Summoning the Dead (DI Bob Valentine #3)(8)

He calculated the child in the oil drum to be about ten years old, maybe a little older. If he’d been in the ground for twenty-five years like the doctor had guessed, that meant he was murdered when Valentine was in his early teens. It never occurred to him that this meant it might well have been him in the barrel – the ages were close enough, and murder was a random enough crime – because his thoughts were on the victim. A child had been murdered; there could hardly be a worse offence.

Children he’d gone to school with, played football with, gone to the pictures with, could it be one of them? He saw their faces, the grey school jumpers, the old Bukta tracksuits they wore then, parkas, Clark’s Commandos. They were all so alike; hardly a detail separated them.

They’d gone to Cubs together – Scouts too. School trips – that sailing holiday in Whiting Bay – those memories were sullied now. One of the boys, one he’d possibly known, had been murdered, and the killer might as well have left his tracks all over his doorstep. It all felt too close to home, too personal, but he knew if he was to catch this killer he’d have to push those thoughts aside. He had to keep an open mind, a focussed curiosity, because anything less was letting a child murderer go free.

They were entering the township when DS McCormack spoke again. ‘This must all feel very strange for you, sir?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you grew up here. I can’t imagine what that must be like.’

‘You grew up in Glasgow. You worked there. I’m sure you had cases that felt close to home.’

‘Glasgow’s a big city – it’s not the same. These places are claustrophobic – everybody knows everybody’s business.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. And I wouldn’t be relying on local gossip to be of any help to you. Cumnock’s a law unto itself, after what they went through with the miners’ strike people aren’t keen to rat on their neighbour. And talking to the police is still cautiously frowned upon.’

‘They’re a bit backward at coming forward where I come from too. Nobody likes us; I’m well used to that.’

The church was built from picturesque red sandstone in a gothic, turreted style with an ornamental bell tower as the focal point. The cross on top of the tower was small, looked almost like an afterthought, but the stained-glass windows were vast, taking up a whole third of the main-facing wall.

Valentine headed for the entrance, aiming to park in the church grounds, but thought better of it and pulled up beyond the wrought-iron railings with two wheels on the pavement.

‘Inside the grounds is for the family,’ he said.

McCormack shrugged, her expression saying that she thought he was being unnecessarily pedantic. ‘We’re here to disrupt the occasion not join in.’

‘I know. But some things just don’t feel right.’

As they parked, a navy Range Rover exiting the churchyard caught Valentine’s attention. Whoever was in the back was important enough to have a driver and kit him out with a uniform.

‘Who’s that?’ said McCormack.

‘Search me. I don’t know anyone from Cumnock with a Range Rover, never mind a driver with a peaked cap.’

As the car passed, the detectives stared into the back window, which had been tinted but was clear enough to show the full-leather interior and a familiar face.

‘I know him,’ said McCormack. ‘Isn’t he that politician?’

Valentine nodded, watching the Range Rover speed away. ‘Was a politician – he’s not any more. It’s Gerald Fallon, and he used to be the sitting MP for Carrick, Cumnock and Doon Valley.’

‘I know his face.’

‘He was never off the telly for about twenty years. I think he was the longest sitting MP in Scotland. Seemed to do bloody well out of it anyway.’

‘Did you catch the private plate?’

‘GF 111 – must have cost almost as much as the car.’

‘He probably got them both on expenses, before the row broke.’

Valentine grinned. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. What I do find surprising is what the hell Gerry Fallon is doing at Sandy’s funeral. I can’t imagine they were old muckers.’

As they started for the church Valentine began to vigorously rub the back of his head once again.

‘Sure that’s muscle strain?’ said McCormack.

The DI snatched away his hand. ‘Let’s get inside. If you spot my old man, give me the nod.’

‘Is that the plan, expose your dad to as much embarrassment as possible?’

Valentine paused, weighing the detective’s words. ‘He knows these people, knows Keirns. I’m going to ask my dad to point him out. Hopefully we can do this with a minimal fuss.’

McCormack looked at her watch then back towards the church. ‘The day’s getting on. If we’re lucky we might get them as they’re coming out.’

‘We’ll see. If we can do it with the least disruption then all to the good.’

The police officers headed down the path for the church entrance, the sound of their shoes echoing on the flagstones.

‘Sir, can I ask about Keirns?’ said McCormack.

‘I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you. He was at Columba House, that much you already know.’