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

In the foyer, Valentine collected his ticket and made for the stairs. The atmosphere unnerved the detective, he wasn’t used to mahogany panelling – even the slightly worn variety of the Gaiety’s – it was an industrial shade of grey that covered the walls of King Street station. Perhaps more concerning than the setting, however, was that he would have to spend the next hour and a half with his phone switched off; he could never fully outrun the job.

Clare spotted him first, leaning out from her seat in the middle of the row and beckoning him to her.

‘Hello,’ he muttered under heavy breath.

As Valentine entered the narrow seating channel he was forced to dislodge some sneering early birds.

Clare stepped in front of him when he drew near. ‘You’re here. I had wondered.’

‘I said I was coming.’

‘Yes, but you say lots of things, Bob.’

His father rose beside her, coughing loudly as if to distract Clare. She turned. ‘I know, I know – we’re here to enjoy ourselves.’

‘Hello, Dad.’ He watched the old man sway a little, stooped where he stood. ‘Sit down, I’m here now.’

His father had scraped back his thinning hair and wore a dark suit, the same one he wore to Bob’s mother’s funeral. ‘You scrub up not too bad, Dad.’

‘It’s not every night your own take to the stage.’

Clare brightened beside him; Valentine took a moment to share in their pride. ‘Where’s Fiona?’

‘Buying sweets, there’s a queue.’

There was an awkward silence when the three stared ahead at the empty stage, and then the old man spoke. ‘I think I’ll go and find some mints myself, they used to have a wee girl that sold peanuts and cigarettes but I suppose they’ve long done away with her.’

‘She’ll be pensioned off now, Dad.’

‘Cheeky bugger, it wasn’t that long ago.’ He paused as he stood. ‘Actually maybe it was, can I get you pair anything?’

They shook their heads and watched until he was out of sight. As the old man left them, Clare jerked herself to face Valentine. ‘I swear, if you do anything to ruin tonight for our daughter your murder squad won’t have to look far for their next victim.’

‘Harsh, Clare.’ He returned her gaze. ‘I’m here aren’t I? Like I said I would be.’

‘I hope that phone’s off.’

The standard response sat on his lips – a desire to defend himself – but it wasn’t the place. ‘It’s switched off, yes.’ Valentine treated his wife to a wide smile. He turned away, started to remove his jacket and use it to fashion a buffer between himself and any more strife.

‘You look nice, dear.’

Clare peered over her nose. ‘Yes, it’s a new dress if that’s what you’re getting at!’

‘No, I never said a thing.’ He took in the dress. ‘It’s very nice though, you suit it.’

She crossed her legs, there was a sharp edge to her voice. ‘And the shoes are new too, before you ask.’

‘I wasn’t about to.’ Clare’s unease was down to the fact that there were too many previous occasions he hadn’t been there for his daughters. He couldn’t blame her for the reaction, it was justified. Clare was the homebuilder, his contributions were minimal.

The chatter in the auditorium started to subside, a new hush spreading. As Valentine peered along the row his father and daughter appeared clutching bags of sweets, their hands were full.

‘Fiona, you’ll make yourself sick if you eat that lot,’ said Clare.

‘She’s fine, it’s a one-off.’ Valentine reached over to help his daughter into her seat. ‘Hello, love.’

Clare whispered as he stretched passed her, ‘Good cop, bad cop is it?’

He let the comment go, turned back to face the stage. ‘Must be starting.’

‘It’s a bit early.’ Clare checked her watch, curtains seemed to be moving on the stage. ‘Hang on, what’s this?’

Valentine followed the line of his wife’s fingernail as she pointed to the side of the stage. A broad man in a white shirt and black tie was peering from the edge of the curtain, he was theatre staff, but the man with him wasn’t.

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘What?’ Clare turned towards her husband. ‘What is it?’

As the detective stared out he recognised the figure beside the theatre usher, there was no mistaking the gangly frame beneath the well-worn wax jacket.

‘It’s Ally.’

Clare’s face drooped. ‘Who?’ She jerked her gaze back towards the stage. The usher was pointing to their row now, the man in the wax jacket easing himself down the stage and jogging towards the middle aisle.

‘Tell me this isn’t happening,’ said Clare.

Valentine searched for a response but found none. He turned towards his wife and garbled, ‘Something’s up. I don’t know what. Look, I’m sorry.’

Ally appeared out of breath before them. He nodded first to Clare, then to Valentine. ‘Hello, boss, we’ve got a live one, I’m afraid.’

‘A live what, Ally?’

The DS leaned over, lowered his voice. ‘Erm, maybe what I should have said was we’ve got a dead one.’

As Valentine rose from his chair, retrieved his coat, Clare sat with her arms folded tight across her chest. If there was a glimmer of sympathy lurking in her for the fact that he was going to miss their daughter’s big night, Valentine couldn’t find it. He’d angered her by doing the one thing he promised that he wouldn’t do – put the job first, again.

The detective stood for a moment, fastening his coat, and trying to locate a crack in the stonewall Clare had built around herself, but it was useless. Her anger was one thing, merely the outward projection of her inner hurt, it was the upset he’d caused that dug at his conscience and made him want to plead forgiveness.

‘Look, Clare …’

She cut in. ‘Leave it.’

‘I’m sorry, I have to …’

‘Just go, will you.’

Valentine looked at DS McAlister – who had the good grace to avert his gaze and remove himself from the scene – he stood biting the inside of his cheek and tapping his foot. He was attracting the attention of the theatre goers, who were turning and staring, whispering to each other in wonder at the strange break in proceedings.

‘Right, I’ll call, Clare.’ She didn’t move. As he left Valentine caught a glimpse from his father that indicated he might try and talk to his wife; it wasn’t an optimistic look.

Valentine followed the DS to the car park, there were too many people milling about inside the theatre for him to ask why he was being dragged away from his family. As the cooler air outside worked on his temperament the detective breathed deeply and tried to compose himself – it would have been too easy to get mad with Ally, too familiar a routine as well; whether it was age or experience keeping him composed, however, he didn’t know.

‘OK, son, tell me what’s what. Not the nightclub on Arthur Street is it? I heard it on the radio on the way in.’

Ally kept walking towards his car. As he pointed the keys the sidelights flashed. ‘No, that’s a hold-up, would you believe? DI Eddy Harris is all over it.’

‘Flash Harris, that fits … It was a jeweller’s last week, Ayr’s turning into bloody Dodge City. OK, so what have we got, then?’

‘Hard to say what the situation is at present, boss. All we know is it’s a bloke who’s taken a blade in the back and his claret’s all over the kitchen floor. We taking my car, yeah?’

Ally’s casual tone was customary among the squad but didn’t fool Valentine. He knew if they had a murder on their patch then every one of his team would be focused – it didn’t stop him teasing the DS. ‘You make it sound like one for that
Kitchen Nightmares
show.’

Ally allowed himself a grin, by the time they got inside the car he had upgraded to a laugh. ‘Those celebrity chefs are a joke, think they’d try on that hard-man patter in real life? Wouldn’t be five minutes before some psycho was tenderising the Botox out their face.’ The car’s engine spluttered, the wheels turned on the tarmac.

Valentine spoke: ‘Am I going to have to batter the details of this case out of you, Ally?’ They were at the bus garage, turning onto the Sandgate. ‘Where are we going for a start, son?’

‘Whitletts, boss.’

The DI nodded. ‘It just doesn’t get any better does it?’

‘No, sir. It’s the junkies isn’t it? I heard some statistic the other day that nearly forty per cent of the houses up there have a drug dependent.’

‘Is this a drugs killing, or are you just trying to make me think you actually read the background reports that cross your desk?’

‘I don’t know much more than I’ve told you.’ The King Street station came into view, lights glowing inside creating the appearance of industry. ‘Looks busy, boss. Think we’ll be burning the midnight oil tonight?’

Having to pull a late shift at the station on the night his eldest daughter had made her stage debut, as the rest of the family were celebrating, crushed Valentine. The feeling passed quickly, though, as his sense of duty was renewed by the situation. There had been a murder in his hometown, and that was something he could never ignore. Whatever was stacking up at home, none of it compared to the need for justice. That would never change because it was the other side of his devotion to his family: if anything happened to them, he would expect no less than the kind of retribution only someone like him could deliver.

‘Ally, when’s the most important part of an investigation?’

The DS glanced in Valentine’s direction. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

‘The first twenty-four hours, son. Forty-eight hours at a push. After that we’re onto extrapolating the known facts and, not a favourite of mine, guesswork.’

‘I think I see what you’re getting at.’

‘You do? Good.’ Valentine pointed to a gap in the road where a row of police cars had parked up, he had the car door open before the vehicle stopped. As the brakes halted the wheels, he pushed himself from the car and motioned with a curled index finger for DS McAlister to follow promptly. On the pavement he was met by a crowd of noisy residents. The noisiest – a woman in sweatpants and a housecoat who was shadowed by two hyperactive youngsters – fronted up to him, blocking the path. ‘You going to tell us what’s going on?’

Valentine sidestepped the woman without an answer and one of the children, a young boy in football colours, started up the path after him. ‘Get those children inside, please. This is a police investigation.’

As Valentine halted his stride, turned, DS McAlister directed the woman back towards the crowd on the side of the road. She wrested her arm from his grip. ‘Get your mitts off me, it’s a free country, you pig.’

‘It won’t be free for you if I arrest you,’ McAlister snapped back.

‘Arrest me for what?’ Her mouth drooped open, a gap-toothed glower that said she might just be stupid enough to test the officer.

‘How about disrupting a police investigation?’ His tone was flat, fully controlled. ‘Or maybe I’ll just do you for civil disobedience. Now get indoors, all of you.’

Valentine provided backup. ‘I’ll have officers round to speak to you all as soon as possible. But in the meantime please go home and let us get on with our work. There’s nothing to be gained from hanging about on the street, and it’s cold! Come on, take the kiddies indoors.’

The woman sunk back from the officers, pushed open the gate at the end of her garden. The crowd started to disperse. DS McAlister approached Valentine as he lengthened his stride towards the property. ‘That was a close one,’ he said.

‘They’re just scared. They know something’s happened, and on their own doorstep, I wouldn’t want that any more than them.’

‘Aren’t you worried about contamination of the crime scene? About kids running all over the evidence.’

The DI fought back an urge to ridicule McAlister for swatting him with the textbook. ‘Ally, you have to treat people like people. That’s your first and foremost. But it’s a fair point, why don’t you get uniform to put up a cordon?’

‘I’ll do that and if anyone crosses it, I’ll make sure they’re thrown in the divvy van, in full view of their pals.’

Valentine stamped towards the murder scene. ‘And when you’re done building community relations, come and join the rest of the squad in there,’ he pointed to the front door of the house, ‘slight matter of a murder investigation to get under way.’

The path to the house was clogged with bodies, the SOCOs in their restrictive white suits being the most obvious. The officers in uniform were almost as prevalent but the others in plain clothes were only identifiable as part of the squad by their industry. As Valentine got closer he noticed that an assortment of little yellow A-boards littered the path. They sat next to the familiar shapes made by blood droplets falling on concrete. It fell flat and round, splayed and squashed, it lay as innocuous as red paint but he knew it was not. The blood pools delineated a shambling route that led to the gate and then seemed to have been lost on the black tarmac of the pavement and road.

The detective halted to take in the sweep of the street.Beyond the place he had ran into the welcoming party of neighbours there was a grassy patch, its edges eroded into a muddy thoroughfare, and further on a disconsolate copse of trees. Beyond that was the main road, the town of Ayr, and from there more possibilities than he could count. He turned back, looked the other way up the street: there was a badly scarred bus shelter, the unbreakable Perspex windows melted into holes by determined vandals. The sight held his interest for a second before he returned to the grassy patch: four houses, terraced, between the murder scene and the short cut to the town centre. If he’d been a murderer himself, he would have gone that way. Of course, if he’d been planning it properly, there would have been a car – at that hour of the evening the sound of a car’s engine was not unfamiliar – but this was Whitletts. This was an area where murder wasn’t planned, not in that way; in places like this, murder festered over years and months and then appeared, fully blown, like it was pre-ordained to happen. The consequences were an afterthought at best. They were at worst – and most likely on this occasion – something to run away from as quickly as possible.