‘We should visit the gallery first, speak to Janet Campbell,’ said Farrell. ‘She’s a nice enough woman, loves to gossip. I reckon we’ll get more out of her if you turn on your usual charm.’
They parked by the harbour. The tide was in and the fishing boats long gone. Determined seagulls stalked those tourists unwise enough to be eating food from the nearby chippy. A short walk brought them to the gallery. A sleeping tabby cat lay on a cushion in the mullioned window. Janet Campbell was chatting with a couple of tourists. Farrell and Lind walked a bit up the road giving her the space to close the deal, and then turned and went in when they saw the beaming couple exit with a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. At least she’d be in a good fettle then, thought Farrell.
‘DI Frank Farrell,’ she beamed, as the tinkling bell announced their arrival. ‘I was wondering if you’d be back to see me. And who’s this gentleman with you?’
‘DCI John Lind,’ he said, advancing to shake her hand.
‘Someone’s been in the wars!’ she said, peering at Lind’s black eye. He was temporarily lost for words. Farrell rescued him.
‘Chasing criminals isn’t without its dangers,’ he said.
‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, suitably impressed. She rushed to the door and turned the sign to ‘Closed’.
‘I’ve been rushed off my feet all morning. It’s time I had a break anyway.’ She plopped down on a stool behind the desk.
‘I’ve been meaning to call you, DI Farrell. I had Maureen Kerrigan in here yesterday asking all sorts of questions about Ailish. Who her friends were? Did I know of any bad blood between her and anyone else? I answered them as best as I could, poor lass. However, I don’t think it’s safe for her to be poking around on her own like this. Who knows what hornet’s nest she might stir up?’
‘Thank you for letting us know,’ Farrell replied. ‘You’re right to be concerned.’
‘May I ask how long your gallery has been in Kirkcudbright?’ asked Lind.
‘I’ve been here upwards of thirty years and my father was in here before me. He died young, bless him, so I didn’t have much choice really.’
‘Are you an artist yourself?’
‘I went to art school but, what with running the business and looking after my mother, I never really gave it a proper go. I still paint for pleasure though. It’s relaxing.’
‘Do you exhibit your work for sale?’ asked Farrell.
For the first time they glimpsed the steel behind the amiable facade, as her voice hardened.
‘I did in the beginning. I had a big exhibition at a gallery in Edinburgh when I was twenty-five. My mother was so proud. I sold a few pieces on the night. Everything seemed to go so well. The people attending were so complimentary.’
Her face twisted in remembered pain.
‘What happened?’ asked Farrell.
‘Lionel Forbes happened. That man ruined my life. He wanted to make a name for himself as an art critic and he decided to unleash his vitriol on me. I was savaged, totally hung out to dry. That was me put in my place. And here I have remained,’ she said, belatedly trying to inject a somewhat dismal note of humour.
‘You must have been less than thrilled when he ended up in this neck of the woods, then,’ said Farrell.
‘Dreadful man, walks about like he’s God’s gift to art. If he stuck his nose in here I would probably throw something at him.’
‘Do you have any pieces in your gallery by the artists up at Ivy House?’ asked Lind.
‘I might have a piece left by Penelope Spence. She’s really rather good. A sculptress in the main, but she also paints.’
She disappeared through the back, returned with a bust, and placed it on a tall plinth.
It was a handsome face that bore more than a passing resemblance to Hugo Mortimer. Smiling in anticipation of their reaction, she removed it and held it out to them. Looking down on it from above, there was a woman’s face inside the head, trying to claw her way up from the depths with skeletal fingers, her lips drawn back from her teeth in a scream or a snarl, it was hard to say. Farrell shuddered. It was unusual for him to have such a visceral reaction to a piece of art.
‘Good, isn’t she?’
Both men nodded in agreement.
‘I don’t know why she didn’t enter this piece for the Lomax Prize. Despite being so talented she seems to prefer to stay in the background. I’ve a waiting list for her pieces from serious collectors. She doesn’t like me to exhibit them in the gallery. I’d best put it away before she catches me showing it off. Have my guts for garters she would.’
‘You’ve been incredibly generous with your time,’ said Lind. ‘Before we leave you in peace, I wanted to ask you about Paul Moretti.’
Instantly, Janet wrinkled her nose in distaste.
‘You mentioned previously to DI Farrell that he paints dead things,’ said Lind.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I ask exactly how you came about this information? Was it from Moretti direct?’
‘No. Moretti had left the studio flat and Mike Halliday was in the process of moving his stuff in. I was preparing an inventory so we could get on with signing the lease, when I came across a few of his canvasses in the cupboard. It gave me such a turn. Moretti had shown me a painting before, even had the temerity to suggest I might want to sell it in the gallery, but the four in that cupboard were on a whole different level.’
‘I know this might be difficult but it’s very important. Could you describe the canvasses to us?’ said Lind.
‘It was a foal.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It looked like it was dying. There were a number of other canvasses, each showing a further stage of decomposition in grisly detail. Utterly vile.’
‘Do you know what became of them?’
‘You’d have to ask Mike Halliday. I don’t know if he left them in the cupboard or tried to get them back to Paul Moretti. He said he’d take care of them, whatever that meant.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About three years ago. That’s when Mike moved into the studio.’
‘Thank you, Janet, you’ve been most helpful. I’m sorry we had to make you remember that unpleasantness,’ said Lind.
‘How did you find Moretti as a person?’ asked Farrell.
‘I didn’t really have much to do with him. He was very quiet and introverted. Could hardly get a word out of him, rarely made eye contact. I don’t know how much was down to his condition or his personality. He was always so muffled up in scarves and whatnot, there could have been anyone underneath.’ She shuddered.
***
As they walked out of the gallery, Farrell glanced at his phone. There was a message from DI Moore, which he showed to Lind. The forgery operation had been a bust. DC Thomson had gone to the pick-up site, but there was no parcel there. He’d hung about for a while, then went back to the farm with a view to trying again later, should there be another text.
‘I don’t like it,’ Lind sounded worried. ‘I hope they’re not on to us. We can’t keep everyone on standby indefinitely. I reckon they’re still not sure whether Shaun is a plant or not. We need to figure out a way to earn their trust.’
‘How about if he reports back that he saw someone watching the pick-up point?’ said Farrell. ‘That might allay their concerns.’
‘Good idea,’ said Lind. ‘He could even suggest an alternative site and then we could have the surveillance sorted before they even check it out. I’ll run it past DI Moore, see what she thinks. I’ll meet you down by the harbour.’