‘Dammit!’ shouted DI Moore.
Farrell, Lind, and McLeod glanced at her in alarm. Moore was not one for losing her cool. All four of them were holed up in a tiny office in Kirkcudbright nick, laptops and phones in front of them. DS Stirling was still in the town maintaining his cover, just in case.
‘They’ve only gone and changed the rendezvous point to Johnstonebridge Services. The majority of our resources are committed in the wrong place, leaving DC Thomson without adequate backup. We don’t even know if they’re ultimately headed to Glasgow, Edinburgh or down the M6 to bloody England,’ she said, throwing her chair back to pace around the room.
Lind was already on the phone to Byers, relaying the new intel.
‘We need to think about this,’ said Farrell. ‘Is it even possible that DC Thomson is simply a decoy and that the real painting has been, or is about to be, picked up by someone else? We need to maintain some officers in this area to cover all eventualities.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said DI Moore, calmer now.
‘Lionel Forbes told me this morning that he was headed up to Glasgow to speak to an editor about doing a new arts column for their paper. Perhaps he’s handling the exchange himself?’ she said.
DI Moore texted DC Thomson immediately.
‘Lionel Forbes may be handling exchange himself. Await further instructions.’
‘We’ve got the warrants in place,’ said Lind. ‘DI Moore and I will nip round to Lionel Forbes’s house. Fiona Murray can let us in with her key. I doubt very much that he’s there, but we may garner some clue as to his intentions and obtain evidence in relation to the murder and forging ring that he’s yet to destroy. Kate, did you happen to get his licence plate before you left?’
‘Yes, he drives a silver Mercedes, registration number, LF1 ART.’
Lind keyed in the details to Byers, asking for the car to be traced and discreetly tailed.
‘Frank, you and Mhairi head to Dumfries at the double. DC Thomson’s tracker should keep you informed of his whereabouts. He’ll be much slower than you in the tractor. I’m going to send half the firearms team back as well, but retain the other half here, in case we’re being led on a wild goose chase,’ said Lind.
Farrell and Mhairi swiftly packed up their stuff and left the room.
A few minutes later, Lind and Moore were standing outside Lionel Forbes’s handsome townhouse. They knocked on the door. It immediately swung open and Fiona Murray let them in. Her face was expressionless as usual.
‘He’s not here. I’ve no idea when he’ll be back,’ she said.
‘Where are you meant to be today, Fiona?’ asked DI Moore.
‘Working at Ivy House. I told them I was popping out to get some supplies.’
‘Well, I suggest you pick them up and get back there,’ said DI Moore.
Murray nodded, her skin pulled tight as a drum over her cheekbones. The strain was starting to tell on her.
‘Not long to go until this nightmare is over for you, Fiona,’ said Lind. ‘We need you to keep it together for another few hours. Can you do that?’
She nodded and walked towards the door.
‘I’ll leave you the key. I doubt I’ll be needing it again.’
Once she had left, Moore and Lind got to work. The wax seal, paper and bulbs were no longer in the study desk. Neither was the silencer. Lind glanced at his watch and ran to the back door. Rolling up his sleeves he emptied the wheelie bin. They discovered the missing items double-bagged and taped right at the bottom. There was something else in the bag. A heavy torch with traces of dried blood on it.
They had just retrieved them when they heard the unmistakable sound of the bin lorry approaching.
Lind straightened up, mopping the sweat off his face with a hanky.
‘Bloody hell, that was cutting it fine.’
Abruptly, DI Moore turned on her heel and headed back into the house and up the stairs, with Lind following. She entered the bedroom, her face flaming as she noticed the unmade bed she had just left a few hours ago. Lind said nothing as she flung open the wardrobe and stared around wildly, then dashed into the en suite.
‘What is it?’ asked Lind. ‘Speak to me, Kate.’
‘He’s not coming back,’ she said.
‘What? Are you sure? You said he was meant to be heading to Glasgow. Perhaps he’s intending to stay a few days?’
‘No, he’s taken too much for that. I think he’s going to collect the painting himself and flee abroad with it. I’ve been all through his desk and there’s no sign of a passport anywhere. He must have been waiting to pull off this last big job before running.’
‘Think, Kate. Apart from the silencer in the drawer, did you see any evidence that he owned a gun?’
She thought hard but eventually shook her head.
‘No evidence that I saw, but he would hardly tell me. He may well have access to a gun. There was no record of Monro Stevenson ever having a firearm. Lionel Forbes must have shot him with his own gun, then left it there in the hope it would be passed off as suicide. He could have another.’
She gnawed her bottom lip.
‘This means that DC Thomson is in far more danger than we realized, if he’s tying up loose ends before running,’ said Lind. ‘If Forbes is doing the exchange himself, he might twig that we swapped the real deal back with the forgery. He’s bound to open the package. It means the difference between a life of luxury and a life of penury.’
‘I’m not worried about that,’ said Moore. ‘According to the experts, the forgery was so skilful that it required scientific analysis to reveal it. Even Forbes wouldn’t be able to tell.’
‘What if he finds the tracking device?’ asked Lind.
‘That’s a bigger problem,’ she said, looking worried. ‘The package is sealed shut but if he opens it and roots around he’ll find the tracker. It’s small but visible.’
Lind got on the phone to DS Byers and imparted the latest information. He then rang Farrell.
‘You’re going to have to run point on this, Frank. I can’t get down there in time. I need you to get to Johnstonebridge Services ASAP. Uniforms know to give you a free pass. DS Forsyth is already en route with half the firearms team. We’ve got back up converging from Lockerbie and Moffat stations. Thomson is about fifty minutes out. He’s waiting to hear that you guys are in position. Hurry!’
‘Will do,’ replied Farrell, his knuckles white on the wheel as he pushed his clapped-out Citroen to the max.