As she arrived at Loreburn Street early in the morning, Mhairi scowled to see Sophie Richardson and her crew outside the station again. As if that wasn’t bad enough she saw a different media truck glide into the car park opposite. Ailish’s murder had all the right ingredients for a media feeding frenzy. Fortunately they hadn’t yet got wind that Poppy Black had been murdered as well. The post-mortem had confirmed their theory. Bartle-White had stated that the blow to the head had been with a blunt object and couldn’t have been caused by simply falling against the table. The blood must have been smeared on the table afterwards. The pressure was on. Marching into reception, she faltered on catching sight of the hooked nose and hooded lids of the woman sitting there. Moira Sharkey, tabloid journalist and muckraker extraordinaire. The cold predatory eyes raked over her, but she knew there was only one person she was here to see and that was Frank Farrell.
She was hanging up her coat in the locker room when a junior officer came looking for her.
‘DI Moore wants you in the small briefing room. Something’s going down.’
She rushed after him, heart thumping.
DI Moore had assembled her core team in the forgery investigation along with DCI Lind. The mood was sombre. There was no knowing what would befall DC Thomson if something went awry with the plan, or his cover was blown. Poppy Black’s murder had shown them just how far the forgery ring was prepared to go.
‘Mhairi, grab a seat. We’ve recently heard from DS Stirling that the forger has taken the bait and sent DC Thomson fresh instructions. He’s to pick up another package from behind the grave at St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, Kirkcudbright and deposit it and the Hornel recovered from the tractor in a trough at a named grave in Dundrennan Abbey Graveyard.’
‘When?’ asked Mhairi, feeling the tension squeeze her innards.
‘Tomorrow. No time specified. Can you stick these up on the wall for me?’ she said, handing a pile of assorted maps and photos across.
Mhairi placed the most recent ordnance survey map on the wall in the small briefing room, along with pictures of the pick-up point at St Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, Kirkcudbright and also the graveyard at Dundrennan Abbey.
‘The location for the drop off poses some significant problems for us on the surveillance side,’ DI Moore said. ‘For starters, at this time of the year, and on a Tuesday, there are unlikely to be many visitors. There’s no CCTV and we’ve no way of knowing if the person collecting the painting is already in position.’
‘What about substituting an officer for the person selling tickets, ma’am?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Too risky, for all we know they’ve been paid off already, which would be tipping our hand.’
‘I suppose the same rationale applies to a grave tender or any employee,’ said Mhairi.
‘It’s possible this painting is a dummy run, to see whether Shaun got caught and cut a deal,’ said DI Moore.
‘Are you suggesting that we let Dave go in with no backup whatsoever?’ asked DS Byers.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Yes, I suppose I am. And, no, I don’t like it anymore than you do,’ said DI Moore, the worry lines snaking across her forehead lending credence to her words. ‘I have a feeling that this might be some sort of a test with terrible consequences for failure.’
Farrell groaned on hearing that Moira Sharkey was still waiting in reception. He’d hoped she’d got fed up and left. Now he was going to have to see the wretched woman. They had a long and complicated history, dating back from when he was a young priest and a serial killer had targeted him in the confessional. She was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story. Admittedly, she had given him a useful tip-off in the twin abduction cases last year, but she’d wrung an exclusive out of him first. He loathed her with a very ungodly passion.
‘Fine, send her up,’ he said, slamming the phone down with more force than necessary.
He didn’t have long to wait.
‘Come in,’ he shouted, as she pecked at the door.
‘Ms Sharkey, this is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
Her hooded eyes were as dark and malicious as ever, and she took a seat.
‘Looks like your team is up to the neck in it again, DI Farrell. What’s this I hear about another murdered girl? Poppy Black?’
Farrell kept his face impassive. How could she possibly know anything about that? Who had blabbed? If this got out, it would alert the murderer they were on to him, and he might well flee the area before they figured out who he was.
‘If you’re referring to a case of accidental death, we would ask you to refrain from reporting anything until the family has been informed.’
‘I hear that there is no family,’ she smirked.
‘Where are you getting this from?’ snapped Farrell.
‘Steady, Inspector. You know I’m not at liberty to reveal my source.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A little quid pro quo. You know how I love to help an officer of the law. I’m also not entirely enamoured of the bitch in the car park outside.’
‘Sophie Richardson?’
‘I’ll keep my mouth shut, providing you give me an exclusive when it all goes down. I want stuff that no other reporter will get access to.’
‘What can you give me to sweeten the deal?’ asked Farrell.
‘I’m working on that. You know how resourceful I can be.’
‘You keep quiet about Poppy Black, get me something useful that I don’t already have and I’ll get you your exclusive,’ he said.
She held out her skinny fingers with painted red talons, and Farrell shook her hand, trying to hide his revulsion at her touch.
Negotiating with this woman always left him feeling slightly tainted.