They proceeded to the tent and peered through the open door. It was lighter inside than on the last visit, the brighter skies and sunshine helping, but much of what passed for official business had already been undertaken.
‘Hello there, Bob.’ A small, white mask was pulled down to reveal a greying goatee beard and a prominent smile.
‘Bernie, how’s the clean-up going?’
‘We’ve got pretty much the lot, just taking some soil readings but they won’t be over analysed. It’s clear the scene of crime hasn’t moved in the thirty-odd years we’re looking at now.’
‘You mean the oil drum’s been in the ground the whole time?’
‘That’s what the oxidation would suggest. The pH levels on the soil are consistent, and there’s no sign of foreign bodies or secondary intrusion. It’d be my guess the boys have rested here, if not in peace, certainly undisturbed for the whole time.’
‘We’re getting the barrel looked at too,’ said Valentine. ‘In case it can tell us anything.’
The scenes of crime officer started to mop his brow and headed for the door. ‘Probably wise, if a long shot. Let’s grab some air, eh.’
‘Sure.’
‘I wouldn’t hold out too many hopes on the oil drum. It’s ICI – you realise that’s like trying to pin down a can of Pepsi!’
‘Really, that common?’
‘From that period, yes. They were utilised a lot agriculturally as well. I grew up on a farm, and I can remember them coming and going all the time. We used them for rafting and on the floats at the local parade – it was probably just what came to hand on this occasion too.’
‘It certainly fitted its use. Almost tailor-made for those two wee boys.’
The conversation trailed off, neither man appearing inclined to continue with the topic. There was nothing that could be said that would help the situation – or the boys. ‘How long are you planning to camp out here, Bernie?’
‘We’re just about done.’
Valentine looked around the crime scene; the path he’d come stretched through a field all the way to a drystone dyke at the road. To the west was the farmhouse, looking depressed and abandoned, its windows shuttered and the front door crudely planked over. Eastwards lay the heavily scarred tracks of the excavator, a stationary JCB digger and a partially laid road cavity. Further to the east were a number of concrete pipeworks, manhole coverings and a neatly stacked row of culvert drainage beds. The group of men in high-visibility overalls and hard hats seemed motionless, merely watching the goings of the officers at the farmyard.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to hang fire, Bernie,’ said the DI.
‘Why’s that?’
Valentine pointed towards the decrepit farmhouse. ‘I want your team to give the interior of that place the once-over. I say once-over, what I really mean is I want everything pulled up and looked at, including the floorboards.’
‘Fair enough. Better hearing this now I suppose than when we’re all off site. Can I ask what you’re looking for in particular?’
‘Whatever you can pick up. One of the boys was bludgeoned, so a murder weapon of the blunt-instrument variety would be an enormous help. The other was strangled. Anything that could be used as a ligature would likewise be a good find.’
The SOCO looked doubtful. ‘You’re the boss, Bob.’
‘I know that thirty-two years down the track it’s a bloody long shot, but I’m not in a position to disregard the long odds on this one.’
‘I understand. But do you understand that thirty-two years is a long time for site contamination to build up? The chances of us finding anything are slim, and the chances of a court admitting any random finds are precisely nil.’
‘Those two boys were killed somewhere. If it was in there, maybe we’ll find a trace of it. If it’s an inadmissible trace so be it. Maybe it will point us to something that’s more helpful.’
Valentine made for the excavator tracks and the gathering of workers; the beginnings of the new road had halted almost directly between the farmhouse and the bourne of the Columba House estate. Neither building looked thankful for the intrusion.
‘Who’s the gaffer?’ said Valentine. The workers seemed to be preoccupied with their boots and the Daily Mirror; no one answered.
‘Like that, is it?’ said the DI.
A man in a denim shirt stepped away from the group. ‘We’ve been warned not to talk to the cops, mate.’
‘That right?’
He shrugged. An inverted grin appeared in the middle of his heavy, red beard. ‘Sorry. If you go down to the foot of the brae you’ll maybe have better luck.’
Valentine nodded in the direction the man indicated. ‘Towards the Jag?’
‘Aye. That’s the man you want.’
‘Is that Gowan?’
‘You’ll get Freddie Gowan and the site manager down there, maybe even catch the foreman if he’s not been sent out for the tea.’
Valentine thanked the worker and proceeded down the easy slope of the hill towards the burgundy Jaguar. As he got closer, two men came into focus. They were leaning over the bonnet of the car, examining what looked like a site map.