I Hear the Sirens in the Street (19 page)

“Five ten.”

“You'd be fine. I think.”

“What if I stood on tip toes.”

“What's keeping you here, Sean?” he asked, ignoring my facetiousness.

“I wanna stay and be part of the solution.”

“Jesus. They must be putting something in the water or planting subliminal messages in those health and safety films.”

I laughed and we were about to turn into the McAlpines' farm when a man with a shotgun came hurrying towards us.

I put the Beemer in neutral and wound the window down.

Tony put his hand on his service revolver.

“Oi, youse! This is a private road,” the man yelled.

“Put the gun down!” I yelled at him.

“I will not!” he yelled back.

“We're police! Break open that gun this instant!” I howled at the fucker.

He hesitated for a moment, but didn't break open the shotgun and kept coming towards us at a jog. He was in green Wellington boots, khaki trousers, a white shirt, tweed shooting jacket and a flat cap. He was dressed in a previous generation's get up but he was only about forty if he was a day.

We got out of the Beemer, drew our weapons and put the car between him and us.

“First time I've drawn my gun in two years,” Tony said.

“A man shot at me with a shotgun just the other week,” I said.

“I've been on the job eight years and I've never had anyone shoot at me.”

“I've been shot at half a dozen times.”

“What does that tell you about yourself?”

“What does it tell you?”

“It tells me that people don't like you. You rub them the
wrong way.”

“Thanks, mate.”

The man jogged along the track towards us. He had a couple of beagles with him. Beagles I noted, not border collies, so he wasn't a farmer, or at least he wasn't farming today. He arrived at the Beemer slightly out of breath but not in too bad nick considering his little run down the hill. He had a grey thatch, a long angular face and ruddy cheeks. His eyes were blue and squinty as if he spent all his down-time reading and rereading
Country Life
.

“This is private property and you are trespassing,” he said.

“We're the police,” I said again.

“So you claim,” he said, and then after a brief pause he added, “and even if you are, you'll still need a warrant to come onto my land.”

His accent was a little peculiar. Not Islandmagee, not local. It sounded 1930s Anglo-Irish. He'd clearly been educated at an expensive private school, one where they learned you to say “leand” instead of “land”.

“We're here to see the widow McAlpine,” I said.

“She's a tenant on my property and this is a private residence. I would prefer it if you would come back stating the precise nature of your business on a warrant.”

I ignored him and turned to Tony. “This is the influence of American TV. Second time this week I've been told to get a warrant by some joker. Not like this in the old days.”

Tony cleared his throat. “Listen, mate, you don't want to mess with us. We're conducting inquiries into a murder investigation. We can go wherever the hell we like.”

The geezer shook his head. “No, you cannot. It was my younger brother who was murdered and I have seen the efficacy or lack thereof in your procedures. The RUC have not impressed me with their competence these last months.”

“You're Dougherty's brother?” I asked.

“Who's Dougherty? I am speaking of Martin McAlpine,
Captain Martin McAlpine. My brother.”

“No, sir, we're not investigating that murder. Not as such. We're looking into the death of Detective Inspector Dougherty who was murdered last night in Larne. We wanted to ask Mrs McAlpine a few questions.”

“What on earth for?” the man asked.

“We'd like to speak to her about it, sir,” I insisted.

“I'll not have Emma disturbed. She's already had several visits from so-called detectives coming out to see her this week on various wild goose chases. I suppose her name popped up on one of your computers – well, let me tell you something, young man, I am not going to stand for it. She's been very upset by all this. She's a strong woman but this nonsense has taken a toll. You fellows are messing with people's lives.”

“Sir, it's our duty to investigate Inspector Dougherty's murder and we know for a fact that he came here recently to see Mrs McAlpine. We need to find out what they were talking about and so we will be questioning Mrs McAlpine and there is nothing, sir, that you can do about it,” I said with authority.

His cheeks reddened and he made a little grunting sound like a sow rooting for truffles. He rummaged in one of the pockets of his shooting jacket and removed a notebook and pencil.

“And what is your name, officer?” he asked me.

“Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, Carrickfergus RUC.”

“And yours?” he asked Tony.

“Detective Chief Inspector Antony McIlroy, Special Branch.”

“Good,” he said, writing the names in his book. “You will both be hearing from my solicitors.”

“I'll look forward to that,” Tony said, and then went on: “May we inquire as to your name, sir?”

“I am Sir Harry McAlpine,” he announced, as if that was supposed to make us fall to our knees or genuflect or something.

“Fine, now if you'll kindly move to one side, we'll be about our business,” Tony said.

He moved. We got back in the BMW.

“Watch your dogs,” I said, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Funny old git,” Tony said.

“I'll tell you something funny,” I began.

“What?”

“He lets two armed men go to his sister-in-law's house only a couple of months after her husband, his brother, has been shot by a couple of armed men on a motorbike.”

“We told him we were police,” Tony protested.

“Aye, we
told
him, but he didn't actually ask to see our warrant cards and he wasn't surprised to see us, was he?”

“Which means?”

“He knew we were the police and he knew we were coming.”

“Because of Dougherty?”

“Because of Dougherty.”

“Why fuck with us, then?”

“He wanted to introduce himself, he wanted us to know that Emma McAlpine was the sister-in-law of Sir Harry McAlpine.”

“What good does that do?”

“He wanted to put the fear of God up us.”

“It didn't work because neither of us have bloody heard of him.”

“I have an ominous feeling that we're going to though, eh?”

Tony nodded and we drove into the familiar McAlpine farmyard.

Cora was chained up under an overhang, but soon began barking and snapping at us.

“Friendly dog,” Tony said.

“She does that, when she's not tearing your throat out or watching calmly while two terrorists shoot her master.”

We got out of the car and walked across the muddy farmyard.

The hens were out, pecking at crumbs, and a proprietary rooster gave us the evil eye from a fence post.

There was a note on the front door:

“Gone to get salt. Back soon.”

I took it off and showed it to Tony, who was a little nearsighted.

“You think she means that literally?” Tony asked.

“What else could she mean?”

“I don't know. Could be a country euphemism for something.”

Tony looked at his watch. This had been fun and all. But he was a man in a hurry and he had things to do. It didn't matter about my time but his was valuable.

“I suppose we'll wait for her,” I said.

“Aye,” Tony answered dubiously.

“Speaking of notes … Uhm, in your long and storied career has anyone ever sent you an anonymous note about a case?”

“All the time, mate. Happens all the time. In fact, I'd say that I get more anonymous tips than ones from people who actually come forward to be identified. Why, what did you get? You look worried.”

“Some character left me a note that was a verse from the Bible.”

Tony laughed. “Ach, shite, is that all? You should see the bollocks we get in Special Branch. Bible verses, tips about who may or not be a Soviet agent or the Antichrist … you name it, Sean. Last week we had a boy who got passed up to us from Cliftonville RUC, who had convinced them that he was ‘the real Yorkshire Ripper'. The cops in Cliftonville actually thought we might want to interview him.”

“‘Now I see through a glass darkly' was the verse.”

“I remember that one. That's popular with the nuts. Is that from the Book of Revelation?”

“Corinthians. It was a woman who left me the note. English accent maybe. She left me a note at Victoria Cemetery and then she went off on a motorbike.”

Tony pulled out his smokes and offered me one. We went over to the stone wall and sat down on it. Two fields over a horse was tied up against a tumbledown shed. Three fields the other
way there was chimney smoke coming from the big house at the top of a hill – almost certainly the home of the lord of the manor. The rain, thank God, had taken a momentary breather in its relentless guerrilla war against Ireland.

“Go on,” Tony said.

“I called it in and they found the girl and arrested her and took her to Whitehead RUC. She spent a few hours in the cells and then she was supposedly taken away by a couple of goons from Special Branch. One of them was a guy called McClue – a fake name if ever I heard it – and of course when I called up Special Branch there was no McClue and no one had been sent to get her in Whitehead.”

Tony frowned. “Several things occur to me. First, if you had found her, what would you have charged her with? Leaving you a strange message and riding away on her motorbike? What crime is that? You'd be looking at a bloody lawsuit, mate. Secondly, who is she? Certainly not a lone nut if she had a couple of friends who were willing to pose as Special Branch agents to come get her.”

“So, not a nutter.”

“Or maybe she could be a very persuasive nutter. It's the sort of thing a student would do, or a bored paramilitary or …”

“Or what?”

“You know what. A ghost. A fucking spook. Northern Ireland is thick with them.”

“MI5?”

“MI5, Army Intel, MI6. Or, like I say, a nutter, a student, one of your no doubt many dissatisfied lovers, a bored paramilitary playing you for a sap or a very bored spook also playing you for a sap.”

Tony's pager went. He picked it up and examined the red flashing light.

“They're looking for me. You think I could break into the widow McAlpine's house and use her phone?”

“What would Sir Harry think? He's probably watching us through a set of field glasses.”

“I doubt that. I'll bet he's furiously writing a letter to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland who, no doubt, is a second cousin twice removed.”

I nodded and blew a double smoke ring. Tony's pager went again.

“Fucksake!” Tony said. “I should never have left the bloody crime scene. The fuck was I thinking?”

“Tony mate, go back in the BMW, tell them you were following a lead and send some reservist back here with the car. I'll wait until the widow McAlpine shows up.”

“I can take your wheels?” Tony asked.

“Sure.”

“I wouldn't normally, but I am lead and maybe we shouldn't be buggering off round the countryside like Bob Hope and Bing Crosby.”

“Hope and Crosby? Christ, Tony, you need new material, mate. Have you heard about this rock and roll phenomenon that's sweeping the land?”

“You're sure I can take the car?”

“Aye!”

“You're a star. And you'll be okay?”

“I'll be fine.”

The deal was done. Tony pumped my hand and got in the Beemer.

He wound the window down. “Stay away from trouble,” he said.

“You should warn trouble to stay away from me.”

“Young widows in lonely farmhouses …” he said with a sigh, revved the Beemer and forced the clutch into an ugly second gear start.

I was glad that he was gone. I wanted to talk to Mrs McAlpine alone and to follow up with Sir Harry alone. Tony was too much of an equal. It required weight to deal with him and I needed the emotional space to think.

I walked to the farmhouse again and tried the door.

She'd locked it.

What country person locks their door?

“Maybe one who's just had her husband gunned down by strangers,” I said to myself.

Cora barked at me.

The rooster gave me the eye.

I looked at the horse tied up across the fields and I looked at the track up to the manor.

The latter was less muddy than the former.

“The big house first, I think,” I said.

The slope was on a one in seven gradient that was a little taxing and I had to catch my breath at the top of it when I reached the stone wall around the house and the estate. There was an old lodge that had been boarded up but no actual gate itself.

There were assorted farm buildings along the wall and a short drive to the house lined with palm trees. Coconut palms, by the look of them, always an odd sight in Ireland but not uncommon: sailors had been bringing them back in pots for centuries.

A brisk walk underneath them brought me to the house.
There were two cars parked outside: an Irish racing green Bentley S2 Continental and a black Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Both vehicles were about twenty years old and had certainly not been designed for country living. They were the worse for wear, particularly the Bentley, which was rusted almost to scrap. I wondered if the engine still turned over, but if it did the best you could have done with it was drive it to the junk yard. The Roller was in better nick but not much: the rear suspension was gone, the fenders were dinged and the original paint job had been touched up with what looked like house paint. Both vehicles were caked with mud and bird shit. I loved cars and this was a crying shame.