McAlister and Donnelly exchanged glances. Their expressions were moving towards doubt but neither spoke up.
‘Sir, we’ve nothing solid to charge him with,’ said McAlister.
Valentine halted mid-stride. ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
‘But you just said . . .’
‘Ally, I can still suspect the wee scrote without having the goods on him. With any luck that’ll come.’ He resumed his path on the stairwell; they were nearing their floor. ‘Get your files together. When Sylvia shows we’ll gather at the board.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Valentine paced through to his office. He was moving with greater purpose, with a sense that time was pressing. At his computer terminal he checked his email for the site picture from Mike Sullivan, but nothing had appeared. He picked up the phone.
‘Mike, it’s Bob . . .’
‘Bernie’s just in the door. I’m scanning the shot as we speak.’
‘Great. How’s it looking?’
‘Bob, it’s better than I thought. You won’t get a solid ID out of it, but there’s distinguishing marks that could sway a jury.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘You’ll see for yourself.’ Sullivan seemed eager to change the subject – he was racing his words out. ‘There’s more too, and you’ll like this even better.’
‘I think I like it already. Go on . . .’
Sullivan coughed away from the phone. ‘Do you remember the list we gave you for the contents we retrieved from the barrel?’
‘The catalogued evidence file, yes, I have it here somewhere.’ Valentine moved papers around on his desk then opened his drawer – the catalogue was sitting on the top. ‘Right, I have it in front of me.’
‘OK, it’s Item Twelve I want to draw your attention to.’
Valentine ran his finger down the index. ‘The bookie’s pen. Small red one.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, what about it?’
‘That was found in one of the boys’ pockets, the older one. It’s a stretch, but if we can tie in the batch numbers then we have a definite link to the boys and the farmhouse.’
‘You found another bookie’s pen?’
‘Bob, we found a bag of them. Must be about fifty in there. They were stuffed away under the boards.’
‘Print them, Mike. And run anything you find alongside Garry Keirns’s prints that we have on record. If we can establish a link, we might have the bastard.’
Valentine put down the telephone and calmly tapped his thumbnail on the back of his lips. It was a pose he often adopted when he was in deep thought. For a moment, he wondered about running through to tell the squad, but his mind drifted into a higher place.
As he closed his eyes, Valentine saw Rory Stevenson with another boy. They were in a Cumnock street playing football. At either side of the road the boys lobbed the ball towards each other until one struck the kerb and the ball bounced back over the road.
The boys yelled out, but Valentine couldn’t hear their words – everything was muffled. The light started to take on a strange quality, and soon he seemed to be viewing the boys down a telescope. They walked away, one with the ball under his arm and the other showing him something small that he’d removed from his pocket.
They talked excitedly, but their words were a mystery to Valentine. Only the sight of the little penknife being admired by Rory seemed to speak to him. It was the knife the DI had seen on the list of evidence reclaimed from the barrel.
Valentine opened his eyes and reached for the list, scanning the index once again. It was there – two places below the bookie’s pen was a penknife with the same bookie’s name on it: Carson’s.
The PC pinged, alerting Valentine to the incoming email. He opened up the picture right away and stared at the screen. He couldn’t properly absorb what he was seeing. The shot was contorted, positioned at an unnatural angle, but there was enough to make out the prominent features. He clicked on print to send the file to the colour printer in the incident room.
On his way out the door Valentine rallied the team. ‘Right, Sylvia, you’re back. Can I have the rest of you round the board directly please?’
There was the immediate sound of castors scraping on the floor, accompanied by a murmur of low voices as the squad gravitated towards the middle of the room. When Valentine retrieved the photographic print he held it away from himself to better view the whole picture. It was worse than he imagined.
‘Right, Sylvia, what’s the SP on this Blairgowan mob?’ said the DI.
DS McCormack approached the front of the small gathering and crossed her arms. She leaned against the wall as she began to speak. ‘The man who has been of most interest to us is Freddie Gowan so far. I’ll come to his partner Pete Blair in a moment.’
‘Have you pulled records, Sylvia?’ said Valentine.
‘Yes, boss. Both clear. Gowan is a pretty heavy-footed driver but then, well, you’ve seen his motor.’