by Tony Black
On the way past the Murder Squad’s office Valentine peeked round the door and called over DI McCormack. ‘What’s occurring?’
‘Sorry, boss?’ she said.
‘Anything on the wire?’ said Valentine. ‘I just had Dino shout me down the hall in a hurry.’
‘I haven’t heard anything, I’m afraid. I could ask Jim, if you like.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m on my way in to see her now.’
‘Good luck. Always feels like going on Dragon’s Den to me.’
Valentine smiled. ‘As long as it’s not like The Apprentice. I’ve only just got this job, I don’t want to hear “you’re fired!” quite yet.’
Walking down the hall, the DCI couldn’t resist a glance at his shoes, followed by a grimace at the darkening patch on the pale leather. He wasn’t a superstitious man, despite being the son of a miner with a habit of quoting folklore, but there was something in his programming that occasionally managed to push him that way. Perhaps it was recent events, the sea change that had occurred in him since the stabbing, or the niggling voices that had been with him since.
There had been a row with Clare this morning too, of course, there had to be one of those. Even after the extended holiday to New Zealand, which hadn’t worked, a farce really, that was no more than a sop to his wife’s conscience, but had managed to double his credit card debt. That row wasn’t over either, it had only just begun.
Valentine stood outside the chief super’s office and tried to empty his thoughts. The skin on the back of his neck started prickling – he felt like he was being watched, but when he turned around the hallway was empty. He flushed out the emotion and knocked on the door.
‘Come.’
‘Is now a good time?’ Valentine said.
‘As good a time as any, Bob. In you come.’
Valentine stepped into the office and made his way towards CS Martin’s desk. He settled into the vacant chair and scanned the grey skyline of Ayr in the window behind her. The jagged zigzag of the buildings butted a bleak, cloudless expanse that promised rainfall before the morning’s end. He crossed his legs and felt the muscles in his neck stiffen.
‘Right, so here we are,’ said Martin. She was leaning forward, lacing her fingers and twiddling her thumbs.
‘Yes, that we are.’ Valentine detected a change in mood since he’d met Martin at the vending machine. ‘You mentioned a briefing.’
‘In a minute, Bob.’ The thumbs stopped moving. ‘How did the holiday go?’
‘Fine.’
‘That’s it? Fine?’
‘No, it was good. It was a holiday, what can you say?’
‘Didn’t you go all the bloody way to Australia?’
‘It was New Zealand. It was Clare’s call, I’m not that much of a traveller.’
The chief super pinched her lips. Valentine had told her about his wife’s opposition to him remaining on the force after the stabbing, but she clearly didn’t want to delve into the subject again, not least since he had accepted her offer of a new job. ‘And now you’re back to the grind,’ she said.
‘I am.’
‘Good. Have you touched base with your squad?’
‘Briefly.’
‘And?’
‘DI McCormack seems to be settling in.’
‘I’m not interested in Sylvia settling in, Bob. I should think she would be over the moon with being bumped up to DI. It’s whether or not there’s any tremors I’m interested in.’
‘Tremors?’
‘Yes, y’know, like tremors that might lead to an earthquake.’
Valentine shifted in his chair. ‘Well, DS Donnelly’s nose is obviously going to be a bit out of joint, but he’ll get over it.’
‘He won’t have any choice, Bob.’
‘No.’
‘Certainly not with our workload and the rapidly dwindling pot of resources we have to work with. I need Sylvia to be up to the DI role right away and, if necessary, I want you to spoon-feed her at every step. Do you understand?’
Valentine got the message clearly. ‘You want me to do my new job and also my old job, but bring DS McCormack along for the show.’
‘Not quite how I’d put it, certainly not if HR was in the room, but I suppose we’re on the same page, Bob.’
The CS eased back in her chair and exhaled. She moved from the desk and retrieved a blue folder from the filing cabinet by the window. The sound of the drawer rolling back into place was the high-pitched screech of metal on metal and forced a wince onto her face.
‘That bloody drawer drives me nuts. I swear it’s getting like Communist Russia around here,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll be re-using teabags next . . . Austerity? For everyone but the bastards in Parliament who are writing the rules as they go along.’
Valentine let the CS rant and watched a starling swooping outside the window. Rain was starting to spatter softly on the glass.
‘Right, here we are.’ Martin settled back into her chair and opened the folder; she was flicking pages as she spoke again. ‘I take it you know about the Abbie McGarvie case?’
‘Just what I’ve heard, and what I’ve seen on the news. Missing teenager, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, it’s an interesting case.’
‘Interesting?’
‘Very.’ Martin looked up from the folder. ‘I’ll give you DI Davis’s file, you can take a look for yourself.’
Valentine caught the file as it was flung at him. ‘Why are you giving me this? She’s not been found. Are you telling me you suspect murder?’
‘No, or should that be, I don’t know. There’s some very unusual circumstances surrounding this one. It was the mother who reported the girl missing without the father’s knowledge. The parents have separated and the father has custody. When you get into the file, Bob, you’ll see it’s a total viper’s nest of accusation and counter-accusation. Horrific, almost creepily so, and the kind of details that don’t make for pleasant bedtime reading. Just some of the most vile character assassination going on, and that’s on behalf of both parents as well. Have a shufti at the file and tell me what you think.’
Valentine leaned forward and started to rise. ‘Okay, will do.’
‘No, don’t take it away. I mean just now, Bob . . . Sorry, I should have said, we found a dead girl’s body last night.’
3
The Murder Squad sat facing their screens in almost complete silence, the only sound being the occasional clicking of a computer mouse. As Valentine entered the room he put his hands on his hips and cleared his throat, the sound of which was enough to force DI McCormack to look in his direction.
‘Oh, didn’t see you come in there, boss,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised, it’s like a calculus exam in here. What the hell’s the matter with you all?’
DS Donnelly eased round in his chair, his fingers hovered above the keyboard on the desk for a moment and then he withdrew them to his pockets and spoke, ‘We’re waiting for the bell.’
‘Well, it’s not the bloody bell you were hoping for, Phil, it’s the fire bell,’ said Valentine. ‘Grab your coats and follow me downstairs – home time is going to be a little later today.’
As DI McCormack eased into her jacket she juggled her bag from hand to hand in a practised, well-coordinated move. She was sufficiently speedy to catch the door that was closing in the wake of Valentine’s departure from the room.
‘Boss, what’s the SP?’ she said.
He tossed her a set of car keys. ‘You’re driving. Consider yourself flattered, by the way, it’s my new motor.’
Sylvia looked at the key ring. ‘Audi, very swish.’
‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The Vectra had a bigger boot.’
‘How very practical, and Scottish, of you.’
The DCI sneered at her. ‘If you say I’m starting to sound like my old man I’ll bust you back to DS.’
The remark was picked up by Donnelly, who’d caught up with the front-runners in the
dash to the car park. ‘Will that vacancy be thrown open to the floor, boss, or will somebody just be parachuted in?’
Donnelly’s remark was pointed enough to register a double bullseye, one on Valentine and one on the new DI, but neither responded, opting for a knowing exchange of glances instead. In an effort to change the subject quickly Valentine removed the blue folder from under his arm and held it aloft as he proceeded to descend the stairs.
‘Abbie McGarvie,’ he said. ‘Are any of you familiar with the case?’
‘Missing teen, sir,’ said McCormack.
‘Has she turned up, then?’ said Donnelly.
‘That we don’t know,’ said Valentine. ‘We have a fatality, victim of an RTA, which is looking suspicious. That’s where we’re headed now, a B-road out by Monkton, near enough to Prestwick Airport.’
At the front desk Jim Prentice stood up and saluted, then promptly crumpled into peals of laughter. His hacking laugh could still be heard as the officers reached the swing doors. Valentine stepped aside to hold the handle so the others could pass through, then dispensed a single-digit salute to the desk sergeant.
‘Come on, Bob, that’s just unseemly behaviour for a man of your position,’ said Prentice. ‘I expected better.’
‘You’re right, Jim, we could all do a little better on that front. And you can start by binning that copy of the Mirror you have under the counter – you’re inspiring me to make sure things are a bit more shipshape around here!’
On the road to Monkton, Valentine opened the file on Abbie McGarvie. The note-taking by DI Davis was extensive but the subject matter, even to an officer with Valentine’s experience, made for difficult reading. He had dealt with child abuse cases in the past, but allegations of ritualistic and occultic paedophilia was something entirely new to him.
‘Holy Christ,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ said McCormack.
‘This woman, the mother of Abbie, she’s alleged all kinds of stuff happening to her daughter.’
‘Are you on about what I think you are?’
‘No. I don’t think you could imagine, Sylvia. I’m talking about gang rape and bloody rituals with sacrificial animals and men in robes.’
DS Donnelly leaned in, placing his elbows on the back of the two front seats. ‘Sounds very Aleister Crowley to me.’
‘Who?’ said Valentine.
‘The nutcase that they called the Wickedest Man in the World. He was into all that sort of stuff, magic rituals, summoning the Devil and so on.’
‘You know about this kind of thing?’
‘No, not really. I read a book or two, watched a documentary once. It tends to be discredited, not that I’m saying it doesn’t exist but that maybe those who do it have better PR than their accusers.’
‘Well, that makes some sense. When Dino briefed me she told me to keep the investigation on the down-low; with all these paedophile politicians and grooming gangs on the loose she definitely won’t want any press attention. Tell me more about this Crowley character.’
‘Well, I don’t know that much. I did a stint in Northern when I was in uniform and it was there that I heard rumours about him. Crowley had a house in Inverness-shire, on the banks of Loch Ness – I think it was called Boleskine or something – this was years back, mind you. I think some rock star bought it and then sold it on again. I believe it was burned down.’
‘What rumours did you hear about Crowley?’
‘There was talk of him exhuming bodies from a nearby cemetery for occult rituals. I did hear that Crowley had an underground passage from his house leading to the cemetery where late-night sacrifices were held, but I don’t know if anything was ever actually proven. That’s the problem with a lot of this stuff, it all seems so fanciful to the man in the street that it gets dismissed, but I’ve no doubt it goes on up there in the hills. Northern’s books are full of weirdos arrested with sheds full of decapitated domestic pets and vats of blood.’
Valentine handed Donnelly the file. ‘Here, have a look what DI Davis has turned up. You might be able to make more sense of it than I can because I’m reading it like a Hollywood movie script.’
‘That’s because Hollywood’s the home of sin, boss. That place would be my first port of call if I was looking for the real truth on what goes on in these circles.’
The Audi pulled into a side-verge ahead of the police cordon. The HGV was blocking the road in one direction where the accident had occurred. It was a quiet road, not one that was used to so much traffic and the police Land Rover, assorted uniforms and SOCOs looked alien in the setting.
Valentine rubbed the back of his neck as he walked from the car towards the SOCOs. The ache in his neck that had started outside CS Martin’s office was intensifying, like a niggling, prickling conscience that was trying to tell him something.
‘Everything okay, boss?’ said McCormack.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You have that look.’
‘What look?’
‘You know, that look.’ She tilted her head and winked.
Valentine took his hand from his neck and stomped towards the officer with the most stripes.
‘What’s the story?’ said the DCI.
The uniform, a sergeant in a dirty yellow hi-vis vest, took his attention away from a radio call and addressed the senior officer. ‘Oh, good morning, sir. It’s an RTA.’
‘I guessed as much, I am a detective.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Can you talk me through the scene, sergeant?’
The sergeant pointed to a wall skirting the side of the road; the grass verge at its base was almost a foot high. ‘Well, apparently, the deceased was on the top of the wall when the vehicle came over the brow of the hill. She was descending the wall, on our side, when she jumped down and ran across the road. That’s when she came into contact with the lorry.’
Valentine followed the sergeant’s line of sight towards the white tarpaulin covering the road. There was a distance of a few yards between the front grille of the lorry and the white covering. On either side of the tarpaulin thick black tyre marks were burned into the road.
The collection of SOCOs seemed fewer than usual and they were being assisted by a smattering of uniforms. It appeared that the scene was being treated more like a standard road traffic accident, and Valentine bemoaned DI McAlister’s absence.
‘We’re missing our advance party,’ he said.
‘Ally would certainly have been useful to us, very bad timing by those inconsiderate gallstones,’ said DI McCormack. She turned towards the sergeant. ‘Has the fiscal been on site?’
‘Yes, he has.’ The sergeant removed a notebook and read aloud. ‘Colin Scott was the fiscal depute on the scene and he’s been and gone. Along with the doctor.’
Valentine was circling the road markings. ‘When did the driver back up the vehicle?’
‘Before we arrived, sir. He said his instinct was to apply first aid but it obviously wasn’t an option.’
‘And where is the driver?’
‘The paramedics removed him to hospital. He’s in a state of shock.’
‘Did he offer any explanation, any reasoning as to what happened?’
‘None, sir. Although he did say she looked like she was running from something.’
‘Running?’
‘He said she seemed scared.’ The notebook was referred to again – ‘The girl looked terrified. She wasn’t watching her steps, she was bloody running for her life . . . That’s his words, sir.’
Valentine watched the sergeant return the notebook to a pocket beneath his dirty hi-vis vest; it seemed to be a final indicator of his knowledge on the matter. He stood silently, facing the detectives for a moment and then made an apologetic shrug.
The DCI turned to McCormack. ‘Check in with the hospital. When the driver’s over the shock, go and have a word and see if he can tell us any more.’
She nodded. ‘Will do, boss.’
‘What’s over that wall, Donnelly?’
‘No idea, boss. But I’ll get on that now.’
‘Do that and let me know right away.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Valentine dropped his hand and set out on the road. ‘Come on, let’s take a look at our victim.’
4
The sky settled in to a grey-purple wash. In the distance, hovering over the town of Prestwick, black clouds were gathering. Further out at sea, the skies seemed calmer and brighter, but Valentine knew that didn’t count for much. Ayrshire summers were well known to touch all points on the barometer, sometimes all in one day.
As the officers moved towards the crime scene, long grass and overhanging branches were moving in tresses. The side road had been allowed to overgrow and Valentine knew it wouldn’t make his job any easier. He cursed the local council for skimping on essential services and the knock-on effect for his murder investigation.
‘Does that bloody council do anything other than take my bins away?’ said the DCI.
DI McCormack was ducking under a branch as she responded. ‘They’re probably too busy closing libraries and public toilets to trim verges, sir.’
‘And kiddies’ parks, they’re onto those now,’ said Donnelly. ‘Did you see that story in the paper about the woman who got caught short and couldn’t find a public toilet? She took a dump on the lawn of the Grosvenor Hotel and had all the diners chucking up in their soup!’
Valentine shook his head. ‘Stories like that should make us all proud we spent all that money bailing out the banks.’ He held up a branch for the officers to walk under. ‘Let’s try and get this done before the rain starts again.’
A white-suited SOCO was leaning over the tarpaulin on the road, one hand raising the weighted edge to peer underneath. Behind him, two uniforms were wrestling with a larger piece of canvas that appeared to be the main portion of a tent. When the crouched SOCO spotted the approaching officers he released the tarpaulin and stood up.
