DI Bob Valentine knew things weren’t quite as they should be at home. He had taken on the case and returned to active duty without even consulting his wife, and she had every right to object. When he thought about Clare receiving the call to say her husband might not make it through the night, his low reserves of remaining strength left him. She was fragile, Clare, she always had been. He had noticed the trait early, when they were taking those first tentative steps together as a couple, but he had seen others like her shed the sensitivity when they settled down. Valentine wanted to provide the security of a home and children for Clare, he wanted to see her start to feel secure in herself, in her world, but it had never happened. She would always be highly strung or one of those types people spoken of as suffering with their nerves. He remembered her father had said it was an artistic temperament that afflicted her. At the time it seemed like a stigma, but his father-in-law joked they would always have a beautifully turned-out home, as if it was some kind of compensation. Valentine knew now that his wife’s fragility was more than a trait, there would be a mental-health scale that some doctor or psychiatrist could place her on. She was depressive or bipolar or suffered from seasonal affective disorder. It didn’t matter what the modern nomenclature was. She was still Clare, still the mother of his children and his wife.
Valentine raised the telephone receiver and dialled home. The ringing on the line filled him with the same dread it always did now. There were simply no words to reveal to Clare that the job had won again, that he was not coming home as planned. She would be angry, at best; offhand with him at worst. Did it matter which? Sometimes the short burst of belligerent temper was preferable to the stony silence that left him wondering just where and when the blow would come.
‘Hello,’ he said. The line stayed silent. ‘Hello, Clare . . .’
It wasn’t his wife who had answered. ‘Oh, hello, Bobby.’
‘Hello, Dad . . . Where’s Clare?’
He heard the old man negotiating the windowsill where the phone sat, unravelling the wires and taking a seat. The puffed cushions sighed at his back. ‘She’s, erm, taken a bit of a lie-down, son.’
Something didn’t sit right with him. ‘What did you say, a lie-down?’
There was a slapping sound on the other end of the line, and his father’s tone changed. ‘It’s just me and Mr McIlvanney here just now . . . A great book this, Strange Loyalties.’
He knew all about those; his father was being deceitful, changing the subject. It was one of those perfectly honed skills of the experienced police officer to be able to detect lies, white or otherwise, in those with whom he had an intimate knowledge. There was no mistaking the twitching antennae. ‘You wouldn’t be changing the subject on me, Dad?’
He sighed, exasperated or too aware of the futility of his stance. ‘Clare is, as you know, one in a million, but she has her little . . . moments.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Look, nothing’s happened, she’s fine.’ His voice slowed into a reassuring drawl, extinct of all emotion. ‘You know how she gets: well, she had one of those days, but we had a little chat and now she’s fine.’
Valentine read the gaps in his speech more than he did the actual words. He knew his wife, but he also knew his father’s way was to adopt a less-said-soonest-mended philosophy. But something had happened, he knew that much, and it worried him. His mind batted out the possibilities like breakers battering the shore: they couldn’t be ignored but nor could he do anything about them.
‘All right, Dad, if you say so . . .’ he paused briefly. His thoughts coalesced with some unspoken understanding he knew they shared. ‘If you see her, tell her I’m thinking of her and I’ll be home as soon as I can be. She’s not to worry.’
‘Yes, son, I’ll do that.’ he said. ‘Goodbye now.’
Valentine lowered the receiver into its cradle and stood staring at his desk for a few seconds; he wasn’t quite sure he had handled the conversation, or indeed the situation, effectively, but he knew there were few other options available to him. His fingers tweaked the corners of his mouth, as if sealing in words, thoughts. He would see Clare later and explain things, everything. If he could make her see what he had been through, spell it all out, maybe she would understand she didn’t have the monopoly on life’s defeats.
DS McAlister paused outside the door and gently tapped his knuckles off the glass. His neck, at full stretch seemed almost dislocated from his body. ‘Is now a good time, sir?’
‘Yes, come in . . . Sorry, Ally, I had a personal call to make.’ He let his previous lines of thought turn to ashes and scattered them on the wind. Focus was everything.
‘It’s all right, I understand.’ He took a step inside and closed the door behind him.
‘So, about this grand plan of mine.’ Valentine raised the blue folder from his desk and turned it towards the DS. It sat between them, commanding the room like a model army. ‘Take a look at that . . .’
McAlister leaned forward. ‘A tyre cast . . .’
‘From Mossblown.’
The officer looked at the pictures and read the accompanying notes, hungry eyes flickering like sparks rising from a campfire. ‘Lab boys say it’s not from Gillon’s van.’
‘That’s right . . .’ The DI paused, for effect mostly, but also on instinct. ‘Which means it’s from another vehicle.’
McAlister lowered the file. His gaze thinned now, his pupils pinpoints of concentration acting as the advance party of pertinent thought. ‘Which means he’s not working alone.’
‘Exactly.’ Valentine leaned his back against the window, and the Venetian blinds crumpled. ‘Danny Gillon isn’t going to win Mastermind any time soon, but he’s not a complete idiot either. He knows about self-preservation and he knows when to keep his trap shut.’
‘I think I see where you’re going with this, sir.’
‘Do you?’ He eased forward, forcing the blinds to sing out again. ‘I mean, Ally, do you really? I wasn’t joking when I said I was asking you to put your job on the line.’
The DS remained silent. He pressed a crease into the corner of his mouth: it was an insouciant gesture, a glimpse into a mind that had ran the gamut of consequences and couldn’t care less what they brought; it was the outcome alone that concerned him.
Valentine nodded and smiled when he saw Ally was onside. ‘OK then, if you’re game, here’s what I’m proposing. We give Gillon his freedom tonight – let’s see where he leads us.’
‘Oh, Christ.’ He nervously pinched the tip of his nose. ‘I mean, yeah. Let’s do it.’
‘Are you sure, Ally?’ He took another step forward, fixed him with a flat, expressionless look as devoid of coercion as he could manage. ‘You won’t get a chance to change your mind.’
‘Sir, the way I see it, if we don’t, then in the morning we’ve lost the case, and if Sinclair’s still in town, this is our last chance.’
Valentine held out his arms, then brought his palms together in an ear-splitting clap. There was no going back now. ‘OK, then. We let the bastard out . . . for a few hours.’
McAlister smiled, cautiously at first, but widening with a growing confidence he seemed uncertain of his right to possess. ‘Aye, but he’s not to know that.’
As the DI walked towards the door, he snatched his grey dog-tooth sports coat from the back of his chair. In the main incident room his strides were purposeful but his stomach churned with the uncertainty of the action he was taking. If he was to make this gamble pay off, however, he knew he had to convince himself otherwise. There was no room for detracting thoughts or the distraction of doubt. It was all or nothing, because if he looked at what was on the line, it was already over. On the stairs down to the cells, Valentine turned to catch sight of DS McAlister: his face was ashen and immobile, making him look younger than his years. The image struck the detective like a body blow; he knew there was more at stake than his own washed-up career, and the heavy responsibility unsettled him. He knew he needed to push all his cares and concerns away, however; the idea of gambling on such a grand scale without the nerve to back it up was lunacy.
Outside the cells he looked at the desk and summoned the custody sergeant. It was Alec Laird on duty, his deep tan and lightened hair proclaiming his recent visit to warmer climes like a billboard. He eyed the two officers and tipped his head in a knowing nod. Valentine hoped the holiday high hadn’t worn off yet.
‘Hello, Bob,’ said the sergeant.
‘Alec . . .’ He picked up the duty log and ran a finger down the column of names and cells. ‘Right, number four can breathe easy . . .’
Sergeant Laird recovered the logbook and presented Valentine with a narrow, searching stare. ‘That’s Big Danny Gillon . . . Thought he was in some hot water?’
The detective shook his head and snatched a pen from the desk without returning the look. ‘Gillon’s always in hot water. Not bloody hot enough this time, mind you.’ He scratched his signature in the book.
‘Danny’s always been a daft boy.’ The sergeant looked down at the logbook for what seemed like an eternity. If he chose to be difficult, thought Valentine, then everything would be ruined – the plan would go no further. He jerked back his head as the sergeant took the logbook and hung it on its brass hook, checking the clock on the wall behind him. ‘His problem’s that he likes to run with the big dogs . . . but he’s just a bloody chihuahua!’
McAlister and Valentine emitted the usual drone of enforced laughter that was the accustomed response to such a remark and turned for the door. The DI spoke: ‘He’s got a van in as well, give it back to him. We won’t be needing it now the trail’s run cold.’
The sergeant nodded and raised a hand, still smiling at the plaudits to his humour. ‘No bother. Goodnight, lads.’
On the way out to the car park, Valentine’s knees were loosening, but he tried to keep his wilting resolve from McAlister. He knew he needed to convince him that their mission was at least partway capable of success; after all, the DS had plenty at stake. Valentine was leading the way: it was his idea, his gamble, and he needed to present a confident front to get the result he wanted. Of course, it was all bluff, but he couldn’t show that. Not for a second. He painted on his poker face and lengthened his stride in an act of mock defiance.
‘He seemed to buy that well enough,’ said McAlister.
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
The blunt rebuttal buoyed the DS. ‘No reason, I suppose.’
On the way to the car, Valentine extended the remote locking and the indicator lights flashed at the vehicle’s corners. It felt like a flag waving, a beacon: they were really doing this. When they got inside, the detective rolled down his window and craned his neck out. The air was cold and still.
‘I can see Gillon’s van from here,’ he said.
‘Where do you think he’ll lead us?’
Valentine turned towards McAlister and dipped his brows, and the assuredness of his voice surprised them both. ‘Well, I’ll be bloody disappointed if it’s back to the Auld Forte bar.’
‘You and me both, sir.’
The night air defeated him and he turned up the window again, but kept a few inches of it open in the hope that some of the car’s tension would escape. He had no reason to believe that things would go their way, but tried to tell himself that the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. He had been backed into a corner and knew that there was only one way out. Had it always been like this for him, he wondered: the hard way or the harder way? He had taken risks before – even with his own life – but this was different, felt like something else. As his thoughts swam, he tried to avoid their desperate struggles, to rope in a port of calm. He needed to find some space to think about what he was doing, not what he feared might happen.
‘No matter what happens tonight, Ally, don’t let Gillon out your sight.’
‘Christ above, I don’t even want to think about losing him, sir.’
‘And I don’t want you to either . . . But if things go tits-up for whatever reason, stick with him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As they readied themselves for the night’s eventualities, they seemed to come crashing down upon them like a violent hailstorm. There was no room for preparation now. There was no place to retreat and rethink the wisdom of what they were doing. The station doors swung open and a thickset figure in a denim jacket emerged into the darkness. He stood for a moment lighting a cigarette and then he loped down the steps, followed by a plume of white smoke. Danny Gillon looked over his shoulder as he walked towards his van, then spun the keys around his finger and started to jog. He looked cocky, confident. Like a man who knew he was to be feared and wielded the assurance like a claymore.
‘Seems keen,’ said McAlister.
‘Let’s hope so, let’s hope he’s bloody keen and bloody worked up.’
As Gillon started the van and moved onto the road, he indicated a right turn on the roundabout ahead. Valentine engaged the clutch and pulled out behind with a sense of dread building in the pit of his stomach. The white van followed the pothole-pitted road round to the traffic lights and took a left onto the one-way system of the Sandgate. As the van proceeded through the next set of lights and chuntered uphill towards Wellington Square, the route seemed to indicate the next move would be in the direction of the plush mansions of Racecourse Road.
‘Where the hell is he going?’ said McAlister.
‘Well, it’s not to any kip-house or B&B . . . Unless it’s a very nice one.’
‘He’s heading out to Alloway.’
Valentine grabbed a glance at McAlister as the van crossed a box junction and proceeded past the desolate playing fields. The road widened, presenting snatches of shoreline and blue sea. From time to time the Isle of Arran came, cloud-wreathed, into view as wide driveways winked between Victorian villas. By the time the white van had passed the entrance to the rarefied echelons of Belleisle golf club, it was clear Gillon was either leaving town or heading to an address the officers had visited themselves only a short time ago.
‘This is very odd,’ said Valentine, drumming the dash.
‘I didn’t expect this at all . . .’
‘Well, why would you . . . ? There’s nothing to suggest Danny Gillon’s had any contact with the Urquharts. But here he is . . .’ His fingers rose from the dash and pointed, palm up, towards the unfolding scene. ‘Pulling into their drive.’
Valentine depressed the brake and worked down the gears. He brought the car to a standstill behind the drystone wall and watched as the van rolled to a halt, spluttering black smoke onto the driveway. Gillon stalled momentarily, seemed to be gathering wit or wile, it was impossible to tell which, as the sudden parallax shielded his face from view. He exited the vehicle quickly, slamming the door loudly behind him, and proceeded to the front window of the property, where he started banging with the butt of his fist.
As the two officers followed his action from the car, Valentine spoke. ‘He doesn’t look too happy.’
‘Well, you wanted him worked up.’ Ally twisted in his seat. ‘Should we get out?’
‘No, we’ll wait and see.’
As the door to the property opened, Gillon gesticulated wildly, waved his arms and banged a fist off the window ledge. The sound of raised voices, both men’s, was heard by the officers, but from where they sat it was impossible to see who the other voice belonged to. As the men went inside a second door slammed, but the loud yells were still detectable in the street beyond, breaking the sombre peace of a place that was a stranger to anything but hallowed quietude. For a second, Valentine allowed himself to feel he had done the right thing by releasing Gillon, that he might actually get somewhere with the investigation, and then some long-lost philosopher’s lines about hope prolonging the torments of man came back to him, stilling the thought, preserving it like a museum’s extinct species section, never to return.
‘Should we go in, boss?’ said McAlister.
‘No. Not yet.’
The raised voices could still be heard from the road. The DS stepped out of the car and made his way towards the edge of the garden. He moved like an automaton, an unsteady, ungainly figure on limbs too long for his stooped frame. As he leaned onto the wall, Valentine left the car and joined him in the cold, dark street.
‘It sounds pretty tasty in there, boss.’
‘You’re right . . .’ He looked down the broad, rain-washed street. It was empty. He knew they had brought a disturbance to the stolid neighbourhood, but nobody seemed perturbed – not a curtain twitched. It took some more time, and another sweeping glance at the terrain, before he realised the distances between the buildings were too great for the sound to travel. The price of that isolation was a life lived insulated from your neighbours; none of them knew, or could likely contemplate, what went on behind the topiaried fringes of this exclusive address.
The shouting stopped as abruptly as it had begun and the officers checked each other through widened eyes. Valentine felt the night air enclosing them as he watched McAlister brace himself like a buttress against the wall. The columnar row of trees that lined the driveway on either side started to sway in the wind and the large, old house etched its bulk against the moonless sky. As the detective focussed on the sturdy property it ceased to be a spacious home and symbol of guarded affluence and transmogrified into a tomb-like keeper of secrets. In the dim light, the building looked old and tired, its too-large windows like eyes scoping an outside world it longed to join but never could. It was an image of misery, a haunting sight that tugged some deep unconscious part of the detective’s psyche where the souls of the past were stirred by the winds of the present.
‘I’m going in,’ said Valentine, his voice a faltering marker of doubt.
‘Right, I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you stay here.’ He knew at once how ridiculous such a bold statement sounded from a man in his condition.
‘You’ve got to be kidding . . . Do the sums, that’s two against one.’
Valentine put his hand on McAlister’s arm and turned him away. ‘Think about it: if they drop us both, who’s going to raise the alarm?’
The DS shook his head and made a show of digging in his heels. A defiant gleam entered his eye and then the sharp sound of a door slamming erased it as he turned his gaze back on the house. ‘Wait a minute . . . Someone’s coming.’
Valentine peered over the wall in the confusion, the scene seemed unreal. He wasn’t prepared to see Danny Gillon striding back towards his van with peremptory steps. He moved quickly, had the engine in motion and the wheels churning up the drive before he closed the door.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ said McAlister.
‘He’s not the only one.’ As Gillon manoeuvred the van through a rough three-point turn in the driveway, Valentine pressed his car keys into McAlister’s hand. ‘Right, follow him and whatever you do don’t bloody well lose him.’
The DS looked unconvinced by the sudden decision, pinning back the edges of his mouth and looking like he was searching for the right words to object. ‘But . . .’
‘No buts, Ally.’ The van screeched past them and into the road, and Gillon wrestled with the wheel, his features a stern grimace signalling a burning anger beneath. Valentine spun the DS towards the car. ‘Get going before you lose him . . .’
McAlister turned for the car; he was no sooner inside than he had accelerated wildly in the direction of Danny Gillon’s van. The back wheels lost some traction on the smooth, wet road and the car fishtailed for a few yards before righting itself.
As Valentine stood in the street, peering over the wall towards the large and uninviting house, his heart stiffened and the blood grew heavy in his veins. A dull ache set up lodgings in his chest and spread in numbing concentric rings throughout his body. It was instinctual – a physical reminder of emotional pain. He knew he had not been in a confrontation since he took a knife in the heart, and the thought of how he might react to such a test gripped him tighter than a straitjacket. It was just primal fear, he told himself, a self-preservation that he could do nothing about. But it prodded him, came with images of his beloved family, his wife and children: how would they cope if he didn’t come home? This wasn’t his own conscious thought, he hadn’t originated it; it had floated in from God knows where. If he accepted that, then he could see it for what it was and face it down. As he took his first step towards the Urquhart’s home, Valentine’s heart pounded so hard in his chest he felt a cardiac arrest was surely lying in wait for him.