LITMIR.BIZ

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art award. His career was about to take off. It was all starting to happen for him.’

      ‘How many people knew he’d been shortlisted?’

      ‘Probably half of Dumfries by the time she’d done shouting about it,’ said George, giving his wife an affectionate pat on the arm. ‘She was that proud of him.’

      ‘When did you last speak to him?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘He normally phoned on a Sunday evening, no matter what,’ Doreen said. ‘But we didn’t hear from him last night. Now we know why.’ A thought occurred, and she turned to her husband, her hand over a mouth stretched in agony.

      ‘Oh God, George, maybe if we’d phoned him, instead of letting it go, we could have stopped him, changed his mind.’ She broke down once more, and PC Green put her arm around her making low soothing noises.

      ‘You mustn’t think like that,’ said Farrell.

      ‘We thought he must be out celebrating still with friends, didn’t want to cramp his style,’ said his father.

      ‘Could you give a list of his friends’ names and addresses to PC Rosie Green, as soon as is convenient? They might be able to help us with filling in a timeline.’

      ‘Well, the thing is, we’ve never met any of them,’ said Doreen. ‘Not his artist friends anyway. There are a couple of lads he was at school with in Dumfries that he saw once in a blue moon.’

      ‘I see,’ said Farrell. ‘Did Monro have a girlfriend?’

      ‘He’d been seeing a Dumfries girl, Nancy Quinn, for a couple months,’ said Doreen. ‘We met her once and she seemed nice enough. They went skiing together in December.’

      ‘Had he ever suffered from depression?’

      His parents looked at each other.

      ‘You might as well, tell me,’ said Farrell. ‘We’ll have to request his medical records as part of our enquiries.’

      ‘He suffered from depression a few years ago. He got in with a group of artists,’ said Doreen.

      ‘Bloody hippie commune, more like,’ said George. ‘From what I could gather they spent as much time on sex and drugs as they did on their art.’

      ‘It didn’t suit him,’ said Doreen. ‘He wasn’t brought up to that kind of lifestyle. He became very low and so we fetched him home. A few months later he was right as rain. He never looked back, did he George?’

      ‘How long ago was this?’ asked Farrell.

      ‘Three years or so,’ replied Doreen.

      ‘Painted up a storm ever since. A new girlfriend as well. For him to kill himself now? Well it doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ said George.

      Farrell was inclined to agree with him, but kept his counsel.

      PC Green leaned forward.

      ‘Doreen have you been in touch with Nancy yet?’

      She shook her head, eyes welling with tears once more.

      ‘Not yet. We thought it best to come in first, so we had some proper information to give her. She lives in Dumfries, so we’ll head there after this.’

      ‘We’ll need her contact details,’ said Farrell.

      Doreen rooted about in her handbag and wrote them down on a scrap of paper, which she then passed across.

      ‘The note,’ said George. ‘We need to know what it said.’

      Wishing he could spare them this pain, Farrell opened the file in front of him and passed a copy across.

      Doreen burst into tears and leant against her husband for support. George, however, kept staring at the letter, his brows drawn together as though puzzled.

      Farrell leaned forward, sensing his hesitation.

      ‘Something’s not right about the signature. It’s like it is his writing but it’s not his writing at the same time,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m not making any sense. Doreen, love what do you think?’

      She visibly pulled herself together and stared at the words again.

      ‘I know what you mean but I can’t put my finger on it.’

      ‘There was an almost empty bottle of whisky found beside him. It’s possible he’d been drinking,’ said Farrell.

      ‘No way!’ said George. ‘He loathed the stuff. Our son was raised in a working-class home, Inspector. He was a beer drinker. He might have had the odd nip to be sociable, but I don’t see him sitting there, knocking it back on his own.’

      Farrell noticed it was close to noon. Time to wrap things up.

      ‘I can promise you one thing,’ he said. ‘At this stage we’re keeping an open mind and considering all possibilities. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of PC Green, who has now been appointed as your Family Liaison Officer and will keep you advised of any further developments.’

      ‘Once you’ve seen Mr and Mrs Stevenson out, I’d like you to come straight back up for the briefing,’ he said to PC Green.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Farrell walked along to the briefing with a heavy heart. He knew he should be relatively immune to the suffering of parents after all these years in the force, but their grief always burrowed its way under his skin.

       Chapter Five

      Farrell walked in to the MCA room and held up his hand for silence. He noticed a few puzzled faces wondering why they were investigating an apparently open-and-shut case with such vigour. The crime scene photos had been put up on the wall. They showed the deceased slumped over in the chair with the gun on the floor beside him. A copy of the suicide note was up there as well, together with a picture of the whisky bottle and glass on the table.

      ‘This may or may not be a case of suicide,’ he stated. ‘Although there are some aspects that support a theory of suicide, there are certain elements that don’t fit with that scenario.

      ‘The preliminary time of death suggests that he died around fifteen hours before he was found by Mrs Murray, at 9 a.m. Rigor was at its peak when the doctor examined him thirty minutes later. That would suggest he died at around 6.30 p.m. the night before. It would have been pitch-black, yet the lights were off and the curtains closed.’

      ‘Was there a lamp near the body that he could have switched off at the last minute?’ asked DS Byers.

      ‘There was a standard lamp beside the opposite chair, but not at the one he was sitting in. The other seat was also more worn, which tends to suggest it was where he normally sat. In addition, there were two rim marks on the table, but only one glass. According to the cleaner he had two crystal glasses, but we only found one.’

      The faces before him still looked blank.

      ‘It could be suicide, but we need to exclude foul play and, at the moment, I feel far from being able to do that,’ he said.

      ‘Did he have a history of depression?’ asked DS Stirling.

      ‘Once, a few years ago, according to the parents but nothing recently. Can you requisition the medical records? Phone the police surgeon, Joe Allison, Kirkcudbright. Monro Stevenson was his patient as it happens.’

      Stirling nodded and made a note. The oldest officer in the room, he was counting down the months to his retirement.

      ‘A neighbour also mentioned a car going down the lane not long before the likely time of death. There’s no way out from that lane but, rather than doubling back straight away, it didn’t return for a while. So he may have had a visitor in the

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