Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(38)

The DI was making his way through Donal’s list, pondering over the penknife and the bookie’s pen, when he heard his name called.

‘Hello, Bob.’ It was Mike Sullivan. He held a cardboard file which he shuffled as he reached out to greet the DI.

‘Mike, how’s it going?’

‘Busy as a one-armed man in a wallpaper-hanging contest.’

‘Welcome to my world.’

The man in the starched white coat led Valentine towards the lab door, keying in the combination on the touch pad.

‘I think we’re just about there with your case. It’s tugged a few heart strings through here, let me tell you.’

‘It’s a nasty business.’

‘That’s putting it mildly. Any idea who did it?’

‘I was hoping you could help with that.’

Sullivan frowned. ‘There’s not much to go on. You know we’re missing the murder weapon and the ligature. The rest is just filling the gaps. I’m sorry, Bob, but I don’t think there’s much here of help.’

Valentine strolled up to the lab counter where some of the evidence bags were being stored. There were more bags on a slightly lower table towards the window where the sunlight was dappling the trees.

‘The barrel’s serial number was no good then?’

‘One of nearly ten thousand distributed that month, farming pesticide. The record keeping was lost when they went on to computers. No dice, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, we cleaned up that tie though . . .’ Sullivan reached over for a clear plastic bag. It was secured by a bulldog clip, the tie clearly visible inside. ‘Came up not bad.’

‘It’s St John’s all right. We have that more or less confirmed from other sources.’

‘Sorry, Bob. We’re not helping you out much.’

‘What about the jotters, from the satchel?’

‘Blank.’

‘You mean not even a name on the front?’

‘Unused, I’d say. We thought they might have been marked with pencil but the graphite test showed nothing up.’

‘No impressions, indentations?’

‘You mean on the covers? No, nothing.’

Valentine leaned on the table and looked out the window. ‘It would have been nice to have something more solid, before we start presenting this stuff to family members.’

‘What about that pendant?’ said Sullivan.

‘The initials don’t match any of the names from the cold-case files. It must be for something else.’ He eased himself away from the table. ‘Look, if we’re lucky, the site search might reveal something.’

‘You haven’t heard?’ Sullivan turned to face the DI.

‘Heard what?’

‘Of course, you’d have been on the A77 getting here. Bernie called an hour ago. They have a couple of interesting finds from Ardinsh Farm.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘Well, there was an envelope beneath the floorboards of the upstairs bedroom with an old photograph in it. He seemed quite excited about the picture.’

‘A picture of what?’

Sullivan’s voice rose. ‘Something mucky.’

‘You mean sexual?’

‘It appears that way. I haven’t seen it though. It should be back here this afternoon. I’ll scan it and send it over.’

‘You do that, Mike. Soon as you can.’ Valentine crossed the tiled floor, his shoes slapping the surface loudly. ‘Message me on the phone when it’s sent. I’ll be in the interview room most likely.’

‘You mean you have a suspect?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. More like a person of interest.’





24

January 1984

A man in a black car comes with a bag full of football tops. All the boys are excited to see them, and a great fight breaks out over the goalie’s shirt with the padded elbows. Nobody wants to be the goalie usually, but today all the boys are scrapping to stand between the sticks.

The man with the black car laughs so hard he starts a coughing fit, and the master has to slap him on the back, though I think it’s all for a laugh and a joke. When the man stops coughing and lights a cigarette, I know it can’t be serious, and soon he’s laughing again with the master.

It’s Saturday and the whole place is empty. Columba House they call it – I know that now because I hear it so many times. The cook has left thick broth the colour of peeled potatoes on the range. Two grand old pots of it, bubbling away for all to see as the boys put dibs on their football shirts.

‘Aren’t you having one?’ the man says. He talks quietly, almost a whisper, so only I can hear.

I shrug. ‘Don’t mind.’

‘Come on, you’ll play a game of football with the rest of the lads, surely?’ He smiles at me and then the master points to the table where the boys are wrestling over the shirts.

‘Join in, Donal,’ he says in that posh voice he has. I do as I’m told, because I don’t want to feel the switch on my backside again.

The boys run about like hooligans – there’s no sense to it at all. I try to reach the ball when it comes near me, but I’m immediately swamped by the mass of boys.

‘Stick in, lads,’ shouts the master.