, and the rest of the evening flew by. A few short months ago, she would have felt the need to get steaming on a date. With Ian, she could simply relax and be herself.
You’re getting in too deep, a little voice whispered in her ear. He’ll let you get close and then abandon you. Everyone does.
Mhairi almost skipped along the corridor to her meeting with DI Moore the next morning. Ian was such a gentleman. He had insisted on paying for dinner but, unlike a lot of lowlifes out there, he hadn’t thought he was paying for something else as well. A goodnight kiss that made her go weak at the knees had rounded off the evening nicely. In fact, Mhairi had had to exercise supreme willpower not to drag him into her flat and rip his clothes off. Even Farrell would approve of Ian, she thought.
DI Moore was sitting behind her desk. She took in Mhairi’s fresh eyes and appearance and welcomed her with a wide smile. Dave Thomson was on the edge of his seat, notepad and pen at the ready.
‘Thank you for volunteering, both of you,’ she said, handing each of them a folder with summaries of the case to date.
‘This art forgery investigation began in Glasgow but has effectively ended up on our patch. Not much is known other than the fact that there appears to be an incredibly talented forger hiding out in Kirkcudbright. Up until a couple of days ago we had no idea of how the paintings were being moved around, though it would seem that they make their way to Ireland and from there are transported all over the world. When the operation started they probably simply smuggled them on the ferry in cars, but since the Port Authority has been taking an active interest, it’s likely that they are employing other methods.’
‘Bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, ma’am,’ commented Mhairi. ‘There’s about a gazillion miles of uninhabited coastline they could launch from. Not to mention all the sailing
