Fallon bent over the picture, bunching his brows. He stared solidly and dispassionately before picking up his glasses once more and drawing the picture towards him. He reviewed the scene closely, his broad forehead creasing as his gaze roved.
Valentine recorded his reaction, waiting for any telling signs that might betray Fallon. His breathing was steady, his pallor unchanged, but as he removed his glasses and pushed away the picture his voice trailed into a dull monotone.
‘I’d like to – I mean, can we have an interval?’ said Fallon.
‘Why?’
‘I need time to . . .’ He smoothed the edges of his lips with his finger and thumb.
Valentine reached for the photograph. He held it up. ‘Has something here jogged your memory, Mr Fallon?’
‘No, that’s not it.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s your conscience?’
Fallon looked away, sinking into his chair. He appeared shrunken before the officers; his ferocity diminished.
Valentine slapped down the picture. ‘You know who this is – don’t you?’
The DI rose from his chair and went to stand next to Fallon. The former MP raised a dismissive hand, but the gesture said more about how his energy had been sapped. He became twitchy, scratching the corner of his nose then touching the seam of his jumper before staring at his hands like he didn’t know what to do next with them.
The door to the interview room opened and DS Donnelley lunged towards the officers. ‘Boss, we need you right away.’
‘Not now, Phil.’
‘Sir, we’ve found him.’
‘Den Rennie?’ The name sent a jolt through Fallon.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m coming.’
In the corridor Valentine turned to face DS McCormack. ‘Fallon’s on the ropes.’
‘It’s the photo – he knows something.’
‘Getting it out of him will be the hard bit. But that’s not all he knows.’
‘You mean Rennie?’
Valentine’s gaze flitted. ‘You saw it too?’
‘It definitely registered, sir.’
The officers ascended the stairs with something like optimism raising them up. In the incident room DS McAlister beckoned to Valentine with a raised hand; in his other hand he indicated a telephone receiver.
‘That him?’ said the DS.
Valentine took the phone and gave his name and rank. The exchange was brief, but the detective was absorbed in the words. The team around him was soaking up the information.
He put the receiver back in the cradle.
‘He’s here.’
‘In Ayr?’ said McAlister.
‘Not quite. Fenwick. I told him to stay there. I’m going out now.’
The officers started to reach for coats and keys. ‘No, it’s not a field trip. I’m going alone.’
‘Are you sure, sir?’ said DS McCormack.
‘He wants our chat to be off the record, so I’m going alone.’
‘OK,’ said McCormack. ‘We’re here if you need us.’
‘I’m sure I won’t. But keep an eye on Fallon. I don’t think he’s in a good place right now.’
‘Best place for him.’
Valentine grinned.
In the car the DI went over his thoughts, which seemed to sit somewhere between the blackening clouds that hung overhead and whatever lay beyond. When the rain broke it was little surprise that it shot at the windscreen like javelins, bouncing off the bonnet and the road incessantly.
By Fenwick the downpour had settled into a persistent drizzle and the potholes of the road spilled over with oily waters. At the pub car park a downpipe overflowed the drain, causing a wet apron to cover the pavement. The DI had to dance around the splashes as he entered the building.
A stooped man in a navy-blue Berghaus jacket was waiting by the doorway. He seemed agitated, playing with the change in his pockets as he waited with cheeks so pinched he looked like he might spit.
‘Valentine?’ he said.
‘Hello, Den.’ The men shook hands and made their way through to a quiet area of the bar. They exchanged pleasantries about the poor weather and Rennie’s recent fishing trip, which he had interrupted before taking anything that might qualify as a trophy catch.
‘I’m very grateful for this, Den,’ said Valentine.
‘I hear it was on the news, the old case.’
‘I rarely catch the news in this job.’
‘You’re not missing much. It was the paper I saw.’
The waitress brought over their drinks on a tartan tray and set them down on the tabletop.
‘I wasn’t going to come,’ said Rennie.
‘Why not?’
He picked up his drink. ‘Before we speak, I need to know where you’re coming from.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I mean, are you going to get to the bottom of this?’
Valentine watched Rennie sip his drink. The gaze was returned in full.
‘I know about Pollock, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I know he was a blow-in who suddenly appeared and stuck a nice, neat bow on everything.’