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.’
‘Had you noticed any shift in Monro’s mood of late? Did he seem depressed or worried at all?’ asked Farrell.
‘Quite the contrary. He seemed in fine fettle. He was very excited about being in the running for that big art prize.’
‘What art prize?’
‘The Lomax Prize. He said it could launch his career if he won. It’s Edinburgh based, I think. A big deal, apparently.’
‘What about the girl in the photo on his desk? Was he in a relationship?’
The cleaner shrugged.
‘That, I couldn’t tell you. I certainly never met her.’
‘When you were cleaning, were there any signs that a girl had stayed over?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I was his cleaner, not a tabloid journalist,’ she shot back. ‘I wasn’t in the habit of snooping around.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that,’ said Mhairi. ‘Please can you answer the question.’
‘I never saw any evidence of someone sleeping over,’ she replied, her lips compressed as though to hold back the angry words threatening to spill out.
‘Did he have any visitors in the past few weeks?’
‘I have no idea. None that I was aware of.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Murray,’ said Farrell standing up. ‘I know this has been a difficult morning for you.’
‘It’s the parents I feel sorry for,’ she offered, as she was seeing them out. ‘The loss of a child is hard enough to bear without all these unanswered questions.’
Back in Dumfries, Farrell made his way to DCI Lind’s office on the first floor. He walked in with a cursory tap on the door and surprised his boss and old school friend in a look of misery. It melted into a smile so quickly that Farrell wondered if he had imagined it.
‘Frank, come away in. What’s the score with that body then? Terrible business by the sounds of things.’
‘Well, it looks like a classic suicide,’ Frank said, taking a seat opposite Lind’s desk. ‘He appears to have pulled the trigger all right. There was a note.’
‘But?’
‘Something about it seems off. By all accounts he had everything to live for.’
‘Maybe so, but that’s no defence against mental illness. He could have been depressed and nobody realized.’
‘Possibly. There was also a car passed down the lane a short while before the likely time of death. It stopped too long to have been turning. He may have had a visitor.’
‘Maybe they told him something that pushed him over the edge?’
‘Or maybe he was murdered and the whole thing was staged?’
‘The Super’s going to love that theory,’ said Lind with a grin.
‘He’ll go nuclear,’ said Farrell.
‘You got that right.’ DSup Walker wasn’t renowned for his calm temperament. ‘So, what does your gut tell you?’
‘I think we should consider it a suspicious death meantime.’
‘Agreed. Get the Major Crime Administration room
