‘OK, I’ll be at your front door in half an hour.’
‘Eh, no.’ Valentine thought better of the arrangement. ‘Pick me up at the station. I’ll leave my car there. It’ll save me coming out here to get it if I need it later.’
‘Whatever you say.’
He changed the topic. ‘Is there any news this morning, Sylvia?’
‘News, sir?’
‘On the case?’
‘We have the site listing from the SOCOs. It’s very lengthy but also a bit short on detail.’
‘There’s probably a fuller one with pictures on the way. Bring it anyway; I’ll give it the once-over in the car. Anything else?’
‘Not really, too early for calls to be returned yet. Oh, I think Ally spent the night in the basement. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since about midnight when he visited the coffee machine and popped in.’
‘Let’s hope he’s found something worthwhile, as opposed to a lot of nonsense that will drive us to distraction for weeks to come.’
‘Let’s. I’ll see you later, boss.’
‘Oh, before you go, give Davie Purves a call and set up a meeting somewhere that suits him. Probably won’t be Cumnock because he’s one of those ex-cops that don’t like being seen talking to cops.’
‘I was going to do that anyway. Are you saying you want to be there too?’
‘I think so, might be better to afford him some rank. And I might get further playing the old pals act with him.’
‘OK. Incidentally, whilst we’re on the subject of meeting people, I spoke to Crosbie last night. He’s happy to have a chat with you too.’
‘Bloody hell, Sylvia.’
‘I thought you said . . .’
‘Yes, look, you’re probably right. I should speak to him, especially after the night I had.’
Valentine showered and dressed. He knew he had left his shoes downstairs so he could creep into bed without waking Clare but he questioned the logic now. If she was going to be upset about another murder investigation that took him from home, he might have been better facing it promptly and getting it out of the way. Leaving things to fester was never a good idea.
When he got downstairs and walked into the kitchen Clare was sitting at the breakfast bar with a cigarette burning in front of her. She’d made coffee and indicated the pot to him.
‘Thank you, I’d love a cup,’ said Valentine.
Clare poured out the coffee and said the milk was in the fridge. ‘I must have sounded like a right harpy this morning.’
He was relieved her mood had changed. ‘It’s all right. I shouldn’t have brought this up.’ Valentine tapped on the blue folder under his arm then laid it down on the counter as he poured milk into his coffee.
‘I’m sick of you doing this job, Bob.’
‘You’ve made your feelings felt on the issue.’
She picked up her cigarette and inhaled. ‘It can be fine for a time, weeks even. I didn’t mind you working that missing-persons thing, or the burglaries, but my mind works overtime when I see the murder squad coming home with you.’
‘Clare . . .’
‘No, let me finish. You don’t seem to get it, no matter what I say. It’s not about me – it’s about you. You nearly died. You did die for Christ’s sake, and you’re not the same man.’
‘I’m fine now – that was some time ago.’
‘It wasn’t. We nearly lost you for good, Bob. The girls nearly lost a father. How do you think that would be for them growing up without a dad – or for me?’
‘I thought it wasn’t about you?’ It was a silly thing to say, petty, and Valentine regretted it immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You see, you’re on edge already. Think of the stress that puts on your heart, never mind the stress it puts on us.’
Valentine stirred his coffee; the first sip revived his spirits slightly. ‘We’ve been here before. It’s my job. We have commitments – the remortgaging for the extension, Fiona’s going to be off to uni soon – how will we pay for it all?’ He made a conscious effort not to mention Clare’s credit-card debts; her shopping addiction had cost them enough already.
‘There’s other jobs, Bob.’
‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘I could get a job.’ The idea was almost laughable to Valentine. His wife had never worked a day in her life. She had been a proud mother and homemaker, and she’d excelled at both. She had no idea what the world of work took from you.
‘Clare, I don’t want to see you sitting behind a till at bloody Asda.’
‘Is that all you think I’m worth?’
‘No. I mean, be realistic, you’re not qualified . . . why are we even having this conversation? We have it every time I lead a murder investigation.’
Clare stood up and tightened her dressing gown around her waist. The cigarette before her had almost burnt itself out, a long cylinder of grey ash curling down into the tray. She reached over and stubbed it out.
‘OK then, no more. I won’t say another word. But you can deal with the consequences.’