Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

  5

  CS Martin stood in the main incident room of King Street station, waiting for the Murder Squad’s return. She appeared to be slowly edging herself in front of the window that overlooked the streetscape. But when Valentine got closer he gathered that she was actually following the progression of the pedestrian traffic towards the town centre.

  King Street had become an intersection where the flotsam and jetsam of the Whitletts estates met the residents of Tam’s Brig and a host of drifting, shiftless figures from the town of Ayr. It was a fascinating vantage point, one Valentine utilised himself, to glimpse just how dramatically the town had changed, and continued on its steep, downward trajectory.

  ‘Don’t get too comfy there,’ said Valentine, entering the glassed-off corner office they called the greenhouse.

  Martin glanced over, a half-turn that couldn’t be confused with actually disengaging from the goings-on in front of her. ‘I’ve watched a drunk woman rattle down the street with a bottle of Buckie, all the way to the bus shelter, where she’s now sitting on the ground in a pool of her own piss.’

  ‘It’s quite a window on the world, isn’t it?’ said Valentine.

  ‘No one’s even batting an eyelid at a woman sitting in piss-soaked joggies. What in the name of Christ have we come to as a society? Have people lost all respect for themselves?’

  ‘Don’t do that – questioning how far we’ve fallen. You’ll start to question why we’re doing the job next and then we’ll all be in serious trouble.’

  The CS shook her head and left the window. ‘No danger on that front. I get a monthly reminder in the form of my mortgage payment about why I do the job.’ She crossed the floor towards the desk that Valentine was now sitting behind, booting up the PC. ‘Right, what have we got on the girl’s body?’

  ‘No ID, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s not the McGarvie girl?’

  ‘We can’t confirm or deny. Her face is bashed; she took the full impact of an eighteen-wheeler and it shows.’

  Martin curled down her lower lip. ‘Poor bloody girl.’

  ‘Everything else about the victim is a tick: age, height, build and so on. I’m hoping for a lot from the post-mortem, which Wrighty is taking on as soon as the SOCOs get through. When she’s been made a little more presentable I’m going to try for a parental ID.’

  As the talk lulled, DI McCormack stuck her head round the open door of the office. She paused for a moment, making sure she had their attention, then addressed the DCI. ‘Boss, that’s some of the crime scene images just in.’

  ‘Stick them up, Sylvia.’

  ‘So, what are you thinking, Bob?’ said the CS.

  Valentine got up from behind the desk and walked to the other end of the tiny office. As he looked through the blinds into the incident room, he watched McCormack starting to stick up the photographs from the crime scene they’d all just left. CS Martin stood beside him, arms folded, and took in the static picture-show that was unfolding.

  ‘It’s an unusual case,’ said the DCI. ‘Davis’s file is either riddled with hyperbolic distraction or we’re delving into the belly of the beast.’

  ‘The courts didn’t buy it – they dismissed the mother’s accusations of ritual abuse and left the kids with the father.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw that in the file.’

  ‘And social services were in full agreement with the court’s verdict.’

  ‘I saw that, too. But I have some lingering doubts, some unanswered questions.’ Valentine pointed to one of the pictures McCormack had stuck on the board. ‘See that? Tennis shoes; she was naked except for a pair of trainers. This wasn’t a normal RTA, or a straightforward sexual assault after chasing down a victim. There’s nothing normal or straightforward about this.’

  Martin turned from the board and walked back to the desk, easing herself onto the corner. ‘I was worried you might say that.’

  Valentine detected an unusual hint of self-doubt in the chief super’s voice. ‘You were?’

  ‘Ian Davis came to pretty much the same conclusions.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He didn’t buy the court verdict, and at the time he predicted we’d be in exactly the predicament we find ourselves in now.’

  ‘You mean DI Davis thought Abbie McGarvie was actually being abused.’

  ‘Worse than that. He believed she was likely being systematically abused by a broad spectrum of people, and he guessed that she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last.’

  The DCI loosened his tie and removed his jacket, placing it over the back of his chair. As he sat down he clawed the blue folder containing DI Davis’s notes towards him. For a moment he sat silently, drumming his fingertips on the cover of the file. He had that familiar feeling, which always gripped him at the start of an investigation. Humans were pre-programmed to recognise patterns and Valentine’s speciality, carefully honed over the years, was in identifying the patterns of criminality.

  ‘This isn’t the whole picture,’ said the DCI. ‘Davis only took on the missing person’s case. Who handled the abuse allegations?’

  ‘Kevin Rickards from Glasgow. He’s retired now.’

  ‘Retired? Kev’s younger than me, did he have a lottery win?’

  The CS’s gaze seemed to have receded, like she was looking inside herself. Her mouth widened and hung open for a second or two longer than seemed natural. ‘Look, I’ll draw down the original case files and you have my authority to re-investigate the original allegations, but only if this latest victim appears to be connected and only if you do it quietly. And I mean very quietly.’

  ‘Softly, softly, you have my word.’

  ‘I mean it, Bob. I don’t want anyone to get wind of it if you find anything.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a rapid knocking on the office door.

  ‘Can I come in?’ said DI Davis, pushing his head beyond the jamb.

  ‘Yes, Ian, in you come,’ said Martin.

  Davis was wearing olive-green Farah trousers and a short-sleeved yellow shirt. In the top pocket of the shirt was a packet of Benson & Hedges. He had a thin, boyish frame, but wore a heavy moustache that made Valentine think of a former gym instructor from his time in basic training who bellowed so close to him that he could feel the man’s bristles on his ear.

  ‘We’ve been discussing the Abbie McGarvie case,’ said the CS.

  ‘Oh,’ said Davis. ‘I’ve not had much to report on that lately.’

  ‘Well, that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Okay.’ He glanced over to Valentine and then back to the CS. He was clearly eager to hear more.

  ‘We’ve had a development overnight.’

  ‘Another girl’s body?’

  Valentine leaned forward in his chair, balancing elbows on the desktop. ‘What do you mean another one?’

  ‘I don’t think Abbie McGarvie is the only missing girl. I think there’s others.’

  ‘Others? How many are we talking about?’

  Davis shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t like to put a number on it. But, I’ll say this, I think my investigation is just the start. We’re just scratching the surface here.’

  CS Martin’s back stiffened. She looked tense as she pointed towards the door and directed DI Davis to the whiteboard where DI McCormack was still sticking up the crime scene photographs. ‘Ian, can you take a look at the pictures DI McCormack’s putting up? She can fill you in on the rest, while I have a quick word with Bob.’

  ‘Sure. But, didn’t you want me to brief Bob on my case? I thought that was why you called me down here.’

  ‘Of course, just give us a minute.’

  As DI Davis went over to the board, Valentine waited for the CS to close the door and come back to where he was sitting. She eased herself onto the corner of the desk again. ‘What do you think, Bob?’

  ‘I think there’s more than enough crossover for us to link the two cases together. Even if it turns out to be an ongoing missing persons and a fresh suspic
ious death, there’s still plenty of common ground.’

  ‘Do you think we have a murder investigation on our hands?’

  ‘It’s not as clean cut as ‘‘did she jump or was she pushed?’’, but if she was pursued to her death that’s murder in my book. We have enough suspicion about the circumstances to pursue a murder investigation and if there’s links to Davis’s case, or any other cases he has on the back burner, then I think we should be pooling resources.’

  She eased herself off the desk. ‘Funny. I was thinking just the same thing.’

  Valentine rose. ‘If this investigation turns out to be as far-reaching as Davis suggests then the squad’s going to need all the help we can get, especially with McAlister on sick leave.’

  ‘Ally’s sick? Nothing too serious, is it?’

  ‘Gallstones. Going to put him out of action for a bit.’

  ‘Well, the budget impact will be minimal.’

  ‘Almost imperceptible, I would have thought.’

  Martin opened the door and called out to DI Davis. As he began walking over, the CS turned back to Valentine. ‘This could be a win/win for everyone. But don’t get carried away with the overtime. Resources are stretched tight.’

  Davis approached the CS. ‘You called?’

  ‘Meet your new boss!’ She flagged in the DI and stepped out of the door.

  6

  There was something about the image of the girl’s tennis shoes that haunted DCI Valentine as he drove home. It shouldn’t have been like that; the girl was naked, her head and face crushed and bloodied: that was surely what he should have recalled. But, inexplicably, it was the innocuous shoes at the end of those pale, white legs that had stuck with him.

  As he turned the steering wheel and took the roundabout past the Market Inn, Valentine tried to channel some new thoughts. There had been a persistent pain in his neck that had started outside the chief super’s office in the morning. It had been a sign, he knew that now. He was beginning to read the indicators that came to him from God knows where. McCormack’s contact, the Crosbie fella she called a precognitive, had told him that this would come. But the returning focus on the tennis shoes continued to elude him and was beginning to irritate.

  There’d been a time when Chloe and Fiona had taken an interest in tennis, was it last year or the year before? Some time in the summer, when Wimbledon was never off the telly, and they’d joined a kids’ tennis club in Seafield. He remembered buying the racquets with the huge heads that weighed next to nothing. They were a long way from the heavy wooden jobs he’d played with at their age when Björn Borg was all the rage.

  It was a funny mix of memories to have in his head. His own distant childhood, which seemed so far away as to have existed in another world entirely, and his daughters’ ever-mutable march to adulthood. His thoughts were getting too close to home; he couldn’t afford to mix up how he felt about his family with the emotional shock of seeing a young girl lying dead on the road. Focus was everything to the detective, and getting to the root of this young girl’s death would depend on it.

  As Valentine pulled into his street he waved at a passing neighbour who was being tugged along the street by an obstreperous Cairn terrier. The area he lived in always felt like a haven, a sanctuary that supplied the reason he spent his days poking about in strangers’ murders. His home was the small island of sanity where he was allowed to be an actual human being, and not just the cold automaton that spent his days weighing people’s ability to succumb to or resist evil.

  In the hall, Valentine called out but got no response. He put down his briefcase and walked towards the kitchen, which seemed like the best bet to locate members of his family.

  ‘Oh, you’re back.’ Valentine’s father was stooped over the cooker, prodding a frying pan with a wooden spatula.

  ‘Where’s Clare and the girls?’

  ‘Well, there’s a story attached to that.’

  ‘I thought there might be.’ Clare always cooked dinner, except on those occasions where she wanted her husband to know she was displeased with him. It was her way of initiating a wildcat strike action – withdrawing labour to highlight a grievance.

  ‘Yes, well, the girls fancied pizza, so they were going on and on about that, and eventually Clare gave in and took them out to that hut place over at the big Asda.’

  Valentine knew his father was covering for his wife. Since the old man had moved into the extension he’d appointed himself shop steward in these disputes. His father, by nature, had always followed the path of least resistance. Valentine had never known his dad to seek conflict; he’d always been a peacemaker. As he watched his father at the cooker, frying pan in hand, the detective’s first instinct was to point out that he knew Clare was protesting about him taking the new job but he resisted.

  ‘So, what are we having?’

  ‘I thought I’d do us a wee mixed grill. Is that okay?’ His father turned round and circled a finger over the centre of his chest. ‘I know you watch the fried food, what with your . . . heart.’

  ‘My heart’s fine, Dad. Everyone should learn to stop trying to wrap me up in cotton wool.’

  Valentine walked through to the dining room and sat down. He was drawn to glance back into the kitchen, where he caught his father’s grim expression, and instantly realised he’d made a harsh comment that was actually directed at Clare.

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  His father stepped into the doorway. ‘What for?’

  ‘Biting your head off. I don’t want you to feel like you’re living in no man’s land with Clare and I taking pot-shots over your head.’

  ‘I don’t feel like that, son.’

  ‘I know she’s not happy about me taking this job. I’m just annoyed that she’s being so pig-headed and now she’s dragged you into it too.’

  ‘She’s angry because she’s worried about you.’

  Valentine looked at his father. He was an old man, at the end of his days, and he didn’t need these worries that weren’t really his. He should have been pottering in the garden and enjoying having his granddaughters around him. ‘Dad, my heart’s almost fully recovered. Clare’s worrying about nothing. She might like the idea of me packing in the force but it’s not going to happen because there’s people that rely on me to do my job.’

  His father stepped back from the cooker and came to sit down beside him. ‘I understand,’ he rested a bony hand on his son’s forearm, ‘you have a family to provide for; everybody gets that.’

  Valentine tapped the back of his father’s hand. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. You’re right, of course, but I meant there’s people you never see that rely on me. I have to do what I do because I sometimes think that, after all I’ve seen, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve had a hard day.’

  ‘They’re all hard days, Dad. Though, these days, it seems like they’re getting harder. It’s like I’m discovering that there’s worlds within worlds and each one is darker than the last.’

  ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t know how you can do what you do. I’d be round the bend if I had to spend a day in your shoes.’

  ‘You learn to compartmentalise, to put the bad stuff in a box.’ Valentine looked into his father’s concerned eyes and didn’t want to burden him any more. ‘It’s just that today the box is pretty full, Dad; you’re best to ignore me while I’m trying to close the lid on it.’

  ‘And that works, does it? Hiding things, like that.’

  ‘Up till now, yes. But if I find that it stops working, I’ll let you know.’

  His father made a sideways glance that indicated he only half believed what his son was telling him, then pushed out his chair and headed back to the kitchen. ‘Right, let’s get some grub together. Everything feels better with a full belly.’

  When Clare came back from Pizza Hut she gave the girls an hour to get ready for bed and promptly disappeared upstairs to run a bath, without even acknowledging her hus
band. Valentine had a five-minute chat with Chloe about her newfound distaste for garlic bread with cheese and then a message appeared on her phone and she was lost in cyberspace. For a minute, Valentine thought about trying to extract his other daughter from her iPhone, perhaps engaging her in conversation about her day or even his, but viewing her level of concentration, opted instead to retreat to the dining room with DI Davis’s case files.

  As Valentine delved into the Abbie McGarvie file, and closely examined the allegations of her mother, Caroline Simpson, he began to feel his consciousness drifting into an unwholesome place. In interviews she had talked about a death cult that preyed on children. She called them a coven of evil that operated in the shadows by night, but by day lived openly among us.

  In one of her outlandish statements Caroline had described her own understanding as slow, progressing from outright disbelief to a stage of actively ignoring the evidence. Eventually, however, the facts had become too strong to ignore and she claimed the awakening was like having scales fall from her eyes.

  Everything Caroline once believed about the situation had turned out to be completely wrong and irrelevant now, because reality had shocked her into accepting what she could no longer dismiss as implausible. Child grooming, blood sacrifices and ritualistic abuse became believable then. But hadn’t the police investigation and the court ruling concluded that none of it was real?

  Valentine knew he wasn’t going to be able to contain his curiosity until the morning and so picked up his phone to call DI Davis.

  ‘Hello, Ian, sorry to cut into your family time,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay, I live alone, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right. I just wanted to pick your brains about the case notes you gave me.’

  There was the sound of sofa springs wheezing. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘I’ve been reading Caroline Simpson’s statements and there’s a lot of detail I’ve never come across before.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s quite grisly, sir.’

  ‘I’m not just talking about the grisly details, there’s some technical jargon she references frequently to back up her allegations,’ said Valentine. ‘What’s this term ‘‘trauma-based mind control’’ she keeps parroting?’