‘Well, isn’t it likely the forger took the opportunity to visit Broughton House on several occasions to study his work?’
‘Possibly,’ said DI Moore.
‘I know there’s not much CCTV coverage in Kirkcudbright, but what about at the museum itself? There could be innocent reasons why someone might visit multiple times, but it could point us in the right direction,’ said DC Thomson.
‘Perhaps you could contact the museum and ask? It’s owned by the National Trust, I believe.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, scribbling once more.
God, was I ever that keen? Mhairi smiled to herself.
A thought occurred to her.
‘How do we know that the Hornel recovered is a forgery and not the real deal?’
‘Because luckily the National Trust had a restoration team working at the museum and they confirmed that the original was still there and undisturbed. They did comment on examining ours that it was a very skilful copy and that only an expert would be any the wiser.’
‘If the forgery ring is operating out of Kirkcudbright, is there anyone who can give us the low-down on any potential suspects?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I was coming on to that. Fortunately, we have Lionel Forbes, art historian and critic, in the locality,’ DI Moore murmured, going a little pink. ‘He’s extremely knowledgeable regarding the local art scene, and the Super has authorized his use as a consultant as and when necessary. However, he’s also indicated that we’re not to reveal operational details to Mr Forbes for the time being, given that he lives within the community that we are investigating.’
‘Could I have his contact details in case we need to ask him anything in relation to the Monro Stevenson case?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Certainly,’ replied Moore, rattling them off without consulting her notes. ‘He’s very generous with his time. A real asset to the investigation.’
Is he now? thought Mhairi her antennae twitching.
After the meeting was over, her next stop was Farrell’s office. Through the open door she could see him writing furiously, lost in what he was doing. She waited a few seconds until he sensed her presence and looked up with a start.
‘Mhairi McLeod, are you trying to give me a heart attack? If you’re not bowling along corridors like a wrecking ball, you’re materializing out of thin air like a ghost.’
She glared at him. Honestly, there was no pleasing some people and there was her trying to be considerate. She felt her rosy glow start to dissipate.
‘Hadn’t we better get off to the post-mortem, sir? Bartle-White said he was planning to start at nine sharp.’
Farrell glanced at his watch and sprang up out of his seat as though electrified.
‘I hadn’t realized the time! After the PM, I think we should head straight to Kirkcudbright and take a look at the other two local shortlisted artists.’
‘You really think someone would kill to get closer to winning that prize?’
‘People have killed for a lot less, Mhairi.’
‘While we’re there, sir, it might be worth speaking to Lionel Forbes, art historian. According to DI Moore, he’s a big cheese in the art world. He might be familiar with the artists on the list.’
‘Good idea. Maybe you can phone ahead and arrange for us to look in on him?’
‘Will do.’
Farrell stood up and put his jacket on.
‘Nice meal, last night?’ he asked.
Mhairi knew that wasn’t what he was really asking. She knew he worried about her. In fact he had made her worry about herself.
‘Excellent, went to The Caven’s Arms. Have you been?’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She knew her boss never went anywhere except round to DCI Lind’s for the odd meal. She suspected he was lonely.
‘No, I’ll have to check it out,’ he said.
‘Maybe DI Moore would like to check it out as well?’ she blurted out.
Farrell’s jaw tightened.
‘I’m sure DI Moore is more than capable of organizing her own social life,’ he snapped. ‘As am I.’
Ouch, message received loud and clear, thought Mhairi, subsiding into silence. He never used to be this grumpy.
Farrell and McLeod entered the mortuary via the back entrance to Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. They nodded at one of the local undertakers who was leaving as they arrived.
Once inside, they were shown into the well-equipped examination room where Bartle-White was already positioned beside the body. As always, he cut an imposing figure.
‘Excellent! I can’t abide tardiness,’ he said, glancing at the clock, which showed one minute to nine o’clock.
The room smelled of formaldehyde with unpleasant undertones of blood and other bodily fluids.
Bartle-White, a tall but stooped man with a taste for bow ties, wasted no time on small talk and got straight to work.
‘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
