Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(62)

‘You were supposed to shut up.’

‘I know that, and you know that. But for some reason I ignored the warning, I just carried on as if nothing had happened. In fact, I might even have upped my game a little, started to talk a little too loudly.’

‘How did that play out?’ said Valentine.

‘Pretty much how you’d expect. I saw press stories refuting forensic tests before the lab had even done them. I had witness statements retracted. The machinery was put to work against me.’

‘What were they refuting? What was being hidden?’

‘Everything. You know about Andy Lucas?’

‘You spoke out about his suicide in the papers.’

‘Suicide?’ Rennie spat the word. ‘His neck was broken long before someone arranged for it to go in that noose.’

‘You had evidence?’

‘Of course we did. The skin folds were inconsistent with the angle of the break. The noose only rolled the dead skin on the bone. But none of this was ever reported.’

‘Certainly not after Pollock took over the case.’

‘Started his bloody whitewash you mean.’ Rennie shook his head. ‘What did they get? Four including the master, Healey? There were gangs of them raping boys and we had nigh on sixty boys telling us that.’

‘Only four convictions.’

‘Like I said, a farce. Columba House was a bloody factory supplying those boys on a conveyor belt. They were picked up and passed around like toys, ferried about from hotel to country house . . . It disgusted me. I’ve seen some stuff in this racket, but that really sickened me for life.’

‘Why didn’t you speak out at the time?’ Valentine’s remark sounded like an accusation.

‘How could I by then? Everything they printed in the papers was controlled – it was all run like clockwork. Who’d believe me? Me against the chief constable, against the magistrate and the MPs? It went all the way to the top. They told me that, Bob – the top.’

‘You can talk now.’

‘Do you think the case files even exist now?’

‘You can make a statement, on the record.’

Rennie clamped his teeth shut and exhaled slowly through thinned lips. ‘I did all I could to get those bastards when I was in a position to try. What makes you think anything’s changed?’

‘Times have changed, Den.’

‘No they haven’t. You might think they have because a few big shots have been found out, but that’s all part of the plan, like Healey. Someone has to suffer for the rest to survive. This is going nowhere. Your investigation’s going nowhere, because if it did, we’d have to tear up the world and start again from scratch.’





40

Valentine awoke from disturbing dreams to a reality that seemed every bit as horrific. Clare was gone from his side. She was always an early riser, but he had heard her waken in the small hours and retreat downstairs. At the time, he had thought to follow her, but weary limbs and a heavy head kept him slumped in the bed. He thought again about that now and wondered if he had done the right thing. Like so much else involving his wife, he decided only time would tell.

He rose and showered, got dressed and struggled with the knot of his tie for several minutes. It seemed either too big or too small and never quite attained the optimum balance between opposing ends. For a moment he trialled the idea of giving up, perhaps wearing an open collar, but it didn’t feel right.

In the kitchen, Clare sat at the breakfast bar staring on to the lawn. When he looked out the window her gaze was falling on nothing more than the bird table and the shamefully ignored decking with its dulled varnish. She seemed distant, and he knew why.

‘Morning, love,’ he said.

‘Oh, you’re up. I didn’t see you there.’ Some husbands would have asked what was wrong, prodded her for answers, but that wasn’t Valentine’s way. He knew any answer he received would be forced and far away from the truth. There’d been enough conflict at home recently, and all he wanted was a ceasefire.

‘Coffee?’ said Valentine.

Clare shook her head and put down her cup. ‘This transfer, Bob . . .’

‘Not now, love.’

‘Well when?’

He filled the kettle from the tap. Too much pressure sprayed water on the wall tiles. ‘Soon. I’ve made the request – it’s out of my hands now.’ Valentine tried to make light of the matter, stepping away from the kettle and collecting his mobile phone from the shelf next to the fridge where he always kept it.

He was scrolling through a list of new messages when he felt Clare squeeze past him on her way to the stairs.

‘Clare . . .’

‘I’m going for a shower.’ The words sounded matter of fact, innocent even, but backed with her actions they told Valentine his wife was running out of patience.

The latest message on his phone was from DS McAlister, delivered at close to midnight. Three previous messages were sitting there from McAlister too. The detective was opening the first message when the phone started to ring.

‘Hello, Ally,’ said Valentine.

‘Finally. You’ve been incommunicado.’

‘Hardly. I checked in with the office before I went to bed last night and all was quiet on the western front.’