Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

  ‘Okay. Evans clearly can’t be thought of as a suspect at this point in the investigation,’ said the DCI. ‘We have, however, a number of loose threads hanging over from Abbie’s missing person’s case and also the earlier abuse allegations brought by Abbie’s mother against the girl’s father, and I’m going to hand over to DI Davis now for a rundown on those two investigations.’

  DI McCormack remained in front of the board, turning back to Valentine and lowering her voice. ‘Before we hand over to DI Davis, sir, can I just add that I’ve looked for the social worker that Caroline Simpson mentioned at the chapel of rest; her name’s Jean Clark.’

  ‘Oh yes. What was it Caroline called social services? The SS.’

  ‘That’s right,’ DI McCormack said. ‘And I can see why she’s not a fan, I can’t say they were particularly helpful.’

  ‘Oh, really. You do surprise me.’

  ‘I don’t mean in the pious do-gooder kind of way. As far as they’re concerned Jean Clark is persona non grata. They won’t comment on her, or release any of her work, without a court order.’

  ‘I’ll get on that, then. They’re obviously hiding something.’

  ‘And they’re not alone, sir.’

  ‘They’re not?’

  ‘Jean Clark’s missing too. Either that or she’s opted to live off the grid because I can’t find hide nor hair of her.’

  11

  ‘What do you mean, missing?’ Valentine sat up stiffly, his expression changed from someone passively recording information to a look of consternation.

  ‘I mean I’ve been unable to find a fixed abode for her. No telephone number, nothing. Her last known address is vacant and her neighbours say it’s been like that since Clark moved out about six months ago.’

  ‘What about her family? Friends?’

  ‘Her mother won’t speak, she slammed the phone down. She has a brother, but he’s working in London apparently, and nobody knows where exactly.’

  Valentine creased his brows; it was an action his wife often disapproved of, something about creating lines he could ill afford. ‘Well, she hasn’t just vanished.’ He touched his forehead, a soothing motion, which did little to allay his mounting frustration. ‘Try Revenue and Customs. And the DVLC as well. No one just disappears without a trail these days – everyone’s keeping tabs on everyone else.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have put calls out to the utility companies.’ McCormack’s response sounded like a plea for clemency.

  ‘Good. If you don’t get anywhere, let me know. We’ll doorstep her mother and spell out how concerned we are. Surely she’ll appreciate the fact that we’re investigating a suspected murder.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m all for family loyalty but there’s a point at which it becomes misplaced. If Jean Clark is missing, there’s more than a fair chance she’s in danger, or worse.’

  ‘We need to spell that out,’ McCormack confirmed.

  ‘Indeed we do.’

  Valentine retreated within himself, taking a moment to let what he had just heard sink in. It seemed like all they had uncovered so far kept echoing back to the previous investigations. He had a dead, pregnant teenager who had been the subject of a serious sexual abuse investigation and a missing person’s case. After all that had happened already, how was it even possible that this girl had ended up the subject of scrutiny by his murder squad?

  ‘Okay, Davis, you’re up,’ said the DCI, gruffly.

  As his name was called, heads turned to locate DI Davis at the back of the room. He was leaning, one arm draped louchely over the top of a gunmetal-grey filing cabinet. For a moment he hesitated, stood still, and then jerked into motion and walked to the front of the board. The DI’s movements were stiff and his bodyshape angular as he went, like an uncomfortable youth in unfamiliar surroundings.

  When Davis started to talk, he stared ahead unseeing, as though he was waiting for his thoughts to coalesce into a coherent response to what had gone before. It didn’t take long for the DI to locate the words he was looking for and his gaze quickly turned from the vague middle-distance to a sharper focus on the expectant group. ‘I hope you’ll forgive this stuttering start but I’m only just hearing about the post-mortem results myself,’ he said.

  Valentine interrupted, ‘I should probably have mentioned, for those of you that don’t already know, DI Davis was involved in the initial investigations and that’s why he’s joined in now.’

  ‘That and Ally’s piles,’ said DS Donnelly.

  When the laughter subsided, Valentine continued. ‘I thought it was gallstones, but I might be wrong. Hope I’m not starting any rumours – that would be terrible for poor Ally.’ The DCI waved his hand and implied the floor was Davis’s once more.

  ‘I’d like to point out, here and now, that the early investigations I was involved with didn’t reach the same conclusions as the courts,’ said Davis. ‘We felt very strongly that Abbie McGarvie was indeed a victim of abuse, and that consensus was across the board.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ said DI McCormack. ‘You were stiffed by the prosecutor?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment on that.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ pressed McCormack.

  ‘Let’s just say the investigations encountered some shadowy opposition that I don’t think it would be appropriate to go into here.’ Davis turned to Valentine as he changed tack. ‘The post-mortem results do concur with our earlier findings. We had taken evidence from Jean Clark, and medical assessments too, that indicated sexual activity, but obviously the courts took the view that the weight of evidence was insufficient for a conviction.’

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ said Valentine. He shuffled in his seat, shrugging heavy shoulders. ‘I sometimes wonder whose side they’re on.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s clear it wasn’t Abbie McGarvie’s side.’

  ‘No. It definitely bloody wasn’t.’

  DI Davis leaned over to retrieve a blue folder from the desk beside him, removing a picture and holding it up. The image showed a man in his forties, dark hair receding, leaving only an angular strip up front. He was dressed professionally in a collar and tie. The photograph appeared posed, like a shot taken for a website or newspaper report.

  ‘This is Alex McGarvie, our victim’s father. He’s a teacher, a deputy head actually, at a public school in Glasgow – I’d call it private, but I’m working class, so what do I know?’

  ‘What’s the school called?’ said DI McCormack.

  ‘Finlayson, out in the West End.’

  ‘I know it. They boast a couple of former cabinet members among their alma mater.’

  ‘Yes. They tend to dine out on that a bit, even though you have to go back a half-century to find them. More recently they’ve had a Commonwealth Games sprinter and, I believe, a fairly senior BBC exec.’

  ‘I loathe them already,’ said Valentine, the squad agreeing with a chuckle. ‘Can we go back to the case, please?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Davis. ‘The investigations both experienced a great deal of pushback. There was a lack of cooperation from the outset and we came to the fairly swift conclusion that this was directly attributable to the very specific and controversial nature of the allegations made by Caroline Simpson.’

  ‘Caroline Simpson is the victim’s mother, former spouse of Alex McGarvie,’ said Valentine.

  ‘That’s right. Would you like me to touch on her claims now, sir?’

  ‘Lightly, yes.’

  ‘Okay.’ DI Davis paused, and when he resumed speaking his voice sounded wary, like he was unsure how he might be received. ‘Miss Simpson reported a number of claims of sexual abuse involving her daughter. These claims were made over a period of some months to police in Troon, where the family lived. The allegations involved a particular kind of ritualised, incessant and depraved abuse that we came to describe as occultic.’

  A brittle tension settled into the room as DI Davis drew breath. He stared above the group, towards
the back of the room, where the only point of reference was a blank wall. It was as if he was avoiding eye contact for fear of being touched by any kind of human response.

  ‘How did you arrive at that particular definition?’ said Valentine.

  ‘When DI Rickards, who was leading the investigation, realised what it looked like we were dealing with, he called in an expert, Dr Stephen Mason, from the University of Glasgow. Mason has a considerable reputation as a researcher in this field and he provided the clarification we needed.’

  ‘Clarification?’

  ‘In Dr Mason’s view, it was a clear-cut case of ritualistic child sexual abuse.’

  Valentine’s rigid features cast hollows in the sides of his face. ‘What did he base his findings on?’

  ‘He’s interviewed upwards of a hundred similar victims, all exhibiting the same symptoms. Things like being forced into cages, regular beatings, force-feeding of faeces. The abuse escalates towards something like having the soles of their feet cut and being made to watch animal sacrifices. It then moves on to still more serious torture and rape, the details of which I’ll spare you here.’

  ‘He’s seen more than a hundred similar cases?’ said Valentine, outrage seeping into his voice.

  ‘Dr Mason is on record confirming that in every case, and these are his words, “It’s the same story, over and over again.” ’

  DI McCormack eased off the desk she was leaning on and moved to the front of the group. Her expression implied she was having difficulty grasping the concept. ‘But why, Ian? Why do these people do it? What explanation does this doctor give for such behaviours?’

  As Davis turned to face the DI his eyelids twitched. ‘He says these people believe in evil, and believe in their right to express evil.’

  For a second or two the incident room was soundless. It would have been hard to detect any motion before Valentine got out of his chair and positioned himself in front of DI Davis. ‘Right, that’s where we are, folks. And I think that’s enough for one day.’

  A low soughing noise spread through the room and then the squad separated, returning to their desks. There was talk now, but the claver was hushed, like a respectful church gathering that was emptying after the service.

  Valentine was facing Davis as he spoke again. ‘This doctor, can you call him and arrange a meeting for me?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Are you thinking of asking him for clarification?’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell to think to be honest. All I do know is that someone’s going to have to interpret this for me because it’s nothing like anything I’ve ever encountered before. There was talk of ley lines and mystic runes in that file for crying out loud.’

  ‘Oh, you missed the goats’ heads and pentagrams did you?’

  ‘Don’t jest, Ian.’

  ‘I’m not. Wait until you get to the spirit cooking, now that’s some seriously messed-up shit.’

  Valentine shook his head. ‘We’re lacking expertise. We don’t know what we don’t know.’

  ‘I said it before, you need to talk to Kevin Rickards about this. I think you’d find his experiences very enlightening.’

  ‘Are you referring to the shadowy opposition you mentioned earlier?’

  DI Davis was smirking as he reached over to the board to pin up a photograph. ‘You’re going to run into them at some point, boss. It might as well be sooner rather than later.’

  12

  The Red Lion sat a little shy of Prestwick’s ancient cross, at the top end of the main street. When he looked around him, Valentine thought Prestwick was what Ayr had once been: a nice place where people wanted to live and raise families. He hoped the town wasn’t, one day, going to suffer the same fate as its larger neighbour, but he knew that was the curse of modernity. Nothing was out of bounds any more, and the world around him was being deconstructed in a way he sometimes felt helpless to even interpret.

  He went into the pub and ordered a bottle of still water, taking it to a small seating area with comfortable, well-upholstered chairs. The detective always arrived early, and always slotted himself in the corner. He liked to acclimatise himself, and have a vantage point in any new territory. He put this down to police training but conceded it might just be an intrinsic trait.

  Valentine was pouring the bottled water into a tall glass when he heard Hugh Crosbie addressing him.

  ‘Good evening, Bob.’ Crosbie draped his jacket over the back of the chair.

  ‘Hugh, thanks for coming.’

  Crosbie didn’t reply. He sat down, crossed his legs and started gazing all around him. For a few seconds he seemed lost in reverie and then he spoke softly, ‘Hmn, geraniums.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Don’t mind me.’

  A waitress, still in her teens, approached with a bar tray pressed to her hip and drew Crosbie’s attention. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Tell me something first, are there geraniums on display somewhere?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘I definitely smell geraniums.’

  The girl smiled politely, indicating some bafflement. She glanced at Valentine and then back to Crosbie. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘Just a lemonade, please. No ice.’

  As the waitress retreated to the bar Valentine felt his stomach cramping. Approaching the esoteric with Crosbie had always terrified him, but now it was for a completely different reason. He’d changed since those early days following his stabbing, when he found himself questioning his sanity. If he’d been told then that he would come round to the notion of communing with a spiritual dimension, he would have laughed. But here he was, with Crosbie again, and he didn’t even need DI McCormack to give him a push.

  ‘I really appreciate you helping me out like this again, Hugh,’ he said.

  Crosbie smiled. The waitress returned with his drink, placing the glass and a white napkin on the table in front of them. He nodded his appreciation as she backed away. ‘And how can I be of assistance this time, Bob?’

  Valentine paused. ‘It’s hard to know where to begin.’

  ‘I find the start is generally the best place.’

  Their last meeting had been a practical one: Valentine had detailed his experiences and his trouble accepting them. He had expected to be told a load of mumbo jumbo but had, in the end, found himself reassured. Something was happening to him that he didn’t understand, was beyond his frame of reference, beyond even logic itself. Valentine still couldn’t rationalise what he had seen but he had moved beyond questioning it, if only because the questioning nature of his mind changed nothing.

  ‘When we last met, you told me to abandon my scepticism,’ said the detective.

  ‘I told you to accept it,’ Crosbie corrected him. ‘It’s not going to go anywhere. You need to let it be and pay no heed to it.’

  ‘I think I found your advice useful. I’ve stopped looking for answers where there clearly are none.’

  ‘Open-mindedness is the key to understanding this phenomenon, Bob. There is no worldly solution. I know that must be difficult to come to terms with for a man whose life is so clearly wedded to logic and the pursuit of truth.’

  Crosbie sipped from his glass and then returned it to the table. There was an assuredness about the man that was calming. He inspired confidence. Valentine imagined Crosbie being able to coolly direct troops while bombs were going off all around him; his strength was a silent presence between them.

  ‘I feel like I’ve entered a new stage,’ Valentine said, ‘like I’m quite receptive now. I think I’m ready to hear more of your explanation. Maybe not all, but maybe one day I will be.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re reaching out to your higher self.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Each of us has a part of our being that can act as a link between the spiritual and physical dimensions,’ said Crosbie. ‘There’s a reservoir of higher knowledge beyond our own that can provide guidance to u
s. The closer you get to your higher self, Bob, the more you’ll be able to access this understanding.’

  Valentine started to play with his shirt cuff. ‘Did Sylvia mention why I wanted to see you?’

  ‘She mentioned the dreams, yes.’

  ‘They’re not really dreams, it’s like I’m awake. I know I’m dreaming, but I’m within the dream at the same time. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘You’re lucid dreaming,’ Crosbie said. ‘You have freedom of choice to direct the action and outcome of the experience. These states are not uncommon, and they always happen for a reason.’

  ‘Can you explain that?’

  Crosbie leaned closer, balancing his elbows on the flat of his thighs. ‘Your mind is at its most receptive to intuition in the sleep state. When you receive a communication in this way it’s to make an impact on you. You’re being shown something important – don’t ignore any messages that come to you this way.’

  The image of Abbie McGarvie returned to clog Valentine’s thoughts. He knew the girl had appeared in his dream on the night she had died, but he had seen her since then too. He knew the girl wanted to be seen, to show herself to him. But it wasn’t like the other times he’d had these visions. This time felt different, the girl was anxious, troubled. She wanted him to know something – he didn’t know what that was, but he knew she wouldn’t stop until he did know.

  ‘Hugh, the girl I saw in that dream showed up in my waking life.’

  ‘Oh, really.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. Can you tell me more?’

  ‘The night she appeared in my dream was the night she died, but then she showed up a short time later when I was at the chapel of rest.’

  Crosbie eased back into his chair, his earlier look of irritable distraction replaced with a concentrated scowl. ‘It sounds like the girl’s spirit is in limbo between worlds.’

  Valentine shrugged. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Well, some more colourful commentators might say she’s trapped on the Bridge of Souls, which is the path to the afterlife. A soul can be trapped between worlds because they believe they have unfinished business here.’