Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(68)

‘You let it go on, didn’t you?’

‘What could I do about it?’

‘What could you . . .’ Valentine felt his pulse returning to normal as he looked at the distraught image of Fallon slumping into himself. He was wrecked, half a lifetime of secrets and lies coming back to destroy him. Fallon was spent, a hollow of a man, without any hint of the arrogance he’d used to hide the horrific truth of the life he had lived.

‘Get up.’

‘Please, Detective.’ He indicated the gun with a nod. ‘Just leave me alone. Just for a moment longer.’

‘Another convenient solution in mind?’

‘We both know how this looks.’

‘Is that all that matters to you?’

He lowered his head and sighed. ‘Nothing matters now.’

Valentine steadied himself. ‘Is it loaded?’

Fallon made a weak nod. ‘Yes.’

‘I think that’s actually something I’d like to see,’ said Valentine. ‘Though perhaps not as much as I’d like to see you begging for your eternal soul.’

‘I’ll beg you for your mercy, if that’s what you want me to do.’

The detective stepped forward and raised the gun from its resting place on the desk. He kept Fallon in his gaze as he lowered the gun out of his line of sight and moved away.

‘No one showed those boys any mercy. No one paid their fate a second thought. There’ll be no easy way out for you this time, Fallon. I hope you burn in hell, but before that I hope you have a long time to savour your fate on this earth.’





43





Epilogue


The mood around the breakfast table was more sombre than usual. At first Valentine thought it was the television news report detailing the arrest of Gerald Fallon and the reopening of the Columba House investigation that was the cause. He had risen from his point at the head of the table and turned off the television, only to discover his father had a radio playing in the extension that was warning of the continued closure of Racecourse Road.

‘The vandals have got in now,’ said Valentine’s father, emerging from the extension and putting a cup in the sink.

‘I’d say that’s the least of his worries,’ said Valentine.

‘Och, I know. It’s the fact that they’ve spray-painted all his sordid activities over the sandstone – and on the wall outside too. Kiddies go to school down that way. It’s not right they should see that kind of thing.’

‘The road’s closed, Dad.’

‘Will your boys clean it up?’

‘No. That’s the council’s area I’m afraid.’

His father shrugged and took his place at the table. ‘I thought I might put some flowers on Sandy’s grave today.’

‘That’s a nice thought,’ said Clare, reaching out for the coffee pot and placing it in front of her.

‘I don’t assume I’ll be alone. There’ll be a pile of flowers likely.’

Valentine drained his cup and pushed out his chair. He’d spent long enough thinking about the case of late and how it had reached into the community, tearing out more emotions as it went. ‘I’m off.’

‘Call me as soon as you hear anything,’ said Clare.

‘It’s too soon, love. Give it time.’

His wife glanced at the ceiling like she was inwardly counting to ten. ‘Well, call anyway.’

Valentine placed a kiss on Clare’s head and left for the station. As he threw his coat on the back seat of the Vectra he caught a glimpse of the dark stain covering the upholstery. He hadn’t looked at the place where he had bled after his stabbing for a long time; the sight of the stain had once terrified his daughters – who begged him to get rid of the car – but they no longer talked about it. Was it possible everyone was moving on?

The road into Ayr was busy, filled with commuter traffic and the late influx of tourists brought by the better weather. The sun was warm today, pressing itself on to the world and renewing optimism of better days to come.

By King Street Valentine’s thought patterns had synchronised with the climate and he felt, if not glad to be back, content to try and get through another shift. He couldn’t say he wanted to be there, and after everything he’d witnessed recently, he couldn’t say he wanted to repeat any of it, but he knew his team had succeeded where so many others had failed. Was that something like pride he felt?

‘Morning, Bob,’ said Jim Prentice. He was in relaxed pose, leaning over the countertop and staring at the pages of a tabloid newspaper. ‘I see they’re reopening the house-of-horrors case then.’

‘It has to be done, no question about it,’ said Valentine.

‘Maybe we’ll get it right this time.’ A note of shame sounded in the desk sergeant’s voice.

‘Well, the odds are tipped a little more in our favour now.’ As the DI spoke he realised that this was a conversation he didn’t want to have. By the look on Prentice’s face, he felt the same.

‘Those bloody poor boys,’ he said.

‘Makes you question everything, doesn’t it?’ Valentine headed for the stairs. He managed to get at least halfway there when the desk sergeant called out to him again.