Farrell and McLeod pulled up outside the address given for Poppy Black in Kirkcudbright. It was a very rundown block of four flats and the communal entrance smelled of urine and stale tobacco.
‘Poor girl,’ said Mhairi. ‘Imagine having to come home to this hole at the end of a day working at Kincaid House.’
‘No wonder she was vulnerable to a bribe,’ said Farrell.
He knocked on the door to her flat. There was no reply and only silence when he put his ear to the letterbox.
‘I don’t want to bust the door down, in case she’s perfectly fine,’ said Farrell. ‘I don’t suppose you have a hairpin in that nest of hair by any chance?’
‘Frank Farrell, you say the nicest things. I do, as it happens.’ She fidgeted about inside her complicated updo and produced a long pin.
Farrell straightened it out and jiggled it inside the lock for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly, they heard a click.
‘Teach you that in the seminary, did they,’ said Mhairi.
Farrell threw her a look. The door swung open. Immediately they became aware of an unpleasant smell and an angry buzzing sound that could only mean one thing. Farrell closed the door behind them and pulled on a pair of latex gloves and plastic overshoes. Mhairi did likewise. Slowly they advanced into the flat. The door to the living room opened off the hall. They paused at the doorway. Poppy Black was lying awkwardly on the floor beside a heavy wooden coffee table. There was congealed blood on the side of her head and also some blood on the side of the coffee table. A stepladder had been knocked over, which presumably had been positioned under the central light. A smashed bulb lay near the deceased.
‘You buying this, sir? Seems a bit too convenient.’
‘Not for a single minute,’ replied Farrell. ‘Come on, we’d best scarper until SOCO and the police surgeon arrive. Can’t risk contaminating the scene.’
As they shut the door behind them, there was an elderly woman with a pinched, grey complexion standing at the open door of the neighbouring flat.
‘What’s happened to Poppy?’ she asked, with a quaver in her voice. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’
Farrell glanced at Mhairi, and they walked over.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mhairi. ‘May we come in?’
The old woman sagged against the door, and they helped her into the flat and sat her down on a threadbare sofa. Mhairi sat beside her, and Farrell filled the kettle and made her a cup of strong tea. The flat was cold, bare and none too clean.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Poppy is dead,’ said Mhairi, enfolding a gnarled arthritic hand in her own.
‘How can she be? I don’t understand.’
‘She appears to have fallen off a stepladder and banged her head,’ said Mhairi, choosing her words carefully.
The old lady’s rheumy eyes spilled tears as she gulped at her tea.
‘Did you know her well?’ she asked.
‘She would come in and sit with me sometimes. Said I reminded her of her gran. I haven’t been able to get to the shops for a while and she’d pick me up a few bits and pieces whenever I asked. Under all that bluster she was a good lass.’
‘Did she have a boyfriend? Anyone call on her recently?’
The old woman pursed her lips.
‘There was a boyfriend a while back. Lennie, I think she called him. He barged past me on the stairwell once, knocked me clean off my feet. Just carried on up like nothing happened. She sent him packing a couple of weeks ago. I’ve not seen anybody since.’
They took their leave of the neighbour and went round the other two flats, but no one was in. They then climbed back into Farrell’s car after making enquiries of the remaining two neighbours. No one had seen or heard a thing.
‘We’ve got to catch this bastard,’ snapped Mhairi.
‘He’ll slip up sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time.’
***
They sat in bleak silence until they saw the SOCO van pull in to the kerb. The mortuary van wouldn’t be far behind.
The police surgeon arrived right on cue. It was Dr Allison. There were only two police surgeons on call locally. They got out of the car and walked over to meet him.
‘One of your patients again, Doctor?’ asked Mhairi.
‘No, not this time.’
They led the doctor up to the flat. As he saw the flies swarming over the slightly bloated corpse, he flinched but walked over to her, feeling for a pulse.
A few minutes later, he rose to his feet and formally pronounced life extinct.
‘I’m afraid that I can’t give you any worthwhile estimate as to time of death on this one,’ he said. ‘The pathologist will have a better idea.’
SOCO moved past, setting their equipment up in the hall.
‘I reckon this has been staged to look like an accidental death,’ said Farrell, joining them inside.
‘If that’s the case then they’ve done a bloody good job,’ said Janet. ‘You’re sure?’
‘As sure as I can be,’ replied Farrell.
They got to work processing the scene. After a while, Janet motioned to Farrell to come over. She pointed at the floor behind the coffee table.
‘It’s been moved,’ she said.
The track marks on the carpet told their own story. The coffee table had been moved at least 12 inches to fit the scenario.
Phil was gathering up the remnants of the electric bulb. He scrutinized them carefully.
‘It’s not a match for the light above,’ he said. ‘The right size and shape but the wrong clip.’
‘The killer must have brought it with him,’ said Farrell. He looked in the kitchen drawers but found no other bulbs. There were no empty packets in the bin either.
Eventually, the body was loaded into the van, to be accompanied by PC McGhie, who had been summoned from the local station.
Farrell and Mhairi looked around the gloomy flat in silence. Poppy’s bedroom was surprisingly childlike with stuffed toys on the bed and Disney pyjamas. There was a nightlight plugged into the wall. She had nothing of value. A life lived on the margins of society, snuffed out before it had even really begun.
‘Whoever did this is one cold bastard,’ said Farrell. ‘He’s willing to kill anyone who gets in his way.’