Farrell and Lind returned to Kirkcudbright and parked down a side street near the sheriff court. It was only mid-afternoon, but Farrell felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him. They’d had nothing to eat since breakfast. Time to refuel.
‘I’m just going to grab us a couple of rolls and coffee from the deli across the street. Give you time to figure out how you want to approach Moretti.’
Despite his lean physique, Farrell had always performed better with food in his belly.
Once back in the car, running scared from the marauding seagulls, Farrell took a large glug of coffee that tasted a whole lot better than the muck down the station.
Lind did likewise and fell upon his chicken mayo roll like he hadn’t eaten for a week.
‘Moretti is a bit of a strange one,’ said Farrell. ‘It goes way beyond his medical condition.’
‘Do we have anyone objective vouching that he even has a medical condition?’ asked Lind, energized by the caffeine.
‘No,’ said Farrell. ‘You think he might be faking it?’
‘No idea but it should be pinned down. He could be the murderer, hiding right under our noses, or he could be completely innocent.’
‘Either way, we need to do a bit of poking around,’ said Farrell.
They left the car where it was. Crossing the High Street, they walked up the hill until they reached the cottage at the top.
Like before, the heavy drapes were drawn and the house was deathly still. Farrell rapped heavily on the door. The sound echoed through the building, but there was no answer.
‘So where is he then, if he’s unable to go out during the day?’ said Lind.
Farrell shrugged. They waited a few minutes longer then turned and retreated back down the path.
‘We need to find out if he owns the house, or if it’s rented,’ said Farrell. ‘Right now, this man is a ghost. We don’t have a single piece of substance on him.’
‘Apart from the fact he was shortlisted in that competition,’ said Lind.
Farrell contacted the station to speak to Byers.
‘Can you do a full background check on Paul Moretti, last two known addresses: Studio Flat, Kirkcudbright Art Gallery, and Lavender Cottage, Silvercraigs Road, both Kirkcudbright. I want every last grain of information you can find. Dig deep. It could be crucial to the girl’s murder. Cheers. Heading back now.’
At the station in Dumfries, Farrell posted a briefing for 5 p.m. His brain was whirling with all the possible permutations and combinations of the cases. Potentially they could all be linked or completely separate. Until some of the missing pieces clicked into place, they would have to continue operating in the dark.
PC Rosie Green knocked and stuck her head round his door. He motioned her in.
‘I didn’t realize that Fiona Murray worked at Broughton House too, sir,’ she said.
‘Neither did I,’ said Farrell. ‘She certainly gets around. Cleaners often have more than one job, though.’
‘Perhaps. Most of the time her activity seems what you would expect, tidying, polishing, mopping floors.’
‘Go on.’
‘But in this one bit of video, I saw her down where the safe is in the basement office.’
‘And?’
‘At first I didn’t think anything of it. She was emptying the bin, polishing the desk, but then she started to look a bit furtive and I realized she was over by the large safe in the corner.’
Farrell quickly went down to the computer suite with her. PC Green called up the footage in question.
Fiona Murray kept up a convincing pretence of dusting and polishing right the way across the room, but then sank to her knees and quickly opened the safe. She removed a metal-coloured tube and substituted it with an identical one, which she withdrew from her large bucket of cleaning materials. She then quickly closed the safe and stood up, still flicking with her duster as she moved towards the door. The whole process had taken only half a minute. Had PC Green not been so eagle-eyed and conscientious, they might never have known.
‘Great work,’ he told her. ‘This could be the breakthrough we’re looking for. Make sure you’re at the briefing at 5 p.m. DI Moore will be well made up when she hears this. She should be back in the building in another half hour or so.’
‘There’s something else,’ she said, fingers flying over the keyboard. ‘On the 28th of December, there was clearly a special delivery to Broughton House. An armoured security van pulled up at 8 a.m., before the place is open, and unloaded something. Look at this, sir.’
Farrell stared at the images on the screen. Two security men wearing helmets, flanked a third man in a suit carrying a large cylindrical metal tube. They were escorted inside by two women, one of whom locked the door behind them. Five minutes later the two security guards and the man who had been carrying the package reappeared and departed in the security van. The whole operation had taken less than fifteen minutes. With the level of security and the tense stance of the staff, glancing nervously all around as the package was escorted inside, he doubted very much that it was a Hornel painting. What had really been stolen from the safe and why hadn’t the National Trust reported it?