Valentine and McCormack walked over to the Odeon car park in Burns Statue Square. It was still early evening but there were fewer cars about, most being merely a blur of tail-lights on the road out of town. The solid block of the cinema building, sitting in the full sweep of the road, was an ugly blemish on the skyline that pitched the officers into shade as they walked. Ahead of them, a shabby drunk yawed from side to side on the pavement, making an unwelcome obstacle for them to avoid. As they stepped out, McCormack’s quick footsteps made a stabbing noise on the tarmac and then came a gasp as she momentarily lost balance.
‘Are you all right?’ said Valentine, grabbing her arm and holding her up.
‘Just lost my footing.’
He watched the drunk stagger on, unawares. When he returned his gaze to the DI he noticed the loose folds of skin sitting beneath her eyes. A whorl of hair unfurled itself from her head and was forced back into place.
‘You look a little rattled. Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded briskly.
Valentine released her arm and she stumbled again. ‘Okay, let’s get you into the car.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
When they were seated inside the Audi, Valentine put the heater on and turned to face the DI. ‘Something’s up. You can’t kid a kidder.’
‘It’s just . . . I was never one of the cool kids at school.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean, I worked bloody hard to get where I am.’
‘I know, that’s why I promoted you.’
She made a weak smile. ‘I was always the kid with the homework handed in first. I never forgot my PE kit once. I was one of the swotty ones, not the cool kids, like I said. So all this meeting behind the bike sheds makes me nervous.’
Valentine smirked. ‘I understand, and it’s natural. But I wouldn’t ask you to risk your career doing anything you didn’t want to do.’
‘It’s not that. Not at all. I know I have to do this because the other way has already failed.’
‘You see that, do you?’
McCormack paused, her drowsy eyes flickered. ‘This investigation has changed me, awoken something in me that I didn’t know was there.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Do you remember when we opened Malky’s locker and found that bible?’
‘Yes.’
‘That shocked me. It was like he’d felt the same thing, like there was a battle going on between good and evil. I must sound ridiculous, but it’s what this case has made me feel – that there’s more out there than us versus them. There’s a real, palpable evil among us.’
Valentine looked away. ‘I know what you’re getting at.’
‘You feel it too?’
‘We all do. Can’t you see it in Kevin and Ian’s faces?’
She sat in silence for a few seconds and then replied. ‘Yes, I do see it. It’s everywhere. Don’t you think it’s strange, though?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, at any other time we’d all be happy with collaring a nonce like Malcolm Frizzle, and here we are going after his enemies in exactly the same manner.’
‘We can’t know what Malky’s motives were.’
‘No. Of course, but I certainly don’t think they were pure.’
‘He never had a pure thought in his life. Look, don’t go equating us with that dirtbag – we’re not descending to his level – we’re merely baiting the hook to catch the fish.’
‘That’s agreed, but my point is, sir, that it didn’t work out for Malky, so why should it work out for us?’
The inky twilight came down around them on the small copse. Davis, crouched over and perching on a large tree-stump, cupped a lit cigarette in his hand. As the others sheltered behind him his skin appeared waxy and pale, his face jutting like a solid cleft of rock. Valentine watched as Davis pressed the cigarette to his lips, time and again, patting the filter like a child’s comforter. He was ill at ease, jumpy.
‘Why don’t you come back here, Ian?’ said Valentine. ‘No one can get into the outbuilding unless they come through the front door. We’ll see them in good time.’
‘I’d sooner stay here and watch.’
‘But there’s nothing to be gained, Ian,’ said Rickards.
‘I said, I’ll wait!’ he bit.
‘Okay, Ian. Stay calm.’
He spun round. ‘I am bloody calm!’
Valentine gazed into Rickards’ eyes. A mutual understanding was passed between them. There was no point in riling Davis any more than he already was. They had a simple enough task to do, and it was in no one’s benefit to isolate one of the small group’s members and single them out for censure.
The others kept clear of the gathering gales and watched the property. Sutherland’s house had a row of six Georgian-style windows running along the top floor. On the ground level were four windows, two either side of the stately entrance that was flanked by Doric pillars. It was an impressive property, but the large windows afforded very little view of the interior. The lower windows were occluded by wooden shutters and the upper, though exposed to the outside, showed no more than a well-lit, but empty, interior.
Occasionally, a small, bunched-up woman with timid movements would appear on the front steps and throw out what looked like handfuls of salt. She appeared to be part of the wider group, a participant of some description, but it was unclear what she was actually doing.
The airport party had arrived in a motorcade of three black saloons, and were met by a thin, angular man with outsized hands who ushered them in. None of the important new arrivals had appeared again since. All was quiet inside Sutherland’s mansion, almost painfully so to those observing the goings-on.
Valentine turned to Sylvia. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine. How about you?’
‘Cold, it’s brass monkeys out here.’
‘What about the . . . ?’ She ran a finger up and down her sternum.
‘I wish people would stop asking about my heart.’
‘Sorry.’
The conversation had been picked up by Rickards. ‘I heard about that at the time. A stabbing in the heart, vicious.’
‘It wasn’t one of my better days.’
‘It can’t have been an easy recovery.’
‘I take so many pills I rattle now.’
‘You’re better off out the force with that hanging over you – less stress – with any luck they’ll just pension you off.’
‘I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard.’
Davis picked up the gist of the conversation. ‘Why not?’
‘Sorry?’ said Valentine.
‘The knacker’s yard. It sounds okay to me.’
‘You’re only a young man, Ian. Aren’t you being a bit nihilistic?’
He tutted. ‘Is that what you think?’
Valentine noticed Rickards drawing his attention, making a cut-off gesture with his hand and shaking his head. The DCI conceded to someone who knew Davis better than him and kept quiet.
‘Hold up, here she is again,’ said Davis. ‘Salt lady . . . and she’s not alone this time.’
The others gathered behind Davis at his vantage point and watched as the thin man came out first, carrying a burning torch.
‘This is it.’
A group of men in dark, hooded robes started to trail from the mansion house in a slow procession. The single-file trail gave way to a group of four, carrying a girl, naked and splayed, on their shoulders. A further group of torch-bearers came up behind them and the entire collective made its way towards the now darkened woodlands.
‘Okay, let’s get into position,’ said Valentine.
‘Yes, let’s get going,’ said Rickards. ‘Everybody know their stations?’
A chorus of replies came from everyone but Davis.
‘Ian, did you hear me?’
He didn’t answer again, instead slipping down from the tree stump and disappearing into the dark of the wood.
‘Jesus, what’s wrong with him?’ said Valentine.
‘Leave him,’ said Rickards, checking the battery pack on the camera was still charged. ‘He’ll be fine. Just remember if anything goes off, and McCormack has to intervene, the rest of us have to regroup.’
‘Are you okay with that, Sylvia?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, fine.’
‘We won’t leave you stranded, or in danger.’
‘I know.’
‘Then, okay. Let’s do this.’
Valentine and McCormack made for the stone outbuilding and positioned themselves below the line of the window ledge on the back wall. The ground was moist, squelching underfoot, and the entire area was in complete blackness. Valentine heard Rickards making his way to the other side of the building, pressing through the undergrowth, old, fallen twigs snapping as he went. The detective tried to discern Davis’s whereabouts, but he couldn’t hear any more movement or see further than a few feet in front of him.
There were some moments of silence. Complete stillness in the wood where the only sound was the rustling of the wind among the branches. Valentine looked up to see the sky through the patchy canopy – it was streaked with the moon’s reflected glow – and then he settled in to gaze upon the eternal emptiness.
When the group from the house neared, their torch-glow began to illuminate the outbuilding. Long shadows stretched along the ground, and then crawled slowly up the stone walls. It made an eerie setting, even before the robed bodies came into view, with the bright flames contrasting starkly against the darkness of the woods.
When the door was pushed open, the interior of the building was illuminated by shooting amber slats of light. A stooping man in dark robes moved to the middle of the room where a heavy iron grate was suspended from the roof beams. Around the grate’s edges were black candles, which the man set about lighting with the flame of his torch. When his task was complete the naked girl was laid upon the grate and the others gathered round.
Outside, Valentine watched the goings-on with a growing sense of dread. The girl seemed barely conscious, her head lolling from side to side; occasionally she would try to reach for the side of the grate, to sit up, but would be pushed down. She’d been drugged, that was clear. What was less clear was her fate.
‘I can’t see their faces,’ said McCormack.
‘How’s Rickards going to get any pictures?’ said Valentine.
‘That’s my point.’
‘I won’t leave her lying there in that state.’
McCormack made to rise and Valentine grabbed her arm. ‘Hold on, just keep your powder dry. Nothing’s happened yet.’
‘Look at her, she’s in and out of consciousness.’
‘I won’t let any harm come to her, I promise. But we need to get some evidence too, we need Rickards to get some pictures.’
The men in robes started to move around the grate, like it was an altar they were worshipping at. They chanted together, but the words were not distinguishable. The girl’s distress only seemed to grow now; she turned from side to side, thrashing her arms like she was in the grip of nightmares.
At the height of the girl’s agony, two of the robed men grabbed her legs and another man pinned down her arms. She screamed out, but it was as if no one heard her. As she writhed, the small, bunched-up woman appeared. She was holding something under her robes; as she lowered her hood, the others followed. Her next action was to hoist up her arm: a long-bladed dagger was in her hand, catching the candlelight and casting its reflection to the walls.
‘Oh, no . . .’ said Valentine.
‘What?’
‘Under her robes!’ He ran into the darkness.
‘God no.’
As Valentine went he heard McCormack’s feet pounding the earth behind him. He heard another sound, a louder thudding, and then there were shouts and screams.
‘We’re too late!’ yelled McCormack.
Valentine didn’t reply, he kept pushing through the undergrowth, batting back the low-hanging branches. The shouting intensified, changed tone completely.
‘Something’s not right,’ he bellowed.
They were screams of terror now, but soon silenced by a louder, more definitive, and final, horror.
As a gunshot rang out Valentine halted in the darkness of the woods. Standing still, he heard nothing more – no screams, no panic. Not a voice, or a whisper.
He held steady, his heart pumping so loudly he could hear it in his ears. His spine was rigid, his whole body frozen.
Then another shot came. And another.
The detective tightened his eyes.
A final shot.
Nothing seemed real. The entire moment was marked with the utter unreality of dreams. He couldn’t process where he was, or what had happened. For several seconds he stayed still, and then, as if responding to prodding, he ran for the door of the outbuilding.
Valentine arrived at the open entrance a few seconds before Rickards and McCormack.
‘Oh, Jesus, what have you done?’ he said.
McCormack put her hand over her eyes and turned away.
Rickards was the first to enter the building, as he moved, the baby in the old crone’s hands began to cry. The sound of the screaming child sent McCormack rushing in, snatching up the infant.
‘Ian, what have you done?’ Valentine said.
Davis stood over the fallen and bloodied corpses with the handgun still held in front of him. The smell of gunpowder and a smoke haze hung in the air around him. He was a pale phantom of himself, but somehow calmer than Valentine ever remembered him to be.
‘Ian . . . give me the gun.’
Davis knelt down and started to remove his victims’ hoods. There was Sutherland, with a large portion of his frontal lobe missing. The MEP, Rosenthal, he was dead too. The Labour member of parliament, Jonathan Miller, executed at point-blank range. And Abbie McGarvie’s father, Alex McGarvie, dead.
‘Ian, please.’
Davis rose and looked straight through Valentine, ignoring his request. He called out to Rickards.
‘Tell my wife and kids, I had no choice.’
‘No, Ian . . .’
He raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
‘No, Ian . . .’
There was a brief flash from the muzzle of the SIG Sauer and DI Davis’s head jerked sharply sidewards. He fell quickly, onto the bloodied heap of bodies that now covered the earthen floor of the old, stone outbuilding.