‘What do you think my boss would say if I took your complaint to her?’
‘That depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘Depends if she’s a decent human being or not. If she valued you, and your family, she’d get you a new car.’
‘It’s a company car, I don’t think family is that high on her list of considerations.’
‘But it should be.’
‘Does it bother you that much, Chloe?’ He watched his daughter play with the hem of her skirt. Just what was the conversation really about? ‘I’m sorry I missed your big night, love.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘No. It’s not OK at all. Not for me it’s not. I wanted to be there, to see my little girl make her big stage debut.’
Chloe pressed herself further into the seat. ‘It’s the job again, isn’t it? It’s always the job.’
‘Now you sound like your mother.’
‘Oh, please.’
‘Shall we get going? Can’t miss your drama class if you’re to be a movie star.’
On the road to Troon, Valentine let his daughter select a radio station that met with her approval. An insipid boyband’s tune filled the car, a manufactured kind of music that made the DI ask what had gone wrong with the world? He kept his opinion to himself, though. There were times when he could get away with teasing his daughter about her musical tastes but this wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t under any pressure from her for missing the opening night at the theatre, she wasn’t the type to make a point for the sake of it, all the pressure came from him. The core feeling inside that said he’d let her down, let Clare down and now he needed to make amends. It could be shoved away, forgotten about for now, but where it would go and what it would do when it got there was a worry to him.
‘I don’t know what Mum’s got to be so busy with, it’s not like there’s a sale at TK Maxx or anything.’
‘Come on, Chloe.’
‘I mean it, she doesn’t work. All she has to do is shop and run about with her friends now and again … Oh, and drive me and Fi to the odd thing.’
‘She has your Granda to look after too, now.’
‘Granda looks after himself, he’d clobber you for saying something like that.’
‘Am I picking up a bit of a vibe here, Chloe?’
‘Is that you trying to sound street?’
Valentine stared at his daughter. ‘I am street.’
They laughed together. The enormous pressure eased away.
‘Yeah, I’m pathetic, I know. But all dads are a wee bit.’
‘Is it funny for you having Granda around again?’
‘No. Not really. We never see each other, sometimes in the passing, like ships in the night.’
‘That’s what Mum says, you’re like ships in the night.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Is Mum OK, Dad?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ His answer was a delaying tactic, he knew Chloe was growing up fast, forming her own impressions now. Clare was hard work sometimes but he didn’t want his daughter to know that, or if she was coming to the conclusion, he didn’t want her to think it. Not just yet, anyway. Not whilst she was still a child and prone to rash judgements.
‘Just, y’know. She gets worked up and that, like this theatre thing. It doesn’t bother me really but Mum got upset.’
‘Your mother’s a sensitive one, Chloe. She cares deeply about things, about you and Fiona and the whole family. She wants things to be right, all the time.’
‘But it can’t be can it? I mean, that’s just magazines and that.’
‘It doesn’t stop her trying.’
‘But it’s pointless. Futile.’
‘To you maybe, love, but to her it’s the stuff of life. Everyone needs something to cling to, to make it all make sense. It doesn’t matter what it is, for you it might become acting, and that’s great but it doesn’t have to be any greater than anybody else’s stuff. We’re all different.’
‘But what about when she goes on about your job and makes you both upset, that’s not right either. And that’s her thing too, y’know.’
Valentine didn’t like the way the conversation was going, the plan had been to spend a little time with his daughter and appease his wife but all he’d done was confirm for himself that every family’s unhappiness was unique. That always trying to be the better parent was impossible when kids drew their own conclusions regardless. ‘This is getting very deep for the road to drama class, is it not?’
Chloe put her heels on the rim of the seat, pulled her knees up to her chin. ‘I can’t talk to Mum about things like this. There’s only you and Granda.’
‘Now your Granda could talk the leg off an iron pot, on any subject.’
She seemed to sense his need to change the topic now. ‘It’s all right, Dad. That’s all I wanted to say.’
‘It is?’
‘Yeah. It is.’
At the turn-off for Troon, on the road skirting the golf course, the boyband was replaced by Eminem and Valentine felt his faith in the future returning. At the drama class Chloe waved, dodged some puddles in the car park, and went inside the old red sandstone building. What went on inside, what constituted an acting lesson? He found he had no reference for it at all. It was impossible to answer, another of life’s mysteries and one that he had no pressing urge to solve. As the Vectra rolled back to the road he tried to clear some headspace for the real purpose of his visit to Troon. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to, or even cared for, but it did seem necessary. And, he wanted to appease DS McCormack.
The DI pressed the call button, spoke into the mic. ‘Hello Sylvia, that’s me just getting into town.’
‘Hi, sir. I’m there already.’
‘Good. I’ll see you in five, then,’ his voice fluctuated in tone, settled on low notes.
‘Is everything OK, sir?’
A pause. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘It’s quite a big step. Are you really sure you’re ready to go through with this?’
‘Sylvia, don’t expect me to bluff you with I was born ready, or I’m ready for anything. But I am ready, yes. I’m ready to get to the bottom of why the dead keep walking into my life.’
17
DI Bob Valentine locked the car and headed towards the pub. DS McCormack stood outside, beneath the alcove at the front door. She was wearing a short red windcheater and stonewashed jeans with trainers, she didn’t look like police for once.
‘Are you sure this is how you want to spend your time off?’ said Valentine.
‘It’s only a half day, I’ll hardly miss it.’
‘Is he here?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m not the clairvoyant.’
The detective suppressed a tut. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘A bit.’
‘Well, I’m laughing inside … a bit.’
The pair walked through the front doors and into the bar area. It was a traditional Ayrshire drinking den, a long bar that covered one wall of the room, rust-coloured quarry tiles lined the front of the bar before the floor gave way to hardy, black carpeting that was beer-soaked and trampled to a sheen. Formica-topped tables, surrounded by PVC-backed chairs, accounted for the furnishings.
‘Nice place,’ said McCormack.
‘I think it’s what you call utilitarian.’
‘Does that mean a tip?’
They approached the barman, his Brylcreem slick and black moustache fitted the fifties-feel of the decor. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Just a Coke for me,’ said Valentine. ‘Sylvia?’
‘A mineral water, please.’
‘No bottled water. I can do you a council juice from the tap.’
‘Coke will be fine, thanks.’
They took their drinks and settled at a table near the back wall. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive to the DI – he’d strayed into inhospitable territory. Valentine played with a Tennent’s beer mat, picking the strayed edges.