Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(43)

‘OK, it’s Item Twelve I want to draw your attention to.’

Valentine ran his finger down the index. ‘The bookie’s pen. Small red one.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Well, what about it?’

‘That was found in one of the boys’ pockets, the older one. It’s a stretch, but if we can tie in the batch numbers then we have a definite link to the boys and the farmhouse.’

‘You found another bookie’s pen?’

‘Bob, we found a bag of them. Must be about fifty in there. They were stuffed away under the boards.’

‘Print them, Mike. And run anything you find alongside Garry Keirns’s prints that we have on record. If we can establish a link, we might have the bastard.’

Valentine put down the telephone and calmly tapped his thumbnail on the back of his lips. It was a pose he often adopted when he was in deep thought. For a moment, he wondered about running through to tell the squad, but his mind drifted into a higher place.

As he closed his eyes, Valentine saw Rory Stevenson with another boy. They were in a Cumnock street playing football. At either side of the road the boys lobbed the ball towards each other until one struck the kerb and the ball bounced back over the road.

The boys yelled out, but Valentine couldn’t hear their words – everything was muffled. The light started to take on a strange quality, and soon he seemed to be viewing the boys down a telescope. They walked away, one with the ball under his arm and the other showing him something small that he’d removed from his pocket.

They talked excitedly, but their words were a mystery to Valentine. Only the sight of the little penknife being admired by Rory seemed to speak to him. It was the knife the DI had seen on the list of evidence reclaimed from the barrel.

Valentine opened his eyes and reached for the list, scanning the index once again. It was there – two places below the bookie’s pen was a penknife with the same bookie’s name on it: Carson’s.

The PC pinged, alerting Valentine to the incoming email. He opened up the picture right away and stared at the screen. He couldn’t properly absorb what he was seeing. The shot was contorted, positioned at an unnatural angle, but there was enough to make out the prominent features. He clicked on print to send the file to the colour printer in the incident room.

On his way out the door Valentine rallied the team. ‘Right, Sylvia, you’re back. Can I have the rest of you round the board directly please?’

There was the immediate sound of castors scraping on the floor, accompanied by a murmur of low voices as the squad gravitated towards the middle of the room. When Valentine retrieved the photographic print he held it away from himself to better view the whole picture. It was worse than he imagined.

‘Right, Sylvia, what’s the SP on this Blairgowan mob?’ said the DI.

DS McCormack approached the front of the small gathering and crossed her arms. She leaned against the wall as she began to speak. ‘The man who has been of most interest to us is Freddie Gowan so far. I’ll come to his partner Pete Blair in a moment.’

‘Have you pulled records, Sylvia?’ said Valentine.

‘Yes, boss. Both clear. Gowan is a pretty heavy-footed driver but then, well, you’ve seen his motor.’

The group emitted a low titter.

DS McCormack continued, ‘Gowan’s Glasgow born and bred, and as far as I can ascertain – and I think I’ve been very rigorous – this is his first job in Ayrshire, certainly his first major project here under Blairgowan.’

‘And the other bloke?’ said Valentine.

‘Yes, Pete Blair’s an interesting character. He’s basically an accountant, made a lot of money by the looks of things and likes to spread it around. He’s a silent partner though, so isn’t actively involved in the day-to-day running, which he leaves to Gowan.’

‘What other lines is he in?’

‘You name it, really. He’s got a chain of pound stores and substantial interests in more than a few golf courses. But again no Ayrshire connections. I don’t think he’s even visited the site in Cumnock.’

‘I’m finding it hard to see them in the frame,’ said DS Donnelly.

‘Me too, Phil,’ said McCormack. ‘And that’s where I am with it. They’re both legit, and Blairgowan’s a profitable business with its taxes all up to date. In this day and age, that’s a rarity surely.’

Valentine approached the board, holding the photograph to his chest. ‘I won’t change my initial opinion of Freddie Gowan,’ he said. ‘I still think he’s a cowboy, but if we banged up every builder that was overambitious who’d have put my new kitchen in?’

Abrupt laughter burst through the gathering. ‘Right, and to change the mood entirely,’ said Valentine, pinning up the new photograph, ‘take a very close look at this, and my apologies for the bluntness of the content.’

‘God, do we have to look?’ said McCormack.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Valentine. ‘But I’m afraid this is what we’re dealing with. Please take a moment to think about the kind of beast we’re after.’





28

The photograph that Valentine had pinned on the whiteboard was positioned higher than the other scenes of crime shots. It loomed over the pathology pictures of the mummified corpses of the boys and was higher than the horrific first find of the open barrel.