LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Twelve

      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.