Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(65)

‘That would be one way of finding justice.’

‘Unfortunately, in our business, Ally, we’re expected to take a dim view of mob justice.’

They headed for the stairs. On the way out of the station a couple of photographers that had decamped to the rear entrance fired off a few shots in the officers’ direction. As the car sped towards the middle of town, one photographer stood staring at the small screen on the back of the camera. Neither man looked pleased with their haul.

Donnelly brought the car to a halt at the foot of the Sandgate, where the traffic had snagged up. As the officers sat at the lights, just shy of the bridge, the radio controller’s voice croaked into earshot.

‘Looks like a trainload more for the protest just in. Marching towards Miller Road now.’

‘They must be advertising this,’ said Valentine.

‘It’s on Facebook, sir,’ said McAlister, poring over his iPhone.

‘Christ, so is my daughter. I hope she doesn’t get any ideas.’

‘Quite a few already have, sir. There’s anti-capitalists jumping on the bandwagon now.’

‘Wait until rent-a-mob finds out Fallon’s one of the country types. We’ll have the hunt saboteurs next.’

The traffic eased and Donnelly flashed lights to keep a bus driver from pulling out in front of them. The rest of the journey was a stop-start process all the way to Racecourse Road, where a newly erected police cordon indicated a diversion was in progress. The uniformed officers on the cordon waved Donnelly through, towards the growing crowd that had spilled on to the road.

‘This is mental,’ said Valentine.

‘Democracy in action, sir,’ replied McAlister.

‘Ally, Fallon’s not even an elected member any more.’

‘I don’t think it matters. They’re pissed off with the system, and he’s a symbol of it.’

Valentine reluctantly conceded the point and ordered the others from the car. Outside Fallon’s house a uniformed sergeant approached. ‘Are you the backup?’ he said.

‘Do we look like the bloody riot squad?’ said Donnelly. The sight of more police on the scene provoked some rowdy chanting.

‘We can’t secure the boundary any longer. They’re spilling into the garden,’ said the sergeant.

‘It’s only going to get worse when the next trainload get here,’ said McAlister.

‘There’s more on the way?’

‘Afraid so, on Miller Road already.’

‘This is a bloody disaster waiting to happen.’ The sergeant reached for his radio. ‘We’re going to need all hands to the pump now. And they’ll probably have to throw in the canteen staff as well.’

‘Scum. Scum. Scum.’ The chanting rounded on the officers.

‘Right, we’re going in,’ said Valentine. ‘Ally, get round the back door and stay there. Nobody in or out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, Phil, we’re going in the front. Or should I say, I am. You’re on the door once I’m inside.’

‘I get all the good jobs.’

The DI patted his shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. The cavalry’s on the way.’

The team pressed themselves into the crowd and were swallowed up by the swaying mass of bodies. At the main entrance gate two uniformed officers tried to hold back the crowd as the detectives squeezed themselves into the grounds.

Once over the boundary, Valentine had a strange feeling of weightlessness as he lunged into the open space. McAlister and Donnelly appeared directly behind him, brushing themselves down.

‘Right, you have your orders.’

As they ran for the building, the DI looked for signs of movement beyond the windows. The curtains were drawn in the lounge downstairs, but the lights appeared to be burning in many of the other rooms. The place looked quiet, unlived in. He wondered if anyone was home.

‘Remember, no heroics, Phil,’ Valentine said as he reached for the door.

‘You too, sir.’

The DI rushed the steps and the front door, closing it behind him. Inside was silent, the main ceiling light and wall lamps all shining to indicate an occupier, but there was no one visible in any direction.

Valentine checked the first door ahead of him. It opened to a large kitchen whose only occupant was a lazy-looking black Lab, curled in a basket by an Aga stove.

‘Hello,’ said the DI.

There was no reply; the Lab buried its nose in the basket and resumed insouciance.

The DI closed the door and returned to the hallway. The house was quiet, in contrast to the hubbub raging outside; it didn’t feel like the same place he had visited earlier. There was a different atmosphere, a stillness that seemed out of place. As he started to walk for the main living room where he had interviewed Fallon, the DI felt his face and hands growing cold, as if he had just walked outside in the depths of winter. He halted. The stillness intensified now, became more like a solid presence that summoned him. As he turned around to face the source Valentine connected at once with the image of a small boy.

Rory Stevenson’s pale impression stood at the opposite end of the hallway staring into Valentine’s eyes. The boy was motionless – not even an indication of the light flickered in his still gaze.

Valentine’s body temperature returned to normal. He felt no fear, only a mute anguish that he knew originated outside of him. As he started to walk towards the boy, the image altered and turned to face the opposite direction. The detective was following him now, down the broad and silent hallway towards another door, where the small boy’s image disappeared beyond.