Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(57)

‘Have you been talking to Ally?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason.’ Valentine put the driver’s window down a few inches. ‘Just me being paranoid.’

‘I take it something happened at the Stevensons’ place?’

Valentine stared out the window at a man with a dog.

McCormack spoke again. ‘I’ll take that as a yes then. It wasn’t like our visit to Janie Cooper’s parents, was it?’

The lights changed. The DI was grateful for the opportunity to avoid the conversation.

As he put the car in gear and pulled out McCormack pressed him. ‘Well, boss?’

‘No, Sylvia. There was no threat from Ally to call an ambulance if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘I sense a but . . . there’s a but coming, isn’t there?’

‘But it was a similar scenario.’

‘You saw him? Rory.’

They’d crossed the junction and were heading down Racecourse Road in a slow procession. The man walking the dog had made further progress than the officers in the car.

‘It wasn’t the same. The Cooper girl was like a shock, a jolt. I didn’t feel that way this time.’

‘Well, how did you feel?’

‘Perfectly calm. That was until . . .’

‘Yes?’

The car started to move again. They pulled up outside the address Valentine had attended previously. ‘This is it, isn’t it?’

‘You know it is, Bob. Tell me what happened.’

He cut the engine but continued to hold tightly to the steering wheel and the gearstick. ‘The next day, Marie, the boy’s mother, she said she knew.’

‘Holy . . . you mean she saw?’

Valentine shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sensed maybe. She told me so.’

‘She just came out with it?’

‘More or less. I think it was a comfort to her, like she felt something. I don’t know, Sylvia, I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that this is happening to me. It’s too much to process without trying to think of the fact that I’m not alone – that there’s others who can tune in to this stuff.’

‘Crosbie said it was very common, that to a greater or lesser degree we could all do it.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes.’ McCormack followed Valentine out of the car. On the pavement they continued to talk. ‘I see a big change in you, sir. You’re getting to grips with this now.’

‘How do you know I’m not just getting good at hiding it?’

‘I’m trained to catch liars, that’s why.’

‘Maybe I’m better than you think.’

‘Maybe you’re better than you think.’

The detectives stalled outside the large Victorian sandstone, staring up at the bay window where they had watched Keirns the first night they’d attended. It seemed some distance from the gated driveway and lawns attached to the property. As they drew nearer to the house, Valentine saw the front door was open, and he could hear voices inside.

‘At least someone’s home,’ he said.

As he passed the Range Rover, he noticed the rear door of the vehicle had been pulled wide. A small weekend bag sat in the hollow interior, with what looked like a gun carrier down the side.

‘Hang on,’ said Valentine.

‘What is it?’

He reached into the vehicle and removed the gun case. As he unzipped the front end, a rifle point protruded.

‘Careful now,’ shouted a voice from the steps. It was Fallon. He was dressed for the outdoors in green wellingtons and dark corduroys; a wax jacket sat over a red V-neck and driving gloves covered his hands.

‘It’s not loaded,’ said Valentine.

‘Of course not.’ Fallon descended the steps and threw his jacket in the back of the vehicle. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit from the police.’

‘How do you know we’re police?’ said Valentine.

Fallon grinned. ‘Who else would stand and look at a brand-new Browning as if it was guilty of a heinous crime. I have a licence, you know, just getting ready for the Glorious Twelfth!’

‘I’m not here to inspect your licence.’ The detectives introduced themselves and were directed inside by the owner of the property. In the hallway, by a winding baluster rail, Fallon shouted to some boisterous dogs beyond a door, ‘Let them run out the back, we have some visitors.’

‘We won’t take up much of your time, Mr Fallon.’

‘It’s perfectly all right – my wife will calm the dogs down. They get excited at the sight of the boots – think we’re going out.’

Fallon led the officers into a long lounge room. At one end, full-length chintz curtains hung either side of a large bay window that took in the view of the garden and gates. In the middle, a white mantle supported an ornamental clock that was flanked by silver candlesticks. There was a broad picture opposite in a gilt frame, portraying a scene of men in red hunting jackets riding horseback over a green countryside. A long table at the other end of the room was covered with a messy pile of newspapers that looked out of place in the pristine home.

‘Can I offer you a drink, officers?’ said Fallon.

‘That won’t be necessary.’