‘Pack it in,’ said Valentine. ‘Any marks on those doors?’
‘Multiple scratches on the patio-door frames,’ said McCormack. ‘The door at the back has had the lock jemmied at some point, but it’s a new lock. The neighbours say it was a rental property for a number of years, and there were a few tenants that didn’t look after it.’
‘So we’ve two potential entrance points.’
McCormack nodded. ‘Looks that way.’
Valentine walked to the end of the path, keeping his voice low. ‘Any footprinting?’
‘There’s been heavy rain, sir. Most of it’ll be washed away.’
The DI stood on the balls of his feet and stared into the open door at the rear of the property. He could still see the swaying corpse of Garry Keirns hanging from the banister at the end of the hallway.
‘A nice clean job, eh?’ said Valentine.
‘You’re not entertaining suicide, sir?’ said McAlister.
‘Oh do me a favour. Keirns had been potless his whole life. He just gets his hands on some money and he does himself in?’
‘Maybe he felt pressured?’ said McCormack.
‘Do you know what I think? I think somebody else felt pressured.’ Valentine pushed away from the officers and marched back up the path towards the house. At the back door he turned. ‘Get him down now and get the remains to Wrighty. And tell him to have a bloody close look, because if there’s any doubt, we call this murder.’
Valentine drove through the blue and white tape on his way from the crime scene. At the station there seemed to be more press than ever on the front steps, and their number had been added to by a flash protest mob waving placards and shouting.
‘What the hell is that?’ said the DI. He had never known King Street station to be picketed, and he knew the top brass wouldn’t be pleased.
In the car park the detective spotted the chief constable’s Lexus parked outside the rear entrance to the building. He tried not to imagine what kind of conversation Bill Greaves might be engaged in with the chief super, but he couldn’t shake the image of a red-faced Greaves spewing fire.
Valentine avoided the usual pleasantries at the desk with Jim Prentice, who tried to beckon him over but was flagged down as the DI marched for the stairs. His heart rate ramped up and his collar started to tighten. He yanked off the tie that had caused him so much trouble earlier and spooled the cloth into a ball.
The DI was breathing heavily by the top of the stairs but carried on, past the door to the incident room and onwards to the chief super’s office. He ignored the protocol of a knock, opting instead to drop the handle and walk inside.
CS Martin and the chief constable were standing over a desk spread with the morning papers. The predominant image Valentine gleaned from the press was that of Gerald Fallon being led down the station steps by a uniformed officer who was reaching a splayed hand towards the camera lens.
‘Bob, do come in,’ said Martin.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’
41
It was perhaps the most placatory Valentine had ever seen the chief super, and he couldn’t get used to the new persona. If she was playing down her usual bile to keep him in the job, then her actions were going to prove futile, thought Valentine. With all he’d seen in the last few days, he’d gladly walk away and never return. Transfer or not.
Greaves seemed less concerned with the DI’s opinion, heaving himself into Martin’s chair and looking over laced fingers at Valentine. ‘We seem to have arrived at exactly the point I had hoped to avoid,’ said Greaves, waving a hand over the collected press material.
Valentine avoided the remark. ‘Why did you release my suspect?’
‘Because he wasn’t a suspect.’
‘I’m the investigating officer. I decide who the suspects are on my investigations.’
‘And I’m the chief constable, Bob. Though I’m sure you don’t need reminding of that.’
CS Martin stopped fiddling with the coffee machine and headed for the door with the jug in her hand. ‘I think I’ll get this filled,’ she said, holding up the jug on her way out the door.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Valentine.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
The DI moved closer to the desk. He felt overwhelmed by the piles of bad publicity in front of him. ‘Fallon knows something.’
‘He wasn’t a suspect. We couldn’t hold him.’
‘He might not have been our murder suspect, but I’m pretty sure he knows who should be top of our list.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘And how do you know?’
‘Well, can you?’
Valentine smirked as he lowered himself into the vacant seat beyond the desk. ‘If you’re even asking me that, sir, then you can’t be as sure of your position as you think you are.’