Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(31)

‘Clean this floor. Every inch of it.’

I take the mop and do as he says. The water and the bleach splash on my feet and legs and it stings me. It’s still stinging when I’ve mopped the whole floor and there’s grey water running down the gutter at the middle of the tiles and into the drain that gurgles.

‘Are you done?’

I nod.

He grabs the pail from me and turns it on its side. I see the grey water with the bleach in it as he sprays it over my legs. It splashes on to my knees and thighs and wets the hem of my nightshirt. The smell makes me feel sick again but I swallow it down.

‘Stand in the corridor – go on.’

I walk out to the dormitory, through the heavy doors, and into the brightly lit corridor. It’s cold but I stand by the great iron radiator that reaches my shoulder.

‘Not there, in the middle of the floor.’

I walk away to the middle of the floor, under the glare of the white light. My eyes are stinging with the brightness of it, but my legs are stinging more. They’re pink-red now like the colour of the pork sides hanging in the kitchen freezer. I feel as cold as that pork too, shivering where I stand in a shrill draft that blows under the door.

The floorwalker turns the knob on the radiator to off and says, ‘Don’t you move. Don’t you dare move until the morning. Do you hear me?’

I nod at him but say nothing. I think I want to kill him as he points the broom handle at me and says, ‘I’ll teach you to piss the bed again. See how a week sleeping out here suits you.’

He makes me sleep there all week. And for weeks after, every night, I’m woken with other boys who have pissed the bed once and made to queue up to use the toilet. Those who don’t perform to order are not allowed back to their beds but have to sleep on one of the bentwood chairs, back in the corridor.

I’ll never wet the bed again. I know that for sure.





19

The Carrick Lodge occupied the no man’s land where the exclusivity of Alloway gave way to the town of Ayr. The road from the tiny shack-like cottage of the poet Robert Burns to the tip of town was lined with the kinds of properties overpaid company heads aspired to. When Valentine was a boy, the homes here were occupied by an Ayrshire royalty that no longer seemed to exist. Celebrities like low-grade television presenters and the odd ersatz country and western singer had long since sold up and moved on, leaving the elegant driveways and backyard swimming pools to a new breed of parvenu.

It seemed a strange place for a man of the people like Davie Purves to want to meet but when he thought about it Valentine conceded the logic was about right for an ex-cop. The Carrick Lodge was located right at the end of the Maybole Road, with simple enough access to the A77 and all roads back to Cumnock. It was also far enough away from the former mining town to be out of the range of prying eyes. As a further caution, nobody that Purves mixed with at home was ever likely to be a golfer – that was a role for the assuredly middle class and those confident enough of their retired status to be able to dress in Argyle sweaters and lemon-coloured slacks.

In the bar Valentine located Purves in the corner of the room: every cop’s favourite spot because of the view it afforded. The DI approached and introduced DS McCormack, a move which at first seemed to annoy Purves but he thawed somewhat under the full beam of McCormack’s smile.

‘There weren’t many women of your rank outside of Prime Suspect in my day,’ said Purves.

McCormack grinned. ‘I doubt I live up to Helen Mirren on close inspection.’

Valentine extended a hand towards Purves. ‘Hello, Davie. That you reminiscing about the old days already?’

‘I notice you didn’t say the good old days,’ said Purves.

‘I’m choosing my words carefully. Nice to see you.’

Valentine left McCormack with the retired cop and placed an order at the bar. On his return they were talking about the Old Firm and bonding over Glasgow Rangers’ recent return to the Premiership.

The DI kept his footballing allegiance to himself and waited for the coffees to arrive before bringing the conversation round to why he had asked to see Purves. The details of the case, laid bare by Valentine, didn’t seem to shock the former detective as much as it had everyone else, but Valentine put this down to a mock show of bravado.

‘I can honestly say, Bob, that I remember nothing like that from my time on the force,’ said Purves.

‘No. I wasn’t expecting you to. I dare say if there was anything even close to resembling two boys murdered and dumped in a barrel we’d all have heard of it.’

‘So how can I help?’

‘In any way you can, Davie. We’re at sixes and sevens on this one.’

‘Any persons of interest?’

‘One.’ Valentine looked at McCormack.

‘Bloke by the name of Garry Keirns,’ said the DS.

Purves nodded. ‘Of course. Ardinsh Farm isn’t it? Makes sense.’

‘You know him?’

‘Oh yeah, everybody in the town knows about Keirns. He’s a piece of shit but I’d put murder beyond him. Petty theft and small-time drug dealing’s more his line. I think we done him for a car-stereo racket once as well, had dozens of them up at Sandy Thompson’s place. Poor bugger, Sandy. Must have saw Keirns far enough.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Valentine.