Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(27)

‘I can’t quite recall.’

Valentine reached out to the roof of the Jaguar and brushed away a stray mud speck. ‘That’s very interesting. You see, the former owner of Ardinsh Farm up there, he says you more or less made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

Gowan put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. ‘I really don’t remember.’

Valentine nodded and then turned back the way he had come. ‘If you remember, Mr Gowan, perhaps you’d be good enough to call the station and let my team know.’ He halted. ‘It’s a murder we’re investigating, by the way.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me. I just bought the land. I didn’t look for any bodies first.’

‘Of course you didn’t. I’m merely trying to give you an indication of the gravity of the situation we’re dealing with here. And, of course, an explanation for why I’ll need to ask you and your men to vacate the immediate area for the time being.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Like I said, murder’s a very serious business, Mr Gowan.’





16

DI Bob Valentine stood outside the chief superintendent’s office, worrying the thick, brown, industrial carpet tiles so much that he guessed a static shock was imminent. He put the nerves down to the conversation he had had with Clare that morning. Much as he sympathised with his wife, and wanted to do his best for her and his family, wanted to please everyone and subjugate any considerations he might have for himself, he knew she was wrong to put him in this position.

He understood his wife’s reasoning; he could even see that she had his best interests at heart, but he knew she hadn’t thought about the wider consequences. He didn’t, by this stage, care about the thousands of pounds they were in debt over the new extension and Clare’s credit cards. They were just numbers on pieces of paper; he was over the initial shock of being poorer now than when he started his career and had come to live with it. After all, wasn’t the entire country broke? Save for a few well-heeled bankers and those at the centre of power, everyone was struggling.

The thing that really worried Valentine was the job; especially the case of the two murdered schoolboys he was currently in charge of. He knew his health was fragile, both mental and physical, and he knew that was where Clare’s focus was, but he also knew there was no one else on the force that could do what he did.

Valentine’s experience had brought him to an understanding of the job that he was sure few shared. He didn’t express this egotistically, or in any way that might indicate he had a higher regard for himself than others. What he did know, what existed at the core of him, was his self. He was a hunter – that was why he was here; there was nothing else he knew with such certainty. He was the one tasked with treading the thin blue line the papers liked to talk about. Of course there were others like him, but it was a finite supply. Who would do his job if he left? Who would find justice for those two little boys then?

He was preparing to knock as the door swung open. Standing there was the chief super and a figure so rarely seen that his appearance was a surprise to the DI.

‘Ah, Bob, we were just coming to get you,’ said CS Martin. ‘Perfect timing.’

Chief Constable Bill Greaves extended an open hand towards Valentine. ‘Hello again, Bob.’

‘Sir.’ He took the hand. It felt cold and limp.

‘How’s everything with the . . .’ Greaves ran fluttering fingertips above his chest. ‘After the accident that is.’

Valentine wanted to correct him: he was stabbed in the heart and it was no accident. ‘Fine, sir. All mended now.’

‘Good, glad to hear it. You gave us all a bit of a fright there for a little while.’

The DI accepted the concern graciously, but he knew any fright felt by Greaves or the super related only to the force’s clear-up rates. If either of them truly valued his service to the force, and not just his record, then they would have left him to semi-retirement at the training college in Tulliallan. The thought mixed with Clare’s earlier comments, and even earlier remarks along similar lines, and hardened Valentine’s resolve.

‘Come in then, Bob. We need to talk about the boys-in-the-barrel case,’ said CS Martin.

Valentine felt pounced upon by his senior officers; he tried to readjust his temperament towards open-mindedness because he knew that was the only way he was going to get through the coming encounter. It was unusual, with the station’s current workload, to see the chief super taking an overt interest in any one case, but to see the chief constable deigning to grace the below-stairs ranks with his presence was close to a shock.

The chief constable positioned himself behind CS Martin’s desk. For a brief, comical moment Martin stood beside him looking clueless, and then something like initiative sparked behind her eyes as she turned to Valentine and edged her backside on to the corner of the desk.

‘Quite an unusual occurrence,’ said the chief. ‘Can’t remember another one like it.’

Valentine nodded. ‘It’s certainly the worst I’ve seen.’

He nodded sagely. ‘Marion and myself have been discussing . . . things.’

‘Things, sir?’

‘We’re both of the opinion that this is likely to be a spotlight case.’