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to the death of Monro Stevenson,’ said Farrell.

      ‘But I thought that was suicide? That’s what everyone is saying.’

      ‘At this stage we must consider all possible avenues of enquiry,’ said Farrell.

      Was hunger causing paranoia to set in or did Forbes look a little startled, wondered Mhairi, detecting the aroma of something delicious seeping under the door.

      ‘What do you want to know?’ Forbes asked, settling back on the couch opposite.

      ‘What can you tell me about The Collective?’

      Forbes grimaced.

      ‘A bunch of dilettantes. They live in that crumbling mansion, Ivy House, heading out towards Dundrennan.’

      ‘One of them has been shortlisted for the Lomax Prize,’ said Farrell.

      ‘Hugo Mortimer. I was rather surprised when I heard. Don’t get me wrong. His early work showed great promise. Twenty years ago, he was the latest rising star in the art world. Instead of knuckling down and cementing his reputation, however, he succumbed to the wildest excesses and fetched up here. A broken down dissolute has-been.’

      His colour had risen as he spoke.

      ‘A bit harsh?’ ventured Mhairi.

      Forbes gave her a charming smile.

      ‘Perhaps. I simply hate to see real talent squandered. He could have been one of the best artists of his generation. I shall view his work with interest once it is released for public consumption.’

      ‘Are you aware of any particular connection between him and the deceased?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Other than the fact that they were both artists, you mean? Well, Monro used to be in cahoots with that lot. He lived with them for over a year. Fortunately, he came to his senses and finally saw them for what they were.’

      ‘How many of them are there up there?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Currently three, although the place used to be stuffed with hippie types. Looked like most of them needed a good wash,’ Forbes said, wrinkling his nose.

      ‘So, Hugo Mortimer and who else?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Penelope Spence and Patrick Rafferty.’

      ‘All artists, I take it?’

      ‘Yes, all talented in their own way, particularly Penelope, but broken. They live in their own squalid bubble and have a rather inflated sense of their own importance.’

      A lot of that going around, thought Mhairi.

      ‘How familiar are you with their work?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘I used to be, until around three years ago when that young Irish girl ran away. After that, they rather dropped off the radar. Mine and anyone else who matters.’

      ‘Until now,’ said Farrell.

      ‘Yes, I have to admit my curiosity has been rather piqued as to the nature of the work that so impressed the judges.’

      ‘What about the other shortlisted candidate?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Paul Moretti?’

      ‘Yes. What can you tell us about him?’

      ‘Bit of an enigma. He keeps himself to himself. I’ve never even seen his work. Rumour has it that it is rather out there, even by Turner Prize standards.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I believe he is sought after by private collectors who are looking for something a little more exotic. Of course, that’s only a rumour. Nobody knows for sure.’

      ‘Did you know him prior to his allergies developing?’

      ‘No. He moved here from elsewhere. I had never heard of him. It could all be a cunning marketing ploy of course, creating an aura of mystery.’

      ‘And the deceased, Monro Stevenson?’

      ‘Very talented. Tragic to see an emerging artist cut off in his prime like that.’ Forbes sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret.

      ‘When was the last time you saw him, sir?’ asked Mhairi.

      ‘Let me think … It would be two days before the body was found. I walked past him down by the harbour sitting on a bench and staring out to the sea. He looked rather wretched, which I thought was odd given recent events. I didn’t wish to intrude, so I bade him good morning and continued on my way. I believe he may have suffered from depression in the past?’

      Farrell didn’t answer the question, rising instead to his feet, followed by Mhairi.

      ‘Thank you so much for your time, Mr Forbes. May we contact you, if we have any further questions at a later stage?’

      ‘Certainly,’ Forbes said, standing to usher them out. ‘Happy to help in any way that I can.’

      ‘Could I possibly use your bathroom before I leave?’ asked Mhairi.

      Forbes paused a fraction too long, then smiled.

      ‘Yes, of course, let me show you. These old houses are a bit of a maze.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Mhairi, and walked with him upstairs.

      ‘In here,’ he smiled, opening a door into the most lavish bathroom, Mhairi had ever seen. She took her time, applying the expensive hand lotion once she had finished. So this was how the other half lived?

      She was a little disconcerted to see him standing outside the door waiting for her and wished she hadn’t been quite so free with the scented toiletries on display.

      ‘I could have found my own way down,’ she said.

      ‘Nonsense, I like to take good care of my guests,’ he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

      Jerk, she thought. Probably thought I’d run off with his fancy aftershave. They walked back downstairs in silence.

      ‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ she said formally as he opened the front door. Farrell was already in the car with the engine running.

      ‘Goodbye, DC McLeod,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again.’

      ***

      ‘Not if I can help it,’ she added silently, as she jumped into the passenger seat.

      ‘What did you think of him?’ she asked.

      ‘He seemed all right,’ said Farrell. ‘Bit full of himself but probably an occupational hazard for an art critic.’

      ‘I thought he was a pretentious poser, but DI Moore certainly seems to rate him,’ said Mhairi.

      Farrell visibly relaxed.

      ‘Oh well then, he must be fairly sound. I trust her judgement,’ said Farrell.

      Honestly, for a smart bloke he could be so dense at times, thought Mhairi. Well she wasn’t going to spell it out for him. He’d only take her head off. DI Moore could take care of herself.

      ‘Are we going to see The Collective now?’ she asked.

      ‘No, I reckon we’ll hold that over until tomorrow. I want to check back in with the team. These artists. Quite an intense lot, aren’t they?’

      ‘You can say that again! When all’s said and done, it’s only splashing a bit of paint around, isn’t it?’

      ‘I’d keep that view to yourself in Kirkcudbright or they’ll run you out of town,’ said Farrell.

      The radio crackled into life. The remains of a body had been discovered on Dundrennan Firing Range just a few miles from Kirkcudbright. They were to attend the scene and secure it at once.

      ‘I don’t believe

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