DI Bob Valentine had enjoyed another full, and uninterrupted, night’s sleep. The weeks since the conclusion of the case had served to build his strength and spirit. The worries he had once carried back and forth on the road to Tulliallan had faded into insignificance and the scar on his chest become a mark of pride he bore like a wound won in a long-ago war. He was not the same man, he knew that, but the preoccupation he had simmered in his mind about who the new Bob Valentine was no longer mattered. There was a word he wanted to use to describe how he felt now, but even that seemed an act of gratuitous self-absorption. ‘Surrendered’ was how he felt. He had surrendered to himself and to the world he lived in, because any other act was futile. There was a time, he knew – when he was still the old Valentine – that he would have considered surrender to be defeat, a weakness, but he would have been wrong. He had been wrong about many things: he conceded that, he surrendered it to himself. If it was his weakness then it was also his greatest strength.
The road to Glasgow was dry and fast, some late sun spreading through the cloud in crimson bursts. The sky above was an infinite wash of blue and white where a light aircraft buzzed like an irascible insect on high. There were still glass-topped puddles twinkling in the sunlight by the side of the road, but they were only there to reflect the day’s glory.
‘Isn’t it lovely,’ said Clare. ‘It’s too lovely for a funeral.’
Valentine glanced towards his wife. ‘It’s not a funeral.’
‘I know, but it feels like one.’
The detective wanted to agree, but he knew he couldn’t. It was the one hurt he harboured from the investigation: that he had been unable to recover Janie Cooper’s body for her parents. That secret had gone with Urquhart and Knox to their graves.
‘You look so smart in that jacket, Bob.’
It was good to see Clare smiling again. He hadn’t given her much to smile about lately – it was his father’s intervention he had to thank for her being there at all. He knew his devotion to the case had nearly cost him his wife and family, but that was going to change now.
He raised his bandaged arm from the wheel and proffered the nap of the cloth. ‘I’m still not sure about pinstripes.’
‘They suit you. They’re distinguished.’
Valentine started a low, growling laugh. ‘I liked the old sports coat, you know, it had seen me through many a tough time.’
Clare widened her eyes and laughed. ‘Let it go, Bob, the old dog-tooth’s where it should be, bloody landfill.’
The mention of the tip staled the detective’s thoughts and brought him back to the grim find on the outskirts of Ayr that had led him to this day. He felt no remorse for the passing of James Urquhart, or even the indignity of his death. His sympathies lay with his wife and the children he had abused in life; wherever he was now, the world was a better place without him.
‘That’s our turn-off,’ he said. His eyeline followed the dotted-white lines at the side of the road as it merged into the slower, more sedate pace of the city limits.
The contours of parklands soon gave way to slower roads and streets of shop fronts and pedestrians. The kirkyard, when it came into view, was dominated by a red-sandstone tower, almost spartan in its simplicity. The centuries had taught Scots not to build lavish monuments to worship in this life when the real rewards were in the next. If we could just believe that, ultimately, we all shared the same end, we would be content in our time in this world. Valentine knew it was a ruse. Anything man could contribute to the lionising of his God was an abomination compared to the misplaced faith his God had spent on him. We were not, and never would be, worthy inheritors of His Earth.
‘There’s Sylvia and Phil,’ said Clare.
As Valentine parked the car, he was greeted by DS McAlister. They hadn’t spoken properly about the night in James Urquhart’s basement or in any great detail about how the DS had trailed Gillon to where Sinclair was holed up. He knew they were both still reeling from the gamble they had taken; it might be years till they fully digested the investigation and shared their thoughts. Today certainly wasn’t the time or place. ‘Hello, Ally.’
‘Boss . . .’
‘Looks like we’re all here.’
‘All except Dino.’
The detective smirked. ‘Don’t tell me she’s developed a sense of herself.’
‘It’s your show, sir, everyone knows that.’
‘No, Ally, it’s that wee lassie’s show.’ He turned to the rear of the car and opened up the boot. Inside was the box containing Janie Cooper’s red duffel coat and sandals, her satchel sat beside them.
DS McAlister looked into the box and quickly removed his gaze.
‘Jesus, I can’t look,’ he said.
‘You have to, son. You have to face it for them.’ Valentine nodded to the Coopers as they waited by the edge of the burial plot.
‘They’re just the tip of the iceberg . . . the ones in plain view.’
‘We can’t bring any of them back, but there’ll be no more now, not from that pair of evil bastards.’
McAlister leant into the boot and eased the box towards him. ‘Here, let me.’
Valentine shook his head. ‘No, it’s my job.’
The pair walked from the car. As he wrestled the box onto his hip and walked towards the others, the DI eyed the Coopers being joined by the minister at the burial plot. The sun, high in the sky above, painted a white glow round their profiles. The mood was of perfect stillness.
‘Boss, why did Urquhart do it . . . ? The son, I mean, why did he kill his own father?’
A deep breath was ingested, then words seemed to float on their back as Valentine spoke. ‘He hated him. Hated what he was and what he stood for and how the world knew nothing of the real man, the father he knew.’
‘But he was his father . . .’
Valentine’s thoughts turned to his own parents for a moment. ‘It’s a good thing you find it difficult to grasp, Ally . . .’ He halted his stride and turned to face the DS. ‘I read a line in a background report once, I think it came from a German philosopher: when one has not had a good father, one must create one.’
McAlister stared back at the detective, seemed to be digesting the comment. ‘Do you think Adrian was abused too?’
The DI shrugged. ‘It seems more than likely, but who knows?’
‘He sacrificed what was left of his own life.’
‘Do you think he felt like he had a life? He despised himself too: he was his father’s son. He had the beast’s genes.’
As they got closer to the grouping, Valentine could see the pain etched on Diane Cooper’s face. The inevitable tears traced the outline of her cheeks, but it was the far-away glare in her eyes that haunted him the most.
‘Don’t get me wrong, boss, I’m not crying for any of them, except Janie and the others.’ McAlister shook his head and squinted towards the sky. ‘Just why did the bastard have to kill Leanne?’
‘That sticks with me too.’
‘She’d been through enough.’
‘Her whole life was suffering, and I think Adrian Urquhart saw that, he knew the territory . . . Maybe in some perverse way he thought he was doing her a favour, putting her out of her misery.’
‘That and he wanted the spotlight.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Ally, but there’s more goes on in here’ – he tapped his chest – ‘than we’ll ever know.’
Diane Cooper’s husband seemed to be holding her up, one arm around her back and the other grasping her shoulder like she might blow away. When he saw the detectives, Billy Cooper looked up and showed a slim smile that poured alms on any fears Valentine had that they were intruding.
‘Hello,’ said the DI, his voice a soft whisper. ‘I’ve brought all we have.’
As he placed the small box down beside the freshly dug hole, the minister hurriedly took to arranging the little red duffel coat, sandals and satchel in the ground. He peaked the coat’s hood above the shoulders and then placed the satchel below the line of the coat’s hem; finally, he rested the two sandals beneath the bag. There was a girl who had once owned the carefully arranged items and it was not difficult to imagine her returning for them now.
A hand touched Valentine’s arm.
‘Thank you.’ Diane Cooper was holding out something to him: at first it seemed only a blur in his peripheral vision, but as she raised her hand he saw it was her daughter’s doll.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, and the wind fluttered the edges of the white handkerchief in her hand. ‘She loved that doll.’
‘Then she should have it.’ He kneeled down and placed the doll beside the satchel, as if placing it in Janie’s hand.
A final pained smile passed between Valentine and the Coopers, and then the minister gathered his hands together and stood beside the artefacts of the dead in silent prayer.