‘It’s perfectly all right – my wife will calm the dogs down. They get excited at the sight of the boots – think we’re going out.’
Fallon led the officers into a long lounge room. At one end, full-length chintz curtains hung either side of a large bay window that took in the view of the garden and gates. In the middle, a white mantle supported an ornamental clock that was flanked by silver candlesticks. There was a broad picture opposite in a gilt frame, portraying a scene of men in red hunting jackets riding horseback over a green countryside. A long table at the other end of the room was covered with a messy pile of newspapers that looked out of place in the pristine home.
‘Can I offer you a drink, officers?’ said Fallon.
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Please, take a seat.’
Valentine remained standing, where he could view the stock of newspapers in the reflection of a mirror hanging above the fireplace. He let his gaze linger long enough for Fallon to register his interest.
‘How can I help you?’ said Fallon. He unbuttoned the supporting strap on his gloves but didn’t remove them.
‘Do you always buy every newspaper on the stand, Mr Fallon?’ Valentine turned away and walked towards the table. When he reached the pile of papers, he saw they all seemed to be open at the same story.
‘No, I was alerted to this particular point of interest by a former constituent of mine.’
Valentine picked up the first paper he saw and handed it to DS McCormack. ‘Exactly what interest do you have in my current murder investigation?’
Fallon placed his hands behind his back. ‘I was the MP for the area for many years, Detective.’
‘Is that your answer?’
‘Isn’t it good enough for you?’
Valentine watched McCormack fling the paper back on the table. The noise distracted the retired MP.
‘Why are you here, Mr Valentine?’ said Fallon.
Valentine ignored the question and started to wander around the table, looking at the various newspaper spreads. ‘Not exactly a story you’d want to be reminded of for the purposes of nostalgia, is it?’
‘Nostalgia’s not what it used to be,’ Fallon joked.
‘The death of two young boys isn’t a laughing matter, Mr Fallon.’
‘Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with that?’
Valentine left his question hanging, once again.
‘How do you know Garry Keirns?’ he said.
‘Mr Keirns was a constituent of mine.’
‘Play host to a lot of your former constituents regularly, do you?’
Fallon took a step closer to the detectives. ‘Look, what is this all about?’
‘I’ll ask the questions, Mr Fallon – that’s generally the way it goes in murder investigations. Now, Garry Keirns – why was he here?’
Fallon turned towards the mantle and made a show of removing his gloves. He placed them beside the clock. ‘He asked me for some advice on a private matter.’
‘And just how can public relations be a private matter, Mr Fallon?’
‘What?’
‘I’m referring to Josh Simpson, the hack and political press man who was running your little media hub from here.’ Valentine waved a hand towards the table piled with newspapers.
Fallon put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, forcing his shoulders to square broadly. His gaze roved over the two officers standing in his home. ‘On whose authority are you here, Mr Valentine?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.’
‘Well maybe I can spell it out in simpler terms for you. Does your chief constable know you are here?’
‘Why would he?’
‘Exactly what I thought. William Greaves would be far too circumspect to vouch for this kind of fishing expedition. Perhaps I should give him a call now.’
Valentine turned to face DS McCormack, whose expression was dominated by the small hollow of the pointed mouth in the centre of her face.
‘Detective Inspector Valentine is in charge of this investigation,’ said McCormack.
‘Oh, she speaks,’ mocked Fallon. ‘I suppose that’s two names I’ll have to raise with Mr Greaves now. He’s going to be busy with the carpetings.’
‘If that’s supposed to be some kind of threat . . .’ McCormack paused to gather steam, but Valentine raised a hand to calm the DS and returned to the former MP.
‘Threatening a police officer – comical though it is to be threatened with an old school tie – is a serious offence, Mr Fallon,’ said the DI.
Fallon’s face ruptured into laughter. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, Detective Inspector Valentine. It’s just that I am far more used to speaking to the organ grinder than his little monkey.’
Fallon placed a hand on Valentine’s shoulder and proceeded to tap gently. He was halfway towards the third tap in succession, guffawing noisily in the DI’s face, when Valentine grabbed his hand and turned it behind his back, meeting the wrist with a set of handcuffs.
‘I’m arresting you, Mr Fallon. You don’t have to say anything . . .’
The laughter halted. ‘Arresting me! On what charge?’