‘I know him,’ said McCormack. ‘Isn’t he that politician?’
Valentine nodded, watching the Range Rover speed away. ‘Was a politician – he’s not any more. It’s Gerald Fallon, and he used to be the sitting MP for Carrick, Cumnock and Doon Valley.’
‘I know his face.’
‘He was never off the telly for about twenty years. I think he was the longest sitting MP in Scotland. Seemed to do bloody well out of it anyway.’
‘Did you catch the private plate?’
‘GF 111 – must have cost almost as much as the car.’
‘He probably got them both on expenses, before the row broke.’
Valentine grinned. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me. What I do find surprising is what the hell Gerry Fallon is doing at Sandy’s funeral. I can’t imagine they were old muckers.’
As they started for the church Valentine began to vigorously rub the back of his head once again.
‘Sure that’s muscle strain?’ said McCormack.
The DI snatched away his hand. ‘Let’s get inside. If you spot my old man, give me the nod.’
‘Is that the plan, expose your dad to as much embarrassment as possible?’
Valentine paused, weighing the detective’s words. ‘He knows these people, knows Keirns. I’m going to ask my dad to point him out. Hopefully we can do this with a minimal fuss.’
McCormack looked at her watch then back towards the church. ‘The day’s getting on. If we’re lucky we might get them as they’re coming out.’
‘We’ll see. If we can do it with the least disruption then all to the good.’
The police officers headed down the path for the church entrance, the sound of their shoes echoing on the flagstones.
‘Sir, can I ask about Keirns?’ said McCormack.
‘I’m not sure there’s much I can tell you. He was at Columba House, that much you already know.’
‘That was the big old building, next to the farm. The one that’s all boarded up now?’
Valentine nodded as he walked. ‘It used to be a reformatory for boys in Victorian times. I think they called it an approved school or something when I was a kid. It’s always been one of these places for wayward kids, boys waiting in custody and so on. I don’t know that much about it, except that it closed at the end of the eighties, some scandal involving the staff and the boys.’
‘Child abuse?’
‘Something like that. I don’t know the details.’
‘But would Keirns have been there then?’
Valentine had reached the door. He gripped the oversized handle. ‘I suppose he must have left by then. But not by long.’
The vestibule was tiled, a broad mosaic in mostly terracotta, greens and blacks. Every tile had a chip or a crack; some were missing altogether. Damp coats hung steaming on old hat pegs, whilst wet umbrellas stood in the stand and clung to the window ledge. Beyond the heavy oak doors came the sound of dour preaching in a west of Scotland accent. Occasional coughs broke in-between the gaps in the speech.
‘OK, come on, what’s the worst that can happen?’ said Valentine.
‘Well, the place could come down on us for a start.’
‘You’re not making this any easier.’
‘I’m just saying . . .’
‘Well, don’t.’
5
Valentine’s father wasn’t hard to spot, being tall and gaunt, stooping slightly above the others with their hymn books out. He didn’t seem to notice the officers at first and kept singing, but when they reached his pew and started to crab crawl their way towards him he appeared perplexed.
‘Is it the girls, Bob?’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘Has there been an accident?’
‘No, Dad. Nothing like that.’
A shuffle of bodies indicated the end of the hymn; a few glanced at Valentine and McCormack.
‘Dad, we’re here on police business.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t have the time to explain.’ Valentine felt conscious of causing a stir. He looked to the front and tried to blend.
‘Surely it’s nothing to do with Sandy’s burial.’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. Well, it is and it isn’t . . . look, which one down there is Garry Keirns?’
‘Garry Keirns.’ His voice came at the normal volume and caused a woman in a bobble hat from the row in front to turn around.
Valentine’s father lowered his tone. ‘Why do you want Garry?’
‘Which one is he?’
The old man pointed to a seated figure at the end of the front row. He was close to fifty years old with greying red hair that covered his collar. Valentine noticed he wasn’t wearing a suit like the others seated nearby, but jeans and a tired-looking anorak.
‘The one in the pale-grey jacket?’ said Valentine.
‘That’s him, yes.’ His father placed a hand on Valentine’s arm. ‘Please, Bob, don’t interrupt the ceremony. Let them get Sandy in the ground first.’
‘Dad, I have a job to do.’
‘These are your people too, son.’
‘If you’d just seen what I have, that wouldn’t count for much.’