Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

  ‘She wouldn’t have, I only just found it.’

  ‘Has it been used?’

  Davis folded over the evidence bag and put the gun in his jacket pocket. ‘I take it you haven’t heard how Frizzle copped it?’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Two bullets in the back of the head. Routine execution style, don’t you think?’

  ‘Christ almighty. Get it checked for prints and run the serial number; it probably won’t give us anything more than a point of manufacture, but you never know.’

  ‘I don’t know if this is of any consequence, but I’m pretty sure the SIG is a favourite with the intelligence service.’

  ‘If it is, it’s of no consequence to me. You know I don’t like coincidences; I prefer to deal with hard facts. That gun belonged to somebody, we don’t know who, but it’s now our job to find out.’ Valentine turned back to the parking bays, just as DI McCormack’s car was pulling up. She spotted the officers and started jogging towards the embankment.

  ‘Phil’s been taken into emergency surgery,’ she said as she pulled a stray clutch of hair from her eyes, turning to the DCI. ‘I didn’t know when I called, sir, but it’s a gunshot wound.’

  Valentine looked at Davis. ‘Have you checked the magazine?’

  ‘It’s a match: three bullets missing.’

  ‘We have the gun?’ said McCormack.

  ‘Ian found it, in the bushes.’ Valentine started walking towards the white tent the SOCOs had erected. He motioned the others to follow as he went.

  ‘Boss, are you saying the murder weapon was disposed of a few yards away from the scene?’

  ‘Yes, so what’s your point?’

  ‘Frizzle’s been taken out, mafia-style, and then the gunman flees without the gun. Something’s not right here.’

  ‘He also shot Phil before fleeing. I don’t know what happened in between then and now, but I do know Phil was supposed to be shadowing Malky. If Phil stumbled across something he wasn’t supposed to see then there could be any number of reasons why we have an officer down, a dead scrote and an assailant on the run. Until we’ve looked more closely at the situation, we can’t make any assumptions.’

  Valentine flung back the flap of the tent and ducked down. A SOCO was perched over the corpse, collecting residue on a wooden taper; he looked up and removed his blue face mask as the officers entered. ‘Shoe guards, please, I don’t want my scene contaminated!’

  ‘It’s my scene, actually,’ said the DCI. ‘So just keep your wig on and tell me if you found anything lying around.’

  The SOCO’s tone softened. ‘Some skull fragments, brain matter . . . Nothing I wouldn’t expect, sir.’

  Valentine looked at the face of Malcolm Frizzle, wide-mouthed and open-eyed, a dark red-to-black swathe painted down one side. The victim’s expression, on the whole, didn’t look too different to the way it had when Valentine had last seen him: the impassioned fear was still there, as was a nervous assumption of impending doom. Someone had gotten to Malky, but that had happened long before he came to rest in a dark and wet car park on the edge of Ayr.

  The crouching SOCO stood up and presented the officers with a small box containing blue shoe covers. ‘If you’re staying, please put these on.’

  The DCI waved down the offer and turned back towards the tent’s opening. As he stomped out, Davis and McCormack followed.

  ‘Sylvia, you wait here for the fiscal,’ he said.

  ‘I get all the fun jobs.’

  ‘Well, when the merry-go-round stops, head out to the hospital and stay there until Phil comes around.’

  Her head drooped. ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘I want to know what happened here tonight and hopefully Phil will come round and shed some light on that.’

  ‘I’ll let him know we’re praying for him,’ said McCormack.

  Valentine nodded, turning to Davis. ‘You can come with me. I think we need to have a very thorough look at Malky’s living conditions, and if he’s left anything lying around that might give us a clue as to why someone would want to blow his brains out so abruptly.’

  26

  Valentine was hunched over his PC, his index finger resting on the mouse-wheel, scrolling up and down. The email containing the report from the technical team didn’t make any sense to him. He clicked on the little cross in the corner of the screen and shut the file; there was no point rereading it, the facts weren’t going to change.

  He rubbed his face, massaging his eyes. It had been a long night. The search of Malcolm Frizzle’s harbour-side flat had yielded nothing, except the victim’s antipathy towards housekeeping, and a laptop with a missing hard drive. There had been no reason to assume the laptop had been tampered with by anyone other than Malky – sex offenders were prone to disposing of hard drives the second police showed an interest in their activities – but this morning’s email from the lab raised more doubts.

  A new load of worries had arrived, out of nowhere. As he slumped in his chair his face was inches from the screen. He eased back, exhaling loudly, and smoothed his palms over the desk. He was trying to figure all the new angles of the case that had presented themselves when he spotted DI McCormack coming through the door of the incident room. She was hanging up her coat as Valentine leaned out of his office and called her in.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Morning . . . How did it go last night?’

  ‘It was a late one, I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have, I didn’t really sleep.’

  ‘I’d have disturbed your wife.’

  ‘Clare doesn’t need any help on that front, but I appreciate the consideration.’

  McCormack crossed her arms, and eased onto the edge of the desk. The turn of her mouth indicated a change was coming to the choice of conversation. ‘Phil came round last night, sir.’

  ‘I was about to ask how he was.’

  ‘The doctors say he’s likely to pull through, but he’s had a narrow escape.’

  ‘Another one of us to add to the list.’

  She nodded. ‘Let’s hope he’s the last.’

  Valentine returned to his chair. ‘Did Phil give us anything to go on?’

  ‘He said he was following Malky, as per usual, and that he was heading back to his flat down the harbour.’

  ‘Taking the standard route?’

  ‘Yes. The same way he always went. But this time, there was someone waiting for him in a black car, possibly a Lexus, definitely a saloon of some sort.’

  ‘Where was Phil at this stage?’

  ‘Quite a distance behind. He said he had no indication that anything was amiss until the gunman emerged from the car. The rest was a blur – he ran towards the man, there was a scuffle, gunfire, and Phil gave chase.’

  ‘And the gunman got away?’

  ‘Phil says he didn’t actually realise he’d been shot, he heard the gun go off but in the struggle he thought the gunman had simply struck him. He continued in pursuit but the gunman reached the car, and that’s when Phil realised he was losing blood.’

  ‘Christ almighty. That explains how the gun got left behind, anyway.’

  ‘If nothing else.’

  The incident room was starting to fill up now. Bodies slotted in behind desks and began to contribute to the hum of activity. In the corner, next to the photocopier and a filing cabinet, where a tray of cups stood, DI Davis was eyeing a trip to fill up the kettle.

  ‘There’s Ian, call him in,’ said Valentine.

  McCormack knocked on the glass and beckoned the detective. He returned a green mug to the tray and nodded. His movements seemed stiff and edgy as he walked towards the other end of the room.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ said Davis.

  ‘In you come.’ The DCI leaned forward. ‘Looks like Phil’s going to pull through.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Davis shrugged, seeking more of an explanation.

  When McCormack had relayed her hospital report aga
in, the officers faced each other over the desk with grim fears growing all around them.

  ‘So what now?’ said McCormack.

  ‘Our search of Malky’s flat didn’t yield anything, except for a laptop that someone had stripped the hard drive from.’

  ‘And quite a few empty Stella tins,’ said Davis.

  Valentine nodded. ‘I had an interesting mail from the techies this morning. Apparently, Malky’s online activity over the last twenty-four hours has been unusual.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. All social media deleted. And, very interestingly, his Google drive – pictures and documents – all scrubbed.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ said McCormack.

  ‘Don’t assume it was him. It could be someone who is trying to hide something that they don’t want us to see.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, your guess is as good as mine, but it would have to be something incriminating. We’re trying to recover everything now, but it’s going to take some time.’

  Davis leaned a hand on the wall. ‘Malky did make a lot of claims about what he’d seen out at the Sutherland place – remember what he told those girls that he picked up at the bus stop in Monkton.’

  ‘That’s where my thoughts were heading, too,’ said Valentine. ‘Ian, can you remember the name of the gym Malky was heading to on the day we showed up at Sutherland’s?’

  ‘It was the one out at Whittlet’s, the big one next to the roundabout.’

  The DCI got up from where he was sitting; he picked his jacket from the back of the chair and headed towards the door. ‘Then we should pay them a visit, right away.’

  ‘What are you thinking, sir?’ said McCormack.

  ‘I’m thinking, if Malky was a member, he’ll have a locker. And there might very well be something interesting inside it.’

  *

  The gym was an ugly slab of post-modernism. Poured concrete and PVC window frames, with a revolving door as centrepiece. The hallway was an obstacle course of fitness-class flyers and glass cabinets stuffed with swimming goggles and Lycra wear. Valentine felt exhausted just navigating the stairwell; he wondered how anyone could enjoy visiting somewhere so soulless.

  ‘Who comes to these places?’ said the DCI. ‘I feel like I’m in a casting call for The Stepford Wives.’

  McCormack and Davis halted behind him, the recently promoted DI answering, ‘There’s a drop-box for your personality next to the yucca plant.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ The girl behind the counter was perma-tanned, her solid black hair sprayed into an immoveable force.

  Valentine opened his mouth, conjured voice, and decided not to bother. ‘You deal with this, Sylvia.’

  McCormack took the floor and, after displaying her warrant card and introducing the officers, was met by a bulky manager in a shiny grey suit and white, starched collar. He studied the team for a moment then retreated into his office and returned with a bunch of keys on a blue lanyard.

  ‘The members’ lockers are down at the rear of the changing rooms,’ he said, indicating a swing door. The officers followed him through.

  ‘Do you recall Malcolm Frizzle?’ said Valentine.

  The manager nodded, his head lolling on thick shoulders. ‘Yes, there was a little bit of trouble.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I shouldn’t really be relaying this – client confidentiality and all that.’

  ‘Remember you’re talking to the police.’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’

  Valentine caught the manager’s gaze. ‘There was a murder last night. If I thought you were withholding information, I’d have to take you down to the station and question you under caution. How does that sound?’

  ‘Okay, I’m not trying to be difficult.’ He raised his palms, rattling the lanyard.

  ‘What trouble did Frizzle cause you?’

  ‘There was some funny business with one of the younger members around the pool – the young girl’s father took exception.’

  ‘Did it get nasty?’

  ‘Raised voices, that was all. I warned him, of course.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary for Frizzle. We’re definitely talking about the same man.’

  They’d reached the locker room. The manager walked straight to where the number corresponded to the key in his hand. As he reached out with the key, he tapped at the blue-fronted steel door. ‘Here we are.’

  The key inserted, the locker sprung open, and the door was eased wide.

  Valentine reached in and removed a sweat top, shaking it out before dropping it on the ground. There were a few more items, an unopened packet of spearmint chewing gum and a dog-eared Gideon’s Bible.

  He picked up the bible. ‘Malky didn’t look the religious type to me.’

  ‘Maybe he’d seen something recently that pushed him over,’ said McCormack.

  Valentine returned the bible to the locker and latched on to another item, it was a small digital camera with a flat screen on the back.

  ‘Did you ever see him with this?’ he said.

  The manager shook his head. ‘Cameras aren’t allowed in the changing rooms, we don’t even like to see people with smartphones back here.’

  Valentine turned over the camera and tried the on/off switch at the side: a dim orange bulb started to glow then grew even dimmer. ‘Looks like the battery’s flat.’

  Davis reached in to the locker and withdrew a cable. ‘Might be worth charging it up, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s definitely worth charging it up.’

  27

  A long yellow slant of early sunlight sat across the car windscreen. The bright light highlighted the weathered railings that skirted the car park, divvying up the vehicles. From inside the heat-seared Audi, Valentine lowered the moistening windows a few inches and reclined in his seat, sighing. His eyes darted to the dashboard, and then back to the fading paintwork, before settling on DI McCormack. ‘No sign of life?’

  ‘It takes a while.’ She picked up the camera and inspected the cable. It was still attached to the car’s cigarette-lighter socket.

  ‘What’s that green light now?’

  ‘Oh, it’s on.’ McCormack slid the side switch again and an icon appeared on the screen. ‘Booting up now.’

  DI Davis tried to join in the front-seat huddle, leaning over the armrest and handbrake and peering into the small screen on the back of the camera. The initial photographic offering was much as expected: lots of pink flesh, in swimming suits, and all belonging to girls no older than fourteen.

  ‘What a bloody creep,’ said McCormack.

  ‘You weren’t expecting bowls of fruit, were you?’ Valentine shook his head as the DI flicked through the photo cache. She continued her tirade about the girls’ ages, and state of undress, until the screen-shot abruptly altered. ‘Oh, hold on . . .’

  ‘What’s that now?’

  McCormack turned up the camera, trying to discern the new set of shapes from another angle. ‘Don’t know, looks like an interior. I see a light.’

  ‘Electric?’

  ‘I think it’s a flame, candle likely.’

  She pressed on through the new pictures, they were all blurred and only odd snatches appeared in focus. In one, a whole hand appeared; in another a shadowy figure. McCormack was flicking quickly when one photograph finally jumped out; its content couldn’t be confused.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ said Valentine.

  ‘If you think it’s a little girl being abused, I’m afraid the answer’s yes.’ She handed over the camera to the DCI.

  Valentine looked over the remaining images of men in dark robes with a young girl laid out on a stone altar, like a sacrificial offering. He couldn’t see her face, and some of the men were in masks, but others were revealing their identities. None of them appeared to be aware that their images were being captured.


  ‘Hold on,’ said the DCI, ‘I know this one.’ He held up the camera.

  ‘Who is he?’ said Davis.

  ‘I think his name’s Rosenthal: he’s a member of the European Parliament, don’t ask me for any more details, but it’s definitely him, I’d know that smarm-merchant anywhere.’

  ‘Holy God.’

  The detective returned to scrolling through the images, finally the girl on the altar came into focus. ‘It’s Abbie McGarvie.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m certain.’ He viewed more images. ‘Not only have we Abbie in here, but this picture will require you both to put your seat belts on right away.’ He passed the camera to McCormack.

  ‘David Sutherland,’ she said. ‘I told you we should have taken him in.’

  ‘Well, we’re taking him in now.’ Valentine turned the key in the ignition and engaged the clutch.

  As they drove, McCormack delivered the news that there were more incriminating pictures still to come from the camera. ‘Boss, I think I’ve found another political figure. Closer to home this time.’ She held up an image of a portly man, stripped to the waist, in the same pose as the others.

  ‘Miller, I’m sure he’s been around since the fag-end of New Labour.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, there’s more yet.’ McCormack put down the camera and handed it to Davis on the back seat. ‘I can’t look. I just can’t look at any more.’

  As he took the camera the DI’s eyes started to grow round. He was gritting his jaws as he spoke again. ‘This is grotesque. And Malky had this, all the time. It would have turned us away from him and onto the ones in the pictures. Why didn’t he bloody well hand it over?’

  ‘Because he was a Renfield,’ said Valentine.

  ‘A what?’ McCormack turned, squinting towards the DCI.

  ‘Malky didn’t carry out this sort of thing – he was strictly a low-grade nonce, violent occult practice was beyond him. But he wasn’t beyond supplying those that did like it – that’s why I called him a Renfield; remember who that was? The depraved one who went out rounding up the victims for Dracula, so the vampire could keep his hands clean.’