‘No, he wriggled out of it in the end. Had a very good lawyer from Edinburgh. Don’t ask me how he paid for it. He had some connections, even had a character reference from an MP. The judge threw the case out. Look, he’s dodgy – you can take my word for it. As I was saying when I was on the tail team I saw him buying bottles every night for Sandy. He must have been funnelling it down the poor old bastard’s neck. But murder, no way. Keirns wouldn’t have the guts for that.’
The DI played over Purves’s comments and looked at McCormack to check her for an opinion. He didn’t need to ask; her expression indicated a similar amount of curiosity with the revelations. On one level, they were no further forward, but Purves had suggested some interesting possibilities.
‘How does a scrote like Keirns get the support of local worthies?’ said Valentine.
‘You tell me. Was it the drugs? Maybe he was supplying some of the upper-class party set.’
‘That wouldn’t be enough for them to stick their necks out for him,’ said McCormack.
‘No, it wouldn’t. But it would be enough for Keirns to use for blackmail,’ said Valentine.
Purves nodded. ‘Exactly. And that is not the kind of caper I’d put past Garry Keirns. In fact, I’d say it was right up his street.’
Valentine assessed the retired cop’s words and presented another query that was forming in his mind. ‘But where did Keirns get access to that sort of people? He didn’t move in those circles, did he?’
‘I suppose that’s where the boys’ clubs come in, the charity work for Columba House,’ said Purves. ‘Look at the Chronicle from a few years back. Keirns was never out the paper for some fundraiser or other. Used to get backs up at the station to see Keirns handing over an outsized cheque to some councillor or other that was supplying new footy tops for Columba House. We knew Keirns must be working a scam, we just never knew how.’
‘That makes sense – Keirns was an ex-Columba boy himself,’ said Valentine.
‘I dare say he milked it for all it was worth, played the poor orphan card with all those local worthies.’
‘I’m getting a pretty good picture of him now, Davie. You’ve been a big help.’
Purves reached for his overcoat on the back of the chair. ‘I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, Bob. Garry Keirns is as immoral as they come. He’s a scrote too, but he’s spineless. If you’re looking for someone capable of killing kiddies, Keirns hasn’t got the bottle.’
‘I hear you, Davie,’ said Valentine. ‘Can I ask one more favour?’
Purves was fastening his overcoat. ‘Name it.’
‘That character reference Keirns had from the MP, can you remember who it was from?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry. The lawyer was a big shot from Edinburgh – Armstrong was his name. Bloody QC he was. The MP was a fair age mind, he’ll be retired now.’
Valentine watched McCormack take down the name of the lawyer in her notebook. ‘Do you think you can ask around, maybe find out who the MP was?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
20
As DI Bob Valentine descended the stairs to the basement of King Street station he felt strangely compelled to put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. Removing the St Christopher pendant that he’d taken from the evidence bag he looked directly into his open palm.
The small item appeared to have been polished, perhaps the result of the lint in his pocket and the day’s movements. It was certainly shinier as he eyed it, squinting directly under the mounted wall light. The three initials C. B. S. still baffled the detective, but the mere presence of the pendant felt comforting to him. It seemed to have an energy that spoke to the DI. He couldn’t intuit any more from the piece, but he felt sure in time that he would.
As Valentine returned the pendant to his pocket and took the final steps towards the basement storage he tapped the outside of his pocket and spoke softly. ‘Consider this part of the test.’ He didn’t know who he was speaking to, probably Crosbie seemed the closest guess, but he felt like persisting, if only because he had nothing to lose.
‘Ally . . .’ called out Valentine.
‘Over here, boss.’ DS McAlister was propped against a row of shelving that was composed of chrome and wire mesh and divided into large and small files of ascending order. At his feet more files had been stacked, some to waist height and accompanied by paper cups and takeaway wrappings from the chippie on Ayr Road.
‘Christ, have you moved in here?’ said Valentine.
McAlister glanced around him. ‘It’s tidier than my flat, sir.’
‘I dread to think what Chez Ally looks like then. You must live in a bloody sewer.’
He raised his arm and sniffed at his armpits. ‘Do I smell that bad?’
Valentine didn’t reply. He walked towards the pile of box files on the floor and crouched down. ‘Anything of use here?’
McAlister scratched his stubbled chin as he spoke. ‘Don’t know where to begin really. Yes and no might be a good answer to that question. Perhaps more yes than no.’
‘Come on then, spill the beans.’
The DS tapped a pile of files with the toe of his shoe. ‘That’s the possibles pile . . .’
Valentine cut in. ‘The what?’
‘Possibles, sir. As in, possibly our missing boys, but not very likely.’