DI Valentine ruminated on the latest victim’s identity for a moment and found his train of thought suddenly hijacked. The death of a paedophile – what was really so bad about that? He caught himself just before the notion became a more solid philosophy; he knew it was the act of murder he needed to focus on, not the murdered. He was a police officer with a duty to protect all – his own personal animus had no place in the investigation, unless of course it coincided with the views of those who paid his wages. He shook his head and saw the tracks shifting again: his thoughts rolled over once more. Knox was still dead; however he assessed it, there were some who would say it was good enough for him, but was it really – what was so bad about death? He had been thinking about death a lot lately, but he recalled a time when death was no more a cause for thought than sleep. Valentine laid down his head each night and fell gratefully into the stupor of sleep, thankful even that the sentient part – life, living – was over for another day. How different was death? Wasn’t it something to be welcomed, like a well-earned sleep? It struck him that people had it all wrong: they should be grateful for death; the endless tribulations, tests, daily meetings, the unforeseen challenges of life were the things to be afraid of. In life there was no escape, no release. Knox had been released from it all.
Valentine thought of his father – arthritis-wracked, lungs scarred with emphysema – a prisoner in his own mortality who had come to beg for the release of death. The detective thought of his father in the pits of Cumnock digging for coal. They said he could face down a seam and locate the one point where a single blow from a well-timed sledgehammer would release tonnes of the black gold. They – those who said such things – had admired his father’s skill as a miner, but what was that worth now? What use were his great skills, hard earned though they were in the bowels of the Ayrshire earth, when they closed the pit? When his father was on strike and the family starved, when the miners fought hand to hand with the police or when the uniformed officers came on horseback and struck them down with batons – where was the benefit of an accumulated life’s experience? This death wasn’t to be feared, it was to be embraced. Life was the thing to be afraid of. Valentine shuddered as the realisation came to him in waves of recognition – a perspicacity that was new to him, and yet he recognised every nuance of every word as though they were long-worn truisms of his very own.
In the corner of his eye he caught sight of the chief super approaching. He turned to face her and flagged her towards the glassed-off office at the end of the incident room. As he turned, he felt as though a heavy burden was weighing on him, as if he was dragging the contents of the incident room along with him. He knew, of course, it was a fallacy, but he knew also that there would be a new timbre to the conversations he would now have with CS Martin.
Valentine held open the door and watched the chief super walk through. She avoided eye contact, but once inside, behind the closed door, she fixed him with her gaze.
‘Well?’
He placed his hands on his hips as he spoke slowly. ‘We have an ID for the victim out at the track . . . Duncan Knox.’
She shrugged. ‘Who?’
‘He’s a paedophile, long list of convictions . . . mostly time-served. I haven’t pulled the file yet, I just took the call.’
The chief super folded her arms and twisted her mouth. She seemed to be thinking, but Valentine knew the look was more practised: she was battling her true reaction. ‘And it’s the same MO?’
‘Almost identical.’
She unfolded her arms and started to pace the confines of the small room. ‘Jesus . . . What the bloody hell’s going to tie him to Urquhart?’
Valentine eased his hands from his hips and weighed them in front of him. He had the chief super in his sights as he spoke. ‘If there’s a link, we’ll find it.’
She looked out to the incident room – her gaze seemed to fall on Paulo – and shook her head. ‘You’re not exactly blessed with a full compliment of detective genius out there . . .’
Valentine resented the statement. His first instinct was to react with a rebuttal, but his second instinct was to say nothing and let the burn of her censure be felt in his silence. She spoke again: ‘I think it might be time to talk to Glasgow about the case.’
The DI knew the last thing Martin wanted was another area’s officers on her patch – it would be humbling, just shy of humiliating, and the chief super liked to be able to strut around her territory with impunity.
‘Let’s not be too hasty, we haven’t even cracked the seal on this Knox death yet. Who knows what the next twenty-four hours will hand us? It would be a shame to serve everything up on a platter for Glasgow.’
The chief super gnawed on her bottom lip, halted her pacing and stood tapping the toe of her shoe on the ground. ‘All right, Bob, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt . . . but if you’re telling me you can handle this with the team you have, then there better be something more than white space to look at on that board the next time I come in here.’ She removed her gaze from the detective and walked past him on the way to the door. ‘And tomorrow, Bob, first thing . . . you have a therapy session. Hope you can fit them around your workload.’
The muscles in Valentine’s arms tensed as he watched the chief super walk out into the incident room and back towards her office. He held himself in check for a moment longer, until she was out of sight, and then he reached for the door handle.
‘Paulo . . . get your coat.’ The roar startled even himself.
DS Rossi rose from his desk. ‘Are we going somewhere, sir?’
‘Out to see the Urquharts.’
Rossi looked perplexed. ‘Shouldn’t Ally be going with you, then?’
Valentine’s voice became a growl. ‘Ally’s at the scene, so I’m making do!’ He started to walk towards the door, and the police officers in the room dropped their heads to avoid eye contact. ‘And anything comes in, I want to be informed straight away . . . Call!’
There was no reply, but the message was duly received. DS Rossi wrestled himself into his jacket as he caught up with Valentine on the stairs. ‘So, are we running the Knox killing past them, boss?’
The sound of the DS’s voice had started to grate on Valentine already. ‘What do you think, Paulo?’
He shrugged as he pulled his collar down. ‘Will I drive, sir?’
The DI nodded. ‘Well, I didn’t bring you for your repartee, son.’
By the time they got to the car park, Valentine was several strides ahead of DS Rossi, who depressed the remote locking; the blinkers flashed momentarily to indicate the car was unlocked. As he got inside Valentine had to tip a pile of folders onto the floor. He picked up a mobile phone that rested on the seat and noticed there was a missed-call notification. Valentine registered the caller’s ID just as DS Rossi opened the driver’s door. ‘Is this your phone, Paulo?’
The DS looked at the phone in Valentine’s hand and seemed to clam up. ‘Erm . . .’
‘Simple question: is it or isn’t it?’
Rossi nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you better take it . . . Was sitting on the seat, lucky it wasn’t nicked.’ Valentine kept a stare on the young detective. For a moment there was an uneasy silence in the car, and then Rossi turned towards the windscreen and put the key in the ignition.
On the road out to Alloway, Valentine allowed himself a few snatched glances at Rossi; he knew he had something on the DS now and that he would have to act on the information, but didn’t want to let himself believe it was true. For some unknown reason, Valentine felt the need to observe Rossi: it was as if his own temper was too hot, as if any action taken in the immediate future would be weakened somehow by the anger it would ride on. Valentine closed down his thoughts and stared ahead at the road, the swish of trees that passed the windows and the cold grey of the Scottish sky. By Maybole Road the atmosphere in the car seemed to have lost its foetid air, but then entering the rarefied and well-heeled streets of this part of town always made Valentine ease a little further back in his seat. It was as if the broad, expansive boulevards, meandering driveways and high-pitched roofs dictated it. This was where people came to enjoy the rewards of a good life – and to them it was a very good life.
‘How the other half live, eh?’ said DS Rossi – his voice faltered a little on the conversational gambit.
Valentine returned the glance. ‘Not on your wages, Paulo.’
The remark lodged itself in Rossi’s expression like a blow. ‘I wasn’t suggesting . . .’
‘Oh, no.’
They had reached the Urquharts’ home in perfect time for Rossi to brake and drop down the gears; he made an elaborate turn of the wheel and changed direction from the main road. In the driveway, he pulled up behind Mrs Urquhart’s Range Rover and stilled the engine. Valentine already had his seatbelt off as the driver removed the keys.
The moment he stood outside the car, Valentine was assailed by a faint breeze: it swirled towards him on the path, carrying stray grass cuttings and mulch then surrounded his frame in a tight grip that sent a shiver through him from head to toe. For a moment he halted his stride, grabbed a deep breath and then forced himself to walk on. The mere act of putting one step in front of the other broke the spell of the breeze and by the front door of the property the detective was left wondering what he had just experienced.
‘Everything OK, boss?’ said Rossi.
‘Yes, why shouldn’t it be?’
Rossi dipped his chin towards his chest. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
Valentine dropped his tense shoulders and turned back towards the door; he was pressing the doorbell as he spoke. ‘No need to worry about me.’
In a few moments the door was opened by Adrian Urquhart. He paused before opening his mouth, but released no words until Valentine introduced himself.
‘Oh, yes . . . Would you like to come in?’ he said.
As Valentine stepped into the vestibule, his eyes devoured the home: he knew more about the former occupant than he had on his last visit and the knowledge dredged up James Urquhart’s spirit for him. It was as if the banker was suddenly everywhere he looked. The rug on the floor, the paint on the walls, the ornamental lamp on the side table – they all bore his signature.
Mrs Urquhart was standing in the middle of the lounge when the detectives entered the room. ‘Hello, gentlemen.’
Valentine nodded and accepted the offer of a seat. ‘I hope you don’t mind us calling round like this . . . It’s just we’ve had some developments.’
‘Oh . . .’ She lowered herself into the opposite chair; Adrian followed at her side.
For a moment Valentine toyed with the idea of slowly building up to the revelation of Duncan Knox’s murder, but as he eyed the Urquharts sitting before him in calm comportment there seemed no need for soft-soaping.
‘There’s been another killing, in much the same fashion as before.’
The pair sat, unmoved. Valentine checked them for a flinch, the gripping of hands perhaps, but nothing came. He turned his eyes towards DS Rossi, who was looking at the Urquharts with a perplexed expression playing on his face.
Valentine spoke again. ‘I have to ask . . . Does the name Duncan Knox mean anything to you?’
This time there was a reaction: Mrs Urquhart rose from the chair and stood behind her son, then she placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed tightly. ‘No, why should it?’
Valentine registered how she snatched her words. ‘You seem very sure.’
‘Certain.’
DS Rossi turned in his chair to face the detective and made a taut wire of his mouth. Valentine rose to face Mrs Urquhart. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Mrs Urquhart . . . This isn’t the reaction I was expecting to the news that your husband’s rather unusual death has been mimicked.’
Adrian shot from his chair and walked towards the middle of the room where the detective stood. ‘I wasn’t aware there was a grieving widow’s handbook that my mother was supposed to be acting out.’
‘That’s enough, Adrian . . .’ Mrs Urquhart walked round beside her son. ‘Mr Valentine, we are still in shock.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Then why on earth are you questioning us when you could be out hunting a killer?’
Valentine caught sight of DS Rossi rising from his chair; in the space of a few minutes the cordial atmosphere had turned nasty. ‘It’s very important that we ascertain any links between your husband and the latest victim, you must be able to see how that could assist us.’
‘What makes you think there are any links?’ said Mrs Urquhart.
‘Well, if there aren’t then it’s important that we eliminate that line of inquiry.’
Mrs Urquhart’s glass-smooth skin reflected the light from the window where she stood; she looked pale and fraught as she spoke to her son. ‘I don’t know this Duncan Knox, do you, Adrian?’
Adrian Urquhart shook his head. ‘No.’
A scowl settled on Mrs Urquhart’s face and then she touched the seam of her blouse nervously. ‘Well, there, that seems to be an end to it, doesn’t it now, Mr Valentine?’
DI Valentine’s facial muscles conspired against him as he eased out a slanting smile. His words came bluntly. ‘I suppose it does.’
‘Good. Then I’ll show you both out.’ She turned to the door and stood with one hand on the handle and with the other – palm outstretched – gesturing towards the hallway.
At the door Valentine halted. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘You’re welcome.’
The detectives walked through the doorway and followed the hall into the vestibule before being shown out the front door. As they stood in the driveway buttoning their coats, Valentine spoke. ‘I’m afraid, Mrs Urquhart, there are one or two other formalities that I’ll have to . . . address with you.’
‘Formalities?’ Her tone was clipped.
‘Regarding the investigation . . . I’ll be back in touch.’ Valentine dipped his head and made for the car; as he went he could sense angry eyes burning into his back, but his attention fixed on the sight of Ronnie Bell peering over the neighbouring wall. The detective turned to see if Mrs Urquhart had registered Bell, but she was already heading indoors.
‘More neighbourly concern, or was it the sight of the police that brought him out snooping around?’ said Valentine. As he spoke Bell turned away from the officers and gripped the handles of a wheelbarrow, which he started to push along the path – a squeak on each revolution – towards his home.
Inside the car, DS Rossi turned the key in the ignition and depressed the clutch, then started to shake his head and curse. ‘What the hell was that all about? Couldn’t wait to get us out of there . . . Jesus, you’d think we were the ones that murdered him, not the ones investigating the case.’
Valentine waited until they had left the Urquharts’ driveway and crossed the first of the broad Alloway streets before he spoke. ‘Don’t you concern yourself with that, Paulo; you’ve got other things to be worried about.’
The DS jerked the wheel. ‘What do you mean?’
Valentine raised his arm and made a show of exposing the watch face on his wrist. ‘By my guess, it’ll take you about nine minutes to get back to the station . . . That’s as long as you have to explain why your phone was dinging a call from Cameron Sinclair when I got in this car.’