Her Cold Eyes

by Tony Black

‘Have you sought access?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ian, you have three children and a wife. You’re telling me that you have effectively abandoned your family.’

  DI Davis remained still, his face stonily unresponsive. He didn’t reply.

  Valentine tried to disinter an emotion from the DI’s expression but couldn’t find any. His own emotions were telling him to grab the detective by the shoulders and shake him until he saw sense, but it didn’t seem to be an option. It was beyond his remit to inquire about the circumstances of Davis’s decision, no matter how much it offended his moral sensibilities. He found his focus primarily on the children. Surely that’s what we were all living for, surely that’s what the job was about: securing a safe place for them to grow up in? As his thoughts spiralled Valentine realised he was attributing his own attitude to Davis, and he couldn’t hope to get anywhere near the truth that way.

  ‘Okay, Ian, let’s leave it at that,’ said Valentine. ‘But I don’t want to see you misrepresenting the truth to me again. And I mean even your version of the truth. I demand loyalty from my squad, and that means I won’t tolerate fudging of facts, playing semantics, or bloody well being economic with the actualité. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly.’

  There was a knock at the door. Valentine nodded to Davis, who let in DI McCormack on his way out. She made a show of closing the door behind her.

  ‘Jesus, what’s up with Ian?’ said McCormack.

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘He walked out that door like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.’

  ‘Maybe he is. Certainly it’s no weight I’d like to carry.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me more.’ She walked in front of the DCI and waited for a response, her head lilting towards her shoulder. The expression suggested she felt left out on new and useful information and she wasn’t going to let it slide.

  ‘Sit down, Sylvia.’ Valentine walked around the desk and dragged out his chair, the castors squealing. ‘I know you’ve expressed concern about Davis in the past.’

  ‘I think concern is a bit strong. His work’s been sound, better than that even, it’s just on an interpersonal level I’ve found him a little . . . odd.’

  ‘We’re on the same page, at least we were until I spoke to Dino about him earlier.’ Valentine detailed his talk with the chief super and the response from DI Davis. He kept the exchange factual, trying not to let his anger at the betrayal influence McCormack’s own reaction.

  ‘Wow. I’m a bit lost for words,’ said the DI. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It seems such an unnatural course of action to me. Even if the situation had become difficult, as obviously these things can be, it still seems a very extreme course to take.’

  ‘Did he seem in any way regretful, or doubting of his actions?’

  Valentine shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite, he was very matter of fact, like this was the only sane thing to do.’

  ‘I’d have to disagree. In fact, I’d have to say I think entirely cutting off your wife, and more importantly, your three kids, sounds utterly insane. I don’t know what kind of cognitive gymnastics you’d have to put yourself through to make that sound rational, or even doable.’

  ‘I’ve had rows with Clare, as you know, but even if we went our separate ways I wouldn’t be able to simply flick a switch and pretend the past never happened. And as for my kids, the very idea that I might never see them again would finish me. I live for those girls, and I’d die before giving them up.’

  McCormack’s mouth tightened into a thin line; she seemed to be holding back uneasy doubts. ‘I like your rationale a lot more than Ian’s.’

  ‘I think it suffices to say that our colleague is a very troubled man. Even more troubled than perhaps we already suspected.

  22

  Valentine opened the blinds in the corner office and tried to avoid making direct eye contact with DI Davis, or anyone else in the broader interview room. The level of activity he’d observed earlier seemed to be diminishing, though he conceded it might be the failing light outside that dimmed his perceptions. Either way, the thoughts now swirling inside his mind were certainly gloomier. He closed his eyes tightly and started to rub at his eyelids with the knuckles of his closed fists. For a moment the darkness was a welcome distraction – a leavening escape from the outside horrors that were building everywhere. But when he returned to the realities of the room, to the clicking of the mouse DI McCormack was working at the PC, he knew real darkness was inescapable. It was all around him, a tightening grip that wouldn’t leave until he had a young girl’s killer in custody.

  ‘Right, I’ve set up the Alex McGarvie interview audio on your PC,’ said McCormack, turning to face the DCI and making a mocking, open-mouthed expression. ‘God, have you looked in a mirror, Bob?’

  ‘No. What is it?’ He was weary, washed out. But no worse than usual.

  ‘The last time I saw black circles like that under someone’s eyes was at Edinburgh Zoo’s panda enclosure.’

  ‘The compliments are flying today. You’ll get a better response with sugar than vinegar.’

  ‘Not where I come from. Have you seen the diabetes figures for Glasgow?’ She made a reassuring smile. ‘Look, we can go through the interview later if you want to take a break.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m only thinking about, y’know.’ She patted her chest, on the left side, to indicate the location of the heart.

  ‘The stabbing was some time ago. I’m fine, really. I’d probably do even better if people stopped fussing over me.’

  ‘It’s just, well, I know you haven’t been sleeping and we’re both taking on new roles so that can’t make your lot any easier.’

  Valentine wondered why she hadn’t mentioned the worries over his wife’s debts too, she seemed to be piling his troubles so high. ‘I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m fine. I’ll try to get a few more early nights. Now, let’s get on with listening to this interview.’

  ‘I should get Davis in too. Unless that’s going to be too uncomfortable after your little chat.’

  ‘We need him in here to highlight the non-verbal cues,’ said Valentine. ‘The other stuff needs to go on the back burner anyway – where, hopefully, it won’t boil over.’

  ‘Okay, boss.’ McCormack headed for the door, leaning out into the interview room and calling DI Davis. For a brief moment he had the pleased look of a dog who’s just heard its name, and then he put down his pen and eased out from his desk. When he reached the end office the DI stood outside for a moment, pensively easing onto his toes, before taking two loping strides that put him directly in front of the DCI.

  ‘We’re going to go over the Alex McGarvie interview,’ said Valentine.

  ‘Of course. I was hoping to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Oh, yes . . .’

  ‘The acknowledgement you thought you’d witnessed, between McGarvie and Frizzle on the station steps, well, you were on the money, sir.’

  ‘They know each other?’

  ‘It would be impossible not to, given that McGarvie hired Frizzle to work at Finlayson.’

  Valentine looked at McCormack, who was already positioned to return his gaze. ‘Play the audio, let’s hear what McGarvie has to say for himself.’

  The first few minutes of the recording were an odd preamble by McGarvie, detailing how he had already been declared innocent by the previous investigation. His plaintive tone dipped into self-pity when he started to talk about Abbie’s death, but he seemed to go on the attack when Malcolm Frizzle was brought into the conversation.

  Finlayson’s heritage as a Christian school was heavily relied upon as justification for hiring Frizzle, a man with a record of abusing young girls. Everyone deserved forgiveness, claimed McGarvie, and there had been no indication that Frizzle had misplaced the trust shown in him by the school.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s odd tha
t Frizzle suddenly left his post at Finlayson when the allegations of abuse arose?’ said Davis.

  A moment’s hesitation followed before McGarvie replied. ‘No. I think that given Mr Frizzle’s previous experience with the authorities it’s actually a perfectly rational explanation for his abrupt departure.’

  ‘Maybe Frizzle actually had something to hide.’

  ‘I’m not accountable for his thought processes, detective.’

  ‘But then Malcolm Frizzle turned up at the Sutherland estate,’ said Davis.

  ‘This is news to me.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the estate, Mr McGarvie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you must be aware it’s located adjacent to the road where Abbie met her unfortunate end.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘It’s not about my saying so, Mr McGarvie, it’s a matter of fact. Your daughter died on the road next to the place where Mr Frizzle worked.’

  McGarvie didn’t reply. The empty silence stretched out until DI Davis posed another question. ‘Don’t you think that it’s more than a bit odd, that Frizzle went from working for you to working within spitting distance of where your daughter died?’

  ‘I’m not on trial here, detective,’ snapped McGarvie, his voice rising. ‘You’re not my judge.’

  ‘Answer the question, please.’

  ‘No. I don’t think it’s odd really. Ayrshire’s a pretty small place when you get down to it.’

  Valentine reached out to the keyboard and paused the recording.

  ‘He seems to be getting a bit agitated.’

  ‘He was,’ said Davis. ‘I put it down to bourgeois pomposity at first, but as the interview wore on I got the distinct impression that he resented my presence utterly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is, and this is something I saw on the first case, it’s like these people think they’re bulletproof.’

  ‘Bulletproof?’

  ‘Yeah, like someone’s got their back. Like we’re just the police and ultimately their fate will be decided by much higher forces.’

  ‘We’ll see about that . . . Press play again.’

  The audio recording continued where it had left off, with DI Davis posing another question for McGarvie.

  ‘Your daughter was the victim of some very serious and sustained sexual abuse, Mr McGarvie. The post-mortem report revealed this in detail.’

  ‘Abbie was a very wilful child.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Davis. ‘I’m not quite sure what you’re saying.’

  ‘She mixed in many circles that I’m sure I was unaware of. I couldn’t be with my teenage daughter twenty-four seven. No one would expect that, surely.’

  ‘But sexual abuse, Mr McGarvie. You don’t seem surprised?’

  ‘We live in dark days, the nature of man is fallen – how can I be surprised?’

  ‘It would seem to reverse the outcome of the previous investigation, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t see how, unless you can prove the two are related.’

  ‘One thing that you won’t be able to dismiss so easily is the fact that the post-mortem revealed your daughter to be pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘Now you seem troubled.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was my daughter.’

  ‘And she was pregnant. Which is incontrovertible proof that someone was abusing her.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m more concerned by that fact than by the fact that my daughter was suffering?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions, Mr McGarvie.’

  ‘This is absurd.’ Chair legs started scraping on the floor.

  ‘Sit down, please.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this . . .’

  ‘Mr McGarvie, I’m not finished.’

  ‘Well, I am.’

  ‘Mr McGarvie, do you have now, or have you ever had, any connection to a man called David Sutherland?’

  ‘Who?’ His voice dropped, became calmer. ‘I’ve never heard that name before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  The audio stretched into a silent gap, which ended with DI Davis shutting down the recording and turning to face the others. He sat back, in front of the PC, and tucked his hands behind his neck. For a few seconds no one spoke, and then Davis made a half-smile and said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

  McCormack was first to respond. ‘Cagey, to say the least. Especially for a man who has just lost a daughter. I’d expect some more compassion.’

  ‘I cut him some slack for having been through this whole process once already,’ said Davis, ‘but not a great deal.’

  ‘I’m not cutting him any,’ said Valentine. ‘The only time he showed any level of concern, in the entire interview, was when you mentioned that the post-mortem revealed Abbie was pregnant.’

  ‘And why might that be?’ said Davis.

  ‘I’d suggest it’s because if we can match a suspect to Abbie’s child then they will have nowhere to hide.’

  ‘I think you’re onto something, boss,’ said Davis. He sprang forward, easing out of his chair and heading towards the door. ‘Wait a minute, I’ve got something to show you.’

  As Davis left, returning to his desk, Valentine turned to McCormack. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Davis kind of does his own thing.’

  The DI came back into the office, closing the door behind him. He held a blue folder in front of him, which he placed on the desk. The officers huddled round a photocopied map that Davis pointed to with the eraser end of a pencil.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘I’ve been checking a few old Ordnance Survey maps for the Sutherland estate and I think this is very interesting.’

  ‘What are we looking at here?’ said Valentine.

  ‘This is the main house and the grounds.’

  ‘Very interesting, Ian, but what’s the relevance to the case?’

  ‘Look at this. It’s the outbuilding where we found the salt and blood.’

  ‘The cow shed,’ said McCormack.

  ‘What we thought was a cow shed, which may actually have been used as such for some time, but it’s not.’

  ‘Well, what is it then?’

  ‘This map points out something interesting, look here . . .’ He pointed with the pencil again, to a little black cross marked on the map.

  ‘A cross?’

  ‘That indicates that it was once a chapel.’

  ‘And?’

  Davis’s enthusiasm started to show as colour in his cheeks. ‘Ancient chapels like this are important because they were originally built on ley lines. These geographical markers are regarded as significant energy points by occultists, they’re seen as having a power that’s desirable for their rituals.’

  ‘And there’s a ley line running right through Sutherland’s estate?’

  ‘Yes, there is. And given what we found there, we’re certainly not the only ones aware of the significance of this.’

  ‘No, we definitely are not.’

  23

  Kevin Rickards was sitting in the furthest corner of the booth, bending a Tennent’s beer mat between his fingers and the tabletop as Valentine walked in. O’Briens bar was the last pub in the town with privacy booths, an appeasement to nostalgia on the part of the owners. When Valentine appeared in the doorway, Rickards nodded towards him and indicated the chair in front. Rickards had a calm air, and the look of a man who had learned to pick his fights well. His broad shoulders, perched on a broader chest, indicated a tensed stock of energy that probably hadn’t been given vent in some time. He looked formidable, or as Valentine was fond of saying in a strong Ayrshire lilt, not to be messed with.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ said the DCI.

  Rickards reclined in his chair, tipping his head so far back that it rested on the booth’s dark-panelled wall. He eyed the detective
cautiously. ‘Save the gratitude till you’ve got something to thank me for.’

  ‘Can I begin the process with a pint?’

  He nodded. ‘Make mine a heavy.’

  As Valentine went to the bar he tried to recall if he’d ever met Rickards outside of the Tulliallan training academy. He couldn’t be sure, but he did remember many protracted poker matches in smoky dorms, with bawdy cracks and unedited, manly mockery. They were different times; today’s recruits were far more testosterone deprived. The detective was still holding the thought when he returned to the booth with their pints.

  ‘Makes a nice change to see a cop who isn’t a green tea drinker,’ said Valentine.

  ‘Ex-cop. But I get the point, there’s still a few of us around.’

  Valentine immediately sensed a thawing. ‘You’ll remember Jim Prentice.’

  ‘Jim “the Gas”. How could I forget him?’

  ‘He showed me a picture in the paper today of one of our blokes, a uniform officer, in six-inch-high red heels. Apparently it was some PR stunt for the media unit. I honestly can’t tell whether they’re working for us or against us at this point.’

  ‘We must have the scrotes terrified – we’re not going to get too many collars chasing them in stilettos.’

  Valentine laughed. ‘It does seem like the powers that be are more concerned with promoting a PC image than improving the clear-up rates.’

  ‘They’ve precisely no interest in clear-up rates, unless it fits their political agenda. They’ll tip millions into chasing people who post wrong-think on Facebook about one thousand four hundred girls being raped in Rotherham, but don’t dare suggest we actually go after bloody criminals. It’s too screwed up for words. I’m glad to be out of it to be honest.’

  Valentine sipped his pint as Rickards continued towards a rant about the state of the police force and the betrayal of the communities it served. Law and order had already been sacrificed, it seemed, in favour of an anarcho-tyranny operated by a corrupted elite and a fawning political class who wanted nothing less than a complete collapse of the West. Which he predicted was coming, sooner than anyone dared to think.

  ‘Is that why you left, Kev?’ said Valentine.