Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(2)

He looked around. The rain was coming straight down on their heads now, bouncing in stair rods off the wet ground. ‘We’ll bury it here.’

‘What?’

‘Not right here, over there.’

‘In the fields? The first time someone runs a plough over it the bloody thing will stick out.’

‘Between the fields then. We roll it over and bury it as deep as we can. No one will see it, no one will know and your man will be none the wiser.’

‘I don’t know about this. Maybe I should call him. I saw a phone box back on the main road.’

‘You know what he’ll say – you took the money, now do the job he paid us for.’

‘We could give the money back. I never liked the sound of this anyway.’

‘You don’t give money back to people like that. Forget it. We bury it and walk away. We won’t be back this way again, so it’s not our worry.’

The man brushed the pooling water from the shoulders of his reefer coat. The action caused a shiver to enter him. ‘What do you think’s in it?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.’

The shivering passed. He pointed back the way they had come. ‘I saw some shovels over by the barn. We’d better get started, it’ll take forever in this rain.’





1

Present Day

Detective Inspector Bob Valentine struggled with the blue shoe covering, the elastic stretched to its snapping point. He knew he should sit down, take his time, but that would mean admitting to himself that the spreading paunch above his belt really did require his attention.

He leaned against the wall. The morgue tiles were cold on his back and another reminder that he was somewhere that he really did not want to be. He told himself that the corpse on the mortuary slab through the wall held no fear for him. At least, that’s how it had always been. Until now.

‘Bloody things.’ He finally managed to get his last brogue covered and sighed towards DS Sylvia McCormack, who was waiting by the door, smirking slightly.

‘Something funny, detective?’ he said.

‘No, sir. Well, maybe a little.’ McCormack took a few steps towards him. ‘Have you thought about losing a couple of pounds? You’d feel the benefits of it.’

‘I’m not carrying any weight, Sylvia.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He rubbed his stomach. ‘It’s dyspepsia.’

The smirk was back. ‘Boss, you’ll be telling me it’s the job next.’

‘It is the bloody job! Well, this case.’

‘Certainly seems to be making you irritable.’

The DI eased himself off the wall, rubbing his stomach. ‘Bad guts is no laughing matter. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, well, maybe just Dino. I mean, what does she expect us to find here?’

‘Cause of death.’

‘Apart from the blindingly obvious. There’s no foul play involved, we’re all agreed on that. It’s only the media interest that has her rattled.’

Sylvia motioned towards the door. ‘They did feature it on Crimewatch, sir.’

Valentine shuffled his feet, made a show of distaste for the blue coverings. ‘And why was that? Not because it was a pressing crime that required the vigilance of the public to solve.’

‘No, sir.’

They walked towards the morgue door; Valentine held it open for McCormack to enter first. ‘No, it was more to do with the CCTV from the hotel going viral. Cheap opportunism on the part of the programme makers. They’re not interested in justice or protecting the public – it’s ratings they’re after.’

As they headed towards the centre of the room two men, dressed in white scrubs, waited beside a large, steel-legged table. Immediately Valentine identified the taller of the two as the pathologist.

‘Hello, Wrighty,’ he said.

‘Bob . . . Sylvia,’ he nodded. ‘Here to get the low-down on our superstar?’

‘Give it a rest.’

‘I’m serious. Half a million hits on YouTube this lad got; that’s up there with Oscar winners in my book.’

Valentine turned to McCormack. ‘You see what I mean? We live in tawdry times. Everyone’s chasing celebrity! Even Wrighty’s excited to meet the Thin Man.’

The pathologist stepped aside and made a show of whispering into Valentine’s ear. ‘Do you think it would be OK to take a selfie with him, Bob? Nothing tasteless, just for Twitter and that.’

The DI’s expression soured; he looked ready to break into a tirade.

‘Bob, I’m pulling your plonker,’ said Wrighty. ‘Bit of gallows humour, so to speak.’

‘I’m laughing inside, I can assure you of that.’

The team assembled around the table and watched the pathologist go to work. His first incision on the corpse marked the beginnings of an inverted Y, from the sternum through to the top of the stomach.

Valentine felt his own insides tightening as he watched; his stomach pains had intensified to the point where he had to place a steadying hand on the slab’s rim.

‘Everything OK, Bob?’ said Wrighty.

‘Just this indigestion.’

‘You had that when I spoke to you on Monday as well. You aught to get that checked out.’