Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

  ‘Business with me?’

  ‘That’s why she’s coming to you, Bob, because you’re receptive but also because you can make a change she wants. She knows that, and you should too.’

  ‘So what do I do now?’

  Crosbie pinched the tip of his nose to suppress a sneeze. ‘I think you should try and engage this girl.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ask her what she wants. Otherwise, you might find she hangs around for a very long time indeed.’

  Crosbie was pinching his nose again, a sneeze queuing behind his fingers, when the waitress reappeared. ‘I asked about those geraniums,’ she said.

  ‘My boss says we haven’t had geraniums in the bar for more than a year, not since his wife passed away. She used to love them.’ She leaned closer. ‘He got a bit teary thinking about that, so he’s off to get some from the florist now to sit on the bar.’

  Crosbie smiled at the waitress and patted her on the arm. ‘I think she’d like that. No, I know she definitely would.’

  13

  The last rays of an ebbing sun glinted off the car’s roof as Valentine stood in his driveway. He was tired, peering coldly over the lawn towards his front door. His father had had the mower out, something he’d have to caution him on again – the old man was far too infirm to be wrestling a Suffolk Colt over the grass. Though Valentine did have to admit, his father had done a much better job than he ever could in effecting the parallel shadow striping.

  It had been a long day, longer still with the Hugh Crosbie meeting tagged on at the end, and it had taken its toll. Valentine wondered if he was getting old himself, too old for the job? The chief super had assured him the promotion would mean a lot more time spent behind a desk – more application of brain than brawn – but that hadn’t materialised. Should he have expected anything different? He didn’t think so; only an idiot listened to the promises of superiors or politicians. Their priorities were in getting over the next bump in the road, nothing more; if he dropped dead on the job that would just be another bump to be surmounted, as and when, or if, it appeared.

  Valentine went in through the front door, placing his briefcase on the floor next to the hallstand. There was some mail, bills mainly, sitting beside the phone on a semi-circular table that he was sure he’d never seen before. A couple of utility reminders and a credit card statement loudly proclaimed the fact that the recent trip to the Antipodes was still four figures in arrears. Abruptly, he put the statement back in the envelope. How would he ever settle that amount? He’d agreed to the expense on the basis that the family badly needed a break. And he’d persuaded himself he could afford it with the popular piece of cognitive dissonance that this was how people lived now – what difference did a few thousand pounds of debt mean when the entire country was virtually bankrupt?

  He picked up the credit card bill and put it in his pocket. The idea of his father, who’d never been in debt a day in his life, seeing the statement sickened him. The idea that he wasn’t alone, that virtually everyone he met was living in exactly the same way filled him with an altogether different kind of terror. When the credit line ran out, and the comfort everyone was used to vanished, he knew he’d be among those tasked with maintaining order. And that might be impossible given the state of recent resources.

  The phone on the little table in front of him started to ring.

  ‘Hello,’ said Valentine.

  ‘Hello, boss.’ It was DI McCormack.

  ‘Sorry, Sylvia, I had my mobile off while I was in that meeting with Hugh Crosbie.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘About as well as expected.’ He shuffled the phone onto his shoulder as he took off his jacket and hung it on the balustrade.

  ‘Did he give you any pointers, or any indication of what you’re actually dealing with?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. He told me that this is happening for two reasons; one because I’m able to tune in to it, and two because I can do something about it.’

  ‘And does that make sense to you?’

  ‘I think so. But I need to learn to interpret the signs first, and I’m a long way from that.’

  ‘Everything takes time, boss.’

  ‘I know.’ He sat down on the steps and spied a price tag dangling on a piece of string beneath the table. ‘Look, Sylvia, I want to thank you for your help. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about this and things with Clare are so tense since I took the new job that . . . well, you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He paused for a moment, grabbing the price tag. ‘What was your reason for calling?’ The tag revealed the table had cost £200 from TK Maxx. He rolled his gaze towards the ceiling.

  ‘Uniform concluded the search of the Sutherland estate.’ McCormack’s tone shifted sharply. ‘And there’s some interesting developments.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I haven’t seen the full report yet, I presume that’ll be coming some time tomorrow, but I had a chat with the sergeant on the site and he says they’ve found a rope ladder next to where the victim came over the wall.’

  ‘A rope ladder?’

  ‘Yes, erm, wait a minute, I made some notes . . .’ The sound of pages being turned in a notepad came over the line. ‘Yes, here we are. White nylon ropes, either side of interlocking wooden batons, or steps I suppose.’

  ‘Has this been seen by the lab?’

  ‘It’s en route now.’

  ‘Any markings or anything we might get DNA from?’

  ‘The batons are filthy; looks like some pretty clear impressions from a running shoe.’

  ‘Fabulous. If we can tie that to the victim we have cause to extend our crime scene into Sutherland’s estate. Better yet, if we locate some DNA, then we’ll be solid.’

  McCormack’s words quickened. ‘Actually, boss, I was thinking about what Phil said earlier about arranging a meeting with David Sutherland.’

  ‘You must have read my mind. Phil said Sutherland gets back tonight. Let’s be there waiting for him. In fact, let’s organise a welcoming party.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’

  ‘I’m gambling that the lab confirms our suspicions,’ said Valentine, ‘but I want you to organise a second search.’

  ‘Do you want me to contact the fiscal for a warrant?’

  ‘No, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt a sheriff would grant one without the lab results. Let’s just play to this Sutherland’s good side. If he’s got nothing to hide then he’s got no reason to keep us out of his property.’

  ‘We have permission to be on the land, from the security guy, Coulter.’

  ‘Let’s push the boat out and assume it extends to outbuildings, too.’

  ‘If you say so, boss.’

  ‘I do.’ Valentine stood up and collected his jacket again. ‘Meet me out at Sutherland’s estate right away, Sylvia. And don’t spare the horses.’

  As he put the phone down, Valentine noticed Clare standing at the open kitchen door. Her arms were folded in front of her; her look was confrontational, if not nearing on downright combative.

  ‘So, things between us are tense, are they?’ she said.

  Valentine opted for the defensive. ‘Haven’t you heard that people who listen at doors never hear any good of themselves?’

  ‘It’s a damn good job I did listen at this door, otherwise I might not know that my husband is conducting a smear campaign against me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Clare.’

  She unfastened herself from the doorjamb and approached him. She seemed to be carrying a tightly controlled bolus of anger inside her. ‘And that was her again, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent, Bob. You were speaking to that Sylvia woman that you spent the night with on Arran.’

  ‘I told you before, that was work, the last ferry had gone and we were hardly staying in the same room. Look, why am I defending myself when I’ve done
nothing wrong?’

  ‘I could ask you that question myself.’ Clare’s voice sharpened. ‘It’s very suspicious, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Clare, it’s silly. That’s what this is, just silly.’ Valentine collected his briefcase from beside the hallstand. ‘I have to go back out.’

  ‘You’re meeting her, aren’t you?’

  ‘You know I am, you were eavesdropping when I said so on the phone.’ Valentine knew he was playing into Clare’s hands – she wanted a confrontation and he was giving her one. But he was tired; he’d had too long a day to sensibly resist.

  ‘If you go out that door, Bob, you might as well not come back.’

  ‘Okay, then I’ll leave this with you, will I?’ He reached inside his jacket and removed the credit card bill, which he slapped down on the new table. As he turned for the door he remembered the price tag he’d pulled from the table earlier and spun round, slapping that down beside the credit card bill.

  He didn’t look towards his wife as he went, heading straight out the door and down the driveway. He’d had sufficient control of his emotions not to slam the door, and for that he had some pride. But by the time he was sitting in the car he felt enough shame mounting inside him to know that he’d soon regret his other actions.

  On the road to Prestwick, Valentine toyed with the idea of calling his wife to apologise. It was a stupid tiff, over nothing. When he examined why Clare had acted the way she had he knew it was just her insecurity, the same insecurity that caused her to impulse shop without thinking about how they were going to pay for it. Whenever the DI rationalised his wife’s actions, he knew he couldn’t actually fault her – she was only acting out her programming, and that unsettled him.

  He should have known better, but the job was taking so much from him just now. Perhaps Clare was right about that too.

  14

  Valentine felt the blood stiffening in his veins as he drove towards Monkton. It was suppressed anger, the type that tightened in the chest and constricted around the heart muscle. When he had returned to active duty, after a forlorn stint at the police training college in Tulliallan, he had been warned about these episodes by a doctor. All stress was bad, always, in his condition. However there was no way of avoiding stress; it was as much a part of the human experience as breathing, but knowing this only increased his problem. It was like conceding to Clare that the very reason she was confronting him – though he’d rebuffed it – was in fact true.

  Clare knew, perhaps even better than he did himself, that Valentine was no longer fit for purpose. When the visions had begun, he’d questioned his sanity and that had remained his overriding preoccupation, until only very recently. However, now that he was beyond the questioning phase and nearing acceptance, his mind was latching onto other issues.

  Valentine had started to notice his own deterioration: the grey hairs at his temples, the creeping of the notches on his belt, and a sundry collection of aches and pains that seemed to be multiplying daily. There had been an internet meme he’d spotted a short time ago that showed a middle-aged tradesman holding up a cardboard sign reading: ‘Only someone that spent all day in an office could think working past 70 was an option.’ Valentine had stared at the picture and wept inwardly because he knew only too well that there were limits to human endurance. He didn’t long to be put out to pasture like some old pit pony though, because he knew he wouldn’t last long enough to see the green grass. The job had shortened his life, but his life was the job. At some unforeseen point on the horizon the two lines would converge and cancel each other out; he just hoped that by then he’d done enough to make a difference to those who mattered.

  Bouncing light from a low, receding sun breached the road and put a harsh glare on the windscreen. The buildings of Ayr looked shrunken under the broad and cloudless sky. Huddling together behind a bleached, hazy screen that shimmered along the roadside, stark towers rising and falling, before disappearing as the car sped along.

  Driving was like walking, thought Valentine, you picked up and put down thoughts as you went. He made a half-smile as his thinking began to coalesce around the day’s more pressing events. There was a young girl, abused and pregnant, whose life had been taken. That was his priority. Everything else was just unwanted chatter inside his mind; he was the hunter here and that meant keeping his focus on the prey.

  As the DCI pulled into the entrance to the Sutherland estate a police Land Rover was slowly crossing the gravel scree that butted a high grass verge. Two uniformed officers in hi-vis vests were sitting in the back of the vehicle, carefully delineating the road’s edge by dropping a row of yellow cones.

  He spied McCormack’s car ahead. She’d parked in front of a grand building that could accurately be described as neoclassical but to Valentine was only ever going to be seen as pretentious at best, intimidating at worst.

  A delicate knock sounded on the driver’s-side window.

  ‘Hello, sir.’ McCormack had a bundle of blue folders under her arm that she was feeding into a black leather satchel. The wind took her hair, which responded by whipping her face.

  ‘Bit blowy out,’ said Valentine, exiting the Audi.

  McCormack seemed unfazed, clicking the lock on the satchel. ‘No sign of Sutherland yet, I’m afraid.’ She pointed towards the end of the cone trail, where the gravel driveway ended. ‘We’re heading this way.’

  As they walked, the path petered off into a bridleway that appeared to be well trodden. Deep declivities, filled with water, made their progress difficult, causing them to shimmy round the worst of the muddy pools. By the time the wall was in sight Valentine was cursing the state of his shoes.

  ‘I’ve got wellies in the boot,’ he said. ‘You should have told me it was this bad.’

  ‘Sorry, boss. Uniform have been trooping through here all day, it’s worse than I expected.’

  By the edge of the wall, the detective’s attention had shifted again. ‘Is it me or does that wall look higher from this side?’

  ‘It is higher, at least five feet or so,’ said McCormack, pointing to the wall’s base that was coming into view, though still obscured slightly by the land’s incline. ‘Look, there’s a pit this side.’

  ‘What in the name of Christ?’ Valentine halted on the edge of the pit that skirted the wall, running the full length of the perimeter. ‘Who digs a pit inside their property?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t want you to get out.’

  The DCI peered down the line of the wall, then returned his gaze to McCormack. He shook his head before speaking again. ‘When I was a lad they used to have broken glass cemented into the top of the wall at the footy ground.’

  ‘I bet they don’t have it now.’

  ‘No, we don’t have ducking stools either.’ He walked up and down, staring into the steep pit. ‘No leaves or twigs, nothing cluttering it up.’

  ‘It looks to be well maintained. Someone’s keeping it clear anyway.’

  The detective turned back to the route they were walking. ‘Lead on, Sylvia.’

  ‘This way, boss.’ The sound of a passenger jet drowned out her voice, causing her to shout. ‘The ladder was found just up ahead.’

  ‘That plane’s low. We must be virtually on the runway.’

  ‘Yes, I discovered there’s an access point too – it’s a private road between the Laverock depot and the estate.’

  ‘Cuts the morning commute, I suppose,’ said Valentine. ‘Not so sure I’d be that keen on mixing business with pleasure, though.’

  ‘No, kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does indeed, Sylvia.’

  The officers continued walking. Valentine allowed his new observations room to percolate. ‘Is Phil at the scene?’

  ‘No, he’s interviewing those teenagers he mentioned at the briefing.’

  ‘The ones that were caught trespassing?’

  ‘That’s them, yes.’

  ‘Well, I hope he’s not bribing them with a few bottles of Buc
kie.’

  McCormack laughed. ‘I looked at the file on them – they all seemed a bit feral – and you just never know with Phil.’

  ‘What about Ian?’ Valentine corrected himself, ‘Oh, don’t answer that, I see him now.’

  DI Davis was holding a small, clear plastic bag up to the light. Beside him a stocky man in a hoodie and red Adidas track-pants was furtively talking into a mobile phone. Even as he examined the little bag, Davis seemed to be keeping one eye on the other man.

  As the officers approached Davis broke away and stepped towards the others. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘DI McCormack, good to see you.’

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ said Valentine.

  Davis handed over the plastic bag. ‘Have a look for yourself.’

  Valentine took the bag and turned it over in his hand. ‘Looks like those things you get on women’s dresses, the fancy ones.’

  ‘Sequins, sir,’ said Davis.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said McCormack. ‘Are you sure you’re not married?’

  Valentine handed back the bag. ‘Where did these come from?’

  ‘Over there.’ Davis pointed to a stone outbuilding. As he did so, the man in the hoodie started to walk away, distancing himself from the others.

  ‘Who’s the beat boy?’ said Valentine.

  ‘The groundsman, Malcolm Frizzle.’

  ‘Isn’t he supposed to be in green and tweed?’

  ‘Says he was just finishing up when we arrived. He’s on his way to the gym, but has been trying to rouse his boss. Seems a bit pissed off, to say the least.’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s got good reason to be.’ The DCI started out for the outbuilding, and as he reached the doorway a white-suited SOCO was emerging with a cardboard box in his hands.

  ‘Hold up, what’s in there?’

  ‘Soil sample, sir.’ He nodded towards Davis. ‘The detective inspector wanted the lot.’

  Peering into the box, Valentine pointed. ‘What’s this white stuff.’