Текст книги "A Taste of Ashes"

Автор книги: Tony Black

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16

Chloe faced her father through the open car window and tugged her school bag tight to her shoulder. ‘Why are you here and not Mum?’

‘Why not?’

‘Just asking.’

‘That’s not much of an answer, dear.’

‘Well, it’s just wrong.’

She looked back to the school building, pupils were rushing about in every direction, yelling, screaming.

‘Come on, get in. It’s like Bedlam out there.’ He started the engine. ‘I’m heading that way anyway, your mum was busy.’

The bag got jerked from her shoulder, she looked skyward and stomped for the passenger door of the car. Inside, the door slammed shut, Chloe threw her school bag onto the back seat. For a moment, she stared there, as if the bag had burst or flown out the window, and then she turned. ‘You’d think they’d have given you another car.’

Valentine spluttered a line of laughter. ‘Why would they do that?’

‘Because of the … mess.’

‘The bloodstain you mean, you can say the word y’know, it’s not going to install a depression in me.’

‘It’s just so wrong, I mean, you know that.’

‘Chloe, at the best of times a car is an expensive piece of kit, with all the cutbacks in the country right now do you really expect them to scrap it because there’s a stain on the back seat?’

Chloe reached for her seatbelt, tugged at the inertia reel. ‘It’s wrong. You nearly died, I mean did die. At work on the job, and they still expect you to drive the car where you lost all that blood … all your blood!’

The DI always tried to listen to his children. Ever since they were very small, their first mumblings and ramblings, it all seemed important to him. He didn’t ever want to be the type of parent who dismissed their thoughts as just those of children. It was a duty, something a decent parent did. If he let that slip, what was left? Children learned fast and needed to know they were listened to, that they were important, otherwise they simply accepted the opposite. And that would have been his fault. There were too many damaged souls in the world, he’d met many of them, and the thought that he’d increase their tally – however inadvertently – with one of his own children was a deep hurt he couldn’t entertain.

‘What do you think my boss would say if I took your complaint to her?’

‘That depends.’

‘Depends on what?’

‘Depends if she’s a decent human being or not. If she valued you, and your family, she’d get you a new car.’

‘It’s a company car, I don’t think family is that high on her list of considerations.’

‘But it should be.’

‘Does it bother you that much, Chloe?’ He watched his daughter play with the hem of her skirt. Just what was the conversation really about? ‘I’m sorry I missed your big night, love.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘No. It’s not OK at all. Not for me it’s not. I wanted to be there, to see my little girl make her big stage debut.’

Chloe pressed herself further into the seat. ‘It’s the job again, isn’t it? It’s always the job.’

‘Now you sound like your mother.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘Shall we get going? Can’t miss your drama class if you’re to be a movie star.’

On the road to Troon, Valentine let his daughter select a radio station that met with her approval. An insipid boyband’s tune filled the car, a manufactured kind of music that made the DI ask what had gone wrong with the world? He kept his opinion to himself, though. There were times when he could get away with teasing his daughter about her musical tastes but this wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t under any pressure from her for missing the opening night at the theatre, she wasn’t the type to make a point for the sake of it, all the pressure came from him. The core feeling inside that said he’d let her down, let Clare down and now he needed to make amends. It could be shoved away, forgotten about for now, but where it would go and what it would do when it got there was a worry to him.

‘I don’t know what Mum’s got to be so busy with, it’s not like there’s a sale at TK Maxx or anything.’

‘Come on, Chloe.’

‘I mean it, she doesn’t work. All she has to do is shop and run about with her friends now and again … Oh, and drive me and Fi to the odd thing.’

‘She has your Granda to look after too, now.’

‘Granda looks after himself, he’d clobber you for saying something like that.’

‘Am I picking up a bit of a vibe here, Chloe?’

‘Is that you trying to sound street?’

Valentine stared at his daughter. ‘I am street.’

They laughed together. The enormous pressure eased away.

‘Yeah, I’m pathetic, I know. But all dads are a wee bit.’

‘Is it funny for you having Granda around again?’

‘No. Not really. We never see each other, sometimes in the passing, like ships in the night.’

‘That’s what Mum says, you’re like ships in the night.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Is Mum OK, Dad?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ His answer was a delaying tactic, he knew Chloe was growing up fast, forming her own impressions now. Clare was hard work sometimes but he didn’t want his daughter to know that, or if she was coming to the conclusion, he didn’t want her to think it. Not just yet, anyway. Not whilst she was still a child and prone to rash judgements.

‘Just, y’know. She gets worked up and that, like this theatre thing. It doesn’t bother me really but Mum got upset.’

‘Your mother’s a sensitive one, Chloe. She cares deeply about things, about you and Fiona and the whole family. She wants things to be right, all the time.’

‘But it can’t be can it? I mean, that’s just magazines and that.’

‘It doesn’t stop her trying.’

‘But it’s pointless. Futile.’

‘To you maybe, love, but to her it’s the stuff of life. Everyone needs something to cling to, to make it all make sense. It doesn’t matter what it is, for you it might become acting, and that’s great but it doesn’t have to be any greater than anybody else’s stuff. We’re all different.’

‘But what about when she goes on about your job and makes you both upset, that’s not right either. And that’s her thing too, y’know.’

Valentine didn’t like the way the conversation was going, the plan had been to spend a little time with his daughter and appease his wife but all he’d done was confirm for himself that every family’s unhappiness was unique. That always trying to be the better parent was impossible when kids drew their own conclusions regardless. ‘This is getting very deep for the road to drama class, is it not?’

Chloe put her heels on the rim of the seat, pulled her knees up to her chin. ‘I can’t talk to Mum about things like this. There’s only you and Granda.’

‘Now your Granda could talk the leg off an iron pot, on any subject.’

She seemed to sense his need to change the topic now. ‘It’s all right, Dad. That’s all I wanted to say.’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah. It is.’

At the turn-off for Troon, on the road skirting the golf course, the boyband was replaced by Eminem and Valentine felt his faith in the future returning. At the drama class Chloe waved, dodged some puddles in the car park, and went inside the old red sandstone building. What went on inside, what constituted an acting lesson? He found he had no reference for it at all. It was impossible to answer, another of life’s mysteries and one that he had no pressing urge to solve. As the Vectra rolled back to the road he tried to clear some headspace for the real purpose of his visit to Troon. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, or even cared for, but it did seem necessary. And, he wanted to appease DS McCormack.

The DI pressed the call button, spoke into the mic. ‘Hello Sylvia, that’s me just getting into town.’

‘Hi, sir. I’m there already.’

‘Good. I’ll see you in five, then,’ his voice fluctuated in tone, settled on low notes.

‘Is everything OK, sir?’

A pause. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘It’s quite a big step. Are you really sure you’re ready to go through with this?’

‘Sylvia, don’t expect me to bluff you with I was born ready, or I’m ready for anything. But I am ready, yes. I’m ready to get to the bottom of why the dead keep walking into my life.’

17

DI Bob Valentine locked the car and headed towards the pub. DS McCormack stood outside, beneath the alcove at the front door. She was wearing a short red windcheater and stonewashed jeans with trainers, she didn’t look like police for once.

‘Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time off?’ said Valentine.

‘It’s only a half day, I’ll hardly miss it.’

‘Is he here?’

‘I’ve no idea, I’m not the clairvoyant.’

The detective suppressed a tut. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘A bit.’

‘Well, I’m laughing inside … a bit.’

The pair walked through the front doors and into the bar area. It was a traditional Ayrshire drinking den, a long bar that covered one wall of the room, rust-coloured quarry tiles lined the front of the bar before the floor gave way to hardy, black carpeting that was beer-soaked and trampled to a sheen. Formica-topped tables, surrounded by PVC-backed chairs, accounted for the furnishings.

‘Nice place,’ said McCormack.

‘I think it’s what you call utilitarian.’

‘Does that mean a tip?’

They approached the barman, his Brylcreem slick and black moustache fitted the fifties-feel of the decor. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Just a Coke for me,’ said Valentine. ‘Sylvia?’

‘A mineral water, please.’

‘No bottled water. I can do you a council juice from the tap.’

‘Coke will be fine, thanks.’

They took their drinks and settled at a table near the back wall. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive to the DI – he’d strayed into inhospitable territory. Valentine played with a Tennent’s beer mat, picking the strayed edges.

‘Are you nervous, sir?’

‘Tell me about this bloke again.’

‘Before the Janie Cooper case, like I said, I worked with a precognitive on the Reece squad in Glasgow. Colvin Baxter helped out, he took us in directions we never would have found on our own. It was a revelation. Baxter recommended Hugh Crosbie as someone who could, well maybe, help you get a handle on things, explain what you’ve been going through.’

‘And this Crosbie, he’s what, a psychic?’

McCormack sipped her drink. ‘He’s a spiritualist, as far as I know. He’s very knowledgeable apparently.’

Valentine looked at his watch. ‘He’s also late.’

‘I think we’re a bit early actually.’ The door to the bar opened, a tall man, thin and grey, approached. ‘Oh, hang on, this looks like him.’

McCormack rose. ‘Hugh, hello.’

He took the detective’s hand, then turned to Valentine. ‘And you must be Bob. I’m pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ He indicated the chair in front. ‘Please, sit down.’

Valentine’s gaze was drawn away from the man. He looked to the bar, spotted the barman resting on a stool and reading the Daily Star. It was a ridiculous scene, really. So prosaic and yet filled with such strange undercurrents. The urge to get up and leave instantly jumped into his thoughts.

‘I’m forgetting my manners, would you like a drink, Hugh?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ He started to unbutton his jacket with long, slender fingers. ‘I believe you’ve had some interesting experiences that you’d like me to give an opinion on.’

Valentine shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘It’s a little embarrassing really.’

‘Oh. And why would that be?’

He didn’t want to offend the man, he’d been good enough to answer the call after all. Even though it was all so strange to him, Valentine tried to affect manners. ‘Perhaps that’s the wrong word, unsettling maybe’s a better one.’

‘Go on.’

‘I had this, I don’t know what you’d call it, a near-death experience.’

‘Did you die?’

Valentine picked up his glass, put it down again. He was used to the question by now. ‘For a little while, I believe. I mean, I didn’t see angels or anything if that’s what you want me to say.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has, met angels that is.’

‘I was stabbed, in the heart. I passed away but they revived me. I don’t recall anything of that time.’

DS McCormack entered the conversation. ‘It’s since the incident Bob’s had the trouble. I say trouble because it’s been troubling to him, unsettling.’

‘You said something about dreams on the phone, and visions.’ Crosbie got up to remove his coat, hang it over the back of the chair. When he sat down again he retrieved a notepad and pencil from the inside pocket and peered beyond the detective’s shoulder.

‘Mostly dreams. They’re extremely vivid, like I’m actually there.’

Crosbie started to sketch in the notepad. ‘Oh yes, spirit dreams can be most vivid. I believe some never forget them in their lifetime.’

‘Well, I remember all of mine.’

‘Are they precognitive dreams, Bob?’

‘Do you mean, predicting the future? No, they don’t give me the winner at the Gold Cup unfortunately.’

Crosbie smiled, a courtesy. ‘Sometimes dreams like yours will contain a message and sometimes that message can be interpreted in a way that seems to have a forewarning attached. For example, I met a woman once who was convinced she had seen her daughter pass to spirit, actually holding hands with deceased relatives, the dream was so real she woke up in tears, ran through to the child’s bedroom and woke her.’

‘Did the girl die?’ said McCormack.

‘No,’ said Crosbie. ‘But what I found interesting about that dream, and many others, was that when the dead appear in such a state it’s because they have something to tell you.’

‘I’m not sure there was a message for me there.’

‘I’m not sure you’re interpreting it correctly, Bob.’

Valentine looked at the notepad as Crosbie glanced above him and sketched. ‘And how would I do that?’

‘You need to listen, not with your ears but with your soul. There’s deep understanding there, not the kind you seek with your mind, but a fuller more complete wisdom. It’s not a wisdom that can be explained in words, Bob, they would only get in the way. I think that’s been your problem.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Oh, I’m positive you don’t. You see, it’s not something you can understand with this,’ he tapped the side of his head. ‘You’re trying to rationalise something that can’t be subjected to the rational. That’s your problem right there.’

Valentine looked at DS McCormack and then returned his gaze to Crosbie, he was tearing out a page from the notepad.

‘Do you recognise this chap?’

He held up a sketch of a young man with short cropped hair and a prominent jawline. The picture was crude but a realistic impression.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Who is he?’

‘I’ve no idea, Bob. But he’s been standing at your shoulder since I came in.’

Valentine turned around. ‘There’s nobody there now.’

‘Maybe he’s not here for your benefit. Take the picture, it might mean something to somebody, or it might mean nothing at all.’

‘Thank you,’ he took the sketch. ‘I don’t know what I expected, maybe that you’d be a nutter, or tell me that I was.’

‘You’re not a nutter, Bob Valentine. But you are a man who is a very long way from finding peace.’

18

Valentine pressed his fingertips into the hardwood desk and leaned forward. There was an expectant air inside the incident room, a haste and activity that forced everyone into quick steps and downward glances as they moved. The DI tried to ignore the goings-on and force his mind beyond the blurred morning state that could only cry out for coffee.

‘It was the frogmen, I knew that was the risk we ran,’ he said.

‘Either way, boss, we’ll have to give the hacks something,’ said Donnelly. ‘They’re asking a lot of questions.’

‘OK, there’s no point keeping them in the dark when they know something’s up. Ask Coreen to call a press conference, they can have the facts now, but only the bare minimum of stuff.’

Donnelly shuffled backwards towards the door. ‘Yes, boss. When you say bare minimum, do you mean tell them we have a murder case but no more?’

‘Definitely not. No names, no details beyond generalities. I doubt it’ll take them more than a day to dig up the more salient facts but it’s a day we can do with.’

Donnelly acknowledged the request and backed out of the office towards the press team. As Valentine lowered himself into his chair he signalled DS McCormack towards his desk with a crooked finger.

‘Right. What have we got on this CCTV footage, Sylvia?’

McCormack stepped forward, tucking her hair behind her ear in a hurried, nervous manner. She started reading from a piece of well-thumbed notepaper as she walked towards the desk and the computer. She leaned over, pointed at the computer screen and said, ‘Ally’s put it on your desktop, it’s the file called “River”.’

He double-clicked on the file and a window opened up. It showed grainy footage of a slight figure – it looked like a woman – wearing jeans and a sweat-top, wandering awkwardly, almost feeling her way along the railings on the banks of the River Ayr.

‘Do we have an ID?’ said Valentine.

‘No, we’re working on enhancements. IT says we’ll have those within the hour. If you want my best guess though – going on all our descriptions and the most recent photos – it’s our missing Sandra Millar.’

‘The mother.’

‘Definitely fits the description, the height, colouring and clothes are all spot on … She’s not exactly sprightly either, she moves like a middle-aged woman in shock.’

Valentine gripped his chin and scowled at the footage; it was good but he wanted more. ‘It’s a bit indistinct.’

‘It’s from the camera at Old Bridge Street, the operator was panning down the river banks, it’s probably up to eleven on the focus.’ McCormack touched the screen, tapped twice where she wanted him to look. ‘Right this is where it gets interesting, sir.’

The figure in the centre of the screen stopped walking and turned towards the water. Her hands went out to the railing and she stood there, swaying for a moment. She seemed to be contemplating the river’s movement, tuning in with the current, each ripple sending a shock that buckled her knees.

‘Oh, don’t tell me she’s a jumper.’

‘No. Keep watching.’

As the camera lens grappled with the image, going in and out of focus, the figure withdrew a hand from the rail. The task almost felled her but she straightened up, regained balance and managed to stand still. From the side of her that was blind to the camera she withdrew something from her pocket and raised up her arm. She paused, a glint appeared on the object, like a metallic surface catching a stray beam of light.

‘What’s she got?’

‘It’s what she does with it that’s interesting.’

The figure jerked, her arm thrust back, and the object was thrown into the water. As a splash appeared in the river, the woman grabbed the rail again, then turned round and tramped towards the town. She followed the same route that she had come, her steps were heavy, faltering, and every uneven flagstone threatened her with a fall.

Valentine watched the woman’s shambling gait go out of shot, then the image receded to a black screen. He closed the window and turned from the computer to face McCormack. ‘Tell me you have the divers at that very spot.’

‘Yes, sir. We have had them there for a while. But there’s better news to report than that.’

‘Go on.’

‘About ten minutes ago, we retrieved an object from the River Ayr, adjacent to the banks where this CCTV image was captured.’

‘Tell me it was a knife, Sylvia.’

She let a faint smile creep onto her face. ‘Yes, sir. It’s a blade. And it’s making its way to forensics as we speak.’

Valentine shot up, raised a fist. ‘Right, Sylvia. Get your coat. We’re not hanging about waiting for the results on a potential murder weapon, especially when we have the press pack already baying for blood.’

The officers retrieved their coats from the stand in the corner of the DI’s office and headed out into the open-plan incident room. DS Donnelly was approaching from the opposite end of the long room as they entered. He looked relaxed, pleased with himself. ‘Boss, that’s the press conference called. Coreen says she’ll need you at midday.’

Valentine checked his watch. ‘No can do. We’re off to, hopefully, retrieve our murder weapon from the boffins in Glasgow.’

Donnelly looked perplexed. His confidence evaporated, ‘But what about the press conference?’

‘You can handle that, can’t you?’ Valentine’s tone said he wasn’t giving him a choice.

‘Are you kidding? I’ve never faced the press on my own.’

‘Then take Ally for company.’

The DI helped DS McCormack into her coat and through the door before Donnelly could object. Donnelly’s gaze burned on the DI’s neck as he walked into the corridor, but he didn’t look back.

McCormack stayed quiet until they reached the station car park: ‘Don’t think I’m questioning you, sir, but do you think it’s a good idea leaving the Chuckle Brothers to face the press on their own?’

Valentine paused, pointed his keys at the Vectra. ‘Needs must, Sylvia. And Donnelly will have to take that leap of faith at some time, might as well be today. He’s a good lad, he’ll rise to the occasion, and I’m sure he’ll look out for Ally.’

They got into the car. Sylvia was stuffing her bag into the footwell as she replied to the DI. ‘I was only thinking, what with Dino on the warpath already, now might not be the time to be courting tragedy.’

Valentine pushed himself into the headrest. ‘Leave Dino to me, her bark’s worse than her bite.’

McCormack’s eyes widened. ‘I just noticed on the case files that she’s not been updated on the post-mortem findings either.’

‘Our coup de grâce, you mean?’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Well, let’s just say she’s on a need to know basis. I’ll let her know what I do when she needs to, until then there’s no point overloading her, it just gets her twitchy about the cost of running a case like this.’

‘Did you tell her we called in frogmen?’

Valentine started the car, over-revved. ‘Look, no. I didn’t. She’ll find out today though, I’m sure of it.’

McCormack was shaking her head. ‘I hope she doesn’t find out at the press conference. She’ll be standing in wait for you at the front door if she does, most likely with your P45 in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.’