I Hear the Sirens in the Street

suspended?” Howell asked.
    “Yes, it has. We can’t close the case because we never found his killer, but the investigation has reached a natural dead end,” I said.
    Howell’s eyes narrowed. “It is in the interests of the United States Government that the investigation into Special Agent O’Rourke’s death remain suspended at least until our owninvestigation into John DeLorean has concluded.”
    “I’m sure you don’t want to tell me how to do my job, Agent Howell, but I will say that in the absence of any new evidence I don’t really see how I can proceed with the O’Rourke case at the moment.”
    Howell nodded, picked up the faxed confession and put it in a briefcase.
    “Do you have any more questions?” he asked.
    “A million.”
    He looked at his watch. “Well, Inspector Duffy, I’m afraid that those are the only answers you are going to get, today.” He tapped the briefcase. “I trust that I can count on your discretion?”
    “Of course.”
    “You’ll keep your nose clean, I’m sure,” he said.
    “Once I get the bloody scabs out of it, I’ll keep it clean.”
    He walked to the door, opened it, but didn’t leave.
    He looked at me and then, in a lower tone of voice, he said: “There is one thing, Duffy.”
    “Yes?”
    “Bill O’Rourke had a condo in Florida.”
    “I know.”
    “He grew plants on the balcony. We had them analysed. You know what those plants were?”
    “Rosary pea?” I gasped.
    He nodded and closed the door behind him.

30: BACK TO BELFAST
    They took me out of Mass General on a gurney and across Boston to Logan in a black windowed private ambulance. I felt like Howard fucking Hughes.
    They flew me first class to New York LGA on the Delta Shuttle.
    An FBI driver met me with a wheelchair.
    JFK. The first-class lounge. The Concorde from JFK to Heathrow.
    Christ, they wanted rid of me fast . Whatever they were cooking up was hot, hot, hot. And speaking of food. Canapés and champagne; Russian caviar with traditional accompaniments (blini, chopped egg white and yolk, chopped spring, white, and red onions); free-range chicken breast with black truffle, foie gras, savoy cabbage; lobster and saffron crushed potato cakes with spinach and bloody Mary relish; cheese service with Stilton, chevre and pecorino with balsamic vinegar, biscuits, walnuts, dried apricots and berries; a hand-made box of chocolates; port wine and tea; a sweet of mango and almond gratin.
    We left New York at 5.00 p.m. The jetstream was strong and we crossed the Atlantic in three hours dead.
    I spent the time thinking about Bill O’Rourke. He must have refined and milled the Abrin himself. Perhaps all this time he was carrying his depression around with him.
    Suicide?
    If I had to spend any time in William McFarlane’s bed andbreakfast in Dunmurry, West Belfast it might push me over the edge too. Suicide and then McFarlane fakes an American Express bill, sends the body to a mate who runs a cold storage who finally cuts him up and dumps him?
    Maybe.
    It would certainly be fun bringing McFarlane in for questioning.
    Heathrow. And then the British Airways Shuttle to Belfast. So fast it made your head spin. I was in my bed in Coronation Road by ten thirty p.m. Eastern Standard Time – a not unreasonable three thirty in the morning GMT.
    Vodka and aspirin.
    A death sleep.
    I woke groggily and looked at myself in the mirror. I was no oil painting. Bruises, cuts. My ribs were aching. I needed some painkillers.
    Still in my dressing gown I went outside, looked under the Beemer and drove down to the newsagents. “SAS Recapture South Georgia!”, or variations thereof, the yelled headlines on all the papers.
    It was the cheeky girl again. Sonia. Her nose was pierced. Her hair was dyed orange.
    “Philip K. Dick, Blade Runner ,” I said.
    She looked at me with contempt.
    “You mean Do Androids Dreams of Electric Sheep ?”
    “Do I?”
    “Aye, you do.”
    “Have you got any aspirin?”
    She looked up from her magazine. “The fuck happened to you?” she said.
    “The FBI got me drunk and crashed my car with me in it so I wouldn’t spill the sensitive information that I knew about John DeLorean’s dirty dealings.”
    “That’s the best one I’ve heard today. Aspirin won’t do youany good. Hold on a minute.”
    She went into a back room and came back with a plastic bag filled with white pills.
    “What are those?” I asked.
    “Two every four hours. Be careful with them. It’s a low dose