Adrian McKinty - I Hear the Sirens in the Street

I walked down the slurry slope into the former police station compound.

The air smelled sweetly of cordite, sawdust, blood and diesel leaking from the portable generator. Now that the rescue portion of the job was over the scene was filled with white boiler-suited forensic officers gathering material and taking photographs.

I found the chief investigating officer and introduced myself.

“Detective Inspector Duffy, Carrick RUC,” I said.

“Detective Chief Superintendent McClure, Special Branch,” he said and offered his hand. I shook it. His handshake was even limper than mine. We were both exhausted. He was a grizzled man with a grey moustache and black eyebrows. About fifty. He favoured his left hand side and was smoking a little cigar.

“You were up there on traffic duty?” he asked in a faint Scottish accent.

“Aye.”

“They’ve got a detective inspector on bloody traffic duty? What’s the bloody world coming to?”

“I suppose they’re a bit short-handed. Apparently the army units they were going to deploy in East Antrim are off to the Falklands,” I said.

He spat. “Fucking Falklands. Fucking sheep. That’s all that’s there. I know, I’ve been. Military Police. You’re not the Duffy that Tony McIlroy’s always going on about, are you?” McClure asked.

“Tony talks about me?”

“He said we should recruit you for Special Branch, he says that you’re good.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Can’t stand the man myself. Very showy.”

“When we arrived last night somebody told us that this is some new IRA technique?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, yes. Come and see.”

He lifted the “RUC: Do Not Cross” tape and I followed him across the site of the former police station. He showed me where the lorry had driven through the police station’s barrier and then exploded. “It’s a very impressive new technique,” he said. “We’ll have to re-evaluate security at every barracks in Ulster. Apparently the man who drove the lorry was forced to do it. His family had been taken hostage by the IRA and he was told that if he didn’t drive the vehicle right into the station they’d all be shot. As soon as he breached the barrier another IRA team blew up the lorry by remote control. As you can see it was a big bomb. A thousand pounds, maybe.”

“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

“Once before. Two makes it a pattern. It’s a pretty devastating new ploy. Between us, Inspector, the higher ups are keeking their whips.”

“I’ll bet they are. Every police station in Ulster will be vulnerable.”

“Aye.”

“What about the guy who drove the lorry? Was he a copper too?”

“No. Catholic bread-van driver. He delivered to the peelers so they’re calling him a ‘collaborator’. He delivers bread for a living and he’s a collaborator. That’s the world we’re living in, Inspector.”

We walked among the smoking debris and the Chief Superintendent picked up the twisted remains of a steering wheel. “Look at this,” he said, showing me the plastic wheel which had been warped and melted into an amazing spaghetti sculpture. I noticed a bent ring of metal around the wheel. “They didn’t trust him completely, did they?” I said, pointing at the metal ring.

“Why do you say that?”

“They handcuffed the poor bastard to the steering wheel.”

Davey looked at the wheel and nodded. The sun was burning through the low clouds now. I yawned. It had been a long night. “Listen, sir, I was wondering if my team could be released from traffic duty, I’ve got an interview at the US Consulate later this morning and—”

“Aye, aye, spare me the details. You and your lads can go. How many CID are up there with you?”

“Just two.”

“Good. Leave the others. I can’t afford to lose a man down here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I walked back up the hill and grinned at Matty and Crabbie.

I pointed at Matty. “You can go to bed.”

“Ta, mate.”

I pointed at Crabbie. “You can come with me.”

Some of the other peelers from Carrickfergus looked at me expectantly.

I shook my head. “Sorry lads, they need the rest of you here for the foreseeable. I’m really sorry.”

Before there was a police mutiny I got Matty and McCrabban into the nearest Land Rover and we drove off. Up on the hills debris from the explosion had set the gorse on fire. A line of flame was snaking its way over the mountain top. We called it in to the fire brigade and drove through: Ballyclare, Ballyeaston, Ballynure, Ballylagan and finally Carrickfergus. We dropped Matty at his house up the Woodburn Road. His mother invited us in for a cup of a tea, but we had to say no.

McCrabban and I hit the station, shaved, splashed water on our faces, grabbed an instant coffee, put on shirts and ties.

The Chief saw us on the way out. “Oi, lads, what are you doing here? Get your arse in gear, you’ve got a meeting at the US Consulate in Belfast at nine. Chop fucking chop, Duffy. Don’t embarrass us.”

“We were just on our way out, sir, they had us on emergency traffic duty at Ballycoley.”

“That’s the service. All hands on deck. Tragedy up there. Two brother officers killed. You’re not complaining, are you, Duffy?”

“No sir.”

“Good, now don’t stand there with your bake open, off ya go!”

We hit top gear on the M5 even sticking the siren on so we’d make our appointment on time and not ‘embarrass the station’. As it was we were ten minutes late.

A lackey showed us into a formal meeting room with a chandelier, William Morris wallpaper and large photographs of President Reagan, Vice President Bush and the Secretary of State, Alexander Haig. There was a polished oak oval table and a dozen straight-backed uncomfortable-looking oak chairs on a plush red carpet.

A secretary came in to take minutes, a nice wee lass with pale skin and green eyes, followed by a skinny character who was obviously a diplomat. He was about thirty, cadaverous, reedy, brown-eyed, a slightly misshapen head. He was wearing a tweed shirt, a pink shirt and a black tie. He was carrying a briefcase which he placed on the desk in front of him.

I gave Crabbie a look which told him that I wanted him to run the meeting and he nodded. “Detective Inspector Duffy, Detective Constable McCrabban,” he said.

“James Fallows, US Department of State. Would either of you gentlemen like tea or coffee?” Fallows asked in a pleasant baritone.

“Coffee would be lovely,” I said. “Milk, two sugars.”

“Mine’s a tea, no milk, no sugar,” McCrabban said.

The secretary put down her yellow legal pad and without a word exited the room.

“I heard about the bombing this morning. I’m very sorry,” Fallows said.

“Thank you,” Crabbie replied for both of us.

“They’re saying on the news that there were three deaths?” Fallows continued.

“Four. Four confirmed dead at the scene. Two policemen dead, two seriously injured. The driver of the lorry died in the explosion and a civilian was killed in a nearby home,” I said.

“Ah, yes, but the driver of the lorry was surely a terrorist,” Fallows said with a thin smile that I didn’t really like.

“We don’t know that at this stage,” McCrabban said.

The secretary came back with the hot drinks and a plate of American cookies.

I took a sip of my surprisingly good coffee and took a bite of cookie.

Aaron Copland began piping through the air from somewhere.

“So, down to business. Apparently one of our countrymen called William O’Rourke has been murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Are you quite sure it’s a murder?”

“We’re sure,” Crabbie said.