Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(5)

‘Is it far now?’ said DS McCormack.

The sound of a human voice startled Valentine, broke his reverie and forced him to rewire his thinking to find a response. ‘Erm, no, not far now at all.’

‘What about the funeral, where’s that being held?’

‘I’m guessing it’ll probably be in the town. I can’t see it going farther afield. Sandy was on his own at the end.’

‘And what type of a man was he?’ McCormack managed to make her voice sound businesslike.

‘He was a farmer, Sylvia. What does that say about him?’

‘I just meant . . .’

The DI cut in. ‘I know what you meant. He wasn’t known to police, to use the common parlance. I didn’t know him personally. We’d have nodded at each other in the Spar, y’know, but that was about it.’

‘Nothing to indicate he might be involved in this sort of thing then?’

‘What sort of thing? We haven’t even reached the scene yet.’

‘We know there’s a body.’

‘We know it’s mummified too, if Jim’s to be relied upon. But no, I wouldn’t think Sandy Thompson knew much about the dark arts of ancient Egypt. Probably couldn’t find the place on a map.’

‘People bury things in the country, under the cover of darkness – might be nothing to do with him even though it’s on his land.’

Valentine started to slow the car. ‘Yes, in the absence of soon-to-be-cemented motorway flyovers, a nice secluded country spot seems to suit your average murderer with a corpse to dispose of quite nicely.’

The DI brought the car to a halt behind a white police Audi with no one inside. As the detectives got out of the Vectra and peered over the top of a drystone dyke Valentine pointed to the white tent, surrounded by white-suited figures and uniformed officers. ‘Ally and Phil must be inside,’ said Valentine.

‘Must be, sir.’

The DI tried to open a gate that separated the road from the field, but it wouldn’t budge. ‘It’s locked. We’ll just have to shimmy over it.’

‘I can shimmy well enough, boss.’

In the long, wet grass of the field the officers trudged towards the tent. The ground was hard-packed but remained beset by occasional squelchy patches underfoot.

DS McCormack was the first to break the silence. ‘I’m thinking, if Sandy Thompson just died, then how did the farm get sold off so quickly?’

‘Good question. Sandy would never sell whilst he was alive . . . and I heard of a few offers.’

‘So there must be family.’

‘No, there’s not. His wife died years ago, 1980 or something. They never had any kids except for the boy they took in, Garry.’

‘Was he adopted?’

‘I don’t think so. He was fostered for a bit from the boy’s home, Columba House. Look, you can see it over there.’ Valentine raised his arm and extended a finger towards a large grey building on the edge of the low-lying moorland. It looked like it might once have been a hunting lodge but had fallen into disrepair. Large damp patches were exposed beneath the breaks in the seventies roughcasting, some windows had been boarded up and those that hadn’t been covered were smashed or cracked.

‘What a creepy old building.’

‘It was a very strange place. I remember the boys they had there said they were from broken homes. I don’t suppose that’s a phrase we use nowadays.’

‘It doesn’t sound very PC.’

Valentine smirked. ‘I suppose not. They were all quiet kids when they came to the school. Silent some of them, like they were living in terror of authority. In the playground they were totally different – rough as bloody guts they were.’

DS McCormack stopped still. ‘So this Garry, he must have copped for the lot.’

‘The farm? I doubt it. I’m not sure he was that integrated into the Thompson family. He worked the farm for a few years after Sandy went downhill, but it never lasted. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old boy had sold it on the fly to some profiteer on the basis that once he’d popped his clogs they can bring in the bulldozers.’

‘You know how that sounds, boss?’ McCormack hadn’t started to walk again.

‘I do.’ Valentine halted, turning round to face the DS. ‘I do, Sylvia. It sounds like we might need to consider doing a post-mortem on Sandy Thompson, but I’m not keen to march into his funeral today and tell them we’re putting the anchors on their wee ceremony, are you?’

‘Not really, sir.’

‘So let’s see where we are.’ He indicated the white tent. ‘Or more accurately, where Ally and Phil have got to. With any luck there’s a sound explanation for why the contractors are so keen to get started that they couldn’t wait until the day after Sandy’s funeral.’





3

The closer they got to the white tent which had been erected by the SOCOs, the louder the stray canvas straps flapping in the wind sounded. There was a full-height doorway in the tent, a long roll of canvas attached with straps at the top where the noise came from, and inside hung a fly screen. The screen seemed wholly unnecessary to Valentine in this weather, unless its purpose was to keep out the incessant drizzle.

The detectives reached the opening and peered inside. It was Valentine who noticed Chief Superintendent Marion Martin first, but it was McCormack who commented.