A Taste of Ashes (DI Bob Valentine Book 2) (5 page)

‘When I called the police someone had staggered out the house but she was already sitting on the front step screaming and crying. I did see two people, a man and a woman, one was definitely bigger.’

‘You saw a man?’

‘Yes, I saw him coming from the house and going down the street. And it couldn’t have been her man because he was …’ Agnes’s eyes were moistening, her voice croaking and cracking, ‘he was in the kitchen.’

The doctor stood up, frowning, and directed an open hand towards the door. Valentine and McCormack followed his lead.

‘Thank you, Agnes. You’ve been a tremendous help to us.’ Valentine was sure the witness had more to reveal about her neighbour’s death but it was impossible to push her further in her current condition. ‘If you remember anything else please pick up the phone. Tomorrow we’ll pay you another little visit when you’ve had some rest.’

In the corridor Valentine tried to make sense of the new information but he knew it only raised more questions. If she had recognised the man, or been able to identify someone, then that would have been helpful. As it was, all the DI now had was another suspect to add to the list.

DS McCormack was putting away her notebook and zipping up her bag as the DI met her at the door. Her expression indicated that she had already moved beyond the significance of the witness statement.

‘Sir, can I ask just one question?’

‘Sure. Fire away.’

‘Who the hell were you nodding to when you went in the room?’

Valentine didn’t reply.

On the road back to Ayr Valentine tapped the window sill with his fingertips and waited for DS McCormack to begin her cross-examination. It was something she did well, not in the professional sense, but through her ability to make others reveal secrets they might prefer to keep to themselves. Valentine’s mother had been the same, his father had called her an
accomplished ear lender
for her skill in making others talk their problems away to her. He envied that of his father – how much easier would his own life be with a wife more like his mother? It was nonsense, of course. He was married to Clare, she had supported him in more ways than he was able to tally, and she had given him the girls – the true wonder of his life.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

‘You do?’

Valentine pulled his hand away from the window. ‘You think I’m hiding something, like I did on the Janie Cooper case.’

Some cases were repeated in conversation among officers and others were stoppered in the past. The missing schoolgirl was one of those cases that no one mentioned. Until now, the DI and the DS had never even tried to talk about it.

‘Oh, we’re back there are we?’ said McCormack.

‘I’d sooner not be.’

‘Am I to assume that you’re there whether you want to be or not?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK. That tells me all I need to know. How long have you felt like this?’

‘I never said I felt like anything, Sylvia.’

‘You didn’t need to. It’s burning out of you, and yes, like it was on the Cooper case.’

Valentine reached for the window button, let some air in. ‘It’s hot in here.’

‘I know what that case did to you, Bob. I saw it, you let it get out of hand and I told you that at the time. If you’re in the same place again, you need to do something about it.’

The detective nearly laughed, but produced a guttural throat clearing. ‘Right …’

It had started with nightmares on the Cooper case. Sweat-soaked nights when he would wake trembling and vaguely terrified from the sight of something he couldn’t explain. It didn’t feel like a dream, more a glimpse of a time or place that existed elsewhere. He had put it down to his temperament – this was his first case after the stabbing – he didn’t know how to adjust to life again. He was weakened, in body and spirit, unsure of who he was. But the nightmares were just his resting mind playing this out, surely. And then they started to appear in the waking world.

‘And what would you recommend I do, ask the chief super to reinstate my visits to the shrink?’ said Valentine.

‘No. I don’t think a police psychologist is remotely qualified to deal with your problem, sir.’

Now he did laugh, though he found nothing she said funny. ‘It would be the psychologist with the heart problems by the end of it.’

Valentine hadn’t told DS McCormack that the nightmares and visions from the Cooper case had never ended. He tried to get used to them, let them become a part of his new reality in the hope that they would stop. But they never did. He learnt to live with the occasional unease that he wasn’t quite as firmly settled in the real world as others but his heightened senses made this difficult.

‘What happened back there at the hospital?’ said McCormack.

Even though he knew the question was coming it still jolted him. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on. I saw your face.’

There was no point in misleading the DS, she had experience of dealing with people in Valentine’s situation from past cases. Any of the others on the squad, or even Clare, wouldn’t know what to say and would judge him accordingly. But McCormack was different.

‘OK. I saw a man,’ said Valentine.

‘What? In the room?’

‘In the room with us. A little old man, in a brown tweed suit.’

‘And you didn’t think that was strange?’

‘I thought it was Mrs Gilchrist’s husband at first.’

‘At first?’

‘Yes. I saw him sitting there, he got up, nodded to me and then when I looked again he was gone.’

DS McCormack held the wheel straight as the car crossed yellow chevrons leading up to the roundabout. She passed an open junction and accelerated beyond a grey saloon before speaking again. ‘I knew it.’

‘Knew what?’

‘When we had the parapsychologist in Glasgow, that time I told you about with the missing persons, I got quite taken with the whole subject, kind of immersed myself in it.’

‘You said.’

‘Well, the psychic told me that when people are dying, or about to die, preparing to die, that’s when the passed souls gather. The spirits of those they once knew surround them.’

The suggestion unsettled Valentine; it wasn’t an explanation he wanted to believe in. ‘You see, this is just the kind of thing I have trouble with, Sylvia.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No. Neither do I. That’s exactly it. I don’t buy into it because this is precisely the kind of thing that any old crank can make up.’

She pinched her cheeks, her reply came with a flat delivery. ‘You mean because it’s not taken from a textbook or a manual it’s irrelevant. I know what you mean, I had that problem too but you need to realise this isn’t car maintenance or police procedure, all you know goes right out the door. It’s what you feel that matters.’ She glanced sideways. ‘What do you feel, Bob?’

‘Honestly? I feel like I’m being messed with.’

‘Well, welcome to my world. We all feel like that.’

‘Not in this way. I need to be on my game, this is a murder hunt, Sylvia. I can’t collate the facts surrounding the taking of a life when I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.’

They’d reached the turn-off for Ayr. The blinkers flashed on the wet tarmac as the car decelerated. ‘I think I know a way to help. If you’ll let me.’

The offer was made once before and Valentine rejected it. This time, however, he knew there may not be another offer. The Cooper case still lingered in memory too, he couldn’t go through another bout like that. If it was happening again, he needed to do something. There was no running away, ignoring it wasn’t possible and the clumsy approach he’d adopted the last time nearly killed him. So was he scared? Yes, but not to face it, only to accept it because that meant it was real.

‘I don’t know, Sylvia. I have to think about this.’

‘OK, but don’t take too long. Thinking’s rarely the answer, Bob. Someone once told me that.’

DI Bob Valentine sat in his car on the edge of Barns Street and watched DS McCormack begin a three-point turn in the road. It was a wide street, one of Ayr’s more expansive Georgian terraces that had once been filled with comfortable family homes, but was now replaced by dentist surgeries, lawyers’ offices and the occasional surveyors. The DS struggled with the simple manoeuvre and eventually stopped with the car blocking one side of the road. Was she all right? For a moment Valentine contemplated going over, then he noticed her lips moving and knew she must have taken a call. It was brief, and when she was finished the reverse lights lit up.

The DI was lowering his window as she drew up next to him. ‘What’s up, Sylvia?’

‘That was Ally, the station just took a call from Crosshouse.’

Before she relayed the news Valentine already guessed what it must be. ‘Agnes Gilchrist?’

‘She just passed away.’

He hit the heel of his hand off the steering wheel. ‘Damn it.’

‘I’m sure her family’s less than pleased, too.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’

‘I know.’ McCormack put her car in gear; it was late, time to be home. ‘She’s in safe hands now, Bob.’

Valentine lifted his gaze in time to see the knowing frown on the DS’s face as she drove off. ‘Passed souls gather round a deathbed, eh, Sylvia.’ He was sure McCormack would have more to say on the matter. She would only mention the subject again when he was ready, though. It was up to him if he wanted to accept her offer of help. That he needed help was hardly under question, but accepting there was even an issue would have to be surmounted first.

On the way to Masonhill the detective’s thoughts turned to his arrival in the family home. The knowledge that he had missed his daughter’s stage debut coincided with an irritation in the lining of his gut. Too much vending-machine coffee? The pre-packaged sandwiches? It might have been either but he suspected the reflux was psychosomatic.

It was late, the girls would be in bed. Clare was likely to be in her bed too, but she wouldn’t be asleep. She didn’t sleep when he was working late. She propped herself up on cushions, a book on show but not being read, and rehearsed her recriminations.

As Valentine pulled into the drive he noticed a light burning in the new extension. For years Clare had campaigned for extra space but it had taken his father’s decline in health to turn the wish to a necessity. Four months had passed since the building work finished but the DI still wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. Clare was happy to have a bigger home, had delighted in being able to match their neighbours for once, but the place had changed. The combination of having his father home and the girls growing up made Clare introspective and it worried Valentine.

The hallway sat in darkness, only a little light seeping through from the kitchen at the back of the house. He was used to coming home to silence, of having to remove his shoes so as not to wake the girls and to give Clare a chance to go to sleep now he was home. He followed the light to the kitchen and on to his father’s room where he tapped the door frame.

‘Hello, Dad.’

‘Oh, hello. I thought you were on an all-nighter.’

‘No. Done as much as I can.’

His father sat in front of him with a cup of tea. ‘Kettle’s still warm, want a drink?’

‘No, I’m OK.’ He moved into the room, pulled out a chair. ‘How was Chloe?’

‘She was amazing!’ His father’s heavy eyes widened as he spoke.

‘Really, she was that good?’

‘Oh, yes. A star is born.’ He picked up his cup, plugged his mouth. When he spoke again, the subject had changed. ‘It must have been serious them dragging you away like that.’

‘About as serious as it gets.’

‘I don’t know what this town is coming to, I’m just glad your mother isn’t around to see it. Mind you, it’s the girls I worry about.’ He raised the cup again.

‘How was Clare, you know, about me leaving in a hurry?’

‘She was fine.’

‘I doubt that, Dad.’

‘Well, she gets a little worked up now and again, but it’s just because she cares. She wants the family together, wants you to see more of the girls, you can’t blame her for that.’

‘No. I can’t blame her for that.’

Since he had moved in, his father had become like a resident counsellor, listening to everyone’s concerns and making sure each party considered them. Valentine didn’t object because his father had already saved his marriage once and he hoped the experience might confer some wisdom on him. There were times when so many competing challenges assailed his mind that clear thought became impossible. The job took priority and family suffered, most of the time. His father would never get into that situation, and he envied and admired that.

‘Still, who am I to tell you how to run your life? I’m just a house guest.’

‘You’re family, Dad.’

‘No. Clare and the girls are your family.’

‘Don’t let Clare hear you say that, her days revolve around getting the lot of us to sit down to dinner together.’

‘She’s a nest builder.’

The term lodged itself with his current thoughts, it wasn’t welcome, made him think he might be the very opposite. By looking out for other families, had he neglected his own? Surely a father’s priorities should stop at his front door, didn’t everyone else’s? ‘I really should get to bed now.’

‘You get some sleep, son.’

Clare turned the light out and faced the wall as Valentine entered the bedroom. He undressed in the dark, as noiselessly as possible, though not without stubbing a toe on the dresser.

‘Christ above.’

‘You’ll wake the house,’ said Clare.

‘What if I’ve broken my toe?’

‘You’ll be driving yourself to hospital.’

He sat on the bed, rubbing his toe. ‘I’m just back from there.’

‘What?’ Clare turned round.

‘Not for me, for work.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

‘You mean you don’t want me to worry about you. My husband with his damaged heart, who nearly died on the job, who leaves his family to run to the latest crime scene.’