While Lind went off to phone DI Moore, Farrell wandered round the side of the gallery. He smiled and nodded at Mike Halliday, who was saying goodbye to an attractive dark-haired girl. They made a handsome couple. He kept walking until he reached the harbour wall. The beauty of the sun glinting on the sea against the backdrop of pastel-coloured cottages afforded a painful contrast with the evil deeds that had been done in this place.
Lind interrupted his reverie.
‘I’ve spoken to Kate. She’s going to pop out and visit Stirling and Thomson incognito with Mhairi this afternoon. They’re also going to scout for possible pick-up sites that would give us a slim but not too obvious advantage in terms of terrain.’
‘Depending on how we get along here, we could perhaps meet them at the farm,’ said Farrell. ‘Before we tackle Moretti, let’s pop in on Mike Halliday and see if those canvasses are still there.’
There was no sign of the girl when they walked back up. Mike Halliday was sitting on his customary bench with a cup of coffee. A wooden summerhouse displayed a number of his canvasses, scenes of Kirkcudbright in the main. A couple of middle-aged women were selecting two paintings, with much agonizing. Halliday piled on the charm and they happily paid and had their purchases wrapped, before leaving. Farrell and Lind had waited patiently to one side, not wishing to disrupt his business.
‘Doing a roaring trade, there,’ commented Farrell.
‘It keeps the wolf from the door,’ said Halliday. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, DI Farrell.’
Farrell introduced Lind, who was staring down at the open sketchbook on the bench.
‘That’s some shiner you’ve got there,’ said Halliday. ‘Looks painful.’
‘Kick-boxing,’ said Lind, shooting him an unfriendly look.
‘Right,’ said Halliday, with a hint of a smirk.
Farrell jumped in, not sure why there was a sudden undercurrent of hostility shooting between the two men.
‘The reason we’re here is on the off-chance that the canvasses by Paul Moretti are still in your cupboard?’
Halliday’s expression tightened.
‘Let me think,’ he said. ‘I might still have them. He certainly never came to claim them. I probably piled my own stuff in on top. Might take a bit of time to excavate them, that’s assuming they’re still here.’
‘We’re in no rush, but it might help with one of our lines of enquiry,’ said Farrell.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Halliday, disappearing into the cottage. ‘Give me a shout if any customers come in,’ he called back to them.
Ten minutes later, Halliday re-emerged carrying four canvasses wrapped in oilskin. He slowly unwrapped them, then propped them up against the wall of the summerhouse. Farrell blanched but said nothing.
‘Whoever painted these is one sick bastard,’ Lind exploded. ‘You’re not going to tell me this fucking shit is art, are you?’ he said to Halliday, who looked at him, stony-faced, as well he might. Lind was bang out of order, shouting the odds when the guy had only produced the canvasses at their request.
Farrell cast an apologetic glance Halliday’s way. He nodded, seeming to bite back an angry retort of his own.
‘We need to see if we can learn anything from these that might help the investigation, John.’
Lind reluctantly swivelled his eyes back to the four canvasses.
‘Whoever painted this abomination has no imagination whatsoever,’ he snapped. ‘Hell, even I could torture something and photograph it. Where’s the skill in that? It’s a record of suffering, not art at all. Crude rubbish.’
Farrell did not entirely agree with him, but kept quiet, not wanting to inflame his normally mild-mannered friend any further. Although the subject matter was grim and disturbing, he rather suspected that it had been executed with a surprising degree of skill. He could almost smell the heaving flanks of the sweaty young foal, slick with sweat. However, it was the terror in its eyes that was so realistic. If Moretti had painted this, he was a very fine artist, and in all likelihood a psychopath.
The first canvas was the worst. In that one the foal was still alive. In the second picture, the spark of life had been extinguished. A light frost covered its body and the shackles had been removed. The third picture showed it decomposing, the eyes had been pecked out and the bloated carcass become infested by all manner of things. Other animals had clearly feasted on the remains, which were now only an echo of the life that had once animated it. The fourth canvas showed merely the skeleton, with a few remaining pieces of fibrous tissue attached.
‘Are you sure it was Paul Moretti who painted these?’ Farrell asked Halliday, who was also looking white with anger and as if he was struggling to control his reaction to the scenes before him.
‘I can’t say for sure,’ he said. ‘They’re unsigned and I’m not familiar with his work. It was my landlady who said they were his, when I was moving in and she found them in a cupboard. I just covered them up and forgot about them, to be honest.’
‘Christ, I don’t know how you sleep at night under the same roof as these,’ said Lind. ‘Give me a nice watercolour like those you’re selling here. Now that’s what I call art.’
‘Thank you,’ said Halliday in a flat voice. Probably still hacked off by Lind’s outburst.
‘Is there any reason you didn’t return them to the artist?’ asked Farrell.
‘I figured if he wanted them he’d come knocking. Hardly my job to chase him all over town.’
‘We’re going to need to take these with us,’ said Farrell. ‘I assume you have no objection?’
Halliday’s face was still pale under his tan. Mind you, thought Farrell, artist or not, those pictures were enough to turn anyone’s stomach.
‘Sure, glad to be rid of them,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll wrap them up for you.’