Farrell and Mhairi parked outside and walked up the stairs of Broughton House. To the right of the entrance was a table with a middle-aged woman taking money for tickets and guidebooks.
‘Are you members of the National Trust?’ she enquired.
‘No, I’m afraid we’re here on police business,’ said Farrell, producing his warrant card.
Immediately, her demeanour changed and her eyes flicked nervously from one to the other.
‘Oh, er, how can I help you, officers?’
‘And you are?’
‘Jemima Jones,’ she almost whispered. Her face looked clammy and pale.
‘Is there somewhere a little more private?’ asked Farrell, aware of a group of tourists shamelessly earwigging while pretending to look at a display cabinet.
‘Yes, we can go to the office. I’ll just give Lucy a nudge to cover the desk.’
They made their way downstairs, with Farrell ducking to avoid banging his head, and were shown in to a tiny room that immediately felt crowded, once they were all inside.
‘I’m sure you know why we’re here,’ Farrell said. He then paused and looked at her expectantly.
Jemima shifted in her seat. Her glasses were starting to steam up.
‘Er, no, I’m really not sure …’ she tailed off.
Farrell sat back and folded his arms, his gaze uncompromising. The silence lengthened until Jemima cracked wide open.
‘Look it wasn’t my decision not to report it.’
‘Go on,’ said Farrell.
‘The National Trust told us to take delivery of a very valuable painting. It was just to be for a few nights, until they could put in place the necessary insurance and courier arrangements to take it back to Lord Merton’s estate at Kincaid House.’
‘You said, “take it back”. Had it been stolen? Restored?’
‘I’m not supposed to say anything. I could lose my job.’
‘I should think that’s the least of your concerns right now,’ said Farrell, standing up. ‘Maybe we should continue this in Dumfries, at the station?’
‘No! Please, sit down. I’ll tell you what I know. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I hoped that it would all work out okay if I just kept my mouth shut.’
Farrell glanced at Mhairi who looked as baffled as he was.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ he said.
‘The painting had been stolen from Lord Merton’s country seat at Kincaid House.’
‘When was this?’ asked Farrell. ‘I’m not aware of any report to that effect.’
‘It was never reported,’ she said. ‘It was a Turner and worth millions. The family notified the insurance company and were advised to sit tight pending a ransom demand. The ransom was paid by the insurance company and the painting delivered locally, which is where we came in. The National Trust knew we had a safe here and thought that the painting could sit tight with us until all the necessary arrangements were put in place.’
‘Is it still in there?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Yes, of course. The manager and I are the only one with keys,’ she said.
This was worse than they had thought. A lot worse. Farrell pulled up the footage on his phone of Fiona Murray opening the safe and removing a cylinder. He had no doubt that Jemima’s shock and dismay were genuine.
‘I don’t understand. That’s our cleaner. What’s she doing?’
Abruptly, she jumped up and raced down some steps to the basement, with Farrell and Mhairi in hot pursuit. Opening the door to a somewhat larger office this time, with a key she pulled out from around her neck, she rushed over to the substantial safe in a corner of the room and opened it. Her relief was almost palpable as she pulled out a metal tube from the stacked art works inside. Quickly she opened the tube and carefully extracted the contents.
‘See, it’s still here!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what’s gone on, but there’s obviously been a huge misunderstanding. This is the painting, I’m sure of it,’ she said, looking up at them with hope flaring.
‘It could be,’ said Farrell. ‘I hope that it is. But I’m afraid there’s been a skilled forgery ring operating out of Kirkcudbright for a while now. It’s possible the painting was stolen and a copy returned. You left before the bit where Fiona placed an identical cylinder back in the safe.’
‘But, Fiona can’t be involved. She’s just the cleaner; I never would have imagined she could do something like this.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I’ve no idea. She doesn’t come in until after we’re closed for the night. Her references were spot on. She produced a Disclosure certificate as well.’
‘Do you still have the documentation?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, it’ll be in her file.’ She dashed over to one of the cabinets, pulled out a slim file and handed it to him. Inside was a very decent-looking Disclosure certificate and glowing references from Monro Stevenson and Hugo Mortimer.
‘We’re going to need to have the painting examined by an expert as quickly as possible.’
‘I’m afraid all this is way above my pay grade,’ Jemima said. ‘I’ll probably lose my job over this. I’ll contact the National Trust and get the name of someone you can liaise with.’
Farrell felt sorry for her, but the cleaner should never have been allowed the run of the building when no one else was there.
‘How did she get access to the safe key?’ he asked. ‘I’m assuming it wasn’t hanging on a hook somewhere?’
‘No!’ she said, then looked puzzled. ‘Actually, I’ve no idea. I keep my key on a chain round my neck, where no one can see it. The only other key is in a locked drawer in my desk.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had reason to have a locksmith or joiner in the museum, recently?’ he asked.
‘Well yes, as it happens,’ she said, surprised. ‘Fiona reported that the hinges on the office door were starting to …’ She buried her head in her hands. ‘Dammit, I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? It’s my fault. She recommended a joiner and I never thought twice about it.’
‘These people have been fiendishly clever,’ said Mhairi. ‘All you did was place your trust in the wrong person.’
‘I take it you instructed Neil Benson from Dumfries?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes, he came early in the morning, just two days after we received the painting.’
‘One final thing before we go. I want you to say nothing about this to anyone. Is that absolutely clear?’ said Farrell.
She nodded.
‘We’re at a very crucial stage in the investigation and lives could be put in jeopardy if they twig that we’re on to them. I’ll phone the contact you gave me in the National Trust and explain everything that’s transpired.’
Again, she nodded.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ said Farrell. ‘Here’s my personal mobile,’ he said handing over a card. ‘Any problems give me a call. If we don’t get hold of Fiona Murray by the time the museum closes, I’ll send in a couple of undercover officers, ostensibly working on a restoration project to make sure there are no problems overnight.’