by Tony Black
‘I didn’t do anything,’ said Frizzle.
‘Shut up, Malky,’ said Davis. ‘You can forget about making the gym tonight, mate.’
As the officers pulled out, Sutherland and Coulter stood side by side watching as one of their own was driven away. Coulter seemed the most concerned, peering at his boss and turning down his mouth like a scolded child. Sutherland’s expression was harder to decipher, his features being granite-firm and unmoving, only his eyes turned towards the road. He followed the police until they had left his property and then strode briskly in the opposite direction.
‘Did you see that?’ said Valentine.
‘Not chuffed, I’d say.’
‘I think you’re right.’
16
Jim Prentice was putting on his coat as the squad returned to the station. The desk sergeant took a moment to pause, with one hand half way down the sleeve of his coat, as he eyed the returning officers. There was a moment of complete silence as Prentice stood, frozen, making the surreal shape of a drinking elephant with his coat sleeve. He broke the image by glancing at the clock, and then over to the slouching Malcolm Frizzle, being led briskly towards the front desk by DI Davis.
‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’ said Prentice.
‘Sorry, call it one for the road.’
‘I’ve been here since seven a.m., that’s a twelve-hour shift I’ve put in and I don’t get any bloody overtime!’
Valentine made his way to the front of the desk and, grudgingly, joined in the discourse. ‘Haven’t you got anyone to replace you?’
‘Willkie’s not due in for another hour.’
‘Well, who’s manning the desk?’
‘Wee Stevie Sims, but he’s only ducking in – he’s covering the cells.’
‘This place is a joke,’ said the DCI.
‘I don’t see anyone laughing, Bob. Can’t be a very funny joke.’ He pulled his arm from his coat sleeve, causing it to turn inside out. The rest of the coat was bunched up, ruffling and sagging, and flung on the chair.
‘Right, you . . . name?’ said Prentice gruffly.
‘Thanks, Jim.’
‘Aye right. I’ll get my reward in heaven, I suppose.’
Davis put his hand on Frizzle’s shoulder, forcing him to jerk away and begin another tirade. ‘You just can’t do this to me.’
‘Oh, we can and we are,’ said Valentine.
‘I know my rights.’
‘Good. You’ll know we’ll bring you a cup of tea in the morning then, which is a damn sight more that you did for that wee girl.’
The DCI’s pointed remark passed Frizzle by. ‘Morning! You’re keeping me in all night?’
‘It’ll give you some time to sleep on what I said, Malky.’
Valentine nodded towards DI Davis and headed for the stairs. He was ready to head straight back out the door, go home and try to patch things up with Clare again, but there seemed to be little prospect of that looming.
At the top of the stairs the DCI waited for DI McCormack to catch him up. ‘Look, Sylvia, it’s been a long day for everyone, if you want to get off home no one will blame you.’
‘No chance of that, boss. I’m supposed to be shadowing you, remember?’
‘I think I can cut you some slack.’
‘It’s fine, really. All I’m going home to is a microwave lasagne and to catch up on the idiot box.’
Valentine felt a pang of sympathy for her, even with all his own home problems, he always had Clare and the girls to go home to. The idea of returning to an empty flat after the day they’d just had was almost too painful to contemplate. They continued through to the incident room, where DS Donnelly was standing in front of the board, pinning pictures up.
‘What’s all this about Jean Clark turning up out of the blue?’ said Valentine.
Donnelly turned away from the board and took a few steps towards the others. ‘She sure has. DVLC found her; she’s been living in a mobile home in Croy.’
‘Croy. Not the caravan park on the beach?’
The DS leaned over the desk and retrieved a piece of notepaper. ‘Looks like it, is that the wee park right down the front?’
‘There’s only one. Pretty exposed spot, wouldn’t fancy it in the bad weather. Still, it’s a quiet place, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow,’ said DI McCormack.
Valentine pulled a chair out from under a desk and wheeled it into the middle of the floor. Since he looked to be getting settled the others followed suit, forming a semicircle on the worn and faded carpet tiles.
‘What about Frizzle,’ said Donnelly. ‘Is he coming in?’
‘We have him downstairs.’
‘In the cells?’
‘Davis is turning the key now. We’ll have a word with him tomorrow,’ said the DCI. ‘What can you tell us about this bunch of teenage trespassers you’ve just spoken to.’
Donnelly ran his thumb and forefinger down the length of his tie, flicking it up as he reached the tip. ‘Christ, where to start? I have to say, I thought they were winding me up at first, but I put their stories to the test and they seem completely genuine.’
‘Come on then, let’s hear what they had to say.’
‘Do you remember when you said you’d met the bloke on the tractor who called the Sutherland estate Area 51?’
McCormack cut it, ‘Oh yeah, the tinfoil-hat bloke.’
‘Yeah, him. Well, I wondered what he was referring to, and now I think I know.’
Valentine leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. ‘This sounds interesting.’
‘Well, two of the girls got to know Frizzle at a bus stop in Monkton where they were hanging around at night. It’s a small village, there’s not much to do and Frizzle was a flashy git with a motor, so they’re going to be easy meat to the likes of him.’
‘Go on.’
‘He started taking the girls for drives, plying them with a bit of grass, a bit of booze; they lapped it up, obviously. But the main part of his shtick was bigging himself up, making himself out to be the big man.’
‘I think I see where this is going,’ said McCormack.
‘Well, yes and no,’ said Donnelly, moving his hands like a puppeteer. ‘You see, his talk kind of had the opposite effect. It put the girls right off him and put their curiosity and their boredom onto something completely different.’
Valentine’s interest started seeping into impatience. ‘That’s enough build-up, Phil. Get to the point, please.’
‘I’m coming to it. Frizzle told the girls about some strange goings-on at his workplace: the Sutherland estate, which already had an air of notoriety in the village, as we know.’
‘What did he tell them?’
‘A lot of it was quite disjointed. I’m going to go over the notes tonight and write everything up. But, the girls said Frizzle told them about high-rollers being flown in for masked balls and all kinds of freaky events.’
‘Back up there – high-rollers?’
‘They didn’t have names, but the rumours were of rich and powerful types. Elites, celebrities, politicians. The thing is, they were adamant about the masked balls turning into orgies and bizarre rituals. Frizzle spoke about goats being cut up and people running about the grounds naked.’
‘Are they for real?’
‘I told you, they’re one hundred per cent certain. They said that’s what took them to the estate in the first place. They couldn’t see inside the property though, because all the windows are above the line of the floor to stop you seeing in. Frizzle told them that even the main hall and the dance hall have no windows and the staff can’t go there. When these events are going on the staff have to pass drinks through a double hatch so they can’t see in.’
‘Well, that sort of stuff should be easy enough to check,’ said McCormack.
‘You think so? Sutherland wouldn’t let us in his property today.’
Donnelly interrupted. ‘Another thing t
he girls told me was, and I found this odd, that all the bedrooms are interconnected. What I mean is, there’s doors from one to the other. Why on earth would you need all the rooms to be connected?’
‘If you’re changing partners like a game of musical chairs, it’s a must, I would imagine,’ said the DI.
‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Valentine. ‘And if your property’s laid out like a posh knocking shop, the last thing you’re going to do is allow a nosy detective in for a look around, just in case it gives him any ideas about poking his nose into your activities.’
McCormack seemed to be deep in thought, but broke their thrall. ‘Sir, can I put something out there?’
‘Fire away.’
‘I don’t know if this is relevant, but if you remember the estate opens onto the airport.’
‘Oh, I think that’s very relevant, Sylvia. If you’re a member of this perverted jet set I’d say privacy would be at a premium, wouldn’t you?’
17
Every step down the staircase felt real, but he knew he was dreaming. Valentine reached out to the banister, it felt solid. The wall, too, as he ran his fingers along the cold plaster, was as firm as he recalled. Wasn’t he asleep, then?
As he opened the living room door he found he wasn’t alone. There was someone there; it felt like walking into the kitchen in the morning and discovering the door to the extension closed, but sensing his father was just out of view. It was impossible not to detect familiar souls because he recognised their presence immediately. He recognised this presence too.
For a moment, the girl stood silently, gripping Valentine with her cold eyes. And then she moved. Forward at first, as if she might embrace him. It was a welcoming gesture, but it wasn’t directed at the detective. There was another girl too.
The tall, pale girl stood to one side. She seemed older than Abbie, but not old enough to be sufficiently wise. She was in some kind of trance, gazing into the distance behind her. Valentine turned away as Abbie spoke.
‘This is Paige, she’s lost too.’
‘Lost?’ He didn’t understand.
Abbie nodded, touching Paige’s arm. As the older girl turned Valentine saw she was carrying a child, her stomach swollen. She lifted Abbie’s hand onto the bump and they both turned back to Valentine, pleading.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said again.
The girls stayed silent, staring at him.
‘What do you want from me?’
As he spoke, more figures joined the girls. From behind them, moving slowly from the shadows, appeared a group of children. Their number was small at first but it grew and grew, forcing confusion and panic to crash over Valentine.
‘I don’t understand. What do you want of me?’
The girls continued to stare as the room filled up with more and more small children. The detective closed his eyes, tried to shut it all out, but the children kept coming.
‘Stop! Stop it now.’ His voice was a roar.
‘Bob . . . Bob . . .’ Clare shook him awake in the bed.
‘Christ almighty.’ He was trembling, his T-shirt soaked in sweat.
Clare rose and leaned over her husband. ‘Bob, what’s going on?’
He sat up, easing the duvet back and perching on the edge of the bed. ‘Nothing.’ He got to his feet and staggered for the bathroom. ‘I thought you weren’t talking to me, anyway.’
‘I don’t have any choice when you’re shouting in my ear.’
‘Let me fix that right away,’ he said as he reached for the door. ‘I’m going for a shower.’
‘Bob, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Go back to sleep.’
‘Bob . . . Bob . . .’ She kept calling his name, but the sound of the shower drowned out her voice as Valentine laid his forehead on the cold, wet tiles.
The sound of cups clattering on a tin tray set Valentine’s nerves jangling. He looked up from his desk and saw a uniform PC removing the coffee mugs that were piling up beside the photocopier. He wanted to call out, to demand the cups stay where they were and the PC stop annoying him, but he reined himself in. It was pointless taking his tensions out on the squad. He’d been in groups like that himself, where people were too frightened to move for fear of a blast coming from on high. It didn’t work, unless your aim was to build resentment and a reputation as a dictator.
He got up and closed his door, to keep the noise to a minimum and his temper in check. As he stood there, resting his back on the flat of the door, he felt cold and alone. Not just alone in the room, but alone in the world. He tried to imagine how those girls had felt, facing the end. No one should ever have to feel like that; he knew those girls had been failed, not only by the police force, but by everyone.
All that life, all that living ahead of them, snuffed out. He’d heard people talk like this about those who had died young, but it wasn’t enough. Those girls were the future, our future, everyone’s future. The loss of such promise was a greater tragedy than he could begin to contemplate.
The image of Abbie McGarvie’s pale corpse lying on the bitumen came back again. It kept reappearing to him, kept flashing up behind his eyes. It was like a reminder of the great wrong that had been done to her and an ominous prediction of much worse to come. What kind of people did this to their own? How had we come to value young life so poorly?
Valentine thought of his own daughters. He imagined Chloe or Fiona fleeing, running for their very life. The image came clearly; he could see the fear on their faces, the anguish and the terror of their hell to come. But, worst of all, was to be a father and know this was just someone’s sport. Because he knew without doubt, somewhere off stage, someone was watching the scene unfolding and laughing in perverse enjoyment.
A rattling beyond the door broke his concentration. He snapped into a new state of consciousness and realised he was gripping the doorknob so hard the knuckles of his hand were white. When he stepped aside, wringing his fingers, the door’s hinges started to screech.
DI McCormack peered cautiously down at the handle, then stepped inside, closed the door behind her. ‘Hello, sir,’ she said.
‘What is it, Sylvia?’ He slumped into his seat and scrunched up his brows, massaging them with his fingertips.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ he snapped.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes . . . No . . . Oh, I don’t know.’
‘That sounds more like it, going by the look on your face.’
McCormack approached the desk and pulled out the vacant chair. She was holding a blue folder but placed it on the desk, as if to indicate it could wait. To Valentine the room felt suddenly claustrophobic, like he was being cramped into the corner after previously ruling the entire territory.
‘Is it that obvious?’ he said.
‘A little. But then I did notice you haven’t been out of your office this morning, which some might interpret as you being antisocial, but I tend to assume you are in a contemplative mood.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. And we know what that means, don’t we? So, come on, spill the beans.’
Valentine couldn’t return McCormack’s gaze; it felt like an accusation. He looked up to the ceiling where a dim bulb burned overhead. ‘I had another little visit, you might say.’
‘The girl again?’
‘Yes. But she wasn’t alone.’ The DCI detailed the encounter with the older girl and the growing swarm of young children. When he was finished, McCormack was covering her mouth with the back of her hand, looking like she was trying hard to suppress her response.
‘I’ve no idea what the message was this time,’ said Valentine, ‘but I have an idea.’
‘There were children?’ said McCormack.
‘Lots of children.’
‘And this new girl was pregnant, too. Just like Abbie.’
‘Yes, I made that connection too.’
‘Then I bet your thoughts followed mine.’
‘In that case
, Sylvia, I hope we’re both wrong.’
Valentine watched the DI sitting solemnly and silently before him. The sound of cars beyond the window dominated the room for a few moments and then McCormack leaned forward and retrieved the blue folder. As she shuffled through the papers she explained the print-outs as being Malcolm Frizzle’s previous convictions.
‘I don’t need the whole list, only the current conviction for sex below the age of consent, and what was the other, grooming?’
‘Grooming, sex with a minor, and indecent assault, sir. In addition to the probation order there’s an existing harm order that relates to a historic case of grooming, too.’
‘The bloody scum.’ Valentine stood up. ‘Right, let’s put him through the grinder.’
The officers headed for the cells, ready to question Malcolm Frizzle about his involvement in Abbie McGarvie’s death. At the top of the stairs Valentine asked McCormack for an update on the SOCOs’ findings from the outbuilding on the Sutherland estate.
‘Nothing we can tie in to the McGarvie girl, no hair or tissue, and the blood is animal, I’m afraid.’
‘Animal?’
‘Yes, porcine. That’s pig’s blood to you and me,’ said the DI. ‘I spoke to Davis about this and he says it’s another one of those weird things that turns up at these occult rituals, like the salt, and the black wax that appears to be candle wax.’
‘I suppose sequins from girls’ dresses is just another trait, too?’
‘No idea, sir. There’s a ton of prints, and some match Frizzle’s files. There’s also a palm-print that’s been taken from the ladder, and guess what? It matches Frizzle’s file.’
They’d reached the interview rooms. Valentine nodded to the guard on the table and ordered him to bring in Frizzle. ‘Thing is, Sylvia, given he’s an employee there, those prints are understandable.’
‘And purely circumstantial.’
‘Yes, that too.’
The officers entered the room and retrieved chairs from under the one table that was positioned with its end butting the wall. McCormack was looking through the notes in the blue folder when Frizzle was brought in, leaving Valentine to do the greeting.
