The mood around the breakfast table was more sombre than usual. At first Valentine thought it was the television news report detailing the arrest of Gerald Fallon and the reopening of the Columba House investigation that was the cause. He had risen from his point at the head of the table and turned off the television, only to discover his father had a radio playing in the extension that was warning of the continued closure of Racecourse Road.
‘The vandals have got in now,’ said Valentine’s father, emerging from the extension and putting a cup in the sink.
‘I’d say that’s the least of his worries,’ said Valentine.
‘Och, I know. It’s the fact that they’ve spray-painted all his sordid activities over the sandstone – and on the wall outside too. Kiddies go to school down that way. It’s not right they should see that kind of thing.’
‘The road’s closed, Dad.’
‘Will your boys clean it up?’
‘No. That’s the council’s area I’m afraid.’
His father shrugged and took his place at the table. ‘I thought I might put some flowers on Sandy’s grave today.’
‘That’s a nice thought,’ said Clare, reaching out for the coffee pot and placing it in front of her.
‘I don’t assume I’ll be alone. There’ll be a pile of flowers likely.’
Valentine drained his cup and pushed out his chair. He’d spent long enough thinking about the case of late and how it had reached into the community, tearing out more emotions as it went. ‘I’m off.’
‘Call me as soon as you hear anything,’ said Clare.
‘It’s too soon, love. Give it time.’
His wife glanced at the ceiling like she was inwardly counting to ten. ‘Well, call anyway.’
Valentine placed a kiss on Clare’s head and left for the station. As he threw his coat on the back seat of the Vectra he caught a glimpse of the dark stain covering the upholstery. He hadn’t looked at the place where he had bled after his stabbing for a long time; the sight of the stain had once terrified his daughters – who begged him to get rid of the car – but they no longer talked about it. Was it possible everyone was moving on?
The road into Ayr was busy, filled with commuter traffic and the late influx of tourists brought by the better weather. The sun was warm today, pressing itself on to the world and renewing optimism of better days to come.
By King Street Valentine’s thought patterns had synchronised with the climate and he felt, if not glad to be back, content to try and get through another shift. He couldn’t say he wanted to be there, and after everything he’d witnessed recently, he couldn’t say he wanted to repeat any of it, but he knew his team had succeeded where so many others had failed. Was that something like pride he felt?
‘Morning, Bob,’ said Jim Prentice. He was in relaxed pose, leaning over the countertop and staring at the pages of a tabloid newspaper. ‘I see they’re reopening the house-of-horrors case then.’
‘It has to be done, no question about it,’ said Valentine.
‘Maybe we’ll get it right this time.’ A note of shame sounded in the desk sergeant’s voice.
‘Well, the odds are tipped a little more in our favour now.’ As the DI spoke he realised that this was a conversation he didn’t want to have. By the look on Prentice’s face, he felt the same.
‘Those bloody poor boys,’ he said.
‘Makes you question everything, doesn’t it?’ Valentine headed for the stairs. He managed to get at least halfway there when the desk sergeant called out to him again.
‘Oh, Bob, did you hear?’ His tone had altered, seemed higher.
‘Hear what?’
‘About Greavsie. They’ve put him on gardening leave.’
‘The chief constable?’
‘Well, I’m not talking about the old Spurs player! Yes, Bill Greaves is off, and the word on the street is he’s not coming back.’
Valentine felt his mood lifting even higher. ‘You have a good day there, Jim.’
‘Oh I will.’
At the top of the stairs the DI found he was still grinning to himself, though he didn’t know rightly why he should be. He was heading into the incident room to check in with the murder squad when he was waylaid by the chief super, beckoning him from her office door with a confident bark.
‘Bob, in here . . .’
He turned round and walked in the other direction, keeping his pace slow and restrained in case it might be interpreted as enthusiasm. ‘Good morning, boss,’ he said.
‘Come in and shut the door behind you.’
Valentine moved towards the middle of the room where CS Martin’s desk sat in front of the large square window with the view of the King Street roundabout and the council flats opposite. He descended into the opposing chair, crossing his legs beneath the line of the desk.
‘You won’t have heard about the chief constable yet,’ said Martin.
‘Gardening leave.’