by Tony Black
‘You can’t go home, Jade. Do you hear me? I don’t want you to go near the police. You can’t talk to anyone.’
‘I’m right across the street, though. And somebody needs to do something.’
Darry exhaled slowly into the phone. ‘Jade, you have to listen to me.’
‘I know.’ The sobbing reached hysteria.
‘I’ll be in town soon and you can tell me everything but don’t talk to anyone before then. I’m staying at Finnie’s place, do you remember where that is?’
‘I think so.’
Darry’s speech quickened. ‘Good. It’s on the way to the harbour, above the pub. Now, the bloke in the pub is a good lad, his name’s Brian and he has the key for Fin’s place, you can ask him for it, say you’re going to tidy up before your brother arrives.’
‘But won’t Fin be there?’
‘He’s out of town for a few days. He won’t mind you being there because he knows why I’m coming home.’
‘You told Fin?’
‘I told him some of it, Jade. I had to. He knows I’m not due leave and wouldn’t desert the place if it wasn’t serious.’
‘But …’
‘Jade, he’s an old friend, he understands. He’s on our side, honestly.’
‘OK.’ A tired note played in her voice.
‘You sound exhausted, just go now. I’ll be home soon.’
‘Darry …’
‘What is it?’
‘Promise me everything will be OK.’
‘I promise.’ His speech stalled, then lit up again. ‘Go, Jade, quickly now, and don’t stop for anyone.’
Jade held the phone to her ear to make sure her brother had gone. When the line tone changed and the call ended she lowered the phone and stared into the street. Another police car was arriving, she watched the uniformed officers jog towards her house, and she raised the mobile phone again.
‘Niall, it’s me.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’m at home, I need to see you.’
‘OK. Tell me where.’
6
As the corpse appeared in front of him DI Bob Valentine’s neck muscles stiffened. It was always the same, like a physical reminder of his calling. He had not joined up to strut about like some of his colleagues, to chase rank. It had been a deeper connection. If he had been looking to attract censure from his father – a striking miner at the time – he could hardly have chosen a worse profession, but that wasn’t what he was about. As fathers went, he had a gem; he wouldn’t want to injure his pride, or any other part of him. The fact that Valentine signed up for the force had little to do with an intention: the police force took him.
From boyhood the idea of good and evil preoccupied Valentine. Even games like cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers had a deeper, darker edge than with other boys. It seemed, to him, the stuff of life. This was what he was about, he was a hunter and a protector. He had grown up and sworn himself to maintaining the pretence that passed for civil society. He had always known it was written for him. Somewhere was a ledger with the words: Bob Valentine, finder of sociopaths and psychopaths.
The wound in James Tulloch’s neck drew the detective’s interest. Normally, the cause of death would be the first point he looked at but his own stabbing – still so recent – made him recoil. It wasn’t the excessive amount of blood, or the torn flesh that protruded above the soaking T-shirt, but the way the sight set his mind tripping back to an unhappy time.
He had tried to seal off the part of his memory that stored the entry of a blade into his chest that punctured his heart. The pain was not what bothered him, or the fifty pints of blood they transfused into him at the hospital; the words ‘angiography’, ‘thoracotomy’ and ‘heart-lung bypass’ were just terms the chief super liked to test his mettle with. He was repaired, almost fully; it was the damage his near death had done to his family, to Clare and the girls, that still worried him.
The kitchen table was nothing special, an old MFI number with a couple of drawers and rickety legs. His late mother would have said it had ‘seen better days’ but then she would never have had chipboard under her roof in the first place. The sag in the middle, where the weight of a man’s torso lay, suggested his mother would be right to assume the product was useless.
Valentine took in the scene, which hinted at surreal domesticity. On the table, beside a spreading pool of blood that threatened to spill over the edge, sat a bottle of HP sauce and a sugar bowl with odd pink splodges inside. There was a packet of Sugar Puffs spread on the floor and some of the contents had been stamped into the linoleum where the blood lay in tacky footprints.
A chip pan on the cooker. A white plastic jug kettle. Fridge. Washing machine. And men in white suits raking the contents of cupboards, drawers and the kitchen counter for whatever they could find.
‘No weapon,’ said Valentine. It was a statement but everyone at once knew it was also a question that required an answer.
A blue face mask was pulled down. ‘No sign of one, sir.’
‘What about the cutlery drawer, any knife sets? Steak knives maybe with one missing?’
The mask went back on, head shakes followed.
‘Well this is bloody great. A fatal domestic, in the one place of the house you’d expect to find a multitude of weapons and no weapon.’
DS McAlister arrived. ‘Not resorting to guesswork are you, boss? Might not have been a domestic.’
‘Touché, pal.’ He walked round the corpse and peered over the top of the deceased’s head. ‘It’s a tidy scene, too tidy. Maybe a row over the Sugar Puffs – I wouldn’t want those for my tea either – and then the knife goes in the back of the neck.’
As Valentine straightened himself the team followed with their eyes. DS McCormack spoke: ‘Possibly a panic move, sir. If we go on the assumption most victims know their murderer, and why wouldn’t we assume this in a family home, then the sight of him sitting there with a knife in his back would be a shock.’
‘So our Bronco Billy retrieves the knife and then …’ the DI turned around, scanning the floor and down the hall.
‘If the assailant’s in shock, say it’s the woman and this is her partner, she wouldn’t want to look.’
‘So, she takes off with the knife.’
DS McAlister pointed back to the hall. ‘She tanks it, boss, fast as she can. Probably doesn’t even realise she’s holding the knife, she’s in pixie land. There’s tears, snot, hysterics.’ McAlister waved his hand towards the wall, traced the line of blood smears. ‘She’s all over the shop, can hardly stand, that’s how we get the streaks.’
‘Is it?’ Valentine’s voice indicated a put-down was coming for the theorists. He walked towards Ally. ‘Only problem is, son, those smears on the wall, remember, they end in five digits. It’s pretty hard to hold a knife, bloody big one at that, with your hands open and pressed to the plasterboard.’
McAlister sucked on his bottom lip. ‘So we’re talking two people.’
Valentine’s eyes widened. ‘Could be.’
Valentine strolled round the corpse, keeping his head down and eyes focussed. He appeared to be taking pictures to store in his memory, recording the scene. His breathing stilled and his demeanour became suffused with concentration. When he reached the other side of the corpse he crouched lower beside an outstretched arm, ‘Ally, give me that pen.’
‘You see something?’
Valentine took the pen and slotted the end under the victim’s T-shirt sleeve, pulled back the fabric to reveal more of the arm. A detailed crown and feathers, in faded blue ink, sat beneath the skin. ‘Is that military?’
McAlister peered closer. ‘A military tattoo – wouldn’t we hear drums and pipes, boss?’
‘Very funny. Get that snapped and check it out.’
‘Will do.’
DS Donnelly joined them in the kitchen. ‘That’s the duster here, sir, I put him on the hall first.’
‘Nice one, Phil. And have we had the ple
asure of Mr Scott’s company?’ The fiscal depute had an officious reputation that grated on Valentine. ‘Please tell me I haven’t missed our regular parley.’
‘I’m afraid so, arrived the same time as the doc, so he’s been and gone with a death cert in his mitt.’
‘Right, in that case, let’s get our victim over to pathology. I want whatever secrets he’s holding as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And Phil, get uniform to search the grassy patch at the end of the street, and all the way into the town. If the perp took off in a fit of panic chances are the weapon was dumped in a similar fashion.’
DS McAlister spoke: ‘Do you want the rest of us back at the station?’
‘Not you, you’re on the door-to-door with uniform. And remember they’re jumpy. We want answers but we don’t want anyone upset, do you get me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything at all unusual, I want to know, Ally. If a stray dog took a squirt on the lamppost out there I want it ID’d. Any ructions from the locus, shouting, screaming – get exact times and places. And, Ally, try to get a handle on the type of people we’re dealing with. What did the locals think of the Millars and James Tulloch? Where’s the teenager? And get a hold of the older kid. When you have a picture, head for the station, make a start pinning what we have on the board.’
The DI headed towards the street, the sky was darkening now. ‘Sylvia, get your car, we’re going for a jaunt.’
‘Yes, sir. Where are we off to?’
‘The hospital. Hopefully our witness is compos mentis.’
7
DI Bob Valentine watched the street lamps fizzing into life above the road as they headed out of Whitletts. Darkness hadn’t fully arrived yet and the amber glow from above added an unnatural sheen to the route. They had passed the station, and were heading out towards Tam’s Brig before Valentine realised they were travelling in the opposite direction of Ayr Hospital.
‘Sylvia, I know you’ve not been in the town long but you should know the hospital’s the other way.’
The DS took her gaze from the road. ‘She’s in Crosshouse, sir.’
‘They took her to Kilmarnock when we have that massive hospital here.’
‘Better equipped, apparently.’
Valentine tugged at his seatbelt to allow him more room to turn around. ‘How bad is this woman? I mean, I don’t want to get out there and find out she’s in a coma and can’t talk.’
‘She’s stable, I believe. Gave herself a bad knock on the way down, and she’s a fair old age, so I’m presuming they’re being careful.’
Valentine locked away the information about the victim and how the medics rated the town’s main hospital. The place had only been built a few years ago – at least, that’s how it looked to him – and now it was outdated compared to the Kilmarnock facility. Everything in the old town was falling apart or closing down. Shops in the centre were being shuttered every other day. Pound stores and charities selling second-hand junk was the only growth area. It didn’t feel like a place anyone wanted to live anymore.
‘How have you settled in, Sylvia?’ he said.
‘Well, Ayr’s not that far from Glasgow, but it’s a long way away if you know what I mean.’
‘We’ll not be staging the Commonwealth Games here, that’s for sure.’
Sylvia accelerated to beat the traffic lights where a junky stood shivering at the pedestrian crossing. ‘There are some similarities, though.’
‘Junkies you mean. I don’t know where they all came from, never saw them until a few years ago …’ the DI trailed off. ‘God, I sound like my father. I’ll be blaming Thatcher next.’
The conversation turned briefly to politics, to the state of the country, and then back to the town and their reason for being there.
‘We shouldn’t complain, sir,’ said Sylvia. ‘We’re probably in the one growth profession.’
‘Sad but true. As long as you’re not finding the going too tough, I mean, we’re not as well resourced as Glasgow out here in the wild west.’
‘It’s fine. I don’t have a life, remember.’
Valentine didn’t reply. There was a point among colleagues where day-to-day chat about the job turned into a more personal affair. There had been moments in the past when he had relied on DS McCormack’s insights into his personal life but they had always left him feeling compromised, like he owed her something in return. That had been fine when she was merely seconded to Ayr for one specific case but since she had been posted permanently he couldn’t take the risk.
As the detectives pulled off the main road, towards Crosshouse Hospital, it became clear that several circuits of the car park would be necessary to find a space. On the way to the entrance the building’s bright lights belied the darkness that had crept in. Valentine checked his watch and tried to guess where his wife and family might be now. Chloe’s play had finished half an hour ago, they’d all be at Vito’s for ice cream, that’s what had been planned. The girls loved the ice cream there, no matter how quickly they were growing up that remained constant. He tried to put the picture out of his mind – it wasn’t helping anyone – as he approached the reception desk and produced his warrant card. ‘DI Valentine and this is my colleague DS McCormack, we’re here to see the old lady you brought from Ayr.’
‘Oh, yes.’
McCormack said, ‘Agnes Gilchrist.’
‘Of course.’ The receptionist picked up a telephone receiver and waited for an answer, her chat was brisk. ‘Doctor’s coming to take you through.’
As they sat down Valentine absorbed the familiar setting. Nurses dashing about, the overpowering scent of industrial disinfectant and the occasional chime of medical equipment combined to remind him why he didn’t like hospitals. There had been long weeks in such a place, stretching into months, after his own knife assault. At first it was like everything was happening to someone else – like he was a spectator to terrible events – and he indulged the fantasy because it was easier to absorb than the reality that he had died.
Twice on the operating table the detective’s heart stopped and he was declared dead. He hadn’t fought back, that would have taken a conscious effort, something he didn’t have. He was cold, numbed by the drugs, but that was all. There was no retreat from a blinding white light either; God hadn’t whispered to him like some Hollywood movie. For a long time afterwards he was too weak, physically and mentally, to do more than ponder what had happened to him. But, later, the questions came.
‘Detective Inspector …’ the man was holding out his hand, ‘I’m Dr Campbell.’
‘Hello, Dr … I’m sorry I was miles away.’
Valentine and McCormack followed the doctor down an over-lit corridor that led to the wards. He was a talkative man, commenting on their shared misfortune to be working so late on a weeknight and the trouble of rising early the next day. When he got to Agnes Gilchrist, however, his tone darkened.
‘She’s not in a good way, she got a bad knock on the head in the fall. She’s an old lady and hasn’t kept good health for some time. On top of that we’ve had to set her wrist, a clean enough break, but she’s had an almighty shock.’
‘If we can just have a couple of minutes with her,’ said Valentine.
‘Well that really will be all, I’m afraid. And can I ask you not to let her get worked up, we need to keep her calm and rested.’
‘Of course.’
The room was small, dominated by a portable hospital bed that was elevated to allow the patient to sit up. There was a sink, a small wooden cabinet with a plastic water jug and one chair, occupied by an old man in a dark brown suit. The detective was first in the room, followed closely by the others. The old man rose as Valentine passed and the pair nodded to each other. When he reached the side of the bed he stared at the patient and she acknowledged him with a flat smile.
‘Hello, Agnes.’
She was nervy, her hands trembling.
‘I’m De
tective Inspector Valentine and this is DS McCormack.’ As the doctor appeared on the other side of the bed Valentine noticed the old man had left the room.
‘The police officers would like to ask you a few questions, Mrs Gilchrist.’
Her lips tightened, then parted a little.
‘It’s OK, love.’ Valentine took hold of her hand. ‘I know you’ve been through the mill today, we should be giving you a medal.’
DS McCormack sat on the edge of the bed and asked Agnes if she was comfortable, if they could do anything for her.
‘I’m fine, they’ve been very good to me.’
‘Do you mind if we ask a few questions, Mrs Gilchrist?’
‘You’ve got your job to do, son.’
‘Can you tell us what you saw?’
‘Well, I didn’t think much of it at first, it just sounded like another one of their rows with all the shouting and screaming.’
‘Who was shouting and screaming?’
‘It was herself at first, then her man, I think.’
DS McCormack had been taking notes, she looked up. ‘Do you mean Sandra Millar?’
‘Yes, I’d know her sobbing anywhere, dogs in the street would know her.’
‘You said her man was there too, would that be James Tulloch?’
‘I don’t know his name. Can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure.’
‘But you recognised him?’
Agnes picked at the hem of the cotton bed sheet with shaking fingers. ‘To be honest, I can’t say I did. I heard a man, but I don’t know who it was.’
‘It’s OK, Mrs Gilchrist, you’re doing fine.’
The old woman looked at the doctor. ‘Perhaps that’s enough for now,’ he said. ‘Perhaps after a night’s rest she’ll remember some more.’
‘Just one more question. Did you see, or hear, anyone else?’
‘I … I just can’t be sure. Is that important?’
‘Think hard for a moment, I know you’re tired, but this would be a great help.’ Valentine’s voice trailed into stillness as he tried to comfort the old woman. ‘Was Sandra Millar’s daughter there, or her son? What about somebody else altogether?’