As they were leaving Dumfries, Mhairi’s phone beeped. It was a text from Ian suggesting they meet up that night. A worm of guilt twisted within her. She’d been fobbing him off ever since she’d met up with Patrick. Ian deserved better.
Farrell glanced across at her.
‘Problem?’ he asked.
Honestly! Sometimes she could swear he could see right into her soul.
‘Just a text from Ian,’ she said, her voice flat.
‘I see,’ he said.
‘I’m meant to be meeting Patrick tonight. He’s invited me to Ivy House for supper. Give me an opportunity to sniff around a bit, pick up on any undercurrents.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything at the briefing?’
‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’
Farrell looked worried. She didn’t blame him, but she was as sure as she could be that Patrick wasn’t involved in any of the crimes they were investigating. His feelings of guilt and grief over Ailish had seemed genuine. She hadn’t detected one false note.
‘I hate to bring it up, but are you sure your judgement isn’t being impaired? You seem quite drawn to him.’
Mhairi snorted in derision, but her thumping heart told a different story.
‘He’s someone I’m using as a source of information to further the case. I’m going out with Ian, remember?’ she snapped.
‘Then perhaps you’d better text him back,’ said Farrell.
‘I will do. Later.’
They continued in silence until they arrived in Kirkcudbright. Farrell parked the squad car outside Lavender Cottage. They walked up the stone path to the door, and Farrell knocked loudly.
‘Police! Open up!’
They could hear the sound echoing down the hall inside, but there was no response.
Farrell tried the door. It was no surprise to find it was locked.
‘Shall we bust it down, sir?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I doubt that’ll be necessary,’ said Farrell, producing the key from the inside of a stone planter.
‘How did you …?’
‘Prayed to St Anthony. Works every time,’ he said with a triumphant glint in his eyes.
‘Hmm,’ muttered Mhairi, as Farrell swiftly opened the door.
They both stood motionless in the long dim hall. A mantel clock chimed the hour, making them jump. The air felt stale, as though it hadn’t been disturbed for days. At the rear of the hall, they could see a strip of light under the closed door. They moved towards it, checking the four doors opening off the hall on the way. Each room had heavy drapes drawn across the window. The furniture was old and dilapidated, as though it had been plucked randomly from a charity shop. Mind you, he was a bloke, thought Mhairi.
Reaching the end of the hall they opened the door and their eyes widened in shock.
‘What the hell?’ said Mhairi, turning to Farrell, who was looking as surprised as she was. They were standing in a bright open-plan studio space, flooded with natural light from a skylight. There were canvasses everywhere in various stages of composition. A number of them looked familiar but Mhairi couldn’t pinpoint why. DI Moore would know. She was the culture vulture in the station. Carefully, she took digital images of all the art work she could see. A few were signed Aaron Sewell. There were none that resembled the horrendous images they had recovered from his previous flat.
‘It’s clear to me now that Paul Moretti is simply a disguise, probably created because he’s someone reasonably prominent in the local community,’ said Farrell.
‘I’m going to look in the wardrobes,’ said Mhairi. ‘Might give us some clues as to his real identity.’
The bedroom was to the front of the house. The bed was neatly made. She felt under the pillow, but there were no pyjamas. She rifled through the bedside table. There were a couple of pairs of black lacy underwear stuffed in the back of the drawer behind a couple of pairs of boxers and some grey socks. There were very few clothes in the wardrobe. The whole place had the vibe of a creepy hotel room, rather than somewhere someone actually lived. There was a reading light and a few scuffed paperbacks. Try as she might she could find nothing to suggest an alternative identity for Moretti. She headed for the bathroom next. There was only one toothbrush and no obvious signs of a woman’s presence. Moretti clearly had good taste in bath oil, she thought, opening the expensive bottle to take a sniff. Not the kind of thing you’d use if you suffered from an allergic skin reaction. There was no emollient cream in sight. The whole illness thing had clearly been a big con, she thought, cross with herself for having been taken in.
Farrell stuck his head round the bedroom door.
‘Have you found the painting from the competition yet?’ she asked.
‘No sign of it.’
‘Do you think that the real Paul Moretti might be someone we’ve already met?’ she asked.
‘Quite possibly,’ said Farrell.
His face was strained and Mhairi guessed that he was beating himself up as much as she was for letting him slip through their fingers.
‘I’m off to do the sitting room. I’m going to keep the curtains drawn, just in case we’re being watched,’ he said.
They continued with their search, taking care to leave everything exactly as they found it in case Moretti returned.
The writing bureau in the living room contained an untidy jumble of papers and bills, nothing remarkable. However, Mhairi’s probing fingers struck lucky as she nudged a small lever, which opened a secret compartment at the back of the drawer. She extracted a number of letters addressed to Aaron Sewell.
‘That’s the name on some of the canvasses,’ said Farrell peering over her shoulder, ready to swoop with an evidence bag.
‘Do you think that they’re one and the same person?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Impossible to say,’ said Farrell. ‘If Moretti is simply another artist, then why all the subterfuge? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Who’d have thought painting pictures could be such a nasty business?’ said Mhairi.
‘Where there’s money there’s a motive for murder.’
‘I haven’t found any paperwork to suggest Moretti had a bank account. What do you suppose he lived on?’
‘Probably income derived from his main identity, Aaron Sewell,’ said Farrell. He pulled out his phone.
‘Byers, can you look into the artist Aaron Sewell for me? That may be the real identity of Paul Moretti. I also want his financials run down. The fact that Sewell’s correspondence appears to come here, and that there are canvasses signed by him in Lavender Cottage, should give you sufficient cause. Cheers.’
They gave the property a final check before locking the door and replacing the key.
‘Where to now, sir?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I think it’s time to pick up Fiona Murray and see what she has to say for herself. But before we do that, we’re going to pay Broughton House a little visit and see what they’ve been storing in that safe.’