Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(46)

‘The very man.’

‘He was a bit sheepish, didn’t say much, which was in stark contrast to how he arrived.’

The DI was pleased with the sergeant’s assessment; he only hoped that by hauling them both in together that the same might be true for Keirns.

When he showed up from the custody cells, Keirns was staring at the floor. He glanced upwards at the detectives but chose not to respond. His mood was unreadable – he might have been bristling with anger or succumbing to weary acceptance.

As the detectives entered the room, Valentine eyed Keirns closely. Skin was sitting in folds beneath his eyes – was it a sign of fatigue? The DI hoped so as he stood before Keirns, rolling up his shirtsleeves. He let the suspect take in the full importance of the occasion before leaning over the desk and smiling.

‘Looks like you have some explaining to do, Garry.’ Valentine slapped down a blue folder.

‘What?’ said Keirns.

‘Did you miss me whilst I was away?’

‘What?’

‘I said did you miss me? You know, the old Bob Valentine, the one that sat you down in this very interview room and spoke nicely to you about my horrific current workload. If you didn’t miss him, you should now. Because, Garry, the one standing before you is bringing some life-shattering news.’

‘Stop playing games with me, Valentine.’

The DI let his smile fade and removed the chair. He sat down opposite the suspect. ‘Do you like the ponies, Garry?’

‘As much as the next man.’

‘Oh, I bet you like them more than the once-a-year Grand National punter.’

‘What’s this got to do with anything?’

‘Go to the Gold Cup every year, I bet.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Like to put a regular line on . . . My old man used to like the bookies – it’s a Cumnock thing.’

‘So what?’

A block of bright sunlight divided the room into light and shade. Valentine loosened off his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. ‘Yeah, he used to put a line on every Saturday. Went to a place on the main street called Carson’s. Do you know it?’

Keirns shrugged. He looked through Valentine with a tense and hesitant gaze.

‘When I was a boy, quite a few years ago now, my dad used to bring me home those wee bookie’s pens from there. The red ones. I loved them.’

Keirns’s skin grew waxy. He touched his hands together then moved them like he was lathering soap.

‘I see you remember those wee Carson’s pens too, Garry.’

‘What if I do? It isn’t a crime, is it?’

‘No, it’s no crime.’ Valentine reached out for the folder and opened it. He let a few seconds pass before he turned over the first page and proceeded to read.

‘That’s forty-three bagged up and a further five loose, so that makes forty-eight little red bookie’s pens in total . . . retrieved from your old home this very day.’

Keirns looked smaller before the detective, sitting hunched up and shrunken in the chair. ‘You searched the farm. Why would you do that?’

‘I’m asking the questions, Garry, if you don’t mind. You see that’s how we do these things. That’s how we investigate the murders of little boys. That is, Garry, how we interrogate murder suspects.’

Keirns’s head jerked. ‘I didn’t kill them.’

Valentine wasn’t listening. ‘Did you hear that total? Forty-eight little bookie’s pens tucked away under the floorboards.’ He sat back and put his hands behind his head as he called out to DS McAlister. ‘Why would any grown man have so many pens hidden away like that, Ally?’

DS McAlister approached the table and perched himself on the edge beside the DI. He stared directly at Keirns as he spoke. ‘No good reason I can think of, boss.’

‘I once knew a suspect who kept a great big tub of lollipops under his bed . . . but he was a paedophile.’

‘A beast?’ said McAlister.

‘Yes, Ally, I believe that’s what they call them inside. Our lollipop man is in Peterhead now, by the way. Having a terrible time of it too. He was stabbed with a chicken bone and beaten to a pulp a couple of times.’

‘They don’t like beasts inside, boss.’

The conversation was interrupted. ‘I didn’t do it!’ Keirns lunged forward, banging his hands on the table. His chair fell down behind him, crashing loudly on the hard surface.

McAlister grabbed Keirns by the shoulders and yanked him away from the DI. He pressed Keirns into the corner and pinned him there whilst he roared above the suspect’s rantings. When Keirns quietened McAlister stepped away and retrieved the chair from the ground.

‘Get back here now, Garry,’ said Valentine.

Keirns retraced his steps. His breathing grew more stertorous with every pace. When he sat down he was sweating. He gripped his arms around his stomach like he was suffering cramps.

‘Now, Garry, I think we both know what those bookie’s pens were for because there was one in the barrel with those poor wee boys we found murdered on your old farm.’

‘I never touched those boys.’

‘Oh, come on, Garry. Do you expect us to believe that? I said we found one of your pens with the victims.’