‘Could you confirm your name and date of birth?’ asked Farrell, hoping he was writing on the correct page in his notebook.
‘Paul Moretti, 2nd August 1973.’
His voice was hoarse, and he was muffled up in many layers to withstand the freezing temperature inside. He wore a hat with flaps over the ears and dark sunglasses.
‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod from Dumfries,’ said Farrell. ‘We’re investigating the death of Monro Stevenson.’
‘Yes, I heard. A shocking business.’
‘Did you know the deceased?’ asked Mhairi.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Moretti. ‘The art community in Kirkcudbright is very incestuous.’
‘When did you first meet him?’
The figure in the gloom changed position. There was a pause. ‘I didn’t say that I had met him. We’ve never been introduced. However, I knew who he was.’
‘Congratulations on being shortlisted for the Lomax Prize, by the way,’ said Mhairi.
‘Thank you.’
He didn’t sound that happy about it, she thought.
‘Did you know that Monro and another local artist were shortlisted as well?’ asked Farrell.
‘Yes.’
‘When was the last time you saw Monro Stevenson?’ asked Farrell.
‘I don’t see much of anybody. However, I do remember seeing him one night about two weeks ago.’
‘You can’t be more precise?’ asked Farrell.
‘It was the first half of the week, not long after the weekend. So, a Monday or a Tuesday.’
‘What time of day?’
‘It was late, around 10 p.m. I had been out for my nightly walk.’
‘What was he doing when you saw him?’
‘He was having an argument with someone at the top of a close on the High Street.’
‘Who was he arguing with?’ asked Farrell.
‘I couldn’t say. I was some distance away.’
‘Could you describe the man?’
‘He was tall, powerfully built.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He was smoking a cigar. I could see the tip glowing; that’s all I can tell you.’
‘How can you be sure it was Monro Stevenson?’
Again, Moretti paused and shifted in his seat.
‘I’d seen his photo on leaflets in the area and also the local paper.’
Mhairi exchanged a glance with Farrell. She could see Moretti more clearly now that her eyes were adjusting. He was sitting on the opposite side of the room where the darkness seemed even more impenetrable. However, she could tell that he had long legs, suggestive of height, and despite, all the layers, she could see that he was quite slight, possibly even emaciated.
‘Have you always had to live in the dark like this, sir?’ she asked.
‘No. It’s been seven years since my condition first manifested.’
‘May I ask what your condition is?’ asked Farrell.
‘Polymorphic Light Eruption. Basically, an allergy to sunlight.’
‘Did you live in Kirkcudbright, before you developed the allergy?’
‘No.’
It was like pulling teeth, thought Mhairi.
‘Would you say Monro had any enemies?’ asked Farrell.
‘I wouldn’t have thought that he was sufficiently interesting to make enemies,’ said Moretti. ‘Anyway, I heard he killed himself?’
Wow, thought Mhairi. Say what you really mean, why don’t you?
‘We’re looking into all possibilities,’ said Farrell.
‘I see,’ said Moretti. ‘Perhaps he was interesting after all?’
They stood up to leave.
‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ said Farrell. They left the way they came and returned to the car.
***
‘That was one seriously creepy guy. And before you jump onto the moral high ground, it’s got nothing to do with his condition,’ said Mhairi.
‘I agree. It felt like he was hiding from more than the light.’
‘I don’t know about you, but I got the feeling he knew more about Monro than he was willing to let on. But why?’
‘That’s what we’ve got to figure out,’ replied Farrell.
Their final port of call was a handsome stone building in the High Street, a few doors down from Broughton House which held the Hornel Collection.
‘Not short of a bob or two then,’ said Farrell.
‘Must be nice,’ sighed Mhairi.
Farrell looked for a bell, but there wasn’t one, so he lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop. Moments later the door swung back and a familiar face appeared. It was Fiona Murray, the housekeeper who had happened upon the body of Monro Stevenson. Dour as ever, she didn’t crack a smile but simply stood aside to let them enter.
‘Mr Forbes is expecting you,’ she said, gesturing to a door on the right of the handsome wood-panelled hall. ‘He’ll be down shortly.’
The door led into a study, exquisitely furnished with antiques. Mhairi wandered over to the marble fireplace and inspected the photos. Her eye then alighted on an embossed invitation to a weekend shooting party at some big toff’s house. So he was a fully paid up member of the hunting and shooting brigade? She loathed that crowd.
Lionel Forbes entered the room and strode towards them exuding bonhomie and more than a hint of expensive cologne. Tall, broad and muscular, he was wearing fine tweed trousers teamed with a lilac shirt and purple silk waistcoat. He definitely had charisma, thought Mhairi. A wee bit too much finesse for her taste though. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him eating a fish supper in front of the telly like her Ian. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine DI Moore doing that either.
‘DI Farrell and DC McLeod,’ said Farrell stepping forward to shake his hand.
‘How can I be of assistance, officers? But first, where are my manners? Can I offer you some tea?’ he asked, gesturing to a rich brown leather couch, which made Mhairi want to kick off her shoes as soon as she sat down.
‘Thank you, no,’ said Farrell.
Mhairi resisted the urge to glare at him. Her stomach was starting to rumble. Farrell had no conception of what low blood sugar could do to a girl.
‘I understand that you’ve recently been assisting DI Moore with an art fraud investigation,’ Farrell said.
‘Yes, a challenging case from what I can gather.’
His interest sounded purely professional. No warmth towards DI Moore that she could detect. She gave herself a mental shake. Concentrate! This was what happened when she got hungry. Her mind lurched all over the place like a drunken sailor.
‘As someone who is very well connected to the art world we were wondering