Artefacts of the Dead

by Tony Black

  Valentine nodded. ‘Right, let’s get this bloody thing over with.’

  ‘Is there anything you want to ask?’ said Coreen, the suggestion seemed loaded with the assumption that she would be able to add anything to what the detective had already discerned for himself; his pulse was racing at the inference, but he let it pass and declined to answer.

  On the way to the press room, Valentine turned to McAlister. ‘Just sit beside me and look pretty. I’m not opening the floor up to questions, so I’ll read the statement and leave. Got it?’

  The DC nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  As they walked in, the pair were greeted by a wall of chatter. There seemed to be more journalists that Valentine had expected; it made him wonder where they had all come from and what they expected to receive. There were one or two familiar faces with whom he exchanged nods, but the press pack was a mutable group, constantly changing. The journalists seemed to get younger every time he saw them – some looked to be ages with his eldest daughter – and he wondered what possible weight they could bring to a news piece on a murder as harrowing as that of James Urquhart.

  The officers settled themselves behind the desk and Valentine adjusted the microphone. He watched McAlister fiddle with the water carafe and put out a glass for each of them. As it was slid along the table in his direction he frowned with derision, for no reason he could fathom. He accepted the glass with a curt, ‘Thanks.’ And then they were off.

  ‘OK ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention please,’ said the DI. The room fell into a suitably poignant silence. ‘At the Ayr municipal refuse site yesterday morning, a member of the public raised the alarm with police about a possible deceased white male.’

  A few of the reporters started to rustle notebooks; others adjusted recording equipment.

  Valentine continued: ‘After investigation and having fully secured the site, officers from King Street station confirmed the presence of a white male in his late fifties who had been left on the tip. As a result of that initial investigation, a post-mortem was carried out, which confirmed officers’ suspicions that we are dealing with a murder inquiry.’

  One of the reporters leaned forward in his chair and called out, ‘Can we have a name?’

  Valentine started to shuffle the papers in front of him. ‘As I said, this is a murder investigation and we would appreciate your patience with regard to what information we can release at this stage.’

  The reporter called out again. ‘Is there any truth in the fact that the deceased is a stockbroker called James Urquhart?’

  Valentine stood up and pointed to the reporter. ‘Are you Cameron Sinclair?’

  The reporter tapped the ID badge on a lanyard round his neck. ‘Of the Glasgow-Sun . . . yes.’

  Valentine collected up his notes and cut the air with the blue folder. ‘That’s the end of the press conference everyone. I’m not taking questions, so if you’d like to make your way to the door please.’

  He moved out from the desk, took brisk strides towards the front row of reporters and laid a firm hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. ‘I think I’d like to turn the tables and ask you a few questions, Mr Sinclair.’

  13

  Leanne Dunn woke with a humming in her head and a dull, persistent ache in her stomach. As she eased herself off the edge of the bed, she felt her cold foot touch the bare floorboard and jerked it back. At once she knew this was a mistake, as it sent the bed shoogling and waves of nausea coursing through her already delicate digestive system. She tried to right herself, placing her body weight on her elbow, and vomited onto the bedspread. The sight of the dark, liquefied bile made her retch again and more malodorous fluid was expressed from her mouth. As she rocked on the bed’s edge, sharp pains pressed into her clenched stomach. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and watched as the floor swayed beneath her.

  Leanne felt worse than she had felt in a while, but she knew that was coming to an end because Gillon was due to arrive and collect the night’s takings. He always brought a few wraps – and she’d had a good night, scoring a ton-fifty – so she’d be clear of the nagging symptoms of withdrawal soon.

  Leanne found the strength to attempt another rise from the bed. At first she placed her hands either side of her, but the give in the mattress threatened to disrupt her already shifting centre of gravity. She brought her hands together and wrung them like lathering soap; her mouth was dry now, she needed water. She looked down at her thin, bruised legs; they were as pale and white as her feet, the only indicators of colour being the blackness between her toes. Gillon would castigate her for that: he didn’t like his girls looking like street trash. She knew she had to wash before he arrived or he’d remind her of the rules with his fists or, worse, withhold the precious wraps.

  Leanne found strength enough to plant her feet and stood holding the door handle like an old woman with a walking stick. The expanse of floor between her room and the kitchen seemed an endless savannah – a familiar territory but one beyond her – and no matter how hard she tried to summon the determination to move she couldn’t find it. Her back ached where she stood and the calf muscles beneath her screamed with the pressure of body weight. Leanne’s knees buckled, sending shocks through her thin thighs. She knew she couldn’t support herself any longer; a wave of pressure from an invisible avalanche above suddenly descended and she was floored.

  The sound of Leanne’s bony frame landing on the bare boards was a pathetic thud, like shopping spilling from a burst bag. Her eye socket had connected with the floor and the stinging sensation told her that there would be swelling. Gillon wouldn’t like that: black eyes were against the rules. When he belted his girls, he made sure the consequences stayed out of sight. The thin, pain-wracked bag of bones that lay on the bare floor with the swirling balls of dust and the smattering of condom wrappers didn’t resemble a human being. There was no life force on show, no strength or even a dim indicator of breathing. It took some more time for Leanne to summon the courage to attempt a move – which, when it came, transpired to be a shuddering of shoulders as she sobbed into the pale, dirt-wreathed floor of her Lochside flat.

  An hour or so after Leanne passed out, she awoke shivering again with a thin tendril of drool tethering her mouth to the floor. The incessant whooshing of her gut seemed to have passed, supplanted with the empty feeling that she carried inside her most days. There was still a persistent thud in the front of her head, but the debilitating cramps had eased enough to at least make crawling along the floor an option. She reached the bathroom door slithering on her belly like war wounded and hauled herself into the shower cubicle, grabbing the handle to release welcome jets of water.

  As the shower came to life, Leanne gasped for air. She gulped a few mouthfuls of water as she tried to adjust to the assault on her senses, but it didn’t take her long to feel the soothing effects of the water on her weary body. She was still cold and riddled with aches and pains, but as she curled in the base of the shower cubicle she began to feel like a return to the real world was possible. She let the water pour over her, allowing herself to believe that rejuvenation was taking place, but all the while knowing she needed to face the world outside. When she released herself from the shower, Leanne found there was no towel, so she draped herself in a bathrobe, retrieved from the floor. She was cold and shivery, but there was no place to hide from her responsibilities. Gillon would be arriving soon and she would have little time to herself before the day’s punters started to appear. She ran her fingers through her wet hair and tried to focus on her face in the mirror’s reflection. Her eye had started to yellow after connecting with the boards earlier, but she could cover that with make-up; it would be another day or so before the actual shiner showed and Gillon had anything to complain about.

  Leanne’s feet were dragging as she made her way through to the kitchen. The flat was cold and bare. There were chairs in the living room, but they were hard-backed – the remnants of a discarded dining set that Gillon had made he
r stack into the back of his white van after spotting them at the side of the road. She didn’t want them in the flat, it made the place look like a dentist’s waiting room, but Gillon told her he wasn’t supplying the flat for her to get comfortable in: it was where she worked, it was where she turned tricks.

  Leanne felt her body’s functions returning. She poured herself a glass of water and turned on the portable television that sat on the kitchen worktop. The picture was hazy, flecked with snow, but she wasn’t overly interested in the content anyway; it was merely distraction she wanted. She leaned over and reclaimed her packet of ten Club and the blue plastic lighter. As she lit up, she leaned on the side of the sink and watched the news playing. She didn’t know why the news had her attention until she realised that she was staring at a familiar scene – the town of Ayr.

  ‘Holy . . .’

  Leanne moved closer to the television screen and turned up the volume. The newscaster was the same one she had seen a hundred times, but it seemed strange to see her so close to home.

  ‘Police have confirmed the recovery of a body from Ayr’s tip and that they are dealing with a murder investigation.’

  The reporter sounded so formal, not like the people Leanne knew. There were some people she spoke to – punters – who could speak posh, but they tended to keep their mouths shut.

  The journalist continued with the report: ‘Police have refused to confirm the victim’s name until family members have formally identified him, but a number of unofficial sources have claimed the victim is a local man, believed to work in the banking industry . . .’

  Leanne jumped away from the sink as a loud knock sounded on her front door. She placed her cigarette on the rim of the sink and looked away to the other side of the flat, but felt herself drawn back to the television screen.

  ‘Leanne . . . open up!’

  She heard more knocking on the door.

  ‘Leanne . . .’

  She recognised the voice, but it wasn’t Gillon’s. She had expected Gillon, but this voice was a shock. She made her way to the front door and stood with her hand pressed hard against the jamb.

  ‘You need to go away, Danny’s coming and he doesn’t like you here . . .’

  ‘Leanne if you don’t open this bloody door, I’ll knock it down and I’ll go through Danny Gillon next!’

  Leanne’s hands were trembling as she removed the chain from the door and turned the key. There was a sudden gust of stale air from the close as Duncan Knox pushed in. The large man was sweating, his hair mussed and his cheeks ruddy and bulging as he stomped past Leanne and made his way into the kitchen.

  ‘This . . . this . . . you’ve seen it then?’ he was roaring, his voice pitched high and bursting with emotion.

  As Leanne entered the kitchen, she saw Knox standing in front of the television screen with his hands pressed tight to his face. She had never seen him that way before; he was always so calm: threatening, but calm. Knox was a large man and he liked to throw his weight around: as Leanne appeared at his side, he reached out and grabbed her, and the dressing gown she was wearing opened up and exposed her scrawny breasts. She shrieked out theatrically as Knox pulled her towards him.

  ‘Shut up! Haven’t you seen what’s going on?’ He pointed to the television screen, but Leanne’s eyes were pulled towards his face; his jaw jutted forward, exposing broken and cracked teeth that poked up like tombstones. ‘Look, look!’ he roared.

  As Leanne turned to look at the screen once more, she retraced her earlier viewing before the knock at the door and pieced the two ends of the report together. It was a murder investigation in their hometown, that much was certain.

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ she said.

  Knox pushed her away and stamped his feet towards the other end of the kitchen. ‘What’s it got to do with you – are you kidding?’

  ‘I don’t . . . understand.’

  The man in her kitchen seemed beside himself. He slapped his palm off the side of his face and then ran it over his stubbly chin in one sweeping, nervous gesture that signalled his state of mind like a flare. He kept walking, pacing, as he spoke. ‘Don’t you know who that is?’

  ‘No . . .’

  Knox halted. He brought up his hands and waved them either side of his head as he raised his eyes to face the heavens. ‘It’s James Urquhart.’

  The name took a moment to register on Leanne’s memory, but after a few seconds, the realisation of who he was, and what the name meant, sent a spasm of shock through her thin frame. ‘James . . . It’s . . .’

  ‘Yes. Yes . . .’ Knox’s voice was thundering now. He crossed the floor towards Leanne and grabbed her by the shoulders. He was shaking her to and fro as he bellowed into her face. ‘And you better pretend you never laid eyes on him! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?’

  Leanne had no words. Her voice was a part of her that she had lost access to. Her throat was constricted by her own emotion. She was frozen, all over her body; she felt cold.

  ‘Leanne . . . Do you hear me?’ Knox shook her shoulders, and her head lolled on her neck. ‘You never knew James Urquhart. I mean it: you better keep your hole shut about him! For the first time in your bloody life you better learn to keep that hole in your stupid head shut!’

  14

  Valentine had observed Clare for long enough to know what was at the root of her personal problems. Her unhappiness – and it was an all-consuming soul weariness – was caused by her own shallow vapidity. She had surrendered early to the ideals of consumerism and progressed to the point where she measured her daily victories in goods purchased. A takeaway coffee might yield a five-minute high, but a dress or a new pair of shoes could deliver a week’s worth of inner gratification. However, no matter what she bought or how the thrill was pipetted out over a lengthier period of time, the impact on her long-term self-esteem was always negligible, if not outright injurious.

  Valentine had watched over the years as his wife regaled herself with glossy magazines that portrayed a lifestyle truly alien to her – an alternative reality where the beautiful people frolicked under holiday-brochure blue skies. The inference to be taken was always that an Amex with unlimited credit would deliver you from the woes of reality. It was a myth. The world Clare aspired to didn’t exist outside of an ad man’s imagination – it was a creation aimed at those who were wracked by the keenly felt emptiness of their own lives. The real genius was to slot products around the images of supposed happiness: conferring an inanimate object with transformative powers was, on the face of it, absurd, but people like Clare jumped for the brass ring every time.

  Valentine knew his wife had always obsessed about the family home. At first it was interior furnishings and then, when the inside could not be altered any more, the exterior. The need to extend the family home had become a recurring theme for Clare – and one that had come to exhaust Valentine. If they could not afford to extend the home further, it didn’t seem to matter to her. That they had enough space for their needs was of little relevance to Clare either. It seemed the mere act of planning to extend the home was in some way a stepping stone towards the conclusion of the aspiration. Valentine knew if the dream itself was ever realised, it wouldn’t be enough – it was a flame that couldn’t be extinguished. A bigger project or a newer home would soon become his wife’s preoccupation.

  It disturbed Valentine that his wife’s inner life had become so unhealthy, so prosaic. There was no spiritual side to Clare, no intellectual depth. She possessed no desire, it seemed, to expand her life’s reach beyond accumulating material possessions. She was like a woman who had been shelled out and her innards supplanted with a robotic desire to consume. It was a desire that was incapable of ever being quenched, because there was always a new range of clothes to buy or a newer catalogue to leaf through. No matter how many armfuls of purchases she returned with, they didn’t fill the emptiness, meet the need, which it seemed to Valentine grew deeper and deeper by the day. When she became stressed, like
she was now, the obsession intensified. It was as if problems with the girls, or his job, became submerged under mounds of packing foam, crumpled paper, carrier bags, clipped labels and the mountainous remnants of Clare’s shopping sprees.

  As Valentine sat down to dinner, he watched Clare fussing about the kitchen. The dress she wore was new, but the time when he would pass comment on a new item of clothing worn by his wife had passed; now any remark would be met by defensiveness or recriminations. He stored the fact of the dress away, though; if Clare was seeking solace in shopping then it was good to be forearmed with the knowledge.

  She placed his food down in front of him and pulled out her chair.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Valentine.

  ‘It’s dinner,’ said Clare. She sat down beside him and began to pick at the food on her plate.

  ‘Salad, I recognise . . . This looks like chicken or pork, but it’s neither.’

  Clare’s jaws went to work on a mouthful, and when she was finished she spoke. ‘It’s tofu.’

  ‘And what the hell’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It’s good for you is what it is . . . Eat it.’

  Valentine stared at the contents of his plate and turned over a few pieces of tofu. He raised some on his fork and began to chew. He didn’t like the taste. ‘This is pretending to be something . . . but it’s not.’

  Clare shifted her gaze towards the wall and then turned on her husband. ‘No, it’s not. Now eat it.’

  Valentine took a few more desultory mouthfuls and then began to roll the fork around his plate. ‘I saw a pig’s head in the butcher’s once.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was plastic.’

  Clare sighed. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Is that what we’ve got here?’

  His wife dropped her cutlery on the plate; the clatter was ear-splitting. She lowered her head onto her chest and then pushed out her chair and left the room.