Ayrshire tolerated pretentious self-aggrandising in much the same way as a pack of dogs tolerated the suggestion that butcher meat was for sharing. A remark extolling the lavish extent of a mortgage or a proclamation of an exalted family lineage was likely to be greeted with the same disdain as a public proclivity for coprophilia. There were some things best left unsaid in certain company. There were those who traded Range Rover purchases like football stickers, they carried a great wad of swaps to taunt the rest of the playground with their purchase power, but to the vast majority they were seen for what they were: shallow puddles of vapidity and deeply deserving of censure. There was always more kudos attached to behind-the-fan remarks about a fur coat and nae knickers or – a favourite the detective reserved for parvenus – ‘I kent him when he had holes in his gutties’.
You didn’t talk yourself up in the town of Ayr, or its surrounds, without ending up being talked about. There was no real benefit to getting ahead, getting away from the pack, because the pack always followed wherever you went. There was no escaping yourself, no pretending, because if you inflated the balloon of pomposity you could be guaranteed that a prick was waiting nearby to burst it. So people played themselves down; all but the most guileless and moronic made a virtue out of self-deprecation. Sons who got to university were lucky; well-earned promotion was to a job you wouldn’t be thanked for; and a hard-won foreign holiday was for the wife or the weans, because it just wouldn’t be the done thing to be seen basking in your own success.
As Valentine stood with the car keys poised before the door, he watched the builders unloading the sand and bricks into his neighbour’s drive. Something told him his wife had known about this already but hadn’t mentioned it for the obvious reason that she wanted to wait until the work began. With the builders on site, her remarks would carry more clout, because a constant visual and aural reminder just wasn’t enough. The fact that his own home had become more cramped now – the girls sharing a room to accommodate his father – would make Clare’s onslaught seem even worthy. It wasn’t an option for them, though: he couldn’t afford it on a public servant’s wage – it was as simple as that.
‘Hello, Bob,’ his neighbour Brian called out as he navigated the building materials that sat between his lawn and his car.
Valentine nodded. ‘Looks like a bit of work for you.’
Brian reached the wall and flagged a desultory hand towards the goings. ‘Aye, we’re opening up the space above the garage to give us a wee bit more room.’
It was a double garage, and judging by the hordes of materials the building work would be extensive, but at least Brian had the good grace to look almost embarrassed about his conspicuous consumption. Valentine knew Brian’s wife would not be so modest, and it would be from her that Clare garnered all the details she would be firing in her salvos of envy later.
‘It’ll be nice to have more room.’ He found himself glancing desolately towards his own front door, as he spoke his words trailed off into a forlorn organ peal. ‘We could do with more space . . .’
As if sensing his neighbour’s discomfiture, Brian changed the subject as abruptly as a hand-brake turn. ‘You were a bit of a celebrity down at the Chestnuts last night; they had you on the late news again.’
The change of tone from glum resignation to chipper pontification seemed out of character for Brian until Valentine caught sight of the jocular wink on the end. Brian went on: ‘Yeah, it was some kind of case round-up.’ He fanned his fingertips either side of his mouth for emphasis. ‘A special investigation, no less!’
Valentine didn’t know whether or not to be glad that he had missed the programme, sometimes it was better not knowing, but then it was also good to be forearmed when dealing with CS Marion Martin.
‘I must have missed it.’
The neighbour leaned forward, balancing a hand on the wall. ‘This second victim, he seemed a piece of work.’
The detective directed the key towards the door of the car and opened up. ‘I can’t talk about it, Brian.’ As he uttered the words he wished they were retractable; his neighbour wasn’t officious, just curious, just making conversation. Valentine caught Brian’s expression change: his face lost its animated, interested look and became glum, and he glanced towards the builders reversing into his driveway. It was as if he was inferring with his eyes that the sharpness of Valentine’s tone was to do with the extension more than anything.
‘Look, I don’t mean to sound short with you, Brian, but this case is . . . Well, you can imagine it’s at a pretty sensitive juncture.’ He scrunched his brows. He was on edge, resorting to management speak before he’d left his own driveway.
Brian waved him off. ‘No need to explain . . . I’ll try and keep this disruption to a minimum.’
Valentine nodded and turned the key in the ignition. The drive to King Street station was a slow trial he set up for the prosecution of his own personality. He was judge and chief executioner and had decided that he needed to wear the black cap more often when presented with his own failings. He saw the evidence that he had isolated himself from his wife, children, father and colleagues, and now his neighbour had good cause to step away from him. But the case that burned him the most was that of the Coopers; he knew he had served nothing by visiting them and conceded that Billy Cooper had had every right to attack him the way he had. It was a trip that had served only Valentine’s curiosity, after all, and had done nothing to palliate their hurts. If he could change that, he would, but as he walked into the station and headed for the incident room, the detective felt an empty void spreading inside him and he didn’t know how to fill it.
As he hung his coat, Valentine noticed CS Martin was already grilling DS McAlister, by the looks of things, over hot coals. The DS seemed to be feeling the heat, sticking a finger in the collar of his shirt and working the top button loose. He was nodding in line with the chief super’s Gatling speech as Valentine drew into their orbit.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Well, look who it is, Ayrshire’s very own silver-screen star . . .’ Martin wore a smirk that could have passed for an incitement to riot.
‘You as well? They’ll be calling me DI Valentino next.’
McAlister started to laugh, a deep gut laugh that he cut off abruptly as he assessed the chief super’s lack of response.
CS Martin stooped over the desk. She closed a blue folder and straightened her back. ‘I’m glad you find it so funny.’
The detective was in no humour for the kind of gum-bumping that Martin specialised in; he had far too much on his mind with the case in its advanced stages and the returning image of Janie Cooper spooling in his imagination.
He replied, ‘Well, as you know, boss, I’m just the kind of arsehole to laugh at my own jokes . . . Most of the time nobody else will.’
She seemed to be having trouble processing Valentine’s self-mockery, it was as if her own scale of self-awareness didn’t reach those levels and it baffled her. ‘Right, well, now you’re here you can fill me in on the case instead of Ally.’ She waved the DS away – he inverted a smile as he passed her eyeline.
‘Right, my office or yours?’ As the question was posed, he realised how much like the offer of a date it sounded; his throat constricted as if it was trying to swallow the words in a hurry.
‘Yours . . . Lead the way.’
As the DI turned, the chief super uncrossed her arms and trailed behind him. The rest of the incident room was empty, except for McAlister and a couple of uniforms who seemed content to examine either the sheen of their shoes or the texture of the carpet.
‘Right, this better be good, Bob, because I don’t have to tell you how anxious all this media attention has made me.’
‘Look, I didn’t know anything about the special news report . . . It sounds like a mash-up of all the stuff they already have.’
‘Oh, it was that all right, and more besides. The thing that worries me, Bob, is the fact that those telly people are taking it so bloody seriously. Normally they can’t bother their arse coming down here, but – and you can call me an old cynic – they think there’s something sexy about the fact that a banker and a paedo have been shoved up on spikes in my patch.’
Valentine was drawing out his chair; he eased himself down before he spoke. ‘They mentioned Knox?’
‘Oh, aye . . . Had pictures and everything. Old case stills and a screen grab of him at the High Court . . .’
‘Christ almighty . . .’
CS Martin had her hands on her hips: on anyone else it would appear an overly fastidious approach to affectation, but it seemed to fit her perfectly. ‘Can it get worse, Bob? I mean, is there anything else you should be telling me before I have to get on the phone to Glasgow and ask them to chuck us a lifeboat?’
The DI brought his hands above the line of the table; a yellow pencil with a pink eraser on the end became the focus of his attention as he tried to weave a response from the stray ends of thought that were flowing from his mind. ‘Oh, I think it can . . .’
‘What?’
He dropped the pencil; it started to roll towards the edge of the desk and he slapped the palm of his hand over it before it fell. The noise acted like a clapperboard in the room. ‘I have Sylvia McCormack in Glasgow today . . .’
‘Bob, are you shunting that girl out of the way?’
‘No. Not at all . . .’
A hand shot from the hip and a ragged red fingernail pointed at the DI. ‘I mean it, she’s to be given full responsibility, I don’t want to have her scratching at my door next week telling me she’s been sent for a long stand or a tin of tartan bloody paint!’
Valentine reclined in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest; he became vaguely aware of the strength of his heart beating beneath his shirtfront. ‘I took Sylvia to Glasgow myself yesterday; we were exploring a link between Knox and a previous case, the disappearance of a schoolgirl in Shawlands twelve years ago.’
‘Name?’
‘Her name was Janie Cooper.’
‘It doesn’t ring any bells, was it high profile?’
‘It was a big case, yes.’
‘There was so many of them around that time, wee lassies snatched every other day of the week, you couldn’t keep up . . . Anyway, what’s the connection?’
The DI felt his breath still. He wet his lips with his tongue and then wiped the back of his fingertips over his mouth. ‘Knox was called in, they questioned him over the disappearance of the Cooper girl, but they released him.’ Valentine’s voice became reedy and slow. ‘We haven’t got anything solid yet, but Urquhart was living in Glasgow at the time and I think there may have been contact. I’ll know for sure when I get the Knox interview transcripts today.’
There was a moment of stilled silence in the room as the chief super started to pace towards the window. She still had one hand on her hip, but the other pinched a dimple in her chin. As he watched her, Valentine felt the air packed in his lungs crying out to be released, but he held back and tried to remain as stiff as possible. He had extended the known facts of the case now, embellished even, to make it sound like he was making progress, and he knew – with the proper questioning – he could be found out. But he knew also that CS Martin was likely to be some distance shy of the required yards to keep up with him.
‘So, you’re saying that Knox and Urquhart knew each other from before, from the Janie Cooper disappearance?’
‘No. Not exactly . . . I’m saying I suspect that.’
She turned and cut in. ‘Right, let’s not quibble over the wording, Bob . . . You think we have a predatory paedophile connection to the killings on our turf?’
He rolled eyes and permitted himself a half-nod. ‘It’s possible.’
CS Martin’s features solidified into a delicate mask. She looked like she might shatter before him if she hadn’t spoken and broken the spell. ‘Well, if we thought we had some press attention before, what the hell’s it going to be like when they get hold of this?’
Valentine raised a hand. ‘No, there’s no chance of that . . .’
‘You don’t know that.’ She jutted her jaw. ‘You’ve no way of knowing that.’
‘Well, I believe I’m quite confident in declaring myself some way in front of the press pack on this one, because the only way they would know what I know was if they were involved in some way.’
‘Or had an inside track . . .’
Valentine shook his head. His chest inflated as he rose from his seat and placed his palms on the desktop. ‘We had one mole, Paulo, and he got his. Nobody out there would be so bloody stupid to jump into his boots.’
‘You hope . . .’
‘Do you have some information you’d like to share with me, or is this just scaremongering?’
Her face said she didn’t like the detective’s tone. ‘I don’t scaremonger.’
‘Then my original suggestion stands.’ He picked up the telephone’s receiver. ‘Shall I call in the rep?’
Martin crossed the floor towards the desk. ‘Don’t think about taking me on, Bob, or you’ll be back teaching cadets how to wipe their arse before the day’s out.’
He lowered the phone into its cradle – something told him he’d come too far with the investigation to risk losing it. The recent talk of Janie Cooper pushed her image back into his mind. ‘My squad’s watertight: I won’t tolerate leaks and they know it.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ The chief super kept a firm stare on the DI for a moment and then turned for the door. As she reached for the handle, she called out. ‘I want a full report of what we’ve just discussed on my desk by close of play tonight. With Sylvia’s transcripts from Glasgow . . . If it sounds at all promising, you might not have to look out your tracksuit and whistle again.’