Valentine leaned on the desk and held out an open hand, making sure all emotion and threat was removed from his voice. ‘Come on, give me the gun.’
Fallon pushed himself away from the desk and stepped out of his chair. His finger was on the gun’s trigger now. ‘I said no.’
The detective eased away and heard the blood pounding in his ears. ‘OK, if that’s the way you want it.’
‘You’ve got this all wrong you know, Valentine. All wrong.’
‘That’s funny, Garry Keirns told me that as well. Before he was killed.’
‘Bloody Keirns.’ Fallon spat the name. ‘He was always letting his mouth run.’
‘Is that why he was killed?’
Fallon dipped his head and formed a lopsided grin. ‘You’ll be accusing me of that next, I suppose.’
‘Well, did you?’
‘That idiot got himself killed. I can’t even say he was a useful idiot in the end.’ He lowered the gun and placed it on the desk between himself and Valentine, but kept his hand on the barrel. ‘Look, Keirns knew a little, and you know what they say – a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But he didn’t know the whole story – nothing bloody like it!’
‘What’s the whole story then? Why don’t you tell me?’
Fallon rubbed the back of his neck as if easing out cramp. As he moved, the motion rocked the gun on the desk. ‘Not what you think. That picture you showed me, that’s nothing to do with it. Nothing to do with all of this mess.’
As the former MP spoke, Valentine became aware that Fallon was dressed very formally in a fitted dress suit and tie. The collars of his white shirt were stiff and starched, fastened low on his neck by a large Windsor knot. There was a pin in the tie – a red garnet stone, very like the one in the signet ring he was now wearing on the little finger of his right hand.
‘When I first came here with DS McAlister, you were wearing gloves,’ said Valentine. ‘You thought you’d get away with keeping them on when we went inside, but then you saw me looking at them and turned away to take them off.’
Fallon held up the ring. ‘You couldn’t have seen it. I took it off inside my driving gloves, and I was careful to leave it in there.’
‘I thought that’s what you’d done.’
Fallon lowered his hand and put it in his pocket. ‘Keirns told me about the picture, you know, but it was nothing to do with this absurd affair. I swear to you that was something different. I’ve never killed a child.’
‘Someone did. Someone killed two young boys who made the mistake of being alive and in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘And you think that was me?’
‘If not you then who?’
Fallon turned to face the other wall, pointing to a small oil painting of a yacht in a gilt frame. It was a colourful summer scene, with cloudless blue skies above and crystal-clear waters below, lapping at the bow of the boat. It seemed an image as far removed from the current situation as possible. ‘In there – the safe. Open it.’
‘What will I find?’
‘The answer you’re looking for.’
Valentine was uneasy turning his back on the man but walked to the other side of the room and took down the delicate painting with some care. Behind the frame was an indent in the wall where there sat a small grey security box with a black handle.
Fallon spoke. ‘The key’s in it. Turn the handle.’
As Valentine opened the small, square door a bolt mechanism clicked into place. He looked inside and saw a long, cylindrical cardboard roll.
‘Take it out and bring it over here.’ Fallon stayed at the desk by the gun, watching every one of the detective’s slow and careful movements.
Valentine removed the roll and returned to the desk, placing the item under the light from the lamp. He watched as Fallon opened up the scroll and threw down a bundle of faded colour photographs that were attached with a paperclip.
‘There you go,’ he said, stepping away from the desk as if to disassociate himself. ‘You won’t see me in any of them.’
In the first picture the detective identified Rory Stevenson straightaway. Rory was with an unknown, bare-chested man. The same man featured in the second picture that was removed, and also the third. There were more pictures, but Valentine didn’t need to look at them to know what they contained. He threw down the pile of photographs in disgust and turned to face Fallon.
‘Speak,’ said the detective.
‘Recognise the man?’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Andrew Lucas. I don’t think I need to tell you who the boy is. We all know he’s the reason we’re here.’
Valentine struggled with the rage building in him. ‘What the hell is this, Fallon?’