Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(53)

Colleen folded her jacket over her arm and collected her bag from the desk. She was heading for the door when she spoke again. ‘Right, hope none of you have any plans. This is going to be our war room for the next twenty-four hours . . . maybe longer.’





34

Wind chimes played in the breeze from one of the balconies of the luxury apartments. This part of the town, on the other side of the dock, had once been a wasteland. The only feature was a windswept and lonely fisherman’s mission, but the building had been demolished long ago. It was debatable whether or not the gentrification process had improved the area or added anything to the coast other than the shelter of high-rise flats.

Valentine would occasionally stroll the streets around the station and down towards the shore front when the job conspired against him. It was easy to feel trapped inside the building after only a short time, and he’d just worked to the small hours and returned at first light. He needed to break away from the punishing constraints of the case and the now added pressure of unwanted media intrusion.

Sea birds circled overhead, squawking and sweeping down towards the low green to forage for abandoned chips, half-finished cones or whatever they could spy. The wind was low. A slight squall out at sea flushed the waves in steadily but slowly. The breezy sounds were soothing to the DI, who braced himself against a smirr of rain as he walked along the promenade.

He liked the elemental feel of the front, the touch of wind and rain on his face and the swirling, enveloping noise of the coast. He would often watch the sand moving on the dunes and feel his thoughts shifting with the seagrass. He had arrived here in a gloomy mood, the thought of how precious life was and how easily it was taken away uppermost. He thought of the two boys who had been murdered, and he weighed their loss against his own losses in life. There was no comparison.

Valentine had lived. He had had a life, and even if it had once come close to an abrupt ending with his near-fatal stabbing, he had held on to it. He wouldn’t have missed anything if he had died, he thought. He’d lived his childhood, and almost all of his daughters’ too. That would be his only regret if he was to shuffle off early: that his family would suffer.

But it gored Valentine to think of those two young lives, taken so early, before they had even had the chance to experience the world. Even if it was a dark place much of the time, it was still theirs too, and no one had the right to take that gift from them.

The DI sauntered back to the station, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoes pinching now with each heavy and tired step. When he opened the doors and walked in, his normal procedure was to address the desk, but on this occasion his attention was drawn in the opposite direction.

Sitting in a row of low-slung seats across from the counter were the Stevensons. Colin and Marie looked dressed for church, neat and prim. The DI knew it was just how they were – it was old school conditioning. In their eyes this was an occasion. It was a life event, even if it meant their only son would not be seen again.

‘Hello there,’ said Valentine.

Colin Stevenson rose from the seat and reached for the detective’s hand. His wife remained silent and inscrutable.

The detective was about to lead them to the station’s comfort room when DS McAlister appeared from the stairs with a blue folder under his arm. McAlister approached the group and addressed Valentine. ‘This is the catalogue and the enlargements.’

‘Thanks, Ally. I’ll take it from here.’

The DI indicated the route through the swing doors to the right and proceeded to direct the Stevensons to a mid-sized room with cushioned chairs and a large coffee table; a small sink with cups in the drainer and a kettle sat nearby.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ said Valentine.

‘No, we’re fine,’ said Colin.

‘Have you seen the newspapers today?’

‘The papers? No. Why do you ask?’

Valentine pointed to the seating area. ‘The case has attracted some attention. I dare say, in due course, they’ll seek you out.’

‘What would we have to say to the press?’

‘You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.’

The couple crossed glances and Colin reached out to touch his wife on the elbow. ‘Actually, can I nip to the loo, if you don’t mind?’

She nodded and her husband left for the other end of the room where the toilets were signposted. The DI felt uncomfortable with the silent woman and realised he had yet to hear her say anything significant.

For a few moments, the room was completely still; it felt almost airless to Valentine, and then Marie Stevenson spoke.

‘He’s still with me,’ she said.

Valentine was confused. Who was she talking about? ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Rory. He leaves me little signs.’

The DI smiled, as if that might be the end of the conversation.

‘All the time,’ said Marie. ‘I didn’t understand them at first, and then I saw a woman. She was sensitive, had a look in her eyes you might call knowing.’

‘I see.’ The DI walked over and sat down.

‘I know I don’t need to tell you, Mr Valentine.’

‘You don’t?’

Marie reached forward and gripped the detective’s hand. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘At first it was the pictures on the walls. They moved you know. Then the lights would flicker. But it was the dish rattling that made me understand.’