A Taste of Ashes (DI Bob Valentine Book 2) (10 page)

The DI pressed the call button, spoke into the mic. ‘Hello Sylvia, that’s me just getting into town.’

‘Hi, sir. I’m there already.’

‘Good. I’ll see you in five, then,’ his voice fluctuated in tone, settled on low notes.

‘Is everything OK, sir?’

A pause. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘It’s quite a big step. Are you really sure you’re ready to go through with this?’

‘Sylvia, don’t expect me to bluff you with
I was born ready
, or
I’m ready for anything
. But I am ready, yes. I’m ready to get to the bottom of why the dead keep walking into my life.’

DI Bob Valentine locked the car and headed towards the pub. DS McCormack stood outside, beneath the alcove at the front door. She was wearing a short red windcheater and stonewashed jeans with trainers, she didn’t look like police for once.

‘Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time off?’ said Valentine.

‘It’s only a half day, I’ll hardly miss it.’

‘Is he here?’

‘I’ve no idea, I’m not the clairvoyant.’

The detective suppressed a tut. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’

‘A bit.’

‘Well, I’m laughing inside … a bit.’

The pair walked through the front doors and into the bar area. It was a traditional Ayrshire drinking den, a long bar that covered one wall of the room, rust-coloured quarry tiles lined the front of the bar before the floor gave way to hardy, black carpeting that was beer-soaked and trampled to a sheen. Formica-topped tables, surrounded by PVC-backed chairs, accounted for the furnishings.

‘Nice place,’ said McCormack.

‘I think it’s what you call utilitarian.’

‘Does that mean a tip?’

They approached the barman, his Brylcreem slick and black moustache fitted the fifties-feel of the decor. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Just a Coke for me,’ said Valentine. ‘Sylvia?’

‘A mineral water, please.’

‘No bottled water. I can do you a council juice from the tap.’

‘Coke will be fine, thanks.’

They took their drinks and settled at a table near the back wall. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive to the DI – he’d strayed into inhospitable territory. Valentine played with a Tennent’s beer mat, picking the strayed edges.

‘Are you nervous, sir?’

‘Tell me about this bloke again.’

‘Before the Janie Cooper case, like I said, I worked with a precognitive on the Reece squad in Glasgow. Colvin Baxter helped out, he took us in directions we never would have found on our own. It was a revelation. Baxter recommended Hugh Crosbie as someone who could, well maybe, help you get a handle on things, explain what you’ve been going through.’

‘And this Crosbie, he’s what, a psychic?’

McCormack sipped her drink. ‘He’s a spiritualist, as far as I know. He’s very knowledgeable apparently.’

Valentine looked at his watch. ‘He’s also late.’

‘I think we’re a bit early actually.’ The door to the bar opened, a tall man, thin and grey, approached. ‘Oh, hang on, this looks like him.’

McCormack rose. ‘Hugh, hello.’

He took the detective’s hand, then turned to Valentine. ‘And you must be Bob. I’m pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ He indicated the chair in front. ‘Please, sit down.’

Valentine’s gaze was drawn away from the man. He looked to the bar, spotted the barman resting on a stool and reading the
Daily Star
. It was a ridiculous scene, really. So prosaic and yet filled with such strange undercurrents. The urge to get up and leave instantly jumped into his thoughts.

‘I’m forgetting my manners, would you like a drink, Hugh?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ He started to unbutton his jacket with long, slender fingers. ‘I believe you’ve had some interesting experiences that you’d like me to give an opinion on.’

Valentine shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘It’s a little embarrassing really.’

‘Oh. And why would that be?’

He didn’t want to offend the man, he’d been good enough to answer the call after all. Even though it was all so strange to him, Valentine tried to affect manners. ‘Perhaps that’s the wrong word, unsettling maybe’s a better one.’

‘Go on.’

‘I had this, I don’t know what you’d call it, a near-death experience.’

‘Did you die?’

Valentine picked up his glass, put it down again. He was used to the question by now. ‘For a little while, I believe. I mean, I didn’t see angels or anything if that’s what you want me to say.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who has, met angels that is.’

‘I was stabbed, in the heart. I passed away but they revived me. I don’t recall anything of that time.’

DS McCormack entered the conversation. ‘It’s since the incident Bob’s had the trouble. I say trouble because it’s been troubling to him, unsettling.’

‘You said something about dreams on the phone, and visions.’ Crosbie got up to remove his coat, hang it over the back of the chair. When he sat down again he retrieved a notepad and pencil from the inside pocket and peered beyond the detective’s shoulder.

‘Mostly dreams. They’re extremely vivid, like I’m actually there.’

Crosbie started to sketch in the notepad. ‘Oh yes, spirit dreams can be most vivid. I believe some never forget them in their lifetime.’

‘Well, I remember all of mine.’

‘Are they precognitive dreams, Bob?’

‘Do you mean, predicting the future? No, they don’t give me the winner at the Gold Cup unfortunately.’

Crosbie smiled, a courtesy. ‘Sometimes dreams like yours will contain a message and sometimes that message can be interpreted in a way that seems to have a forewarning attached. For example, I met a woman once who was convinced she had seen her daughter pass to spirit, actually holding hands with deceased relatives, the dream was so real she woke up in tears, ran through to the child’s bedroom and woke her.’

‘Did the girl die?’ said McCormack.

‘No,’ said Crosbie. ‘But what I found interesting about that dream, and many others, was that when the dead appear in such a state it’s because they have something to tell you.’

‘I’m not sure there was a message for me there.’

‘I’m not sure you’re interpreting it correctly, Bob.’

Valentine looked at the notepad as Crosbie glanced above him and sketched. ‘And how would I do that?’

‘You need to listen, not with your ears but with your soul. There’s deep understanding there, not the kind you seek with your mind, but a fuller more complete wisdom. It’s not a wisdom that can be explained in words, Bob, they would only get in the way. I think that’s been your problem.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Oh, I’m positive you don’t. You see, it’s not something you can understand with this,’ he tapped the side of his head. ‘You’re trying to rationalise something that can’t be subjected to the rational. That’s your problem right there.’

Valentine looked at DS McCormack and then returned his gaze to Crosbie, he was tearing out a page from the notepad.

‘Do you recognise this chap?’

He held up a sketch of a young man with short cropped hair and a prominent jawline. The picture was crude but a realistic impression.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Who is he?’

‘I’ve no idea, Bob. But he’s been standing at your shoulder since I came in.’

Valentine turned around. ‘There’s nobody there now.’

‘Maybe he’s not here for your benefit. Take the picture, it might mean something to somebody, or it might mean nothing at all.’

‘Thank you,’ he took the sketch. ‘I don’t know what I expected, maybe that you’d be a nutter, or tell me that I was.’

‘You’re not a nutter, Bob Valentine. But you are a man who is a very long way from finding peace.’

Valentine pressed his fingertips into the hardwood desk and leaned forward. There was an expectant air inside the incident room, a haste and activity that forced everyone into quick steps and downward glances as they moved. The DI tried to ignore the goings-on and force his mind beyond the blurred morning state that could only cry out for coffee.

‘It was the frogmen, I knew that was the risk we ran,’ he said.

‘Either way, boss, we’ll have to give the hacks something,’ said Donnelly. ‘They’re asking a lot of questions.’

‘OK, there’s no point keeping them in the dark when they know something’s up. Ask Coreen to call a press conference, they can have the facts now, but only the bare minimum of stuff.’

Donnelly shuffled backwards towards the door. ‘Yes, boss. When you say bare minimum, do you mean tell them we have a murder case but no more?’

‘Definitely not. No names, no details beyond generalities. I doubt it’ll take them more than a day to dig up the more salient facts but it’s a day we can do with.’

Donnelly acknowledged the request and backed out of the office towards the press team. As Valentine lowered himself into his chair he signalled DS McCormack towards his desk with a crooked finger.

‘Right. What have we got on this CCTV footage, Sylvia?’

McCormack stepped forward, tucking her hair behind her ear in a hurried, nervous manner. She started reading from a piece of well-thumbed notepaper as she walked towards the desk and the computer. She leaned over, pointed at the computer screen and said, ‘Ally’s put it on your desktop, it’s the file called “River”.’

He double-clicked on the file and a window opened up. It showed grainy footage of a slight figure – it looked like a woman – wearing jeans and a sweat-top, wandering awkwardly, almost feeling her way along the railings on the banks of the River Ayr.

‘Do we have an ID?’ said Valentine.

‘No, we’re working on enhancements. IT says we’ll have those within the hour. If you want my best guess though – going on all our descriptions and the most recent photos – it’s our missing Sandra Millar.’

‘The mother.’

‘Definitely fits the description, the height, colouring and clothes are all spot on … She’s not exactly sprightly either, she moves like a middle-aged woman in shock.’

Valentine gripped his chin and scowled at the footage; it was good but he wanted more. ‘It’s a bit indistinct.’

‘It’s from the camera at Old Bridge Street, the operator was panning down the river banks, it’s probably up to eleven on the focus.’ McCormack touched the screen, tapped twice where she wanted him to look. ‘Right this is where it gets interesting, sir.’

The figure in the centre of the screen stopped walking and turned towards the water. Her hands went out to the railing and she stood there, swaying for a moment. She seemed to be contemplating the river’s movement, tuning in with the current, each ripple sending a shock that buckled her knees.

‘Oh, don’t tell me she’s a jumper.’

‘No. Keep watching.’

As the camera lens grappled with the image, going in and out of focus, the figure withdrew a hand from the rail. The task almost felled her but she straightened up, regained balance and managed to stand still. From the side of her that was blind to the camera she withdrew something from her pocket and raised up her arm. She paused, a glint appeared on the object, like a metallic surface catching a stray beam of light.

‘What’s she got?’

‘It’s what she does with it that’s interesting.’

The figure jerked, her arm thrust back, and the object was thrown into the water. As a splash appeared in the river, the woman grabbed the rail again, then turned round and tramped towards the town. She followed the same route that she had come, her steps were heavy, faltering, and every uneven flagstone threatened her with a fall.

Valentine watched the woman’s shambling gait go out of shot, then the image receded to a black screen. He closed the window and turned from the computer to face McCormack. ‘Tell me you have the divers at that very spot.’

‘Yes, sir. We have had them there for a while. But there’s better news to report than that.’

‘Go on.’

‘About ten minutes ago, we retrieved an object from the River Ayr, adjacent to the banks where this CCTV image was captured.’

‘Tell me it was a knife, Sylvia.’

She let a faint smile creep onto her face. ‘Yes, sir. It’s a blade. And it’s making its way to forensics as we speak.’

Valentine shot up, raised a fist. ‘Right, Sylvia. Get your coat. We’re not hanging about waiting for the results on a potential murder weapon, especially when we have the press pack already baying for blood.’

The officers retrieved their coats from the stand in the corner of the DI’s office and headed out into the open-plan incident room. DS Donnelly was approaching from the opposite end of the long room as they entered. He looked relaxed, pleased with himself. ‘Boss, that’s the press conference called. Coreen says she’ll need you at midday.’

Valentine checked his watch. ‘No can do. We’re off to, hopefully, retrieve our murder weapon from the boffins in Glasgow.’

Donnelly looked perplexed. His confidence evaporated, ‘But what about the press conference?’

‘You can handle that, can’t you?’ Valentine’s tone said he wasn’t giving him a choice.

‘Are you kidding? I’ve never faced the press on my own.’

‘Then take Ally for company.’

The DI helped DS McCormack into her coat and through the door before Donnelly could object. Donnelly’s gaze burned on the DI’s neck as he walked into the corridor, but he didn’t look back.

McCormack stayed quiet until they reached the station car park: ‘Don’t think I’m questioning you, sir, but do you think it’s a good idea leaving the Chuckle Brothers to face the press on their own?’

Valentine paused, pointed his keys at the Vectra. ‘Needs must, Sylvia. And Donnelly will have to take that leap of faith at some time, might as well be today. He’s a good lad, he’ll rise to the occasion, and I’m sure he’ll look out for Ally.’

They got into the car. Sylvia was stuffing her bag into the footwell as she replied to the DI. ‘I was only thinking, what with Dino on the warpath already, now might not be the time to be courting tragedy.’

Valentine pushed himself into the headrest. ‘Leave Dino to me, her bark’s worse than her bite.’