‘You look ready for a nap, come to Bunny.’ He picks me up and says off we hop, and my face is on his shoulder with the little bits of white gritty balls. I want to move them, to push them away, but I’m too sleepy now.
‘Bunny will tuck you in, young man.’
The walls are green with a pale white light shining from above. When he puts me on the bed I feel like I’m sinking, like the bed is swallowing me up. The man starts to lift my arms and pull my jumper over my head. I want to say no, leave me, but I can’t talk either – it’s like I’m frozen.
When all my clothes are on the floor and I lie on top of the bed naked, he starts to undress himself. He has a purple tie and he rolls it round his hand, all the time looking over me, up and down, up and down.
He says something that sounds like horns in my ears. It’s words though, I know it. I want to cry out, to go home, but I feel trapped.
The man puts down his tie and undoes his shirt buttons, one by one. He has a flat, white chest with deep black patches of hair on his nipples. He watches me all the while, as he unbuckles his belt and lets his trousers fall, as he takes off his white underpants and climbs on the bed, stroking me with his long, thin fingers that roam all over me.
31
A blackbird was sitting on the roof of the car as Valentine and McAlister entered the station car park. It seemed settled, quite comfortable, then its yellow beak twitched and it darted off towards the dimming sky.
The DI handed the keys to McAlister. ‘You can drive.’
‘Sure. Any particular reason?’
‘Because there usually is, you mean? Yes, Ally, after you’ve dropped me off at home you’re heading out to Prestwick to take John Corrigan’s pulse.’
‘Right. I can do that.’
‘Keep it light, chatty. I don’t suppose he’ll reveal anything more than we have from his files, but I don’t want to leave any stones unturned.’
McAlister started the car and pulled away from the station. As they left the King Street roundabout the DI called on the radio for the address in Prestwick.
As they travelled Valentine ran his fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp. He had a deep tension building inside him that he couldn’t account for. It wasn’t the progress that they’d made on the case that worried him – it was something beyond that. He stopped rubbing his head and a few seconds later realised he was massaging his wrist in much the same manner.
As they headed to Masonhill a small, flat moon sat high above the clouds. Two hollows, either side of the moon, marked gaps in the covering of sky, adding to the unreality of the evening. Valentine reached into his pocket to touch the St Christopher pendant and pinched it between his fingertips. It was a reassuring act that he couldn’t explain; as if in some way it signalled a kind of communication with the dead boy it had belonged to.
As McAlister halted the car outside the DI’s home the passenger door opened. Valentine hung a leg from the car momentarily as he spoke. ‘One hour, back here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Valentine hurried across the tarmac to his driveway and on through the front door of his house. As he removed his jacket his wife stuck her head round the kitchen door.
‘Wonders will never cease,’ she said mockingly. ‘You’re home for dinner twice in the space of a week.’
The DI approached her. She was holding a cooking pot with a wooden handle; a slew of pasta was being turned inside. ‘Hello, love.’
‘So you are home?’ she said.
‘Not quite. I’ll grab a bite but I’m off again.’
Clare put down the pot. The hob hissed. ‘Hang on. What is this?’
Valentine knew the look immediately. As his wife fastened her gaze on him, tight radial lines darted from the edges of her eyes.
‘Clare, I’ve no time to explain just now.’
‘You better try.’
‘I’ve asked for a transfer.’ The blurted response blindsided his wife.
‘You have?’
‘With Martin and also the chief constable.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ He leaned forward and placed a kiss on his smiling wife’s cheek. ‘But we’ll have to talk about it later. I’m not going anywhere until this case is solved. I feel close, Clare, really close.’
He headed for the living room, leaving his wife with a pinched expression on her face like she might start to whistle. He couldn’t interpret the look, but it wasn’t one he felt threatened by – they were much easier to decipher.
His father was the first to speak when Valentine opened the door, his daughters being too engrossed in Hollyoaks.
‘Hello, son. You’re early tonight.’
Valentine let his thoughts run. ‘Remember that bookies on the main street, the old one, Carson’s?’
‘Oh, aye. It’s gone now. Think it’s a Gregg’s, isn’t it?’
‘Did you know the bloke who owned it?’
‘The bookie? It was big Alan Carson. I knew him a bit, to say hello to, like. He’s buried up next to your mother.’
‘Oh . . .’
His father leaned forward in his chair. A newspaper fell from his lap on to the floor. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just work, Dad.’ Valentine rose. ‘Did Sandy use that bookies?’