Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(16)

Valentine rolled down the driver’s window and tried to incur some of the breeze, in an attempt at cooling his head down. The persistent ache in his skull had settled into a cycle of dull lassitude and arresting misery, and he felt the latter approaching once more. He thought he knew what it meant, what it indicated to him, but he was still some way from fully accepting the explanation.

He distracted himself with how he might approach the impending conflict with his wife. Clare had every right to be upset with him coming home in the hours of darkness, missing yet another family meal and failing to spend any time with their teenage daughters.

His tendency was to avoid all conflict with Clare; he simply couldn’t muster the energy or enthusiasm for argument any longer. And besides, he faulted himself for the failings of their marriage, not her. Clare was just trying to lead a normal life, but how could she do that when her husband was a man who disinterred the corpses of children for a living.

Valentine didn’t know what he had become, what kind of man he was any more. All he knew was how to balance the vagaries of his chaotic and complicated existence; he knew how to find the balance, in principle, but in practice he also knew he often failed. Clare and the girls were the ones who suffered when that happened, and his worst fear was that they suffered more than him.

As he pulled in to his driveway in Masonhill, he spotted that a light was burning in the extension where they had homed his father. Valentine knew his dad was too frail to live alone, to look after himself, but as the memory of the church visit earlier in the day came back he wondered if his father really was better living under his son’s roof. It seemed to Valentine that he had an uncanny knack of offloading his woes on those closest to him.

Closing the front door and laying down his briefcase, the DI loosened off his tie and looped it over the banister. There was no sign of Clare in the living room or the kitchen. She had left a plate of pasta, a side salad and a loaf of garlic bread beneath cling film for him. The thought of food at this late hour made him baulk; it was simply too much effort, but coffee seemed a worthwhile indulgence.

Valentine was filling the kettle when his father appeared from the door to the extension. At first he thought the old man was going to ignore him, but then he nodded sagely and the DI chided himself for thinking his dad would be so childish.

‘I’m really sorry about today, Dad,’ he said.

His father didn’t reply, simply came over to stand beside his son, leaning on the counter and staring into the middle distance.

‘It was a shock,’ he said, ‘to see you at Sandy’s funeral like that.’

‘I’m sure it must have been.’

‘He was a good man, Sandy. A kindly soul. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that.’

Valentine felt a long day getting longer; he didn’t want to extend the misery. He didn’t want to upset anyone, Sandy or his father, but he was doing his job. He had a sorely felt need to defend himself and his actions in the churchyard, but he resisted.

‘I meant no offence to your friend, Dad. Or you, or Mam for that matter.’

His father turned his gaze on his son. ‘I was very harsh with my words. I’m sorry.’

The kettle came to the boil. ‘Would you like a coffee, Dad?’

The old man nodded.

The pair retreated to the living room and sat with their cups, facing each other but staring in different directions.

The old man spoke first. ‘I suppose you must have had your reasons for what you did today.’

‘Oh, you better believe it.’ The words had come out before he’d given them proper thought. ‘What I mean is, it’s a murder investigation.’

‘In Cumnock?’ He had his father’s full attention.

‘Ardinsh Farm.’

‘Sandy’s place?’

‘It’s not any more.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Valentine sipped at his coffee then started to rub the back of his neck. ‘I’m not sure I do either.’

His father eased back in the armchair. ‘I don’t mean to pry.’

‘It’s not that, Dad. It’s very complicated.’

‘Can I be of any help?’

Valentine put down his cup. The taste of the coffee wasn’t helping; it made him feel slightly nauseous. He detailed the day’s events, drawing out the deaths as precisely as he could. He spoke about the boys in the barrel, how he had no idea who they were and how horrified he had been at the sight. Sandy Thompson, his farm and Garry Keirns he left until last. When he was sure he had covered everything, touched on his fears and quandaries, he sat back and observed his father’s reaction.

The old man had listened in silence, and for a moment Valentine wondered if that was going to be his only reaction.

‘I don’t know what to say to that,’ he said.

‘Perhaps that’s for the best. I must admit, a natural reaction is entirely beyond my experience too.’

‘I feel terribly guilty for how I reacted at the church today. You must have been under the most enormous stress. Nobody should have to see a thing like that.’

‘Dad, it’s what I do.’

He shook his head. ‘No, there’s doing your duty and there’s . . . that was something else. What you witnessed was inhumane. I can’t imagine the impact it must have had on you, and then to have to rationalise it and make sense of what had to be done next. I don’t know that I could function like that.’