Farrell and Mhairi drove to the harbour and grabbed two takeaway coffees. Sitting on a bench overlooking the sea, they mulled over their options.
‘What do you think, sir? Should we call in reinforcements to hunt for Fiona Murray?’
‘We’ll track her down ourselves. We now know that she’s potentially implicated in everything but the murder of Ailish Kerrigan. Even if she’s not involved in what happened to Monro Stevenson, she’s definitely in tow with the forging ring. If we flood the area with officers and go in mob-handed, not only might we never catch the real villains, but we put DC Thomson’s life in jeopardy too.’
‘But if we arrest her won’t that put the wind up them?’
‘Not if we get her to talk, and cut a deal for her to walk if she delivers everyone else’s head on a plate.’
‘We need to lose the squad car then, sir. Doesn’t exactly come with stealth mode.’
‘We’ll try her home first,’ said Farrell.
***
Ten minutes later they were outside Murray’s modest flat. There was no answer to the doorbell. Farrell peered through the letterbox. There was no mail lying on the carpet, so she hadn’t done a runner yet.
They looked for a spare key, but their target was too switched on to be caught out that way. As a result of the CCTV footage they had a search-and-entry warrant, but Farrell didn’t want to leave any trace of their presence, so busting the door down wasn’t an option. He stared at Mhairi intently.
‘What?’ she asked.
He held out a hand.
Mhairi rolled her eyes but fished out a hairpin for him. After a few seconds, the lock yielded. Inside, it was still in immaculate order. There was nothing in the way of home comforts in evidence. Everything was plain and functional to the point of sterility. The only adornment was a small picture of the Virgin Mary in the middle of the mantelpiece.
‘It’s well seeing she cleans for a living,’ whispered Mhairi. They both slipped on latex gloves and methodically went through the flat, room by room. It felt almost monastic, thought Farrell.
‘There’s no family pictures,’ he said. ‘A woman her age, that’s a little unusual.’
‘It feels really impersonal,’ said Mhairi, ‘as if she’s not emotionally invested in the place.’
‘Got something,’ said Farrell, feeling under the thin mattress. He pulled out a large plain padded envelope and emptied the contents on the bed. There was £10,000 in cash and a photo of a beautiful young girl in school uniform.
Mhairi studied it intently.
‘Isn’t that Ailish Kerrigan?’ she asked.
‘It could be,’ said Farrell. ‘But as I understand it, Fiona Murray didn’t start working up at Ivy House until months after Ailish went missing. She couldn’t possibly be implicated in her disappearance.’
‘Maybe she stole the picture from Ivy House. Could be she’s been digging around into Ailish’s disappearance to gain some leverage, perhaps blackmail the killer?’ said Mhairi.
‘Well, if that’s the case she’s a woman who likes to live dangerously,’ said Farrell.
Suddenly, they heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
They stood behind the bedroom door until Murray had entered and closed the front door behind her. She moved into the kitchen, and then Farrell and Mhairi stepped out, standing between her and the exit.
Murray choked back a scream and sagged weakly against the kitchen units.
‘You scared the bejesus out of me! What the devil do you think you’re doing? How did you get in here? You’ve got no right …’
Farrell handed over the search warrant, which she studied closely.
‘Fiona Murray, you’re under arrest for stealing a painting from the safe at Broughton House. Anything you say will be noted down and can be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?’
She nodded, her expression unreadable.
‘We’re going to take you to Dumfries police station now for processing. I’m not proposing to put cuffs on if you can assure me you’re not about to do a runner,’ said Farrell.
‘I hardly think I’d get very far,’ she said.
He waited with her in silence while Mhairi retrieved the patrol car.
Back at the station she was processed by the Custody Sergeant. She declined the services of a solicitor. The only visible reaction from her was when he lifted out the photo from the envelope.
‘That’s mine,’ she snapped. ‘Give it to me!’
He ignored her and continued noting the item down in the property register.
‘Cell 5,’ he said, escorting Murray to the door and ushering her inside.
‘Keep a close eye on her,’ said Farrell.
‘Will do, boss,’ he replied.