Valentine grabbed his pinstripe jacket from the back of his chair and headed out after the DSs. He had toyed with the idea of ripping off his tie and wearing it round his head, Rambo-style, but selected the saner option of straightening the knot and fastening his shirt button. There was nothing to be gained from confronting Dino and Rutherford with hot blood, that would only give away his true feelings about this morning’s goings-on and he wanted to build his case slowly. The DI knew his own defenestration was likely, he’d been exasperating the chief super for too long now, switching off the radio and his mobile phone was a step too far. She was prickly, thin-skinned was a phrase her enemies were fond of, and in anger she would side with anyone to get her own way; it was an extension of the old your enemy is my enemy rule. Of course, knowing any of this made no difference to the situation, it was impossible to gain an advantage on a person like Martin whose sole reason for being was to gain advantage over others. Even the thought of going to war with her exhausted the detective.
In the hallway Valentine went over his thoughts. His pulse was returning to normal now and the bitter taste he carried in his mouth had disappeared. If he could only hold his lip in check, his desire to speak his mind, then he might survive the encounter. He took a shallow breath and knocked on CS Martin’s door. Nothing. Normally, there would be a curt call of ‘come’ or the sound of hard heels clicking across a harder floor before the door was yanked open, but this time his knocks were greeted with silence.
He knocked again. Harder this time.
Laughter, the sound of convivial voices.
‘Sounds like a bloody cocktail party in there,’ said Valentine to the empty hall; he was very much on the outside.
Another knock. And a resolve to open the door himself if he was ignored again.
The sweet tones from beyond the door came closer for a moment, then spilled out.
‘Oh, hello, Bob,’ said CS Martin, her relaxed demeanour was so unfamiliar to him that Valentine suspected he had the wrong door.
He peered over her shoulder. ‘If it’s not a good time, I can try later.’
A firm hand clutched his forearm, grabbed him into the office. ‘No, now’s fine. After all, we’ve been chasing you all morning, and a wee bit of the afternoon too.’ Her smile hid the harsher truth of those words.
‘I’m sorry, did I mention my murder investigation?’ As he walked in Valentine spotted a highly polished brogue dangling from the end of a trouser leg that his late mother would have said held a crease that could cut butter.
‘You won’t have met Tom, will you?’ said Martin.
‘I think we spoke earlier.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘On the phone.’
The brogue flashed into fuller view, was met by another at the heel. ‘That must have been before you went off the radar, Inspector.’ He thrust out a hand, awaited a shake. ‘Tom Rutherford.’
Valentine met the hand in front of him. ‘Well, I wasn’t entirely AWOL, Tom … unlike Darren Millar.’
The chief super motioned the men to sit down, returned to her side of the desk and laced fingers, topped with pointed red nails, over the blotter.
As Valentine sat he tried to gauge the room’s mood but the temperature seemed to have shifted already. He’d interrupted a convivial gathering of like-minded careerists who were hopeful of a productive networking opportunity, but had just been forced to switch off the mutual appreciation. As he crossed his legs Valentine became crudely aware of the last encounter his shoes had had with polish.
‘I believe you gatecrashed our press conference, Major.’ He didn’t feel comfortable with first name terms so soon.
Martin spluttered a polite laugh. ‘Come on, Bob, you weren’t here and we needed someone with authority to head things up. Tom helped out at my behest.’
He couldn’t confirm it, not just now anyway, but to his ear it sounded like Dino was altering her accent, stretching her vowels. He had certainly never heard her use a word like behest before. West-coast Scots were embarrassed by the way they sounded in wider company, their lack of BBC pronunciation had created the mangled, laughing-stock accents the likes of Lulu, and now Martin, adopted.
‘Oh, really, you just helped us out.’ The DI turned to face the major. ‘Bit convenient that you happened to be in the area.’
Rutherford never got a chance to answer – Martin cut in – ‘Well we’re grateful he was.’
The major’s thin smile seemed to linger a little too long before he spoke. ‘Perhaps I should make myself scarce, until you two have had a chance to catch up.’
‘That won’t be necessary, will it, Bob?’
‘Not at all. The Major is pretty near the top of my catch-up list right now, I wouldn’t want to let the opportunity slide.’
‘I’ve already informed your superior officer of all I’m prepared to say about our mutual interest.’ The blunt, clipped tone was there to put the DI in his place.
‘I don’t think I made myself clear, Tom, this is a murder investigation that I’m conducting. The law is very clear about how we treat the act of killing in civilised society. I’m sure it’s very different in a war zone, but we like to get to the bottom of things here.’
‘That’s enough, Bob.’ The CS’s old tone had returned.
‘I don’t believe it is, not by a long stroke. Or any kind of stroke, and that was some stroke you pulled coming down here and derailing my press conference.’
‘Bob …’
‘I’m not finished, yet. Not with Major Rutherford or with Darren Millar or James Tulloch, another Royal Highland Fusilier, though I’m sure you know that, Tom.’
‘Right, Bob. Thank you, you can leave us the same way you came in.’ Martin stood up and pointed to the door like she was directing traffic. ‘I’ll speak to you later, Inspector, keep your phone on. And by the way, I haven’t forgotten about the divi commander’s team-building exercise, I’ll see you about that soon too.’
Valentine rose, nodded to the major, whose smile was now back in place, creeping up the side of his face. It didn’t seem like the time for parting handshakes so Valentine tapped his brow in a mocking salute.
In the hallway the DI tried to process what he had just been part of. It was like an old-school-tie gathering that he’d worn the wrong colours to. Martin was on instinctual suck-up mode, rank always impressed her but paired to haughty arrogance like Rutherford’s she was helpless. The implications for the investigation worried Valentine, neither of them could get in the way of real justice, but they could both slow it down a great deal. He didn’t think Martin was stupid enough to consciously intervene, but she was vain enough to get caught up in the machinations of an old boys’ network that wanted to serve its own ends. He didn’t know what it was they were hiding but if he was to have any chance of discovering that – and keeping Rutherford out of his investigation – then he’d have to make it a priority.
‘Christ almighty.’ He removed his mobile phone, called McAlister.
‘Hello, boss.’
‘I take it Phil’s driving?’
‘Yeah, and if they ever make a Miss Daisy 2 …’
‘Tell him to plant the bloody foot. I want you at the barracks yesterday.’
‘I presume things didn’t go well with Dino?’
‘When do they ever, Ally? She’s surpassed herself this time, though.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She’s cosying up to our army buddy, half expected him to get his bugle out and let her give it a spit and polish.’
‘Oh aye.’
‘It was not a pretty sight, let me tell you. And I can tell you this, if it continues we’re going to be the ones suffering.’
‘It’s already an uphill struggle, boss.’
‘Don’t I know it. Look, I want you to get moving, we’ll have to get this army angle looked into right away; who knows what kind of obstacles Rutherford will start throwing in our way if he thinks he’s got Dino backing him.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And do not take any bullshit from shiny arses at the barracks, in or out of uniform.’ He injected a threat into his order: ‘Trust me, if you come back empty-handed I’ll have you both re-posted as dog-handlers in John O’Groats!’