The Murder Squad sat facing their screens in almost complete silence, the only sound being the occasional clicking of a computer mouse. As Valentine entered the room he put his hands on his hips and cleared his throat, the sound of which was enough to force DI McCormack to look in his direction.
‘Oh, didn’t see you come in there, boss,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised, it’s like a calculus exam in here. What the hell’s the matter with you all?’
DS Donnelly eased round in his chair, his fingers hovered above the keyboard on the desk for a moment and then he withdrew them to his pockets and spoke, ‘We’re waiting for the bell.’
‘Well, it’s not the bloody bell you were hoping for, Phil, it’s the fire bell,’ said Valentine. ‘Grab your coats and follow me downstairs – home time is going to be a little later today.’
As DI McCormack eased into her jacket she juggled her bag from hand to hand in a practised, well-coordinated move. She was sufficiently speedy to catch the door that was closing in the wake of Valentine’s departure from the room.
‘Boss, what’s the SP?’ she said.
He tossed her a set of car keys. ‘You’re driving. Consider yourself flattered, by the way, it’s my new motor.’
Sylvia looked at the key ring. ‘Audi, very swish.’
‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. The Vectra had a bigger boot.’
‘How very practical, and Scottish, of you.’
The DCI sneered at her. ‘If you say I’m starting to sound like my old man I’ll bust you back to DS.’
The remark was picked up by Donnelly, who’d caught up with the front-runners in the dash to the car park. ‘Will that vacancy be thrown open to the floor, boss, or will somebody just be parachuted in?’
Donnelly’s remark was pointed enough to register a double bullseye, one on Valentine and one on the new DI, but neither responded, opting for a knowing exchange of glances instead. In an effort to change the subject quickly Valentine removed the blue folder from under his arm and held it aloft as he proceeded to descend the stairs.
‘Abbie McGarvie,’ he said. ‘Are any of you familiar with the case?’
‘Missing teen, sir,’ said McCormack.
‘Has she turned up, then?’ said Donnelly.
‘That we don’t know,’ said Valentine. ‘We have a fatality, victim of an RTA, which is looking suspicious. That’s where we’re headed now, a B-road out by Monkton, near enough to Prestwick Airport.’
At the front desk Jim Prentice stood up and saluted, then promptly crumpled into peals of laughter. His hacking laugh could still be heard as the officers reached the swing doors. Valentine stepped aside to hold the handle so the others could pass through, then dispensed a single-digit salute to the desk sergeant.
‘Come on, Bob, that’s just unseemly behaviour for a man of your position,’ said Prentice. ‘I expected better.’
‘You’re right, Jim, we could all do a little better on that front. And you can start by binning that copy of the Mirror you have under the counter – you’re inspiring me to make sure things are a bit more shipshape around here!’
On the road to Monkton, Valentine opened the file on Abbie McGarvie. The note-taking by DI Davis was extensive but the subject matter, even to an officer with Valentine’s experience, made for difficult reading. He had dealt with child abuse cases in the past, but allegations of ritualistic and occultic paedophilia was something entirely new to him.
‘Holy Christ,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ said McCormack.
‘This woman, the mother of Abbie, she’s alleged all kinds of stuff happening to her daughter.’
‘Are you on about what I think you are?’
‘No. I don’t think you could imagine, Sylvia. I’m talking about gang rape and bloody rituals with sacrificial animals and men in robes.’
DS Donnelly leaned in, placing his elbows on the back of the two front seats. ‘Sounds very Aleister Crowley to me.’
‘Who?’ said Valentine.
‘The nutcase that they called the Wickedest Man in the World. He was into all that sort of stuff, magic rituals, summoning the Devil and so on.’
‘You know about this kind of thing?’
‘No, not really. I read a book or two, watched a documentary once. It tends to be discredited, not that I’m saying it doesn’t exist but that maybe those who do it have better PR than their accusers.’
‘Well, that makes some sense. When Dino briefed me she told me to keep the investigation on the down-low; with all these paedophile politicians and grooming gangs on the loose she definitely won’t want any press attention. Tell me more about this Crowley character.’
‘Well, I don’t know that much. I did a stint in Northern when I was in uniform and it was there that I heard rumours about him. Crowley had a house in Inverness-shire, on the banks of Loch Ness – I think it was called Boleskine or something – this was years back, mind you. I think some rock star bought it and then sold it on again. I believe it was burned down.’
‘What rumours did you hear about Crowley?’
‘There was talk of him exhuming bodies from a nearby cemetery for occult rituals. I did hear that Crowley had an underground passage from his house leading to the cemetery where late-night sacrifices were held, but I don’t know if anything was ever actually proven. That’s the problem with a lot of this stuff, it all seems so fanciful to the man in the street that it gets dismissed, but I’ve no doubt it goes on up there in the hills. Northern’s books are full of weirdos arrested with sheds full of decapitated domestic pets and vats of blood.’
Valentine handed Donnelly the file. ‘Here, have a look what DI Davis has turned up. You might be able to make more sense of it than I can because I’m reading it like a Hollywood movie script.’
‘That’s because Hollywood’s the home of sin, boss. That place would be my first port of call if I was looking for the real truth on what goes on in these circles.’
The Audi pulled into a side-verge ahead of the police cordon. The HGV was blocking the road in one direction where the accident had occurred. It was a quiet road, not one that was used to so much traffic and the police Land Rover, assorted uniforms and SOCOs looked alien in the setting.
Valentine rubbed the back of his neck as he walked from the car towards the SOCOs. The ache in his neck that had started outside CS Martin’s office was intensifying, like a niggling, prickling conscience that was trying to tell him something.
‘Everything okay, boss?’ said McCormack.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You have that look.’
‘What look?’
‘You know, that look.’ She tilted her head and winked.
Valentine took his hand from his neck and stomped towards the officer with the most stripes.
‘What’s the story?’ said the DCI.
The uniform, a sergeant in a dirty yellow hi-vis vest, took his attention away from a radio call and addressed the senior officer. ‘Oh, good morning, sir. It’s an RTA.’
‘I guessed as much, I am a detective.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Can you talk me through the scene, sergeant?’
The sergeant pointed to a wall skirting the side of the road; the grass verge at its base was almost a foot high. ‘Well, apparently, the deceased was on the top of the wall when the vehicle came over the brow of the hill. She was descending the wall, on our side, when she jumped down and ran across the road. That’s when she came into contact with the lorry.’
Valentine followed the sergeant’s line of sight towards the white tarpaulin covering the road. There was a distance of a few yards between the front grille of the lorry and the white covering. On either side of the tarpaulin thick black tyre marks were burned into the road.
The collection of SOCOs seemed fewer than usual and they were being assisted by a smattering of uniforms. It appeared that the scene was being treated more like a standard road traffic accident, and Valentine bemoaned DI McAlister’s absence.
‘We’re missing our advance party,’ he said.
‘Ally would certainly have been useful to us, very bad timing by those inconsiderate gallstones,’ said DI McCormack. She turned towards the sergeant. ‘Has the fiscal been on site?’
‘Yes, he has.’ The sergeant removed a notebook and read aloud. ‘Colin Scott was the fiscal depute on the scene and he’s been and gone. Along with the doctor.’
Valentine was circling the road markings. ‘When did the driver back up the vehicle?’
‘Before we arrived, sir. He said his instinct was to apply first aid but it obviously wasn’t an option.’
‘And where is the driver?’
‘The paramedics removed him to hospital. He’s in a state of shock.’
‘Did he offer any explanation, any reasoning as to what happened?’
‘None, sir. Although he did say she looked like she was running from something.’
‘Running?’
‘He said she seemed scared.’ The notebook was referred to again – ‘The girl looked terrified. She wasn’t watching her steps, she was bloody running for her life . . . That’s his words, sir.’
Valentine watched the sergeant return the notebook to a pocket beneath his dirty hi-vis vest; it seemed to be a final indicator of his knowledge on the matter. He stood silently, facing the detectives for a moment and then made an apologetic shrug.
The DCI turned to McCormack. ‘Check in with the hospital. When the driver’s over the shock, go and have a word and see if he can tell us any more.’
She nodded. ‘Will do, boss.’
There wasn’t much to go on from the initial findings and it infuriated Valentine. As he turned away a sharp pain struck his neck, causing him to wince. He massaged the spot quickly and tried to distract himself by drawing his gaze into the distance.
‘What’s over that wall, Donnelly?’
‘No idea, boss. But I’ll get on that now.’
‘Do that and let me know right away.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Valentine dropped his hand and set out on the road. ‘Come on, let’s take a look at our victim.’