Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

  Davis grunted. ‘These bastards were too busy pretending to be solid, upstanding citizens. And there’s only so many of their own daughters they could initiate into their sick ways before they started running out.’

  ‘They’re all too busy hiding in plain sight. Malky was their cover. The pictures were obviously his insurance policy, or maybe he wanted out when he saw the real truth of what was going on, but they wouldn’t let him out by that stage. Either way, he wasn’t about to bring the pictures to us and implicate himself, especially when we were investigating Abbie’s death and she was in the pictures too.’

  The car thundered down the bypass, overtaking a row of slow-lane hatchbacks. By the turn-off for Monkton, Valentine was gripping the steering wheel with spongy, wet palms. He dabbed the flat of his hand on top of his trousers and then repeated the motion. He was starting to lurch forward, crouching over the wheel like a gargoyle. His mind was racing now, all thoughts converging in a rhythmic pounding behind his forehead.

  The DCI envisioned a dramatic scene at the doorway as they appeared, perhaps some kind of intervention on behalf of Sutherland’s security staff. It crossed his thoughts to call ahead for backup, perhaps a wagon full of uniforms to close off access to the airstrip. As the thoughts played he decided against any strong-arming and, after all, Sutherland was capable of shutting the DCI down without anything more elaborate than a telephone call. Valentine knew he would need to be careful, because he was walking a tightrope, with the case balanced on one end of the pole, and his career on the other.

  As he pulled in through the gate on the airport road, the detective felt the tyres start to slide away on top of the loose scree. He sat up, steering into the slight skid, and brought the vehicle in line with the property wall. The green, rolling lawn was tilting gently alongside, the pond water casting up bright gleams. The picture was of almost perfect stillness until the Audi’s brakes screeched haltingly outside the main door of the impressive property.

  For a moment, Valentine sat breathlessly, listening to the steady beating in his chest. Stepping out, he was a little unsteady on his feat. An old instinct was warning him to calm down, to keep his impulsive thoughts at bay. There was an angry discourse setting up inside him, and he wanted answers to the questions he’d collected. He knew Sutherland would be in no hurry to provide useful responses, however, and any uncouth prodding could have the opposite effect to the one he craved.

  McCormack approached from the other side of the car. ‘You okay, boss?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘You look a little wobbly.’

  ‘I’m just gathering my thoughts, and more importantly, my emotions.’

  ‘It’s not easy, I know. After seeing those pictures I just want to lock him up and throw away the key.’

  ‘Well, that’s my intention.’

  ‘Something tells me it might not be as easy as that, sir.’

  Valentine made for the stairs. ‘We have to start somewhere.’

  The bell-pull made an elaborate call to attention. There was no movement inside the property for some moments and then a dark shadow passed over the windows that ran either side of the door. Opening up, David Sutherland stood in his stocking feet, a hand louchely tucked inside the pocket of his baggy corduroys. For a second he appeared not to have registered the officers’ presence and then he directed his gaze at the DCI.

  ‘Have you come to replace the wisteria your mob trampled to death?’ said Sutherland.

  ‘I’m concerned with a far more serious death than that,’ said Valentine, dropping a solemn accent on the word death.

  ‘What on earth are you on about?’

  ‘All will be explained in due course, Mr Sutherland. Right now, I think you should get some shoes and a coat because you’re coming with me to answer a few questions in the far less congenial environs of King Street station.’

  Valentine stood outside the interview room and waited for DI McCormack to return. The DI had taken it upon herself to supervise the printing of the pictures from Malcolm Frizzle’s camera personally. The station’s only functioning colour printer was three floors up and on the opposite end of the building. The break in proceedings had allowed the DCI to compose himself and take a moment to plot the direction his questioning should take, but from Sutherland’s reaction he sensed trouble.

  DI Davis appeared in the corridor, reeking of cigarette smoke and twitching nervously. ‘Hello, sir.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’ said Valentine. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s just my way, I get pensive when it’s a cert.’

  ‘We’re well positioned, but pretty far from a cert.’ The logic escaped the detective. ‘Why do you get pensive?’

  ‘Suppose it’s because there’s everything to lose.’

  Valentine didn’t like this unforeseen turn of events. Davis was right about one thing, though: the result was theirs to lose, and he wasn’t about to throw it away. ‘You can leave this to Sylvia and me,’ he said.

  ‘But it’s been my case, from the very start.’

  ‘You’ve done well, son. Now go and iron things out upstairs.’

  ‘But it’s my case.’

  ‘It’s my case, Ian.’ He dropped some gravel in his voice, the conciliatory tone obviously proving futile.

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s not fair.’

  ‘There’s no fair hairs on a monkey’s arse, you know that. Now get up to the incident room and make sure we have a solid showing for when Dino appears.’

  Davis moved his head and his eyes started to darken. When he turned back to face the DCI his forehead was sheened with sweat. He was holding in a tirade, but only just.

  ‘Do you hear me, Ian?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  As Davis turned for the stairwell, DI McCormack was coming in the door. She nearly dropped the blue folder she was carrying and a couple of glossy A4 printouts fluttered to the ground.

  ‘Hey, watch where you’re going,’ she yelped.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Valentine, bending down to retrieve the prints.

  ‘What’s got his goat?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I put him on the bench.’

  McCormack straightened the pictures. ‘Why?’

  ‘You just saw why – he’s a time-bomb.’

  ‘That guy’s got issues, I mean it.’

  ‘You’ve noticed that, too?’

  The officers headed towards the interview room and went inside. Sutherland was sitting, arms folded, on one side of a standard-issue office desk. He ran his fingers through his hair and crossed his legs as the detectives sat down opposite him, but he refused to acknowledge them.

  ‘Why do you have me in this place?’ snapped Sutherland.

  ‘I’ll be asking the questions, not you,’ said Valentine.

  ‘Oh, is that how it’s going to be, is it?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Valentine looked over the man in front of him. It was the same man that he had earlier spotted in the horrendous images he’d found on Malky’s camera. It didn’t lower the DCI’s opinion of Sutherland to know that he kept company with sick perverts because he had never had a high opinion of him in the first place. Neither did it give him any satisfaction to know that he had found such incriminating evidence, because there were young girls who had suffered terribly. And one in particular, who had died because of her involvement with him.

  ‘Why didn’t you come in to see me when you had the opportunity?’ said Valentine.

  ‘I don’t do everything I’m asked,’ said Sutherland.

  ‘I would have thought an invitation like that, from a senior police officer, might prompt a different response.’

  ‘Really? Well, I’m not generally in the habit of jumping to attention at the behest of low-grade civil servants, no matter who they think they are.’

  Sutherland was being unduly combative; it could have been a trait of his class, or a misplaced sens
e of security. Only the latter worried Valentine, but just a little. Sutherland might have once believed he was in a stronger position than he was, but the photographs in the blue folder sitting between them now said otherwise.

  ‘Tell me how you came to know Malcolm Frizzle?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb.’

  ‘I employ quite a number of people, you do realise that.’

  ‘Like I said, don’t play dumb.’ Valentine leaned forward, balancing on his elbows as he spoke softly in Sutherland’s direction. ‘I’ve had a dead pervert taken out, professionally, but perhaps not as professionally as his executors think. So, unless you want me to get very angry, very early on in this chat, I’d start answering some of my questions.’

  ‘Most of my staff come from an employment agency.’ His tone lowered a little, like he was prepared to play nice to better his predicament quickly.

  ‘Did Frizzle?’

  ‘I’d have to check.’

  ‘Perhaps he was recommended to you by someone, a friend or colleague maybe? Someone like the deputy head of Finlyson School, Alex McGarvie?’

  Sutherland’s gaze thinned. ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘Frizzle’s dead now.’

  ‘Is he?’ The response was timid.

  ‘You say that like a dish towel blew off the line.’

  ‘We weren’t well acquainted.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have to be particularly well acquainted with all your suppliers.’ Valentine let the last word sting a little. ‘I say suppliers, meaning, of course, suppliers of flesh.’

  ‘I-I’m not following you.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are.’

  The DCI turned to McCormack and nodded – she opened the blue folder and started to lay out photographs, one by one, in front of Sutherland. He watched, as the images mounted up before him. None of the horrific sights of young girls being abused, the occult practices or the clearly identifiable faces, including his own, made any impact until one.

  ‘I’m not saying another word until I have my QC with me,’ blurted Sutherland, wide-eyed, pushing the prints away.

  Valentine gathered the photographs towards him and selected one. He held it up, next to his face, as he spoke. ‘Simon James Rosenthal sits in the European Parliament, a very powerful man overseeing billions of pounds worth of annual subsidy. I must confess, I didn’t know that much about him but I’ve had a closer look at his portfolio since he cropped up in my investigation.’

  Sutherland made a sideways glance at the officers but kept his lips tightly shut.

  ‘Of course, it’s not Mr Rosenthal’s multi-billion-pound portfolio that we’re concerned with here. I’m far more interested in his predilection for little girls. No comment, Mr Sutherland?’

  ‘I want my lawyer now.’

  ‘Nothing to say about your friend, Mr Rosenthal, here? You’re obviously well connected; you appear to be in some kind of club, tell me about those robes, and the masks.’

  ‘I’m not saying another word until my lawyer is present.’ Sutherland was breathing hard, exhaling downward through compressed nostrils.

  ‘You’re entitled to legal representation, in due course.’

  ‘Now!’ He turned on the officers, slamming his palms down on the desk.

  Valentine held still; he kept his composure until Sutherland retreated into his chair and seethed to himself. When he judged the moment to be right the DCI calmly collected up the photographs and put them in the folder. He rose and walked out with the folder under his arm, DI McCormack following.

  Outside the interview room McCormack was the first to speak.

  ‘Wow. Just wow,’ she said.

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘I didn’t think people actually spoke through gritted teeth.’

  ‘David Sutherland clearly does.’ The officers started to walk towards the stairwell. ‘And to think this is all thanks to Malky Frizzle. I could almost thank him.’

  ‘Don’t get too carried away.’

  ‘Do you think Malky put the rope ladder out for Abbie?’

  Valentine shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. It’s possible, he was working a number on them, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible Malky thought these sickos were going beyond even his limits?’

  ‘I’d be cautious about measuring Malky for a halo quite yet. He was a scrote and a perv, and this is how that type always gets brought down. Some people call it hubris, I call it the law of stupid.’

  ‘The law of stupid, sir?’

  ‘You get enough psychopaths together in one place they’ll start to screw each other over for power, because that’s what they do. Someone made a mistake bringing in Malky Frizzle to such a sophisticated set-up, but that one mistake has turned out to be our greatest asset.’

  28

  As Valentine and McCormack walked through the door of the main incident room they were met with spontaneous applause. McCormack raised the blue folder containing the pictures over her head and smiled, but she promptly corrected herself when she noticed the DCI’s expression. For a moment, the group continued to applaud, a few banging on desktops and whistling to add to the air of jubilation. The entire room seemed overwhelmed, elated with the news that Sutherland was in custody and, given the new evidence, more of his associates would be joining him soon.

  As the tumult died away, Valentine found himself the focus of every pair of eyes around him. He knew what they were expecting to see, but he would have to disappoint them. The uneasy tension setting up in his gut insisted there was only one way to break the spell: directly.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘now, let’s not get carried away.’ He flagged his palms at the group.

  ‘Come on, boss, you’ve got a result,’ said one of the cocky uniforms.

  ‘No, we’re far from over the line, actually.’ His voice had grown hoarse; he didn’t like delivering bad news to such a motivated group.

  DI Davis pressed to the front of the gathering. ‘What happened in the interview with Sutherland?’

  ‘He’s playing coy.’

  ‘But we’ve got his mug on film!’

  ‘That’s not a confession to any crime, Ian. And it’s certainly not a confession to how Abbie McGarvie came to be cold on the tarmac outside his estate.’

  A palpable fatigue settled into the room; it were as if the earlier enthusiasm had been siphoned off through the valve of a deflating balloon. Valentine waved the group back to their positions and they returned to stare disconsolately at computer screens. Only DI Davis resisted the call, leaning over a desk and shaking his head – he looked close to bawling.

  ‘Ian, join myself and DI McCormack in my office, when you’re ready.’ The officers traipsed through the unusually silent incident room towards the office. Inside the door, Valentine headed straight to his desk, where he noticed a number of post-it notes had been stuck in his absence.

  ‘Are you redecorating with those?’ said McCormack.

  ‘One, two . . . there’s five messages all from Kevin Rickards,’ he said.

  ‘The cop?’

  ‘Ex-cop.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, apart from that I’m to call him back.’

  ‘You should do that, it might be important.’

  Valentine dialled the number but before the call connected he spotted the chief super stomping towards him, eyes ablaze, through the incident room. He put down the receiver and nodded in her direction. ‘What’s up with her?’

  McCormack turned and commented, ‘She’s like a scalded cat.’

  ‘I know that look and you’re not far off.’

  DI Davis was outside the door, reaching a hand towards the handle. He jerked backwards as CS Martin entered.

  ‘Bob, my office right away.’

  ‘Can I get a clue what it’s about?’

  ‘No you bloody cannot. Get moving, now.’ She directed a painted thumbnail over her shoulder then turned on her stil
etto heels and marched back the way she had just came. Outside the swinging door, Davis was open-mouthed. He followed the super’s definitive movements, and the bobbing heads that accompanied them, and then he turned back to the office and puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’ said McCormack.

  ‘Me too,’ said Valentine, turning towards her and noticing she was staring out the window, and appeared to be talking about something else entirely. He walked over to the window. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Somehow, I don’t think they’re selling double glazing.’ The DI was pointing to a group of men, four in total, dressed in dark suits, who were exiting a black saloon at the front of the station.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘My thoughts entirely.’

  Valentine dashed back to his desk and picked up the phone, he pressed the speed-dial button for the front desk. Jim Prentice answered on the third ring.

  ‘Jim, what’s the story with the new arrivals?’ said the DCI.

  ‘Oh, you mean the Men in Black?’

  ‘Stop messing around.’

  The desk sergeant’s voice grew weary. ‘That’s another group just in, there were some more earlier.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Nobody’s told me, which can only mean one thing: I’m not on the ‘‘need to know’’ list.’

  Valentine sighed. ‘I get the impression I’m about to be gelded.’

  ‘That sounds painful, old son.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  DI McCormack and DI Davis had gathered around the desk; they stood pensively before Valentine as he drummed his fingers on the top of the telephone.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It looks like Special Branch.’

  Davis lashed out at the desk with his foot. ‘No! I’m not letting them do this to me again.’

  ‘Calm down, Ian.’

  ‘Bollocks to that.’ He kicked out again, this time a wooden panel split in the desk.

  ‘Ian!’

  DI Davis stood squarely, gripping fists, and then lurched violently for the exit. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door, smacking it off the wall and dislodging the Venetian blinds, which slid into a heap on the floor. In the incident room he snatched up his jacket so roughly that the chair trailed him a few steps, before falling and being abandoned in the middle of the floor.