Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(17)

‘You get used to it.’

‘I would never want to.’

‘No. No one would.’

There was a long period where they sat in silence, his father sipping from the coffee cup in his hand. ‘I thought we had it bad down the mines, I just – I never really thought of what you go through properly.’

Valentine tried to change the subject. ‘So can you offer anything, perhaps about Sandy or the farm.’

The old man’s expression changed. ‘Now you’re asking. You know he lost interest after Ida died.’

‘Keirns said he was winding things down before he came on board.’

‘That would be right. He fell into drink soon after.’

‘I’d heard the rumours.’

‘Yes, he was in a very bad way. I must confess I wasn’t as good a friend as I should have been to him then; I stayed away.’

‘I can’t blame you.’

‘It wasn’t that – there was talk of drugs.’

‘At Sandy’s place?’

‘No more than gossip. I’ve only got the word of loose mouths. They said he’d been taking drugs. You know the boy Garry had been involved in that sort of thing?’

‘Just what is on his charge sheet. We’re at the early stages of the investigation.’

‘Garry came from the big house, the reformatory or whatever they call it. I suppose he’d learnt some bad habits there. There was talk he got Sandy on the drugs as well as the drink. He was always ferrying bottles back and forth to the farm, I know that – the taxi lads were forever saying. They’d keep a tally. It was bottles of whisky every day. I suppose he must have run through his savings pretty sharpish.’

‘Did you know Sandy left Keirns the farm?’

He tutted. ‘I’d heard as much.’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘Why would I? What did he do to deserve it? He ran the bloody place into the ground.’

‘He said it was Sandy’s wishes.’

‘And you believe that? Sandy wasn’t sober a day past Ida’s death. The poor bugger wouldn’t know what he was signing away. Och, I’m off to bed. I’m getting myself all worked up again, and I’m not supposed to with my blood pressure.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ He dropped his tone. ‘Before you go, I saw Gerald Fallon at the funeral.’

‘The MP?’

‘Yes. Did Sandy know him?’

‘Not to my knowledge. I must have missed Fallon myself.’

‘He seemed to be leaving early.’

‘Creeping out, more like. You know what the locals think of politicians after Thatcher.’

Valentine nodded. ‘I thought it was a bit strange.’

‘The world’s all gone a bit strange, if you ask me. I’ll say goodnight to you.’

‘Goodnight, Dad.’





10

The house phone always seemed to ring louder first thing in the morning. Perhaps it was its situation next to his ear on the bedside table or the fact that it so seldom rang at all these days. He was more used to hearing his mobile, but it was definitely the landline blaring Valentine awake. He didn’t know how long it had been ringing; it didn’t seem that long a time, certainly not long enough for Clare to reach over him and pick up the receiver.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Oh, hello, Mrs Valentine. I’m looking for the detective inspector.’

She threw the phone on top of the bedclothes. ‘It’s your little friend.’

‘What?’ He was still groggy from sleep and not fully awake yet, not quite removed from his dreams; not sure what was dream and what was reality.

‘The one you spent the night with on Arran.’ Clare’s tone was acerbic and acted on the detective like smelling salts wafting beneath his nose.

Valentine promptly rose in the bed, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘Well you did spend the night with her.’

‘I did not . . . we did not spend the night together.’

‘Yes you did.’ Clare was getting out of bed, slipping her arms into her dressing gown and drawing the cord tightly round her waist. ‘You told me yourself about the cosy tryst at the Auchrannie.’

Valentine couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘It was work. The last ferry had left.’

‘How convenient.’ His wife mocked him with a smirk and headed through the bedroom door.

As he watched the door closing Valentine wondered what had prompted the outburst. He knew there didn’t need to be a direct reason – Clare was good at storing things up – but it didn’t bode well. As he removed his hand from the mouthpiece and raised the phone to his ear, he noticed the blue folder he had brought to bed for late-night reading sitting beside him on the table and sighed, involuntarily, into the phone.

‘Yes . . .’

‘Not a good time, sir?’ said DS McCormack.

‘Is there such a thing?’

She didn’t reply. ‘We have a slot with the pathologist at 8.30, is that doable?’

‘What time is it now?’

‘It’s 7.15.’

‘Yes, I suppose we can always turn up in the middle of things if we don’t beat the traffic.’