‘It’s from the camera at Old Bridge Street, the operator was panning down the river banks, it’s probably up to eleven on the focus.’ McCormack touched the screen, tapped twice where she wanted him to look. ‘Right this is where it gets interesting, sir.’
The figure in the centre of the screen stopped walking and turned towards the water. Her hands went out to the railing and she stood there, swaying for a moment. She seemed to be contemplating the river’s movement, tuning in with the current, each ripple sending a shock that buckled her knees.
‘Oh, don’t tell me she’s a jumper.’
‘No. Keep watching.’
As the camera lens grappled with the image, going in and out of focus, the figure withdrew a hand from the rail. The task almost felled her but she straightened up, regained balance and managed to stand still. From the side of her that was blind to the camera she withdrew something from her pocket and raised up her arm. She paused, a glint appeared on the object, like a metallic surface catching a stray beam of light.
‘What’s she got?’
‘It’s what she does with it that’s interesting.’
The figure jerked, her arm thrust back, and the object was thrown into the water. As a splash appeared in the river, the woman grabbed the rail again, then turned round and tramped towards the town. She followed the same route that she had come, her steps were heavy, faltering, and every uneven flagstone threatened her with a fall.
Valentine watched the woman’s shambling gait go out of shot, then the image receded to a black screen. He closed the window and turned from the computer to face McCormack. ‘Tell me you have the divers at that very spot.’
‘Yes, sir. We have had them there for a while. But there’s better news to report than that.’
‘Go on.’
‘About ten minutes ago, we retrieved an object from the River Ayr, adjacent to the banks where this CCTV image was captured.’
‘Tell me it was a knife, Sylvia.’
She let a faint smile creep onto her face. ‘Yes, sir. It’s a blade. And it’s making its way to forensics as we speak.’
Valentine shot up, raised a fist. ‘Right, Sylvia. Get your coat. We’re not hanging about waiting for the results on a potential murder weapon, especially when we have the press pack already baying for blood.’
The officers retrieved their coats from the stand in the corner of the DI’s office and headed out into the open-plan incident room. DS Donnelly was approaching from the opposite end of the long room as they entered. He looked relaxed, pleased with himself. ‘Boss, that’s the press conference called. Coreen says she’ll need you at midday.’
Valentine checked his watch. ‘No can do. We’re off to, hopefully, retrieve our murder weapon from the boffins in Glasgow.’
Donnelly looked perplexed. His confidence evaporated, ‘But what about the press conference?’
‘You can handle that, can’t you?’ Valentine’s tone said he wasn’t giving him a choice.
‘Are you kidding? I’ve never faced the press on my own.’
‘Then take Ally for company.’
The DI helped DS McCormack into her coat and through the door before Donnelly could object. Donnelly’s gaze burned on the DI’s neck as he walked into the corridor, but he didn’t look back.
McCormack stayed quiet until they reached the station car park: ‘Don’t think I’m questioning you, sir, but do you think it’s a good idea leaving the Chuckle Brothers to face the press on their own?’
Valentine paused, pointed his keys at the Vectra. ‘Needs must, Sylvia. And Donnelly will have to take that leap of faith at some time, might as well be today. He’s a good lad, he’ll rise to the occasion, and I’m sure he’ll look out for Ally.’
They got into the car. Sylvia was stuffing her bag into the footwell as she replied to the DI. ‘I was only thinking, what with Dino on the warpath already, now might not be the time to be courting tragedy.’
Valentine pushed himself into the headrest. ‘Leave Dino to me, her bark’s worse than her bite.’
McCormack’s eyes widened. ‘I just noticed on the case files that she’s not been updated on the post-mortem findings either.’
‘Our coup de grâce, you mean?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘Well, let’s just say she’s on a need to know basis. I’ll let her know what I do when she needs to, until then there’s no point overloading her, it just gets her twitchy about the cost of running a case like this.’
‘Did you tell her we called in frogmen?’
Valentine started the car, over-revved. ‘Look, no. I didn’t. She’ll find out today though, I’m sure of it.’
McCormack was shaking her head. ‘I hope she doesn’t find out at the press conference. She’ll be standing in wait for you at the front door if she does, most likely with your P45 in one hand and a baseball bat in the other.’
19
Sandra Millar whispered her daughter’s name to herself and listened as the wind snatched it away. On cold mornings like this, when Jade appeared barefoot and shivering in her kitchen, she’d hug her tight, tell her to wrap up before going out. She never listened though. Never ceased to pad about the house barefoot or wear a decent coat to go down the street. It was her age, teenagers were like that, but there was more to it as well.
It seemed like such a long time since Sandra had been with Jade, old memories were welling up, but it might have been only a few hours. Everything was unreal now, thoughts appeared clear and bright and immediately became foggy. Jade in her little red boots, the boisterous two-year-old wanted to wear the boots to bed, screamed at all attempts to remove them, and then she was gone. A sulky teenager showed up, dourly locked herself in her bedroom to listen to The Pistols. The good times and the bad. Why hadn’t there been more of the good? Why hadn’t she done more to make her daughter happy, keep her safe? Sandra shoved away her thoughts, shut her eyes. When she opened them again reality had returned.
The scene was familiar enough, she knew the streets, recognised the buildings, the faces hadn’t changed. But nothing was as it appeared. As new thoughts started bubbling up, banging in her head, Sandra stumbled along the street to escape them. But they followed her; it was as if she was being chased out of her own mind.
‘Watch yourself there, dear.’ An old man, he held out a hand like he was offering help. ‘Everything OK, love?’
Sandra looked away, continued up the High Street. People were staring, she was making a show of herself – that’s what the looks said. Her head throbbed, it was hard to think. All she could see were strange pictures floating in and out of her mind. Jade mostly but there was James Tulloch too. He was dead now. The knife in him, the blood, he must be dead. There were screams and wails. She could hear them still, something terrible had happened. Something so awful she couldn’t see it now, it was as if she’d blocked the incident out. It had to be locked away, hidden, because to ever face it meant accepting the most overwhelming pain.
‘No, no, no,’ said Sandra. She knuckled her temples and carried on up the street, a channel forming through the crowd as people stepped out of her way.
‘Jade!’ she called out, not quite a shout but above her normal range.
People turned, some stopped and stared. A group of young boys jeered, they were just kids, in tracksuits with football scarves tied to their wrists. ‘Missus, who let you out the loony bin?’
Sandra cried, immense coldness welling inside her, and started to run. Her steps were long, loping, but soon she was slipping on the wet street. She didn’t know where she was running to. There were too many lights. Too many people. The rain, the wet, and the crowds. The jeering kids, they were everywhere. No matter how fast or far she ran there was no escaping the horror. People stared, they spoke in strange voices. Sandra felt threatened, like she was being hunted. She stopped running, her legs too heavy, her ankles and feet numb.