by Tony Black
Valentine stared at the girl for a few seconds more and noticed that, despite the heavy rain, she appeared to be completely dry. Her hair wasn’t even damp, whereas his was sticking to his head. When she spoke, he tried to make out the words but couldn’t – he could only follow the movement of her lips.
As the girl raised her arms to him he realised at once who he was staring at. There was an instantaneous connection between them that he had never felt before, and he heard her voice whispering to him, just like she had when he saw her in the mirror.
‘Help the girls, please. There’s no one else. Please, help them.’
As quickly as the voice came it disappeared. The doors of the mortuary swung open and DI McCormack came running towards the DCI. ‘Sorry, boss,’ she said, pointing the key at the car, ‘you’re soaking wet, look at you.’
McCormack got in and dropped her bag on the back seat. As she started the engine she opened the passenger’s window and called out to Valentine. ‘Boss, the door’s open now.’
The DCI clambered in and acknowledged McCormack. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘It’s bucketing rain!’
‘Sorry.’
McCormack switched off the engine and pivoted in her seat to face Valentine. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Boss?’ She tilted her head. ‘You’re acting very strange.’
‘Strange, am I?’ He turned to face her.
‘Oh, I get it. We’ve had a moment.’ She started the car again. The wipers screeched on the windscreen as the car pulled out. ‘Good job I called Hugh Crosbie earlier. I hope 8 p.m. tomorrow night sounds okay for getting to the bottom of this once and for all.’
2011
Paige is my friend. She’s a big girl in Primary 7. We walk to school together and, sometimes, Daddy lets her come to our house to play. I like Paige because she’s nice to me and lets me be her friend, even though I’m only little. I like people who are nice to me like Paige and Mummy. But lots of people aren’t nice, lots of people are wicked.
At school, Paige shows me her diary. There’s pictures of men and women in there that she’s drawn, all by herself. Paige is good at drawing. The ladies in her pictures all have clear bright skin and long golden hair. Paige says they’re her real friends but don’t live in the real world like us.
‘Where do they live?’ I ask her.
‘Oh, far away. In another place entirely,’ says Paige. I like her voice, she sounds all grown-up.
‘But how do you know? If you can’t see them.’
‘I see them in here.’ Paige touches the side of her head and smiles at me. I like her smile; she has very white teeth and very pink gums.
‘Do you mean you make them up?’
‘No, they’re real. They live in another place but they’re real.’
I don’t understand but I smile and pretend like I do. There’s lots of things I don’t understand, but I want Paige to be my friend so I pretend. It’s nice to know a big girl – it makes me feel special.
After school Paige is waiting for me outside my classroom. All the other school kids have gone, but Paige is there waiting. When I come out Mrs Thompson comes out too and says it’s time for us to go to the chapel.
‘But I have to go home now. It’s home time,’ I say. I don’t want Daddy to be upset with me.
Mrs Thompson shakes her head and says, ‘No, you must follow us to the chapel hall.’
Paige holds out her hand and says, ‘It’s okay. I’ll be there too. It won’t be nearly as frightening.’
I start to feel sad and I wonder what is going to happen and then Mrs Thompson says, ‘Your dad will be there. You won’t get into any trouble. This is an important time for you, Abbie; you have to understand that.’
We all walk to the chapel hall and it seems strange to be in the school when everyone else has gone home. I start to wonder about Tyler and who will take him home from his school and then I remember that today is his day to go to Mum. I get a little teary when I think of my brother and I want to be with him and Mum, but I try to hold back my tears because I’m not supposed to show things like tears.
In the chapel it’s very quiet and dark. All the curtains have been closed and the only light comes from candles on the stage. There’s very tall candlesticks with thick black candles burning on top of them that I’ve never seen before and there’s strange pictures with shapes on them, too.
‘What are all the funny shapes?’ I ask Paige.
‘They’re glyphs. Shush, you shouldn’t speak.’
I feel a little bit scared again when I see the people come out, but Paige holds my hand tight and her eyes say don’t be scared when she looks down at me. I think of all the pictures she showed me in her little diary and I don’t think any of the people here will be nice people like the ones she showed me. The people here wear hoods and walk slowly, back and forth, back and forth, and sometimes hold up silver cups. They all say strange words I can’t understand. I start to feel the tears coming down my cheeks and I can’t stop them this time.
‘You’re trembling,’ says Paige.
Mrs Thompson hears her and says, ‘Stop talking and disrobe.’
We have to take our clothes off and leave them on the ground. It’s really cold and I get shivery all over. I discover more girls in the shadows, they’re all taking off their clothes.
Paige tells me very quietly, ‘Don’t be scared, this isn’t a scary part like all the others.’
‘What others?’ I say.
‘The rites.’
‘What’s rites?’
‘Never mind. It’s not a mass, you just have to say the words and that’s all. No one will hurt you today.’
The girls stand in a line in front of the stage and a man in a black hood walks in front of them. He has a dead bird in his hands and it has no head, only a stump where the blood is coming out. Sometimes the blood drips on the floor and leaves a red dot and I can see a line of dots behind him. I hear him say the words and the girls say them back and he wipes blood from the bird on their faces. Some of the girls are crying now and Paige has to go and tell them to stop with a loud, ‘Shush.’ When they don’t stop she shakes their shoulders or pokes them hard with her finger in their chest and then they stop.
When the man in the hood comes to me he stands still. His face is dark inside the hood, hidden under shadows. He looks straight at me, his eyes are angry but his voice is very still and quiet when he says, ‘Repeat these words: I belong mind, body and soul to Lucifer.’
I do what he tells me and then he says something else. ‘Repeat: I am his and part of him.’
I say this too, but my voice croaks and he looks into me with his dark, angry eyes as he wipes the bird’s blood on my face. When he’s gone Paige comes back and says it’s time to get dressed.
I run to my clothes but Paige says stop running and walk slowly. My heart is beating faster than ever – I just want to get away as quickly as I can.
When I’m dressed I try to ask Paige all my questions, but she keeps telling me, ‘Shush.’ I want to know about the bird and the man in the hood and why my teacher was there and will we have to do this every day now?
When we get outside my heart is still beating too fast but I don’t feel nearly so scared. I’m almost happy to be away from the chapel and back with Paige – I’ve never been so glad that she’s my friend. I think she’s my best friend in the whole world now and I want to hug her tight.
‘Go and wash your face,’ says Paige, pushing me away.
‘Okay.’ I’m so glad to be with her I don’t even mind being pushed away and I run all the way to the girls’ toilet at the other side of the building. I still want to ask my questions and Paige lets me talk now.
‘Why did that man in the hood have a dead bird?’ I say.
‘Because sacrifice pleases the Master.’
‘Who’s the Master?’
‘Lucifer, silly.’
I don’t know who she mean
s or why I’m silly. I run the water in the sink and start to wash my face. The white sink starts to turn pink with the swirling water and the blood from the black bird.
‘Why did we have to say all those words, Paige?’
‘It’s like a marriage in a big church,’ she says, ‘but with different words.’
I don’t understand. ‘Are we married now?’
‘Kind of. I don’t know, really. Stop asking all these questions. I want to go and play now.’
Paige has stopped smiling, and I don’t want to see her stop smiling ever, so I stop with all my questions like she says. She watches me clean my face and pat down my skin with the paper towel and then she says we should go.
‘Can I look at your diary again?’ I say.
‘No. Not today,’ says Paige.
‘But I like your pictures.’
‘Not today.’
‘Please . . .’
‘No!’ she snaps. Her voice sounds different. I wonder if I’ve upset her. I won’t ask about the pictures ever again. I won’t do anything that upsets Paige ever again because now I know I need her more than ever and I can’t risk losing her, not ever, not even for a second.
10
Morning sunlight streamed through the window. There was an unusually white glare etching the Town Hall’s spire onto a cloudless sky. In such conditions, Ayr – from the rooftops up anyway – made for a pleasant scene. You could ignore the decaying streets below, forget the great unwashed for a while, if not permanently hide from them.
DCI Valentine stood in front of the window, rubbing the back of his neck. A dull steady ache had begun to pester him as he drove over the Fenwick Moors coming back from the mortuary. He knew it was no more than age, a tight compression of seldom-used muscles, but as DI McCormack entered his office he withdrew his hand sharply, lest it be misinterpreted.
‘Good morning. I thought you might fancy a coffee, boss.’ She skirted the desk briskly and laid the cup down.
Valentine blinked in surprise. ‘You didn’t need to do that, Sylvia. You’re a DI now – fetching coffee’s well below your station.’
‘Well, I know.’ She held up a yellow post-it note and made a show of sticking it on his PC screen. ‘A wee reminder. Hugh Crosbie, at eight tomorrow in the Red Lion.’
‘Thanks, I think.’ The coffee seemed like a deal sweetener now. He moved over to the desk and retrieved the cup.
‘The team’s ready when you are, sir,’ said McCormack.
The DCI gazed over her shoulder and into the incident room. ‘Where’s DI Davis?’
‘He was there a minute ago, I’ll go have a look.’
‘Good. There’s no show without Punch, after all.’
‘Yes. His input’s kind of essential. I’ve asked him to spare us the worst of the details at this briefing. I don’t want to unnecessarily burden – or do I mean scare – uniform right away.’
‘No, keep them on a need-to-know basis. But copy the files from the original Abbie McGarvie case for the squad detectives – they need to know what we’re dealing with.’
‘Will do.’
‘Great. I’ll be out in five minutes.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I just need to get a few things straight in here first.’
‘I’ll let them know you’re on the way.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Oh, and, Sylvia . . . thanks for setting me up with Hugh again.’
McCormack smiled thinly as she closed the door. Her actions could be read as conspiratorial, but the DCI knew differently: he needed her help and he was grateful for it.
Valentine stationed himself behind his desk, then retrieved a pile of paperwork sitting adjacent to his office phone. He kept expecting the phone to ring, and the little bulb beside the chief super’s line to light up, but so far he’d been spared; when she found out about the victim’s ID, and Wrighty’s other discoveries, there’d be all kinds of bells ringing.
He tried to process the morning’s events. Confirmation that the victim was the same girl as in DI Davis’s missing person’s case grated on his mind. He wanted to know why the girl hadn’t been found, and why her murder wasn’t prevented. Both were achievable, even with the suffocating budget cuts and staff shortages.
Abbie McGarvie had been the subject of two previous investigations: one dismissed – wrongly it had been confirmed by the post-mortem – and one now terminated by her violent death. Valentine felt a deepening guilt for how badly she had been failed by the police force. As he held these thoughts he saw again the young girl’s mother, sobbing in the chapel of rest. Lives had been ruined, and it was down to him to make sure those responsible faced consequences.
McCormack knocked on the door. ‘Davis is back. We’re all ready when you are, sir.’
Valentine got up and headed through to the incident room. McCormack had gathered the troops, and he was greeted by a semicircle of bodies that he had to separate to reach the board. When he faced the team his mind was still sunk in sympathy with the deceased, but he abruptly threw off that thought pattern and engaged the role of leader.
‘Right, here we are again,’ said the DCI, his voice rising. He pointed to a photograph on the board, a headshot of Abbie McGarvie. ‘We know the victim to be a 15-year-old schoolgirl from Troon. An HGV collision on an open road at night might not arouse suspicions at first sight, but then we don’t rely on what we encounter at first sight, do we?’
‘No, sir,’ came in chorus.
‘No, we do not.’ Valentine collected a pen from the table beside him and pointed to the board again. ‘Coming under the “very suspicious indeed” category would be the victim’s complete lack of any clothing, except a pair of Dunlops. She was in a frantic disposition, by all accounts, and when examined at the scene we found her body covered in marks and bruising.’
The DCI asked for the SOCOs’ photographs to be passed about the group. ‘Wrighty’s PM has since confirmed she died instantly. Who she was running from we can only speculate on here and now, but once we dig out some suspects we can start narrowing down motives, and perhaps pinpoint some answers. One answer we have been able to furnish already, and this contradicts a previous investigation and court ruling, is that Abbie McGarvie was the victim of serious sexual abuse. It doesn’t end there, though. This young girl was pregnant too, which means we’re dealing with the loss of two lives.’
Valentine wanted to impress the squad with the seriousness of the crime – this wasn’t everyday criminality they were dealing with. There would be worse to come and they had to be prepared for that. He pulled out a chair and sat down; the movement indicated the end of his introduction, but he folded his arms to press the point. The group remained silent, taking some time to digest the full, shocking nature of the DCI’s revelations.
‘Now, who wants to be the first usherette at the horror show?’ he said.
None of the officers came forward.
‘Great, Phil, you start us off,’ said Valentine, volunteering the DS. ‘What have you got on the crime scene?’
‘Oh, right . . .’ DS Donnelly lunged for a blue folder on top of the adjacent filing cabinet, shuffling the contents before him as he spoke. ‘The locus of the RTA is interesting, being butted by a walled private estate . . .’
Valentine cut in, ‘The victim was seen clambering over this wall before the crash.’
‘That’s right, and uniform’s been doing a fingertip search there, too.’
‘Anything turn up?’
‘They’ve just winding things down now, sir. I’ll report any findings as soon as I have them.’
‘What about that uppity ponce at the scene – what did you get from him?’
Donnelly grinned. ‘You must be referring to Ray Coulter. He’s just security. The estate is owned by David Sutherland, a businessman who runs an air freight operation from Prestwick Airport.’
‘Handy, being right next door.’
‘Yes, the estate actually butts the airport.’
‘Have you spoken to this
Sutherland?’
‘No, sir. He’s out of the country on business. He’s due back tonight, so I will speak to him then and arrange a meeting in person. I did run him through the system and he’s not even got a parking ticket to his name, perhaps not really that surprising if you’re chauffeur-driven everywhere. Interestingly, though, there were a number of complaints to police made by Sutherland’s estate about kids trespassing, but they turned out to be nothing more than teenagers larking about, certainly nothing criminal.’
‘I can’t get my teenagers off their phones,’ Valentine said. ‘Makes me wonder what the attraction was.’
DI McCormack raised her hand and spoke. ‘Sir, that’s even more curious in light of the encounter we had with the tractor driver at the estate.’
‘That’s right, what did he call it – Area 51?’ Valentine turned back to Donnelly. ‘Take a few officers and do some door to door, Phil. Get the word on the ground about this Sutherland estate. And track down those teenagers who were trespassing, too.’
‘Will do.’ He closed over his folder.
‘Right, let’s see what DI McCormack has got for us,’ said Valentine.
McCormack took her place in the centre of the board and spoke. ‘Well, the lorry driver, Andy Evans, is over the worst of his shock. Though I doubt he’ll ever fully escape the memories. He seems a very genuine bloke, dad of three daughters himself, and he’s very messed up by this.’
‘There’s nothing to connect him to the girl, is there?’ said Valentine.
‘No, sir. He’s from Liverpool, straight shooter, and this wasn’t his regular route, he was taking an extra shift. He got lost, basically.’ McCormack was animating her points with hand gestures. ‘Andy Evans will never get behind the wheel of a truck again. He’s utterly convinced Abbie McGarvie was running for her life, terrified of something.’
