Adrian McKinty - I Hear the Sirens in the Street

That confirmed what I knew, but I didn’t see how it tied into Martin’s death or into anything else.

“You want to know how much he pays me for all those acres?”

“How much?”

“You’d choke on your chocky biscuits. The man’s a cancer. I just hope to God the Yanks don’t find out before they buy a million of his cars.”

“Yes, I—”

“And I’ll tell you something else. Ever been in his office? He’s got a sign on his desk, ‘Genius At Work’. Genius at work, my foot! You know who’s behind the curtain, don’t you? You know who the real Wizard of Oz is?”

“No.”

“DeLorean didn’t even design the car. He made a sketch, a bullshit sketch. Colin Chapman, heard of him?”

“The name rings a bell.”

“Lotus! Lotus Sports Cars. Colin Chapman is the man who made Lotus. He’s the real designer of the DeLorean, not John D.L., as he likes to be called.”

I was familiar with the Lotus sports cars from the James Bond movies.

“Colin Chapman’s the designer, the money’s coming from the British government, the land came from me, the workers are ex Harland and Wolff guys from Belfast, so what exactly does DeLorean do? He’s just the front. That’s all. Just the front. He’s just the fucking hair and the fucking million-dollar smile.”

“And if the front falters?”

He made a plane crashing sound and smacked one hand into another.

“And God help Northern Ireland if it does,” he added.

“So you don’t really see him very much on a social basis.”

“Only when he needs something.”

“Hmmm.”

“So how does this tie into Martin’s murder?” he asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

We sipped our tea and we talked for a few more minutes about this and that, but nothing came of the conversation. He either knew nothing or he was a pretty decent chancer himself.

I finished my tea and stood and offered my hand.

“I’m sorry that we seemed to get off on the wrong footing,” I said.

“My fault, I’m sure. Tarred all you boys with the same brush … If you find anything about Martin, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Only …”

“Yes?”

His eyes moistened. “Only, he’s my wee brother, you’re supposed to look after your wee brother, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

I walked down the palm-lined drive in a thoughtful mood.

I got in the Beemer.

He hadn’t reacted to the rosary pea crack and he seemed genuinely interested in finding out about his brother’s death.

His connection to everything might be tangential.

But that entry in his brother’s book … it was a coincidence.

And coincidence is the sworn enemy of all detectives everywhere.

25: INTO THE WOODS

I’d driven about a hundred yards from Sir Harry’s house when I saw Emma wearing army boots, a blue dress and a raincoat, walking along the sheugh and carrying a basket. Her back was to me on the road and she had an umbrella up, but she was unmistakable with that wild curly red hair.

I pulled the car beside her and wound the window down.

“Hello,” I said.

She seemed a little startled.

“Oh, hi … What are you doing down here?”

“I was seeing your brother-in-law.”

“About Martin?”

“Yes.”

“Anything new?”

“I’m afraid not. Just tidying up some loose ends.”

She nodded, frowned and then smiled.

“What on earth is that music?” she asked.

“It’s Plastic Bertrand.”

“Who’s that?”

“Belgian New Wave guy.”

“What’s New Wave?”

“Jesus, I mean they have the wheel down here, don’t they? And fire?”

She laughed.

“You’re not still living in caves, hunting for woolly mammoths?”

She lifted her basket. “Mussels more like.”

“You need a lift?” I asked.

“A car can’t go where I’m going.”

“Where’s that?”

“Down to the shore.”

She smiled again and something down below decks remembered last night with Gloria.

“Can I come with you?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment. “What have you on your feet?”

“Gutties,” I said, showing her my Adidas sneakers.

“They’ll get soaked.”

“That’s okay.”

I pulled the BMW over and locked it. I got my leather jacket out of the boot and zipped it up over my sweater and jeans.

“We go down the lane there and then we’re back through the wood,” she said.

Her hair was blowing every which way round her face. She looked elemental and slightly scary and very beautiful.

“This way,” she said, and led me along a lane past a ruined farm with broken windows and a roof with half the tiles missing. The farm was pitched on a rocky red outcrop that bled down the cliff to the water. It was only about thirty feet above the surf and probably on rough days the spray would come right up. We walked through what once had been the living room and the kitchen. There were sodden newspapers and ciggies in the hearth. “One of Harry’s cousins used to live here. But he upped and left for Canada,” she said. “It’s one of my secret places, like the old salt mine.”

This one wasn’t so secret. My cop’s eyes took in discarded syringes, furniture broken up for firewood and an old piano which someone had taken a hammer to. The back garden led to the cliff path right down to the shore. The stone slabs were slippery and I almost went arse over tit in my gutties.

“So, you’re from around here, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m from Mill Bay, just a few miles up the road.”

“Any family still there?”

“No. Folks are in Spain, older sister’s in San Francisco. She wants me to come over to America. I suppose I should. There’s nothing for me now in Ireland. Nothing for any of us here, really.”

“That’s what everybody says.”

We reached the bottom of the track. There were more abandoned cottages down here, much older dwellings. “These are from the famine?” I asked, pointing towards them.

She nodded. “Harry says that this valley used to be bunged with people. Now it’s all sheep and a few of his loyal retainers.”

We stepped onto the stony beach and she gathered mussels and whelks.

“Are you making a soup?” I asked, helping her.

“No, no, you just boil them up in a little chicken stock with some garlic. Delicious.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so sceptical.”

In ten minutes her basket was half full. “I think that’s enough,” she said. “We’ll take a shortcut back through the forest.”

We walked along the beach past a long rusting jetty sticking out into the water.

“Harry’s?” I asked pointing at it.

“Yeah, he keeps talking about renovating it, turning it into a marina, but he never will. All talk. Big plans.”

We trudged back up the hill along another trail.

“Initially I got the impression that your brother-in-law wasn’t too impressed with me,” I said.

“Has he come around?”

“A little bit, I think.”

“Its not anything personal. This part of Islandmagee has never been fond of the law. Around here it’s always been about poaching and cattle raiding and rustling stolen cattle over to Scotland.”

We reached the edge of the wood. The trees were enormous and warped by age into strange patterns. Big elms and ashes, beeches and huge old oaks, living statues meditating in the rain. I smiled and I found to my surprise that she was holding my hand.

“They’re talking to us,” she said.

“The trees?”

“You know what they’re saying?”

“What?”

“Every leaf is a miracle. Every leaf on Earth is a miracle machine that keeps us all alive.”