Farrell turned into his lane at Kelton and parked outside the cottage. The smell of the haggis supper soaked in salt and vinegar was making him salivate in anticipation. As he let himself in, Henry pounced on his feet, purring ecstatically. Poor cat must be ravenous. Just as well he hadn’t gone for the fish or it would likely have been wrestled from his arms by a crazed feline. Despite the fact there was still some dried food in his bowl, Henry had clearly tired of waiting for his tea, as there were the remains of two mice on the kitchen floor. That was the disadvantage of a cat flap, sighed Farrell, scooping up the leftovers with a paper towel and wiping the floor with disinfectant. Henry sat back and watched him, a slightly miffed expression on his face.
Finally, with Henry chewing happily on his meaty chunks, Farrell got stuck into his own tea, washed down with a can of Irn Bru.
He then dashed upstairs for a quick shower to wash away the grime of the day, both mental and physical. Throwing on jeans, a jumper, and a scuffed leather jacket he gave a definitely plumper Henry a few minutes’ attention before leaving the house once more.
Mhairi was waiting for him outside her flat, casually dressed and with her hair in a ponytail.
‘Sorry, I’m a few minutes late,’ he said. ‘I had to sort out Henry.’
‘Don’t apologize. If looks could kill, I’d be dead already. Oscar hates me being out so much at the moment.’
They drove in companionable silence until they reached Kirkcudbright. Farrell parked at the harbour, so that Mhairi could maintain she had arrived on the bus and had to get the last bus home.
‘Now remember, don’t take any unnecessary risks.’
‘I want to get inside Mortimer’s studio and bedroom, if I get a chance,’ said Mhairi.
‘The only way I can see that happening is if he’s out for the night. If you do get in, don’t linger. We’re looking for any signs he’s copying another artist’s work, or wax seals. Take images of his paints even. Also, anything tying him to the murder of Monro Stevenson, such as those sheets of cream notepaper or the missing glass. It’s possible he was also behind the murder of Poppy Black, so look for any packets of bulbs, evidence of forged references for her etcetera.’
‘What are you going to do while I’m at Ivy House?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I’ll have a drink in The Smuggler’s, see who’s about and what’s being said, then I’ll take a quick run out in the car to see DC Thomson and go over things one more time for tomorrow’s op. After that, I’ll swing by and watch the entrance to Ivy House until you re-emerge. I’ll be behind the wall across the road. As good a way as any to put away the evening.’
Mhairi picked up her bag and bottle of wine and opened the door.
‘Be careful,’ Farrell said. ‘Be on your guard and trust no one. I’ll expect you out the door by 11 p.m. at the latest.’
‘You worry too much, sir,’ said Mhairi with a cheeky grin, but they both knew she was rattled.
Farrell watched her until she disappeared from view. Then he exited the car and walked up to The Smuggler’s in the centre of town. It was fairly quiet and no one paid him any mind as he ordered a pint of low-alcohol lager and sat in a dark corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he noticed Maureen Kerrigan with Mike Halliday. He had his arm around her and they were deep in conversation. Fortunately, she didn’t recognize him.
The door swung open and, to his surprise, in walked Penelope Spence. She was slumming it tonight, he thought. She wore an expensive-looking scarf and a trendy hat. Her clothes were ostensibly casual, but the tailoring shrieked expensive. Was she meeting someone? He raised the paper he had brought for concealment. Thankfully, she hadn’t spotted him. She turned away from the bar, carrying two whiskies. Looking neither left nor right she headed upstairs. As he slowly lowered his newspaper, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one who had clocked her. Mike Halliday had his eyes locked on her ascent, with an expression that could only be described as hostile.
Farrell glanced at his watch. It was already 9 p.m. If he was going to nip out to the farm and get back to meet Mhairi he would have to shift some. Maybe whoever Penelope was meeting was already there? Where was the Gents? He took his glass back to the bar and was gratified to be directed upstairs.
There were three doors opening off the first-floor landing, with the toilets right at the end. Making sure he was unobserved, he placed his ear against one door. There were voices inside, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He opened the door and took in the assorted home-knitted sweaters and anoraks around a table littered with coffee cups and pictures of trains.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, before withdrawing.
The next room was empty, which left one remaining possibility. He heard someone coming. He immediately bent over to tie his shoelace. As he straightened up he saw a man’s back disappearing into the remaining room, but he had no idea who it was. He crept forward and applied his ear to the door. No joy. They must be talking in hushed voices. Again, he glanced at his watch. If he barged in unannounced there might be unexpected repercussions. Given what was going down tomorrow, far better to walk away and stick to his original plan.
By the time he returned downstairs Mike Halliday and Maureen Kerrigan were gone. He had intended to strike up a conversation, as he was fairly sure that Halliday would have noticed the man head upstairs. It looked like nothing much got by him. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he quit the pub and walked back to his car.
The darkness became more and more impenetrable as he neared the farm. The stars twinkled cold and remote above. His window down, he inhaled the myriad frost-tipped scents of the night. A scream pierced the air. Another small furry life snuffed out by a ravenous bird of prey.
Confident that he had not been followed, he dimmed his headlights and turned into the farmyard.
He turned off the engine and tapped lightly on the door. Stirling let him in. He was drawn and tense. Farrell already knew from their last major case that he was someone more comfortable policing from an office than out in the field. DC Thomson seemed nervous but game for the upcoming challenge. He smiled reassuringly at him.
‘One more day to go, Davey boy, then we’re pulling you out of this hellhole.’
‘Thank Christ, for that, sir,’ he said, then reddened.
‘Och, you’ll be bopping the night away in The Venue or Chancers by the weekend,’ said Farrell.
‘I’ve gone right off the countryside,’ said Stirling.
‘I take it you’ve had no more texts,’ said Farrell.
‘Not a thing,’ said Stirling. ‘The Operation seems to be a go.’
‘Has DI Moore been in touch to update you on today’s developments?’
‘Aye, that she has,’ said Stirling. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard about Fiona Murray. Some carry-on that.’
‘You’re sure she won’t tip them off?’ asked DC Thomson.
‘As sure as I can be. She’s going to walk completely if she cooperates, so that’s a huge incentive, not to mention the need to build bridges with her remaining daughter. A bit more challenging if she’s stuck behind bars in Scotland.’
‘Walk the lad through it one more time,’ said Stirling.
‘Go and pick up the painting from inside the ventilation shaft at the disabled toilet down at Kirkcudbright Harbour. It’ll have been deposited there by Fiona Murray, who’ll have swapped the real painting back from the forgery and placed a tracker within it. Drive the tractor forty-eight miles to Morrisons, in Stranraer. Take the package and deposit it in the boot of an empty Ford Escort, registration number, SH61 DYF, for which you’ll have been given a spare key. Then collect the brown envelope with your pay-off, lock the boot, and saunter into the store café with a paper under your arm. Order a cooked breakfast and remain there for one hour exactly. When you leave, simply return to the tractor and drive back to the farm, where you’ll await further instructions.’
‘Do you reckon they’ll lead you to the ringleader?’ asked DC Thomson.
‘I certainly hope so, but either way we’re going to pick up Hugo Mortimer tomorrow. Once he’s in custody you guys can make your way to the station in Dumfries.’
He glanced at his watch. Time to move, so he could intercept Mhairi.
He shook DC Thomson’s hand on the way out.
‘Good luck, lad, play it safe and by the book and you’ll be fine. We’ll have your back, never fear.’
It was completely dark by the time he left. Driving as fast as the hairpin bends would allow, he made it to the harbour in Kirkcudbright in record time. Quickly he walked up to Ivy House. Checking he was unobserved, he slipped over the wall into the wood opposite and concealed himself behind a tree from where he had a good vantage point. He didn’t have long to wait. A figure was coming up the hill. Something about the build and gait seemed familiar, even though it was dark. As they reached the entrance to Ivy House, Farrell noticed that the face was completely obscured by a scarf and a beanie hat. It was Paul Moretti. Suddenly he stopped just before the entrance to the drive where he was partially shielded by an overgrown shrub. Farrell held his breath, staring intently. What was he up to? The scarf was unwound and placed in a backpack. The hat came off. He still couldn’t see the face. Then, as the figure straightened and pulled on a different hat, Farrell’s heart nearly stopped. It was Penelope Spence. She casually glanced to her left and right then entered the driveway to Ivy House.
As soon as the thought popped into his head he knew it to be true. Penelope Spence was Paul Moretti. The more he thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. He almost laughed out loud. That picture of Hugo for the Lomax Prize. Payback with knobs on, if she’d had the nerve to go through with it.
The smile left his face abruptly. He couldn’t, try as he might, see Penelope Spence as Ailish’s killer. If it wasn’t Moretti, then who could it possibly be?