13
‘I didn’t know you could still find places like this,’ said DS McCormack.
‘They’re there – you’re just not looking hard enough,’ said Valentine, unfastening his jacket buttons as they approached the bar.
The last time they’d visited there had been an old rockabilly behind the bar; Valentine remembered the swallow tattoo on the man’s hand and the Brylcreemed hair. He had an eye for distinguishing features that he’d honed over the years.
Their server today was an elderly woman in a pink tabard. Her white hair was permed into corkscrews, a look that couldn’t have changed for decades. She wore a dirty pair of tartan slippers behind the bar and had an NHS-issue walking stick leaning against the till. Valentine found her presence soothing in its familiarity, and the mood of the bar was relaxing in its complete lack of pretension.
‘I do tend to shy away from working men’s clubs,’ said McCormack. ‘Could be because I’m a woman and not a relic of the days of yore.’
‘It’s probably that you’re from Glasgow. There’s precious little industry left on either bank of the Clyde.’
‘What’s the phrase? You can credit Thatcher for bringing salmon back to the River Clyde.’
Valentine smiled. ‘That’s the first positive thing I’ve ever heard credited to that woman.’
‘Careful, your Cumnock’s showing.’
The DI ordered two Cokes. They came in cans accompanied by empty glasses.
‘Can I have some ice please?’ said McCormack.
The old woman rolled her eyes as she returned to the bar to retrieve an ice bucket. Valentine and McCormack smiled together, the DS muttering, ‘I’m so extravagant.’
They chose a table at the front of the pub, beside a window with yellowing net curtains. Valentine picked up a beer mat and started sweeping stray crisp crumbs on to the floor. ‘Why did you pick this place, Sylvia?’
‘I didn’t. It’s Crosbie’s local.’ She looked at her watch. ‘He should be here in ten minutes.’
Valentine’s gaze wandered around the tired room. ‘I can hardly believe you’ve got me into this again. We have a murder investigation underway you know.’
‘Sir, I think this is important. And he did help you the last time.’
Valentine mockingly glanced over his shoulder, pretending to shiver. ‘I wonder what spirits surround me today?’
The DS started to pour her drink into the glass, the black liquid fizzing over the ice. ‘You said something about having a bad night . . .’
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘Was it like before, on the other cases?’
‘It’s hard to tell; it was very confused. Images mainly. That’s what Crosbie said last time, that I needed to learn to interpret their messages.’
‘Whose messages? The people in the dreams?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘I told him about your stomach pains and the sore head. He said that’s very common.’
‘Did he?’ Valentine was surprised – the pain felt very particular to him. He couldn’t imagine an outbreak occurring any time soon.
‘He said the pains were a response to your questioning mind – you got the answers you asked for.’
Valentine stared at his drink. It seemed a better option than directing his attention to the DS. ‘I suppose that makes a sort of sense. On both occasions, the stomach and the head pains, I was looking for the cause of death.’
‘And on both occasions the answer was uncannily accurate.’
Valentine didn’t reply. It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with McCormack, he just felt that any such conversation should be held with a dose of mockery thrown in.
The conversation waned. Both officers checked their watches again. An awkward silence started to stretch out.
‘Look, tell me if I’m being out of order, boss, but I heard what your wife said to you this morning.’
Valentine looked up. ‘On the phone?’
‘The bit about Arran, about us spending the night together.’
‘You heard that, did you?’
McCormack nodded.
‘I’m sorry about that. Clare has a strange way of expressing herself sometimes.’
‘She sounded serious enough.’
‘Well, she wasn’t, trust me. If she believed that she’d already have gone.’
‘Already?’
Valentine slumped back in his chair, his shoulders deflated. ‘She wants me to ask for a transfer, off the murder squad. Says she’s leaving me this time if I don’t.’
McCormack flustered. Her eyelids seemed to close for longer than they should as she composed herself. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.’
‘Why? It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘But if she thinks we slept together . . .’
‘Sylvia, that’s just her bad streak. No, wait, I don’t mean that. Clare has the biggest heart I know, she’s a very sensitive woman, and when she feels threatened she sometimes overreacts, do you understand?’