‘He must have had some kind of guess.’
‘He seems to edge towards a serial killer snatching, sir. We know there were a number operational in the area, or near to the district, that we learnt about later so it’s not the wildest assumption.’
‘And Corrigan, where is he now?’
‘Retired, sir. His file says he lives in Prestwick. I was planning to pay him a visit as soon as possible.’
‘Do that, Ally. And have the highlights of these files copied for all senior officers too.’
‘Will do.’
‘Now, this ex-miner with the bike shop?’ said the DI.
McAlister replaced the file on top of the pile and turned back to face the group. ‘Yes, Colin Stevenson. He’s still married to Rory’s mother, Marie, and they both live in the same council house in Cumnock. He was their only child. I can’t imagine how hard the grief has hit them over the years.’
‘It must have been painful,’ said Valentine. ‘And it’s about to get more painful. We’ll have to pay them a visit and ask them to take a look at what we think are some of Rory’s personal effects.’
‘Yes, boss. They won’t be able to identify him from his remains, that’s for sure.’
29
On the way down the stairwell the view passing the window was of grey and weary buildings. A thin line of roof stacks slanted towards the pink horizon in a rugged rut. The evening outside the station was of perfect stillness, pierced only with the hum of traffic and eerie noises of playing children. As he descended, thinking about the visit he must make to Rory Stevenson’s parents later, Valentine felt his thoughts swaying inside him. He didn’t want to hear the children’s voices – he wanted to block them out, and that wounded him because no matter how much he hated in the world, he knew there was always much to love too.
‘How do you want to play this, boss?’ said DS McAlister. His words were followed by the roar of a motorcycle outside.
Valentine turned. ‘What are you talking about – the visit to the parents or our next meeting with Keirns?’
‘To be honest, I’m trying not to think about the visit to Cumnock.’
Valentine continued down the stairs. ‘That’s probably best, Ally. Leave that to me. As for Keirns, we’re going straight for the jugular. I aim to put the fear of God into him, and failing that I’ll settle for the fear of being banged up on a double murder charge.’
The sounds of heavy heels clacking on the hard flooring echoed with them down the stairwell. At the interview suite the officers approached the desk sergeant and waited for Keirns to be brought through again.
‘How did his partner in crime depart earlier?’ said Valentine.
‘Are you on about Freddie Gowan?’ said the officer.
‘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.