The last rays of an ebbing sun glinted off the car’s roof as Valentine stood in his driveway. He was tired, peering coldly over the lawn towards his front door. His father had had the mower out, something he’d have to caution him on again – the old man was far too infirm to be wrestling a Suffolk Colt over the grass. Though Valentine did have to admit, his father had done a much better job than he ever could in effecting the parallel shadow striping.
It had been a long day, longer still with the Hugh Crosbie meeting tagged on at the end, and it had taken its toll. Valentine wondered if he was getting old himself, too old for the job? The chief super had assured him the promotion would mean a lot more time spent behind a desk – more application of brain than brawn – but that hadn’t materialised. Should he have expected anything different? He didn’t think so; only an idiot listened to the promises of superiors or politicians. Their priorities were in getting over the next bump in the road, nothing more; if he dropped dead on the job that would just be another bump to be surmounted, as and when, or if, it appeared.
Valentine went in through the front door, placing his briefcase on the floor next to the hallstand. There was some mail, bills mainly, sitting beside the phone on a semi-circular table that he was sure he’d never seen before. A couple of utility reminders and a credit card statement loudly proclaimed the fact that the recent trip to the Antipodes was still four figures in arrears. Abruptly, he put the statement back in the envelope. How would he ever settle that amount? He’d agreed to the expense on the basis that the family badly needed a break. And he’d persuaded himself he could afford it with the popular piece of cognitive dissonance that this was how people lived now – what difference did a few thousand pounds of debt mean when the entire country was virtually bankrupt?
He picked up the credit card bill and put it in his pocket. The idea of his father, who’d never been in debt a day in his life, seeing the statement sickened him. The idea that he wasn’t alone, that virtually everyone he met was living in exactly the same way filled him with an altogether different kind of terror. When the credit line ran out, and the comfort everyone was used to vanished, he knew he’d be among those tasked with maintaining order. And that might be impossible given the state of recent resources.
The phone on the little table in front of him started to ring.
‘Hello,’ said Valentine.
‘Hello, boss.’ It was DI McCormack.
‘Sorry, Sylvia, I had my mobile off while I was in that meeting with Hugh Crosbie.’
‘How did it go?’
‘About as well as expected.’ He shuffled the phone onto his shoulder as he took off his jacket and hung it on the balustrade.
‘Did he give you any pointers, or any indication of what you’re actually dealing with?’
‘Well, yes and no. He told me that this is happening for two reasons; one because I’m able to tune in to it, and two because I can do something about it.’
‘And does that make sense to you?’
‘I think so. But I need to learn to interpret the signs first, and I’m a long way from that.’
‘Everything takes time, boss.’
‘I know.’ He sat down on the steps and spied a price tag dangling on a piece of string beneath the table. ‘Look, Sylvia, I want to thank you for your help. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about this and things with Clare are so tense since I took the new job that . . . well, you know what I’m saying.’
‘I understand.’
He paused for a moment, grabbing the price tag. ‘What was your reason for calling?’ The tag revealed the table had cost £200 from TK Maxx. He rolled his gaze towards the ceiling.
‘Uniform concluded the search of the Sutherland estate.’ McCormack’s tone shifted sharply. ‘And there’s some interesting developments.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘I haven’t seen the full report yet, I presume that’ll be coming some time tomorrow, but I had a chat with the sergeant on the site and he says they’ve found a rope ladder next to where the victim came over the wall.’
‘A rope ladder?’
‘Yes, erm, wait a minute, I made some notes . . .’ The sound of pages being turned in a notepad came over the line. ‘Yes, here we are. White nylon ropes, either side of interlocking wooden batons, or steps I suppose.’
‘Has this been seen by the lab?’
‘It’s en route now.’
‘Any markings or anything we might get DNA from?’
‘The batons are filthy; looks like some pretty clear impressions from a running shoe.’
‘Fabulous. If we can tie that to the victim we have cause to extend our crime scene into Sutherland’s estate. Better yet, if we locate some DNA, then we’ll be solid.’
McCormack’s words quickened. ‘Actually, boss, I was thinking about what Phil said earlier about arranging a meeting with David Sutherland.’
‘You must have read my mind. Phil said Sutherland gets back tonight. Let’s be there waiting for him. In fact, let’s organise a welcoming party.’
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’
‘I’m gambling that the lab confirms our suspicions,’ said Valentine, ‘but I want you to organise a second search.’
‘Do you want me to contact the fiscal for a warrant?’
‘No, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I doubt a sheriff would grant one without the lab results. Let’s just play to this Sutherland’s good side. If he’s got nothing to hide then he’s got no reason to keep us out of his property.’
‘We have permission to be on the land, from the security guy, Coulter.’
‘Let’s push the boat out and assume it extends to outbuildings, too.’
‘If you say so, boss.’
‘I do.’ Valentine stood up and collected his jacket again. ‘Meet me out at Sutherland’s estate right away, Sylvia. And don’t spare the horses.’
As he put the phone down, Valentine noticed Clare standing at the open kitchen door. Her arms were folded in front of her; her look was confrontational, if not nearing on downright combative.
‘So, things between us are tense, are they?’ she said.
Valentine opted for the defensive. ‘Haven’t you heard that people who listen at doors never hear any good of themselves?’
‘It’s a damn good job I did listen at this door, otherwise I might not know that my husband is conducting a smear campaign against me.’
‘Oh, come on, Clare.’
She unfastened herself from the doorjamb and approached him. She seemed to be carrying a tightly controlled bolus of anger inside her. ‘And that was her again, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t play the innocent, Bob. You were speaking to that Sylvia woman that you spent the night with on Arran.’
‘I told you before, that was work, the last ferry had gone and we were hardly staying in the same room. Look, why am I defending myself when I’ve done nothing wrong?’
‘I could ask you that question myself.’ Clare’s voice sharpened. ‘It’s very suspicious, isn’t it?’
‘No, Clare, it’s silly. That’s what this is, just silly.’ Valentine collected his briefcase from beside the hallstand. ‘I have to go back out.’
‘You’re meeting her, aren’t you?’
‘You know I am, you were eavesdropping when I said so on the phone.’ Valentine knew he was playing into Clare’s hands – she wanted a confrontation and he was giving her one. But he was tired; he’d had too long a day to sensibly resist.
‘If you go out that door, Bob, you might as well not come back.’
‘Okay, then I’ll leave this with you, will I?’ He reached inside his jacket and removed the credit card bill, which he slapped down on the new table. As he turned for the door he remembered the price tag he’d pulled from the table earlier and spun round, slapping that down beside the credit card bill.
He didn’t look towards his wife as he went, heading straight out the door and down the driveway. He’d had sufficient control of his emotions not to slam the door, and for that he had some pride. But by the time he was sitting in the car he felt enough shame mounting inside him to know that he’d soon regret his other actions.
On the road to Prestwick, Valentine toyed with the idea of calling his wife to apologise. It was a stupid tiff, over nothing. When he examined why Clare had acted the way she had he knew it was just her insecurity, the same insecurity that caused her to impulse shop without thinking about how they were going to pay for it. Whenever the DI rationalised his wife’s actions, he knew he couldn’t actually fault her – she was only acting out her programming, and that unsettled him.
He should have known better, but the job was taking so much from him just now. Perhaps Clare was right about that too.