Artefacts of the Dead

by Tony Black

  Valentine threw up his hands. ‘At this stage, Ally, who knows?’

  ‘Do you see Sinclair in the frame?’

  ‘What’s his motive?’

  McAlister shrugged and let his vision drift. ‘Well, it’s a cracking story whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘Oh, come on, that’s taking manufacturing the news a bit far.’

  He slid off the desk. ‘Well, maybe he had some connection to Urquhart and Knox that we’ve not seen . . . We’ve not been looking at Sinclair.’

  ‘So he’s an unknown factor to us . . . So are you, Ally, we haven’t looked into your background on this one: does that make you a suspect?’

  ‘Get real, sir.’

  Valentine smirked; he took the putdown because he deserved it. ‘Who’s to say you’re not on the right lines, Ally? The truth of the matter is right now we don’t know. There are too many variables. Has Sinclair been up to something? Yes, I’ve no doubt. And has Gillon been up to something too? Yes, I’ve no doubt about that.’

  ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘Where can we go? We can’t magic up extra variables to the mix . . . we have to wait and see.’

  ‘Dino will love that. She went out that door tonight expecting us to have it wrapped up by the morning.’

  Valentine shook his head: the mere mention of the chief super’s name stuck a spike in an exposed nerve. ‘Bloody deluded bitch . . .’

  McAlister gnawed his bottom lip as he spoke. ‘You know she’s going to drop the bomb tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not if we don’t give her the chance.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  The DI raised himself from the desk and headed for the glassed-off office at the end of the room. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Get onto those touts now, and don’t expect to get home tonight!’

  DS McAlister collected his jacket from the back of his chair and headed for the door as Valentine stepped into his office. He stood for a moment in the centre of the room and dipped his head; there was a penny sitting on the ground that compelled him to pick it up. As he reached down for the coin he remembered his grandmother; he hadn’t thought of her for a long time.

  ‘Pennies from heaven . . .’

  He took the penny, walked towards his desk, removed his chair and sat down. As he looked at the shiny coin, he turned it over in his fingers. It seemed to sing to him of times gone by. His grandmother had been a superstitious woman; she would never allow a hat on a bed or an umbrella raised indoors. If a cat crossed her path there was a reason for it and a spilled saltcellar took a pinch over the shoulder. He smiled thinking of her now: she had been a kind woman, he had always remembered her that way. She once told him, when he was a young boy, that when you found a penny it was someone in heaven’s way of telling you that they were with you, thinking of you. He smiled at the coin, and the memory of his grandmother, and wondered who in the heavens would be watching over him now.

  The blue folder containing the details from the Janie Cooper case was still sitting on his desk. He turned over the cover and saw the picture of the little girl staring back at him. The image of the doll was there too, sticking out from beneath a sheaf of notes. She had been swinging the doll and smiling at him when he passed out at the Coopers’ home. Since that day he had tried to push the image from his mind and tell himself that it hadn’t happened. He knew DS McCormack thought differently, but she had her reasons for that. There may indeed be more things on heaven and Earth, as she said, but he was a man of reason and hoped to remain so. Valentine didn’t want to rely on guesswork to find the killer of three people and solve the disappearance of a schoolgirl more than a decade ago, but the more he searched the further he seemed to get from a solution. He leaned over the desk and put his head in his hands. The blood was rushing hot in his veins. For a moment the sounds of the street brimmed in his ears and then lapsed into no more than a dull humming. He could have been anywhere: at home, on a beach, it didn’t matter. He was tired, he wanted to rest, and was ready to give in to sleep. He knew his body was not what it had once been, he was weaker now, perhaps too weak for the job he had taken on, but it was too late to make that conclusion. The detective would see the job out now, even if it killed him.

  As he removed his hands from his eye sockets and allowed his gaze to take in the full extent of the incident room, he spotted DS Donnelly and DS McCormack walking through the door. A brief pang of optimism lit inside him and he rose from his chair and tapped on the windowpane to beckon them in. As he checked the clock on the far side of the room, he knew the evening news headlines were just about to start. He was leaning over to switch on the television as the officers came in.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ said DS Donnelly, his voice a low growl.

  ‘Well . . . What did you turn up?’ said Valentine.

  Donnelly sighed and motioned to DS McCormack.

  ‘Not good, sir,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, not good?’

  ‘We did the usual points of interest . . . Nothing. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Sinclair for days.’

  ‘Have you rung the B&Bs . . . the hotel bookings?’

  ‘Yes, boss, we tried that,’ said Donnelly. ‘What are the odds on him booking himself under his own name? He’s not stupid.’

  DS McCormack spoke up. ‘And he obviously doesn’t want to be found . . . Apparently he was a regular in the Phoenix – there every night – and two days ago he vanished without trace.’

  Valentine flagged the officers down. ‘Right, shush . . . I want to hear this.’

  As the news headlines played on the small portable screen, he reached down to turn up the volume. The familiar face of the early evening news anchor read out an abridged snapshot of the day’s events: a fatal road accident on the A9 was followed by a Royal visit to Deeside and a factory closure in Broxburn. There was no mention anywhere of the west coast of Scotland; for once, Ayrshire was gratefully ignored.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said McCormack. ‘Gives us some breathing space.’

  Valentine flicked off the television. ‘Maybe twelve hours if we’re lucky.’

  The officers looked at each other with heavy eyes.

  ‘So, what now, boss?’ said Donnelly.

  Valentine’s answer was short. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Unless you’re hiding something that’s going to spark my interest, Phil, then nothing . . . You might as well both go home.’

  They glanced at each other again.

  McCormack pitched up on her toes and raised her voice. ‘Well, we can keep searching the town for Sinclair.’

  ‘And what makes you think you’ll do any better than uniform? It’s like Phil said: he’s smart and doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘So we just give up?’ said Donnelly, his voice following the same peaks as McCormack’s.

  Valentine shook his head. ‘I didn’t say that. I said you both go home and get some rest; it’s been a long day. If anything changes, I’ll let you know. I’d sooner have you both fresh for tomorrow.’

  Donnelly inflated his cheeks and exhaled slowly. He turned for the door and waved farewell to the others. When he had left, DS McCormack lowered her voice to a near whisper. ‘Is everything OK, sir?’

  Valentine turned back to the television screen and pressed the on switch. ‘Perfectly, Sylvia. Go home.’ He turned to wave her out of his office. ‘You heard me, give me some peace to catch the headlines on the other channel.’

  The detective reclined in his chair and raised his ankle towards his knee. He stared through the blinds towards the bottom of the incident room and watched Donnelly and McCormack put on their coats and make their way through the door. As he returned to the television screen, he lunged forward and flicked the channel to the other side. He felt sure that both stations ran with much the same output, but wanted to check. He sat through twenty minutes of trivia masquerading as news-entertainment, a schedule of football fixtures aimed at the recen
tly lobotomised and a weather report by a glamour model in a cocktail dress. When he was sure Ayrshire was not making the headlines on any of the main stations, he switched the television set off and closed his eyes before lowering his head onto the desk and giving in to his exhaustion.

  DS McAlister was arriving back in the empty office when Valentine next looked up. The large incident room was empty, with only the hum of strip lights and the occasional gurgle from the coffee machine attempting to suggest otherwise. McAlister didn’t seem to notice the detective until he called out on his way to greet him.

  ‘Any luck, son?’ said Valentine.

  McAlister stood silently, his face stone as he shook his head.

  ‘Not a thing. I don’t know what to say, boss.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to say . . .’

  Valentine pulled out a chair and directed McAlister to sit down. He reached out for another chair and dragged it by its castors towards him, then sat with his chest leaning on the chair’s high back.

  ‘Look, Ally, I know you want this bastard as much as I do. I can see it: that’s why I bumped you up to DS when Paulo lost the plot . . .’

  ‘You’re not wrong, boss.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to think you owe me for that. You deserved the promotion and it was coming your way sooner or later.’

  He looked perplexed, shrugging and showing his palms. ‘OK . . .’

  ‘You see, I’m going to ask you to do something, but you don’t have to say yes.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Do something . . . What?’

  ‘Now remember you’re under no obligation. You can say no and I won’t hold it against you.’

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, boss.’

  Valentine leaned back from the chair; he decided he might be more comfortable standing. ‘You’ve got your whole career in front of you, son, and you have to think about that, but if you’re game, and you trust me, I think we can close this case tonight.’

  McAlister pressed the palms of his hands firmly onto his trouser fronts. His jaw was tight in his face as he spoke. ‘Well, I’m in . . . Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  The detective reached a hand out and placed it on DS McAlister’s shoulder. ‘Good, lad.’

  49

  DI Bob Valentine knew things weren’t quite as they should be at home. He had taken on the case and returned to active duty without even consulting his wife, and she had every right to object. When he thought about Clare receiving the call to say her husband might not make it through the night, his low reserves of remaining strength left him. She was fragile, Clare, she always had been. He had noticed the trait early, when they were taking those first tentative steps together as a couple, but he had seen others like her shed the sensitivity when they settled down. Valentine wanted to provide the security of a home and children for Clare, he wanted to see her start to feel secure in herself, in her world, but it had never happened. She would always be highly strung or one of those types people spoken of as suffering with their nerves. He remembered her father had said it was an artistic temperament that afflicted her. At the time it seemed like a stigma, but his father-in-law joked they would always have a beautifully turned-out home, as if it was some kind of compensation. Valentine knew now that his wife’s fragility was more than a trait, there would be a mental-health scale that some doctor or psychiatrist could place her on. She was depressive or bipolar or suffered from seasonal affective disorder. It didn’t matter what the modern nomenclature was. She was still Clare, still the mother of his children and his wife.

  Valentine raised the telephone receiver and dialled home. The ringing on the line filled him with the same dread it always did now. There were simply no words to reveal to Clare that the job had won again, that he was not coming home as planned. She would be angry, at best; offhand with him at worst. Did it matter which? Sometimes the short burst of belligerent temper was preferable to the stony silence that left him wondering just where and when the blow would come.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. The line stayed silent. ‘Hello, Clare . . .’

  It wasn’t his wife who had answered. ‘Oh, hello, Bobby.’

  ‘Hello, Dad . . . Where’s Clare?’

  He heard the old man negotiating the windowsill where the phone sat, unravelling the wires and taking a seat. The puffed cushions sighed at his back. ‘She’s, erm, taken a bit of a lie-down, son.’

  Something didn’t sit right with him. ‘What did you say, a lie-down?’

  There was a slapping sound on the other end of the line, and his father’s tone changed. ‘It’s just me and Mr McIlvanney here just now . . . A great book this, Strange Loyalties.’

  He knew all about those; his father was being deceitful, changing the subject. It was one of those perfectly honed skills of the experienced police officer to be able to detect lies, white or otherwise, in those with whom he had an intimate knowledge. There was no mistaking the twitching antennae. ‘You wouldn’t be changing the subject on me, Dad?’

  He sighed, exasperated or too aware of the futility of his stance. ‘Clare is, as you know, one in a million, but she has her little . . . moments.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Look, nothing’s happened, she’s fine.’ His voice slowed into a reassuring drawl, extinct of all emotion. ‘You know how she gets: well, she had one of those days, but we had a little chat and now she’s fine.’

  Valentine read the gaps in his speech more than he did the actual words. He knew his wife, but he also knew his father’s way was to adopt a less-said-soonest-mended philosophy. But something had happened, he knew that much, and it worried him. His mind batted out the possibilities like breakers battering the shore: they couldn’t be ignored but nor could he do anything about them.

  ‘All right, Dad, if you say so . . .’ he paused briefly. His thoughts coalesced with some unspoken understanding he knew they shared. ‘If you see her, tell her I’m thinking of her and I’ll be home as soon as I can be. She’s not to worry.’

  ‘Yes, son, I’ll do that.’ he said. ‘Goodbye now.’

  Valentine lowered the receiver into its cradle and stood staring at his desk for a few seconds; he wasn’t quite sure he had handled the conversation, or indeed the situation, effectively, but he knew there were few other options available to him. His fingers tweaked the corners of his mouth, as if sealing in words, thoughts. He would see Clare later and explain things, everything. If he could make her see what he had been through, spell it all out, maybe she would understand she didn’t have the monopoly on life’s defeats.

  DS McAlister paused outside the door and gently tapped his knuckles off the glass. His neck, at full stretch seemed almost dislocated from his body. ‘Is now a good time, sir?’

  ‘Yes, come in . . . Sorry, Ally, I had a personal call to make.’ He let his previous lines of thought turn to ashes and scattered them on the wind. Focus was everything.

  ‘It’s all right, I understand.’ He took a step inside and closed the door behind him.

  ‘So, about this grand plan of mine.’ Valentine raised the blue folder from his desk and turned it towards the DS. It sat between them, commanding the room like a model army. ‘Take a look at that . . .’

  McAlister leaned forward. ‘A tyre cast . . .’

  ‘From Mossblown.’

  The officer looked at the pictures and read the accompanying notes, hungry eyes flickering like sparks rising from a campfire. ‘Lab boys say it’s not from Gillon’s van.’

  ‘That’s right . . .’ The DI paused, for effect mostly, but also on instinct. ‘Which means it’s from another vehicle.’

  McAlister lowered the file. His gaze thinned now, his pupils pinpoints of concentration acting as the advance party of pertinent thought. ‘Which means he’s not working alone.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Valentine leaned his back against the window, and the Venetian blinds crumpled. ‘Danny Gillon isn’t going to win
Mastermind any time soon, but he’s not a complete idiot either. He knows about self-preservation and he knows when to keep his trap shut.’

  ‘I think I see where you’re going with this, sir.’

  ‘Do you?’ He eased forward, forcing the blinds to sing out again. ‘I mean, Ally, do you really? I wasn’t joking when I said I was asking you to put your job on the line.’

  The DS remained silent. He pressed a crease into the corner of his mouth: it was an insouciant gesture, a glimpse into a mind that had ran the gamut of consequences and couldn’t care less what they brought; it was the outcome alone that concerned him.

  Valentine nodded and smiled when he saw Ally was onside. ‘OK then, if you’re game, here’s what I’m proposing. We give Gillon his freedom tonight – let’s see where he leads us.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ He nervously pinched the tip of his nose. ‘I mean, yeah. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Are you sure, Ally?’ He took another step forward, fixed him with a flat, expressionless look as devoid of coercion as he could manage. ‘You won’t get a chance to change your mind.’

  ‘Sir, the way I see it, if we don’t, then in the morning we’ve lost the case, and if Sinclair’s still in town, this is our last chance.’

  Valentine held out his arms, then brought his palms together in an ear-splitting clap. There was no going back now. ‘OK, then. We let the bastard out . . . for a few hours.’

  McAlister smiled, cautiously at first, but widening with a growing confidence he seemed uncertain of his right to possess. ‘Aye, but he’s not to know that.’

  As the DI walked towards the door, he snatched his grey dog-tooth sports coat from the back of his chair. In the main incident room his strides were purposeful but his stomach churned with the uncertainty of the action he was taking. If he was to make this gamble pay off, however, he knew he had to convince himself otherwise. There was no room for detracting thoughts or the distraction of doubt. It was all or nothing, because if he looked at what was on the line, it was already over. On the stairs down to the cells, Valentine turned to catch sight of DS McAlister: his face was ashen and immobile, making him look younger than his years. The image struck the detective like a body blow; he knew there was more at stake than his own washed-up career, and the heavy responsibility unsettled him. He knew he needed to push all his cares and concerns away, however; the idea of gambling on such a grand scale without the nerve to back it up was lunacy.