‘Not at all, really. Our paths rarely crossed. He’s allergic to sunlight, poor chap. Breaks out in burns and blisters if he goes out during the day. He had his own key.’
‘Did you know he’s been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize too?’ Mhairi asked.
‘My, he’s a dark horse,’ she said, clearly surprised.
‘Is any of his work hung in here?’ asked Farrell.
She grimaced a little.
‘No, it’s not really my cup of tea. To be honest, I find it distasteful. I believe he sells a fair bit to foreign collectors. Certainly, he always paid his rent bang on the nail, so he must do all right out of it.’
‘Distasteful, how?’
‘He likes to paint dead things, animals, birds, that sort of thing. He showed me one once, wanted me to sell some in the gallery. It was all I could do not to shudder in front of him. There’s a big market for it abroad, he said. I gave the studio a wide berth when he was in it. Worried about what I might find in there. He did leave it spotless when he left though, so I can’t complain.’
‘Do you have his home address?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Yes, he lives at Lavender Cottage. Head back out of town then take the third turning on the right into Silvercraigs Road. The cottage is at the top of the hill on the left.’
Farrell handed her his card.
‘If anything else occurs to you in relation to Monro Stevenson then please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’
‘Mike Halliday, the man who lives in the studio now, is an artist too. He might be able to help you. I think he was quite friendly with Monro.’
‘Thank you, we’ll swing by on the way out.’
They walked around the side of the building and found the studio entrance. A tall, muscular, clean-shaven man in his early thirties was sitting on a rustic bench against the wall, in a small garden that was overflowing with snowdrops and crocuses. A small blue and white fishing boat sat on a trailer, adding to the charm. He drained the dregs of his cup and stood up as they approached. He smiled at Mhairi, and she smiled back.
‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ Farrell said, leaning over to shake his hand.
‘Mike Halliday, pleased to meet you,’ he said. His expression became grave.
‘Are you here about Monro?’
‘Yes,’ said Farrell. ‘Did you know the deceased well?’
‘Well enough,’ he said. ‘I would never have had him pegged to do something like that in a million years, though.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Mhairi.
‘He was really sound. Cheery enough whenever I came across him. Mind you, I hadn’t seen him for a while. I used to meet him in the pub for a beer now and then, but he’d been off the grid for the last three or four months I reckon.’
‘Were you aware he’d been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize?’ asked Mhairi.
‘I’d heard that. Funny time to check out.’
‘Did you enter as well?’
‘Me? Heck, no. I’m just a jobbing artist painting pretty pictures for the tourists,’ he said. ‘I’ve come to terms with my place in the pecking order.’
Something about the way his mouth twisted made Farrell suspect he hadn’t come to terms with it at all.
‘I understand he used to be part of a group of artists known as The Collective?’
A flicker of anger flitted across Halliday’s face, so quickly Farrell couldn’t be sure it had ever been there.
‘Aye, well, nobody’s perfect,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Hugo Mortimer was shortlisted as well. Are you familiar with his work?’ asked Farrell.
‘He made quite a name for himself a while back. Even the critics loved him. But, as far as I’m aware, he hasn’t exhibited for years. I was completely gobsmacked when I heard he’d made the cut. I would’ve thought his brain would be completely fried by now.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mhairi.
‘Well, he’s into all that hallucinogenic crap, isn’t he? Fancies himself a modern-day Byron. Be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic.’
‘So you’re not a fan, then,’ said Mhairi.
Halliday laughed.
‘Sorry for sounding all bitter and twisted. I’m not the only jobbing artist around here who’s had to put up with that lot lording it over us. They act as though they’re at the forefront of the renaissance instead of some sad middle-aged swingers.’
‘If they’re not commercially successful then what do they live on?’ asked Farrell.
‘Rumour has it that Penelope Spence keeps them all afloat with a family inheritance. I’ve certainly never heard of any of them doing a day’s honest graft for a living.’
Halliday glanced at his watch then got to his feet.
‘If there’s nothing else?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Farrell, ‘I don’t suppose you know the remaining local artist shortlisted? Paul Moretti?’
‘Can’t help you there,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen any of his work, but I believe he’s a committed artist, all right. He’d have to be, to be holed up in that cottage day in day out, painting in the dark. Enough to drive you quietly insane, I should think.’
‘Known associates?’ asked Farrell.
‘None, that I’m aware of.’
‘Does he show his work locally?’
‘No, I’d have heard. I don’t even know what kind of stuff he’s into.’
‘The gallery owner, Janet, said he painted dead stuff, animals and birds?’ said Farrell.
‘Did she now?’ he said, his expression unreadable. ‘I would take that with a pinch of salt. He probably just didn’t want Janet poking her nose in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Farrell. ‘Appreciate you helping us out.’
‘Any time,’ he replied with a warm smile, disappearing off back into his studio.
Ten minutes later they were picking their way up an uneven garden path to the front door of a dark cottage, overshadowed by the looming granite cliff behind. Closed shutters stared sightlessly into the distance, paint peeling like some scabrous disease.
Farrell hammered on the door. The blinds were down but given what they had been told, Moretti could still be in. They were on the verge of giving up when the door opened a crack.
‘Give me a couple of minutes to get away from the light then come in closing the door behind you,’ said a disembodied voice.
OK, this is creepy, thought Mhairi as she followed Farrell in to the dim interior. The house smelled cold and damp.
‘Turn right,’ called the voice.
They felt along the wall to the doorway.
‘Please, come in and take a seat,’ said the voice.