Artefacts of the Dead

by Tony Black

  Valentine made a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, they’d have loved that.’

  ‘They were fine, actually . . . Well, Fiona was, thinks of it as a wee adventure.’

  He smiled. ‘And Chloe?’

  Clare took up her cup, sipped. ‘I don’t want to talk about, Chloe . . . Not tonight.’

  ‘Why not? I need to know if there’s anything wrong, Clare.’

  She dipped her head and scratched at her scalp, as if there was a way of expressing herself hidden there that might be of use. ‘She’s still getting trouble at school . . . but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Look, can we do this another time, Bob? I can see you’ve had a long day and the news about your father isn’t helping . . .’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Clare . . . I want to know.’

  She sat forward and held her cup in both hands. She looked at the cup as she spoke, but her gaze seemed to be focussed on the middle distance. ‘She’s still being bullied. I went to see the headmaster before your dad and I told him how concerned I was, but he seemed to think it was all an overreaction . . .’ She turned towards her husband, her focus back. ‘I am not overreacting, I know my daughter.’

  Valentine rose from his chair and went to sit beside his wife. He placed a hand on hers as he spoke. ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s very quiet, doesn’t tell me a thing. We’ll have to wait and see what happens. The headmaster said he’d have a word with some of her teachers and see if there’s anything amiss.’

  Valentine gripped her hand tighter. ‘It’ll be OK, Clare . . . Chloe’s a tough cookie.’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  He didn’t have an answer for that.

  Clare picked up the thread of her conversation. ‘The other night you were trying to tell me something, about that girl in the picture.’

  The detective sensed the blood draining from him. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, you said it was important.’

  Valentine withdrew his hand and slunk back in the seat. ‘It’s not.’

  Clare twisted her body in order to face him. ‘No, you were agitated and I was tired . . .’

  ‘Clare, leave it.’

  ‘Leave it?’ Her eyes lit with indignation. ‘I’m trying to help.’

  Valentine could see his reaction to Clare’s olive branch had been to hack it down with a chainsaw. ‘I just don’t feel like talking right now. I’m sorry.’

  She kept her eyes on him for a second, and then she drew in her bottom lip and her face became a hard set of angles. ‘OK, fine.’ She stood up and turned towards the kitchen door. ‘I’m sorry too, Bob. I really am.’

  He listened to his wife loading a few items into the dishwasher and then he heard the light switch and knew she had headed upstairs to bed. It was early, even by Clare’s standards. She would watch a little television and then, hopefully, nod off before he went up. Valentine realised he had started to avoid his wife, certainly any intimate contact. It wasn’t that he didn’t still care for her, he did, perhaps more now than ever, but the relationship had changed these past few years. There had been a time when sharing their thoughts with each other was part of being a couple, but those days had gone. He didn’t want to unburden his mind and his work on Clare because the consequences led to the kind of painful vivisection he would sooner avoid. If she would just listen and take what he had to tell her and store it away, that would be fine, but she wanted to solve things. Clare was all about solutions – even when there was not necessarily a problem – she imagined that talking things through led to the best outcome. For reasons he left unexplored, Valentine knew there were very few hard and fast outcomes in the world. Even when it looked to be patently black and white, there were shades of grey that had been missed. He looked up to the ceiling as his wife’s footsteps sounded in the room above and then he heard the television set going on. He imagined Clare’s night-time ritual of removing make-up and moisturising, brushing her hair and fluffing her pillows. It was the same every night. The routine had started out as unusual, then it became just another part of the decor that surrounded them, but recently it had borne a new significance to him: each swipe of cotton wool, each turn of the head, each swab of cream was a tick on a clock. It was almost as if he couldn’t bear to watch the day’s final gasps, as every one signalled fewer to come from the imagined store of their future.

  Valentine rose and took himself through to the dining room. His grey sports coat hung on the facing chair and he dug in his pocket for the mobile phone that had been switched off as he stood outside the Cooper’s front door. He pressed the on button and watched the screen light up; a few seconds later, the missed-call icon started to flash. He ignored it and went to his contacts.

  DS Sylvia McCormack’s phone was answered quickly. ‘Hello, boss.’

  ‘Hello. Look, I thought I should give you a call.’

  ‘Really? Sounds ominous.’

  Valentine sighed. He pulled back the chair in front of him and sat down. He rubbed at his forehead with his fingertips as he spoke. ‘This situation we . . . I mean I found myself in today . . .’

  She let the silence linger for a moment. ‘Uh-huh . . .’

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything, at the time.’

  ‘Because you could see that I knew full well what was going on.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Valentine raised his head, lowered his hand from his brow. ‘I don’t follow.’

  Sylvia’s voice dropped to a low whisper. She sounded concerned, but, beyond that, compassionate. ‘When you took me on I presume you looked at my files.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you know about my previous cases?’

  Valentine searched the recesses of his memory for the file he had skimmed on DS McCormack’s background but had to concede that he hadn’t taken much of it in. ‘Sylvia, this case has been a belter; if I’d had the time to carefully go over every file that crossed my desk . . .’

  ‘Right, well, if you don’t know then I’ll tell you now. I worked with Colvin Baxter on the Reece disappearance.’

  The Reece case was familiar to Valentine: she was a mother of five who had vanished, and several weeks later her children found out she was buried in a ditch. The other name meant nothing to him. ‘Who’s Colvin Baxter?’

  ‘He helped locate Karyn Reece. We had nothing on that case until he got in touch. We all thought he was taking us off on a wild goose chase, but we soon changed our minds . . . Anyway, I think the official term we use is a “precognitive”, but you’d likely call him a psychic.’

  Valentine waited for the DS to stop speaking. When he was sure she had finished he felt a strange impulse to drop the phone and step away, but he resisted.

  ‘I’m not sure that I see the . . .’

  ‘Oh, come on, boss, I saw your face . . .’ Her voice sounded lyrical and high on her youthful enthusiasm. ‘I know the look because it’s the same one Colvin wore when he was in the zone.’

  Valentine sensed the consequences of what the DS was saying, perhaps in a way she hadn’t given any thought to. He saw her claims seeping out into the public domain and panicked.

  ‘No, Sylvia . . .’

  ‘Good officers, sir, senior police, went public with Colvin Baxter’s help. Do you think that they’d expose themselves to that kind of scrutiny if they didn’t think he was on the money?’

  The DI’s imagination lit up now: he saw the squad taunting him, he saw his reputation in tatters and he saw his income, the tenuous string that supported Clare and the girls, vanishing. The thoughts scalded him, but they were all just flights of fancy: what really concerned him was the impact on the case. He was already under psychological assessment: he couldn’t afford any more questions being asked about his mental health, because if that did happen he was sure he’d be abruptly removed.

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Sylvia.’ There was a pause on the line, he wondered if his voice had sounded too harsh
, if he had damaged the thin patina of familiarity they had been building up.

  ‘But, sir, you can trust on my discretion if . . .’

  The DI felt a cold needle turning in his stomach. His breath became heavy, and as he tried to speak his voice came weaker than only a moment ago. ‘Sylvia, no ifs.’ He cleared his throat and raised his tone again to signal the conversation was now closed. ‘The reason I was calling is I want you to go back to Glasgow tomorrow and speak to the officers on the Cooper case who interviewed Knox. If there are transcripts, bring them back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ McCormack’s big talk seemed shrunken now.

  ‘I have a sneaking suspicion what they might tell you, and if I’m right, we’ve found the link between Knox and Urquhart.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He sensed his composure returning. ‘And Sylvia, keep your feet on the ground and remember who’s running this investigation.’

  35

  Ayrshire tolerated pretentious self-aggrandising in much the same way as a pack of dogs tolerated the suggestion that butcher meat was for sharing. A remark extolling the lavish extent of a mortgage or a proclamation of an exalted family lineage was likely to be greeted with the same disdain as a public proclivity for coprophilia. There were some things best left unsaid in certain company. There were those who traded Range Rover purchases like football stickers, they carried a great wad of swaps to taunt the rest of the playground with their purchase power, but to the vast majority they were seen for what they were: shallow puddles of vapidity and deeply deserving of censure. There was always more kudos attached to behind-the-fan remarks about a fur coat and nae knickers or – a favourite the detective reserved for parvenus – ‘I kent him when he had holes in his gutties’.

  You didn’t talk yourself up in the town of Ayr, or its surrounds, without ending up being talked about. There was no real benefit to getting ahead, getting away from the pack, because the pack always followed wherever you went. There was no escaping yourself, no pretending, because if you inflated the balloon of pomposity you could be guaranteed that a prick was waiting nearby to burst it. So people played themselves down; all but the most guileless and moronic made a virtue out of self-deprecation. Sons who got to university were lucky; well-earned promotion was to a job you wouldn’t be thanked for; and a hard-won foreign holiday was for the wife or the weans, because it just wouldn’t be the done thing to be seen basking in your own success.

  As Valentine stood with the car keys poised before the door, he watched the builders unloading the sand and bricks into his neighbour’s drive. Something told him his wife had known about this already but hadn’t mentioned it for the obvious reason that she wanted to wait until the work began. With the builders on site, her remarks would carry more clout, because a constant visual and aural reminder just wasn’t enough. The fact that his own home had become more cramped now – the girls sharing a room to accommodate his father – would make Clare’s onslaught seem even worthy. It wasn’t an option for them, though: he couldn’t afford it on a public servant’s wage – it was as simple as that.

  ‘Hello, Bob,’ his neighbour Brian called out as he navigated the building materials that sat between his lawn and his car.

  Valentine nodded. ‘Looks like a bit of work for you.’

  Brian reached the wall and flagged a desultory hand towards the goings. ‘Aye, we’re opening up the space above the garage to give us a wee bit more room.’

  It was a double garage, and judging by the hordes of materials the building work would be extensive, but at least Brian had the good grace to look almost embarrassed about his conspicuous consumption. Valentine knew Brian’s wife would not be so modest, and it would be from her that Clare garnered all the details she would be firing in her salvos of envy later.

  ‘It’ll be nice to have more room.’ He found himself glancing desolately towards his own front door, as he spoke his words trailed off into a forlorn organ peal. ‘We could do with more space . . .’

  As if sensing his neighbour’s discomfiture, Brian changed the subject as abruptly as a hand-brake turn. ‘You were a bit of a celebrity down at the Chestnuts last night; they had you on the late news again.’

  The change of tone from glum resignation to chipper pontification seemed out of character for Brian until Valentine caught sight of the jocular wink on the end. Brian went on: ‘Yeah, it was some kind of case round-up.’ He fanned his fingertips either side of his mouth for emphasis. ‘A special investigation, no less!’

  Valentine didn’t know whether or not to be glad that he had missed the programme, sometimes it was better not knowing, but then it was also good to be forearmed when dealing with CS Marion Martin.

  ‘I must have missed it.’

  The neighbour leaned forward, balancing a hand on the wall. ‘This second victim, he seemed a piece of work.’

  The detective directed the key towards the door of the car and opened up. ‘I can’t talk about it, Brian.’ As he uttered the words he wished they were retractable; his neighbour wasn’t officious, just curious, just making conversation. Valentine caught Brian’s expression change: his face lost its animated, interested look and became glum, and he glanced towards the builders reversing into his driveway. It was as if he was inferring with his eyes that the sharpness of Valentine’s tone was to do with the extension more than anything.

  ‘Look, I don’t mean to sound short with you, Brian, but this case is . . . Well, you can imagine it’s at a pretty sensitive juncture.’ He scrunched his brows. He was on edge, resorting to management speak before he’d left his own driveway.

  Brian waved him off. ‘No need to explain . . . I’ll try and keep this disruption to a minimum.’

  Valentine nodded and turned the key in the ignition. The drive to King Street station was a slow trial he set up for the prosecution of his own personality. He was judge and chief executioner and had decided that he needed to wear the black cap more often when presented with his own failings. He saw the evidence that he had isolated himself from his wife, children, father and colleagues, and now his neighbour had good cause to step away from him. But the case that burned him the most was that of the Coopers; he knew he had served nothing by visiting them and conceded that Billy Cooper had had every right to attack him the way he had. It was a trip that had served only Valentine’s curiosity, after all, and had done nothing to palliate their hurts. If he could change that, he would, but as he walked into the station and headed for the incident room, the detective felt an empty void spreading inside him and he didn’t know how to fill it.

  As he hung his coat, Valentine noticed CS Martin was already grilling DS McAlister, by the looks of things, over hot coals. The DS seemed to be feeling the heat, sticking a finger in the collar of his shirt and working the top button loose. He was nodding in line with the chief super’s Gatling speech as Valentine drew into their orbit.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Well, look who it is, Ayrshire’s very own silver-screen star . . .’ Martin wore a smirk that could have passed for an incitement to riot.

  ‘You as well? They’ll be calling me DI Valentino next.’

  McAlister started to laugh, a deep gut laugh that he cut off abruptly as he assessed the chief super’s lack of response.

  CS Martin stooped over the desk. She closed a blue folder and straightened her back. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny.’

  The detective was in no humour for the kind of gum-bumping that Martin specialised in; he had far too much on his mind with the case in its advanced stages and the returning image of Janie Cooper spooling in his imagination.

  He replied, ‘Well, as you know, boss, I’m just the kind of arsehole to laugh at my own jokes . . . Most of the time nobody else will.’

  She seemed to be having trouble processing Valentine’s self-mockery, it was as if her own scale of self-awareness didn’t reach those levels and it baffled her. ‘Right, well, now you’re here you can fill me in on the case instead of Ally.’ She
waved the DS away – he inverted a smile as he passed her eyeline.

  ‘Right, my office or yours?’ As the question was posed, he realised how much like the offer of a date it sounded; his throat constricted as if it was trying to swallow the words in a hurry.

  ‘Yours . . . Lead the way.’

  As the DI turned, the chief super uncrossed her arms and trailed behind him. The rest of the incident room was empty, except for McAlister and a couple of uniforms who seemed content to examine either the sheen of their shoes or the texture of the carpet.

  ‘Right, this better be good, Bob, because I don’t have to tell you how anxious all this media attention has made me.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t know anything about the special news report . . . It sounds like a mash-up of all the stuff they already have.’

  ‘Oh, it was that all right, and more besides. The thing that worries me, Bob, is the fact that those telly people are taking it so bloody seriously. Normally they can’t bother their arse coming down here, but – and you can call me an old cynic – they think there’s something sexy about the fact that a banker and a paedo have been shoved up on spikes in my patch.’

  Valentine was drawing out his chair; he eased himself down before he spoke. ‘They mentioned Knox?’

  ‘Oh, aye . . . Had pictures and everything. Old case stills and a screen grab of him at the High Court . . .’

  ‘Christ almighty . . .’

  CS Martin had her hands on her hips: on anyone else it would appear an overly fastidious approach to affectation, but it seemed to fit her perfectly. ‘Can it get worse, Bob? I mean, is there anything else you should be telling me before I have to get on the phone to Glasgow and ask them to chuck us a lifeboat?’

  The DI brought his hands above the line of the table; a yellow pencil with a pink eraser on the end became the focus of his attention as he tried to weave a response from the stray ends of thought that were flowing from his mind. ‘Oh, I think it can . . .’