by Tony Black
My Keeper tells me to strip, it’s very cold and I get goose pimples and then I start to shiver, but all I can think of is Mummy and my little brother and how I don’t ever want to do anything that might make them unhappy.
There’s chanting now, and people reading from books, but I don’t hear the words. I feel like my heart is going to burst out and I can hardly make my breath go in. When I do manage to take a breath it makes me tremble all over. I want to run and scream and tell someone but I know that there’s nobody that can save me.
He lifts me onto the altar and tells me what to say.
‘My mind, body and soul belongs to the Master,’ I repeat the words.
I still think that someone will come to save me, that Mummy will appear and chase them all away, but it doesn’t happen. No one is here except for me and the people in gowns, chanting and reading and carrying the cups.
There’s hands all over me.
Some are holding me down.
I don’t move because I’m frozen still.
Someone holds my head and forces me to face the sky but I can still move my eyes.
My hands are taken and pinned back and that’s when I hear the baby crying. It’s so loud that I know it must be very near.
The crying and the chanting and the reading make me feel sick, and I’m so dizzy that everything is spinning.
When the pain starts I try to scream but a hand is pressed over my mouth. It’s like a hot knife stabbing inside me and I struggle to get away, but it’s no good, it only makes the pain worse.
I know it’s my Keeper because I see his face beneath the dark hood and I hear him say we have a blood covenant again. I try to kick and I try to struggle but the hands stop me and then something warm starts to pour all over my bare skin.
I try to see what is happening but I can’t move my head.
The warm liquid spreads and spills over me and I can feel it pooling underneath me on the altar. I struggle and struggle but I can’t see what’s pouring over me, and then I realise the baby has stopped crying, and I feel like something has thumped into my heart.
I stop struggling and I let them hold me down.
The hands soon go away and they all leave me be.
The chanting and the reading stop too.
Only the sound of my Keeper is left, grunting and heaving over me.
I let my hand fall and feel beneath me to the altar and that’s when I turn to see my fingers are dripping with the baby’s warm blood.
20
Valentine stood in the hallway, peering into the small gap in the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom and watching her sleeping. The first hint of a pale morning light was filtering through the blinds, suffusing the room with its dim glow. Chloe was sound asleep, her head resting peacefully on the pillow. There couldn’t have been a bad thought basking beneath that beautiful face, he thought. The mere idea that there was the possibility of such a thing struck the detective as abhorrent.
As he gazed, he saw her eyes moving beneath their tightly closed lids. Was she dreaming? What would those dreams be? He remembered when she was born; he was just out of uniform and working the craziest hours imaginable. Whenever he managed to get to the hospital Chloe was sleeping, a small bundle wrapped in white that seemed so precious he didn’t want to touch it. He would peer over the cradle and watch her every breath being taken. That she was there at all seemed like a miracle, something akin to magic; she was beyond precious to him. He was part of her, part of her being, part of her creation. He remembered thinking: could she be real?
As he kept his gaze on his daughter, through the narrow gap in her bedroom door, Valentine felt his thoughts shifting. All those aspects of his pride that Chloe had kindled, all those feelings of joy and warmth and love were being challenged now. He wondered what he had brought her to. Was he still able to keep her safe? Had he ever had that ability?
The world had always been a mystery to Valentine, an endless confrontation of good and bad, but he had never doubted the predominance of the good. Now he wondered, though. He no longer felt that assurance he once had that the world was profoundly good. He felt helpless and pessimistic for a world he now cared so very little for, but worse, worried how his children would fare in it.
Valentine closed the door to his daughter’s bedroom and started for the stairs. In the kitchen he heard his father’s radio playing and knocked on the door of the extension. The old man answered promptly, presenting himself, shaved and showered, a familiar dark-crimson tie poking above his V-neck jumper.
‘Oh, good morning,’ he said. ‘You’re up early, aren’t you?’
‘I had a difficult night. I don’t seem to have the same need for sleep these days. I’m up with the larks whether I like it or not.’
His father laughed. ‘You’re getting on, that’s what it is.’
‘Probably. Coffee?’
‘Yes. Let me switch this wireless off and I’ll be right with you.’
The cupboard revealed the instant coffee jar to be empty, which forced Valentine to tackle the cafetière, another of Clare’s designer purchases. She wasn’t a coffee snob, but some of her friends who came round might be, so of course it wouldn’t do to have anything less to hand. He found himself checking the price on the label automatically and following on with the usual frowns and head-shaking.
‘Something wrong?’ said his dad, appearing from the extension and taking a seat.
‘I don’t know about you, but I feel a bit undeserving of Clare’s £12 coffee.’
‘She likes to keep up with the Joneses, that’s just her way.’
‘I know. I’m just being my usual, unreasonable self, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
Valentine delivered the cafetière and cups to the table and sat down. There was a lull in the conversation and then he spoke again. ‘Maybe you’re right, Dad. Maybe it’s not me that’s in the wrong, maybe it’s the rest of the world.’
‘Oh, you’re feeling like that today, are you?’
‘I never get this way. I try to just keep on keeping on. I’m not one for tackling the big questions.’
‘Sometimes you can’t help it. I just heard on the radio that the term ‘‘Ladies and Gentleman’’ is being outlawed on train station announcements now. What are we if we’re not ladies and gentlemen any more? When I look at the world these days, I quite often want to just ask to get off. You’re not alone, son; it’s not unnatural.’
‘I know, everything natural’s being turned into the unnatural. We’re in a crazy state of affairs. I wonder what’s behind it. Have you ever felt that there’s something bigger than us, bigger than all of us, in play here?’
His father had his coffee cup half way to his mouth but lowered it. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. I think it might just be this case; it’s wearing me down. I can’t help but think there’s something wicked out there, something evil, gleefully so, revelling in the diabolical nature of itself.’
‘The job never usually gets to you, son. I’ve only ever seen you thrive on the challenges. I don’t quite understand how you can do that, but you always do.’
‘Not this time. This is different; something’s changed in me, Dad. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s like I’ve stared into the abyss and everything else is tinged as a result. I can’t explain it, but I have this sense of something older than time, bigger than life and death, or good and evil. Does that make any sense?’
His father reached out and gripped Valentine’s arm. ‘I know exactly what you mean, son. You’d have to be a fool in this day and age not to think that.’
DCI Valentine was seated in front of the chief superintendent as she forced the blade into the skin of the Cox’s Orange Pippin and started to peel a long, looping spiral. She managed to talk over the sideshow, dangling the peel ever upwards above the desk, until finally dropping the lank helix over the waste-paper basket. The CS seemed pleased with her effort, smiling to herself as
she returned the knife to the top drawer of her desk, slamming it shut.
‘So, Bob, what you’re telling me is that you have nothing concrete, except this scrote Frizzle’s breach of an existing probation order?’
Valentine drew his gaze back from the waste-paper basket. ‘I have a lot going on. The squad’s following several lines of inquiry.’
‘Oh, please, spare me the media speak – it’s me you’re talking to.’ She bit into the apple and reclined in her chair, admiring the extent of her bite, which had cut to the core.
‘We now know there’s absolutely no question that Abbie McGarvie was being abused. The post-mortem confirmed that, and the pregnancy might tie her to a perpetrator in due course.’
‘If you can find one.’
‘Well, we’re working on that.’
CS Martin swung her chair round to the front and started peering over the open blue folder that held the case notes. ‘The post-mortem rules out the father, Alex McGarvie, who was the original accused in the first case.’
‘Yes, I saw that had come in this morning. Wrighty said the girl had multiple abusers, and the experts I’ve spoken to since tend to confirm this pattern in such cases.’
‘Oh yes, the social worker and the academic.’ She seemed to have tired of the apple now, placing it on top of the folder and reclining in her chair once again. ‘None of that builds a case, Bob. You realise how shaky all of this looks, especially since nothing’s come out of those searches on the Sutherland estate.’
‘I wouldn’t say nothing came of the searches, we have the indicators of some unusual activity in the outbuilding . . .’
The CS cut in. ‘A good brief could explain that away as typical farm activity.’
‘It’s not a farm. Sutherland doesn’t keep pigs, so why are buckets of pigs’ blood covering the floor of his outbuilding? I’m not saying that on its own this proves a thing, but coupled with the teenage trespassers’ testimony and the rope ladder with Malky Frizzle’s prints all over it, I have my suspicions that something very odd has gone on there.’
‘Be careful where you tread, Bob. Remember this victim has already caught our attention once before. If you uncover the same themes emerging again then you had better make sure that you have a watertight case, do you understand me?’
‘I do. Which is why I’ve left it as late as possible to put the difficult questions to Alex McGarvie and David Sutherland.’
CS Martin tapped her finger on the blue folder. ‘The file says McGarvie’s been interviewed by DI Davis.’
‘Yes, he came in last night. I haven’t caught up with Davis yet, but I’m assuming there were no explosive revelations, otherwise he’d have been on the blower.’
‘And Sutherland?’
‘He has a formal invitation to attend the station.’
‘Tread carefully, like I say. I can’t imagine a man of his means will give us much room for manoeuvre.’
Valentine got to his feet. ‘Agreed. I’ll get Davis to drop in the notes on the Alex McGarvie interview.’
‘How are you finding Davis – fitting into the team okay?’
‘Overall, yes. I suppose it helps that he’s single, and happy to work all the hours God sends.’
‘Single? No, he’s married with three kids.’
‘What? He told me he lived alone, with no ties.’
‘No. Ian Davis is a family man like yourself, Bob. Are you sure you haven’t mixed him up with someone else?’
Valentine felt his face prickling. ‘I’m quite sure I haven’t got the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps I’ll need to have a word with him about this now.’
‘Fair enough.’ The CS picked up the blue folder, closed it over and flung it at Valentine. ‘Back to the mill with you!’
21
Valentine closed his hand around the file and held it beneath his arm. It was still there, held in place by simmering anger, when he slammed the door to his own office. A band was tightening around his chest now, as he slapped the blue folder down on his desk and paced towards the window. He remembered the doctor’s advice he’d once received about his breathing in such situations. It was a variant on the counting to ten method: taking a breath and stretching it out was a way of slowing the escalation in heart rate. It had seemed to work, at first, but he was too aware of the trick now for it to do anything other than constrict his breathing. He looked out to the sky, grey as ever, the uniformity separated only by a white smear of low-hanging cloud. The darkening horizon indicated there would be rain soon, and likely blown on the back of gales that were already worrying the streets below.
The DCI fell into distraction, watching a bin lorry inching along the road. A bin man – it still seemed safe to assign gender to such a lowly position – was following the lorry with a green wheelie-bin dragging behind him. If Valentine had his way DI Davis would soon be eyeing refuse-worker status as something to aspire to. The thought pulled him out of his anger. Davis was a family man – he had three children, according to the chief super – why would he deny the fact so brazenly?
Valentine gazed out at the approaching gloom that covered the street vista. The rooftops were already incurring a waxy sheen from the dimming sun and any hope of a turnaround seemed forlorn. The bin lorry had reached the end of the road now, was turning and heading out of sight. He imagined another row of green wheelie-bins lined up, perhaps miles on end, that needed to be collected. Was the work really so different from his own? It was just cleaning up the mess of others. He made a low grunting laugh and headed back to the incident room with his head somewhat cooler, if not any clearer.
The door’s hinges sung out as the DCI entered the incident room. There was little recognition of Valentine’s arrival – the squad was too deeply involved in the case by this stage – and few acknowledged him. He stood in the doorway’s blunt shade, swaying a little as he scanned the room for Davis, who he quickly picked out. The DI was standing before the board, scratching the edge of his nose. Davis grew dimly aware that he was being observed and, turning towards his watcher, lost several shades of colour from his face.
For a few moments Valentine returned Davis’s solemn stare, until he was interrupted by the sound of quick footsteps in the corridor behind him. ‘Ah, you’re back,’ said DI McCormack.
‘I was in with Dino.’
‘Oh dear. Still, at least you’re all in one piece.’
Valentine turned away from McCormack to see if Davis was still watching him. The DI’s stare sunk away, and he returned to the board. ‘Was there something you wanted?’
‘Yes, I’ve just burned an audio copy of the Alex McGarvie interview Davis conducted last night, I thought we could go through it.’
Valentine made a show of checking his watch, tapping the face. ‘Give me ten minutes. I need to have a word with Ian – alone.’
‘Sounds ominous. Is there something I should know?’
‘Ask me again in ten minutes.’ He peered round the DI and started to move towards the other end of the room.
‘Okay. I’ll see you in ten, then,’ said McCormack, hoisting up her shoulders into a perplexed shrug.
At the door to the glassed-off little corner office, Valentine grabbed the handle and took a step inside. He still had Davis’s attention and didn’t need to do any more than motion him with a nod to follow. When the DI entered behind him, Valentine turned back to the door and closed the Venetian blinds – more for the effect of unnerving Davis than the maintenance of privacy. If he was going to deliver a carpeting, it could serve as a public warning to anyone else considering lying openly to the boss.
‘Take a seat, Ian,’ he said.
Davis pulled out the one chair facing the desk and sat down. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Well that depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On what you tell me, Ian.’
Valentine was leaning on the window ledge, his arms folded, as he faced the back of DI Davis’s head.
Davis turned. ‘What�
��s this about?’
‘Guess where I was this morning, Ian?’
‘You were going over the Abbie McGarvie case with the chief super, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right. I can’t say I’m normally a fan of such gatherings but on the odd occasion I do uncover some very interesting snippets.’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.’
Valentine unfolded his arms and started to twiddle his wedding ring. ‘Is there something, anything, that you think you might have misled me about, Ian?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Are you very sure about that?’ He smacked his hands together. ‘Because much as I take a dim view of my officers lying to me, I take an even dimmer view of them trying to cover it up.’
Davis’s brows settled into a frown, his whole face seemed to tighten and firm. ‘I’m quite sure. Perhaps you should just come out with whatever grievance you imagine that you have with me.’
‘You told me that you were single, Ian. I distinctly recall the exact conversation, and a second conversation with DI McCormack who said you had confirmed the same to her. But, today I discover from CS Martin that you are in actual fact a married father of three.’
His features relaxed. ‘I am single.’
‘What?’
‘I am a single man. And I live alone, I don’t think I’ve lied to you at all.’
‘So, are you saying that CS Martin has lied to me?’
Davis touched his forehead and sighed. ‘I suppose you could say, on paper, that I am married. But I’ve left all that behind.’
‘You’ve separated from your wife?’
‘No. Not in any official sense. We just don’t communicate.’
Valentine pushed himself from the ledge and took a step towards the seated Davis. ‘And the children?’
‘Yes, those too.’
‘You don’t have access?’
‘No.’