‘Scum. Scum. Scum.’ The chanting rounded on the officers.
‘Right, we’re going in,’ said Valentine. ‘Ally, get round the back door and stay there. Nobody in or out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, Phil, we’re going in the front. Or should I say, I am. You’re on the door once I’m inside.’
‘I get all the good jobs.’
The DI patted his shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. The cavalry’s on the way.’
The team pressed themselves into the crowd and were swallowed up by the swaying mass of bodies. At the main entrance gate two uniformed officers tried to hold back the crowd as the detectives squeezed themselves into the grounds.
Once over the boundary, Valentine had a strange feeling of weightlessness as he lunged into the open space. McAlister and Donnelly appeared directly behind him, brushing themselves down.
‘Right, you have your orders.’
As they ran for the building, the DI looked for signs of movement beyond the windows. The curtains were drawn in the lounge downstairs, but the lights appeared to be burning in many of the other rooms. The place looked quiet, unlived in. He wondered if anyone was home.
‘Remember, no heroics, Phil,’ Valentine said as he reached for the door.
‘You too, sir.’
The DI rushed the steps and the front door, closing it behind him. Inside was silent, the main ceiling light and wall lamps all shining to indicate an occupier, but there was no one visible in any direction.
Valentine checked the first door ahead of him. It opened to a large kitchen whose only occupant was a lazy-looking black Lab, curled in a basket by an Aga stove.
‘Hello,’ said the DI.
There was no reply; the Lab buried its nose in the basket and resumed insouciance.
The DI closed the door and returned to the hallway. The house was quiet, in contrast to the hubbub raging outside; it didn’t feel like the same place he had visited earlier. There was a different atmosphere, a stillness that seemed out of place. As he started to walk for the main living room where he had interviewed Fallon, the DI felt his face and hands growing cold, as if he had just walked outside in the depths of winter. He halted. The stillness intensified now, became more like a solid presence that summoned him. As he turned around to face the source Valentine connected at once with the image of a small boy.
Rory Stevenson’s pale impression stood at the opposite end of the hallway staring into Valentine’s eyes. The boy was motionless – not even an indication of the light flickered in his still gaze.
Valentine’s body temperature returned to normal. He felt no fear, only a mute anguish that he knew originated outside of him. As he started to walk towards the boy, the image altered and turned to face the opposite direction. The detective was following him now, down the broad and silent hallway towards another door, where the small boy’s image disappeared beyond.
42
The handle was stiff and the door heavy, the old hinges sighing loudly as Valentine pushed forward. The room seemed disproportionately darker than the rest of the house until the detective realised the heavy velveteen curtains were drawn tight across the window. The only other light in the room came from a small, brass desk lamp, its green glass shade throwing off a yellowish glow.
In the hazy light beyond the lamp sat Fallon, slumped in a swivel chair with a heavy glass in one hand. Beside the glass sat a bottle of Glenlivet. It was almost empty. As Valentine approached the desk there was no movement from Fallon at all, as he stared, wide-eyed, into the room’s dark recesses. For a moment the DI thought he had found a corpse, until he leaned over the desk and saw Fallon’s other hand slowly moving up the stock of the Browning shotgun that was resting in his lap.
The only sound in the musty atmosphere came from a clock ticking somewhere on the bookshelves behind the detective. Beyond the regular tick, tick, tick came an occasional roar from the crowd outside, which was punctuated by the shrill blaring of a car’s horn.
When he spoke, Fallon’s voice sounded dislocated from the real world. ‘She’s left.’ He looked up, made eye contact with Valentine. ‘My wife. She read the papers.’
The DI’s pulse was quickening and sweat dampened his forearms. ‘You sound surprised.’
‘It makes you wonder what it’s all for when something like that happens.’ Fallon drained the last of his whisky and let the heavy glass fall to the floor; it rolled underneath the desk and out of view.
‘And have you reached a conclusion?’
Fallon remained motionless and silent as the noise outside started to rise again. He did not answer the detective.
‘Give me the gun,’ said Valentine.
‘No.’
‘You’re not going to shoot your way out of this, Fallon.’
‘That’s not what it’s for.’