‘Who?’
‘The psychic, spiritualist bloke that Colin Baxter – the precognitive – put us in contact with before. He might have some insight.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’ Valentine put the key in the ignition and reached for his seat belt.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know whether he was a help or a hindrance the last time. There’s some things you’re better off not knowing about.’
‘That sounds like denial to me. Aren’t you getting dangerously close to burying your head in the sand?’
He paused. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.’
‘OK, but don’t come crying to me when you’re toppled over with stomach pain again, or worse, maybe headaches from a victim of a shotgun blast!’ McCormack kicked her bag into the footwell.
As Valentine started the engine the radio came to life. The voice of Jim Prentice on the control desk sounded stressed, directing officers to a rural location.
‘I know that place,’ said Valentine.
‘Sounds like a farm.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. Ardinsh Farm – it’s out Cumnock way.’
‘They’re talking about getting the SOCOs – must be a new crime scene.’
Valentine reached for the radio and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Jim, it’s Bob Valentine. What’s the story with Ardinsh Farm?’
There was a gap on the line and then the desk sergeant replied, ‘If you stayed away from that Krispy Kreme in Braehead you might be able to hear what’s going over the radio, Bob.’
‘You’ve spoiled the surprise. I have a dirty big doughnut sitting here for you.’
‘Lovely. I might even get a chance to eat it before midnight.’
‘So what’s all the commotion?’
‘Excavator driver’s turned up an oil drum in one of the fields. Looks like an old corpse inside.’
‘Old? How old?’
‘Put it this way, it could pass for a pharaoh.’
Valentine altered his tone. ‘No more jokes, Jim, please.’
‘Who’s joking? The corpse is mummified.’
2
As he replaced the radio receiver, Valentine gazed straight ahead. For a moment he said nothing, then exhaling loudly and pressing his back into the driver’s seat, he turned to DS McCormack.
‘Well, this could be a bit awkward.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Ardinsh Farm is – I mean was – Sandy Thompson’s place. It was in the family for generations.’
‘And why’s that awkward for us?’
‘Sandy’s dead.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘No, I mean he’s just died. I’m sure it’s his funeral today.’
‘And how do you know this?’
‘Cumnock’s a small town. I grew up there, remember.’ McCormack’s expression said she still needed convincing. ‘And my father’s going to Sandy’s funeral . . . I’m bloody sure it’s today. He was at the old spit and polish routine on his shoes when I left this morning.’
‘Right, I see why that might be awkward for the ones left behind, trying to grieve.’
‘No, it’s not that . . . Look, we need to get going.’
Valentine put the car into gear and eased up the clutch. As the Vectra met the main road he was already deep in thought. By the M77 the detective wore a troubled expression that meant his mind was absorbed in the possibilities of another murder investigation on Ayrshire soil.
It hadn’t always been like this. Ayr had been a bustling market town as long as he could remember, but somewhere along the way it had changed. It seemed more like a small city than the town he had spent most of his career in. It seemed, too, to have inherited all the social ills and associated problems of its larger counterparts in Scotland’s central belt.
His own stabbing, in no less a target than the heart, had come as a shock to the local force. His subsequent death on an emergency-room operating table, and then his revival with the help of more than fifty pints of blood, had been the talk of King Street station for months. No one quite knew how to process a senior officer being attacked by a drug dealer in this way; there were some in uniform who still treated him like a sort of hero. But Valentine knew it was no badge of honour. The scar – thick as a man’s index finger – down his chest was not something he regarded with any degree of pride.