Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(35)

‘What did you say?’

‘I think you heard. Now, look, you need to get out of here before someone sees you.’

‘I will if you will. Come on, you’re going home. It’s past six so you’ll not be missed.’

‘But . . .’

‘No buts, Bob. On your feet. I can brief the team about anything that needs doing.’

The DI pushed himself off the toilet seat and steadied himself on the narrow walls of the cubicle. ‘Right, you first.’

‘I’ll be watching the door. You go straight from here to the car park, got it?’

‘I’ll need my coat, the car keys are in there.’

‘OK, I’ll get it. Sure you’re OK to drive?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, as long as I keep my eyes open.’

‘I find that’s the best way to drive myself. I’ll get your coat.’

The open window helped to cool his brows and the ache in his neck subsided. On the way to Masonhill Valentine felt himself returning to normal. The physical symptoms, though a worry, were not his greatest fear.

Since the knifing incident and the heart surgery, he didn’t worry about physical injury any more. If that was truly the worst that the physical world had to offer then he knew he could take it again. There was only one thing now which frightened Valentine and that was more hurt for his family.

Clare had been the one who had taken the news of his near death the worst. She had been driven to a state of nervous exhaustion – for a woman who lived on her nerves at the best of times this was not a good place to be. He knew she had been close to the edge and that he’d been very near to losing her. He couldn’t face that again.

Any pain was worth it for Valentine if it meant his wife and children were spared; it may have taken him a long time to realise this, but they were the most important things in his life. The rest, including the job he had given so much to, was meaningless without them.

‘Oh my God!’ Chloe’s reaction to seeing her father walk through the front door was unexpected.

‘No, it’s only me, love.’

‘But at a Christian hour – to what do we owe the pleasure?’

Valentine saw his wife through the door to the kitchen. She was wearing an apron that cinched her waist. As she approached, smiling, she wiped her fingertips on the apron. ‘Bob, you’re in time for dinner.’

‘Is it really such a rare occurrence?’

Clare and Chloe nodded together.

‘Where’s Fiona?’

‘Setting the table with your dad,’ said Clare. ‘I’ll have to tell them to set an extra place now.’

The nagging guilt that Valentine had left home with in the morning came back to assault him. He knew there had been too many family meals that he’d missed, but he told himself that was going to change as he watched Clare and Chloe exchange excitement.

As the DI removed his jacket and hung it on the hallstand he felt an urge to check the pocket. The St Christopher was still there. As he held the pendant in his hand he drew a fist around it and closed his eyes for the briefest of instants. The little boy’s face was still there, above a St John’s school tie with a small silver pendant sitting on the knot.

‘Hello, Rory,’ whispered Valentine; he felt he was going to be seeing a lot more of him now.

At dinner the DI laughed and joked with his family. He had forgotten how warm and intimate these occasions could be. Had he really denied himself this simple pleasure for so long? He had been wrong and Clare had been right, he saw that, and he knew he must do something about it. But there was a new ache in his heart too, for the two young boys who had been deprived of their lives too soon. As much as he felt responsible to his family, Valentine felt responsible for those boys too.

‘Leave the dishes, Clare. I’ll get those.’

‘I could get used to this,’ she said.

‘Trust me, love, you will.’

Valentine shooed his wife and the girls into the living room and press-ganged his father into clearing up the dinner dishes.

‘If you don’t mind, Dad?’ he said.

‘Doesn’t bother me, I was always a worker.’

When they were alone, with only the sound of the dishes rattling, Valentine spoke again. ‘Can I ask you about someone from the old place?’

‘Cumnock?’

‘Yeah. His name cropped up on this case I’m working.’

‘Those two wee boys?’ His father shook his head.

‘Yes, that one.’

‘Who is it?’

‘A politician, name of Lucas.’

‘Andy Lucas, the Labour man?’

‘That’s him. Do you know him?’

‘Not now – he’s long gone. Died at the tail end of the eighties, I think. What do you want to know about him for – or shouldn’t I ask?’

Valentine dipped another plate in the sink. ‘His name came up, that’s all. He gave a reference, in glowing terms, for Garry Keirns.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Nothing those bastards do surprises me. There’ll be a motive behind it, mind you. Andy Lucas wasn’t a man to trade favours for nowt – he was a bloody taker who’ll not be forgotten in Cumnock.’