‘But we can surmise from Mam’s reaction that it damaged him in some way.’

‘That we can.’ He turned to face his son, widening his gaze. ‘But the picture, why have you got a pencil drawing of Bert on the fridge? That’s what I want to know.’

Valentine exhaled slowly, a rational response was impossible to find. ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

‘Try me.’

‘OK. Let me rephrase that, you wouldn’t want to know.’

‘I’ve already said I want to know, now will you stop beating about the bush and tell me.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Valentine loosened the knot on his tie, pulled it through the collar and started to roll it around his fist. ‘A colleague of mine had worked with what you might call a medium, someone who helps police with their enquiries by, I don’t know what you’d call it, supernatural means.’

His father stared intently. ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand.’

‘And, well, long story short is that this medium, a chappie called Hugh, drew the picture.’ He looked at his father again, wanted to make sure he hadn’t changed his opinion after finding out more. ‘It’s what he does – when he sees spirits he draws them and passes on their pictures to the people he believes they’re trying to communicate with.’

‘In the name of God.’ His father’s eyes sunk back in his head, he turned away. ‘I cannot think for the life of me why old Bert would have been trying to communicate with you, Bob. I mean, the mind just boggles.’

Valentine finished rolling up his tie, rose, and walked for the kitchen door. ‘You’re not alone in that assessment, Dad. But I’m routinely stunned if anything that happens to me makes any sense.’

‘Are you off to get that bite?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, sorry to add to your woes, but I finished the cheese.’

29

As the young man turned the corner he stopped still, stood facing DI Bob Valentine. For a moment the detective stared, who was he? There was a hint of recognition but nothing he could be sure of. As he took two more steps, drew nearer, the man spoke. ‘Bob, we’ve never met but I feel I know you.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He sidestepped, moved around the man.

‘No, don’t go.’

A hand grabbed Valentine’s arm, his coat sleeve was tugged. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You can’t go.’ The man tightened his grip.

‘You realise I’m a police officer.’

This seemed to provoke hilarity in the man, ‘Of course. There would be no point in my stopping you in the street otherwise. I have important information about the death of the fusilier … James Tulloch.’

Valentine brushed away the man’s hand. ‘I never released that information.’

‘I never said you did. Look, I know lots of things that aren’t public knowledge, can we talk, Bob?’

Valentine didn’t like the familiarity of first names, he was toying with the idea of arresting the man, taking him to King Street and picking over the information he seemed so free with. He looked around, it was Alloway Street, outside the Arnotts department store, the name had changed but the store would always be Arnotts to anyone with history in Ayr. The town was quiet, beyond quiet – they were the only ones around. He asked himself what time of the day it was and found he couldn’t reply.

‘Do I know you, son?’

A laugh. He opened his hand and led him into the store. They took the elevator to the cafe, they were the only people there. The absence of anyone else unsettled Valentine but he found himself going along with it, not through curiosity, but because he was powerless to do anything else.

‘You look a bit confused, Bob.’

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Not here.’ The man sat down, removed his overcoat and hung it on the chair. ‘And before you ask, here’s not where you think it is.’

He recognised the man now, the uniform he wore underneath his coat. ‘You’re Bert, the one my dad was talking about.’ His vision blurred, his head ached. ‘The hell’s going on here?’

‘Don’t ask me questions, Bob. Just listen.’

‘This is insane. Something’s not right …’

Bert followed the detective’s line of vision, brushed the buttons on his chest. ‘You’re looking for a soldier.’

‘What?’

‘And you’re looking for a lad that’s missing, but he’s already dead.’

Valentine’s hands started to sweat, he put them under the table. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I just do. And you need to trust me because you’ve no one else. Now listen, find the soldier, he knows what this is about. If you don’t find him there’ll only be more blood.’

He shook his head. ‘Have you any idea how hard this is for me to believe? I saw a picture of you but you’ve never existed for me.’

‘Am I not real enough, Bob?’

‘Jesus Christ, you’re asking me that? I don’t know if I’m real enough.’

‘I think you know what I’m telling you is real. Find the soldier, he needs help, I know what he’s been through and he can’t handle it on his own.’

Bert stood up, collected his coat and draped it over his arm. ‘I’m off now, I don’t think there’s much chance of a waitress in here.’

‘And where’s here? It’s not bloody well Arnotts.’

‘No, it’s more of a halfway house.’ He looked around him. ‘Go on then, don’t waste what I’ve given you.’

‘Wait. You said there was a missing boy, we don’t have a missing boy on this case.’

‘But you will. Goodbye, Bob.’ The voice changed as the detective’s name was uttered.

‘No. Wait …’

‘Bob,’ someone else was calling him. ‘Be quiet. You’ll wake the girls.’ It was Clare. She sat over him in bed, reached for the light. ‘You’re sweating, you were shouting in your sleep.’

Valentine raised himself on the bed, his heart pounding. ‘I’m sorry.’

Clare’s cold hand touched his shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m losing the plot …’

‘What?’

He got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, the bright lights stung his eyes. He leaned over the sink clutching his chest and started to splash water on his face and neck.

‘Bob, what’s going on?’ She followed him into the bathroom. ‘You’re as white as a maggot, you look like …’

‘Like I’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I was going to say like you’re having a heart attack.’

‘That sounds preferable.’ He tried to fill a glass of water but his hands were trembling too much.

Clare took the glass, filled it and held the water to his mouth. ‘You need to calm yourself.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘Come back to bed, try to get some sleep. I’m sure things will look better in the morning.’

‘Sleep, are you kidding me?’ He pushed away the glass and staggered back to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed. The flesh on his arms was pimpling, he slapped his palms together.

Clare followed him through. ‘Should I call a doctor?’

‘Maybe. Is there a psychiatrist on call at this time?’

‘I don’t follow …’

‘It all seemed so real.’

‘What did?’

‘I was there, I mean like the last time … with the Janie Cooper case.’

‘That was the little girl that went missing, wasn’t it?’

‘Everywhere, I saw her everywhere. Christ above, if this is a rerun of that, I don’t think I can stand it, Clare.’

‘The dreams again? The visions, that’s what this is about?’

Valentine rose and started to pace the room. He needed to talk, to tell someone what he’d been going through. He relayed the story about the man in the hospital room when Agnes Gilchrist died and the visit to Hugh Crosbie.

‘Who’s Sylvia?’ said Clare.

‘My DS … Why do you ask that?’

‘And why is she taking a special interest in your problems?’

‘Are you seriously making a thing of this?’

‘I’m just asking, because I would have thought your first port of call might have been your wife.’

Valentine raised his hands. ‘I’ve just told you everything.’

‘But you told her first.’