I Hear the Sirens in the Street

potholes fill up with water for a couple of minutes.
    “I’m not saying that these lads are the worst cops in Ireland …” Matty began and then hesitated, unsure if I was going to countenance this level of perfidy.
    “Yes?”
    “If there’s a shittier station than this lot I hope to God I’m never posted there,” he concluded.
    “Oh, there’s worse. I was at a station in Fermanagh where they dressed up as witches for Halloween. Big beefy sergeant called McCrae dolled up as Elizabeth Montgomery was the stuff of nightmares … Larne would be okay, you’d be the superstar of the department if you got the bloody days of the week right.”
    We nailed another couple of smokes and got back in the Land Rover. Matty drove us out of the car park and the Constables at the gate gave us the thumbs up as they raised the barrier to let us out.
    Matty drove through Larne past a massive UVF mural of two terrorists riding dragons and carrying AK 47s.
    We turned up onto the A2 coast road.
    “Where to now, Sean?”
    “Carrickfergus Salvation Army,” I said. “It’s a long shot but maybe they’ll remember what happened to that suitcase, if she really did bring it in there.”
    “Why would she lie about that?”
    “Why does anybody lie about anything?”
    Matty nodded and accelerated up onto the dual carriageway. The Land Rover was heavily armour plated and bullet-proofed, but the juiced engine still did zero to sixty in about eight seconds.
    We put on Irish radio again. It was the same programme as before; this time the interviewee, a man called O’Cannagh, from the County Mayo, was talking about the mysterious behaviour of his cattle which baffled the local vets but which he felt was something to do with flying saucers. The man was explaining this fascinating hypothesis in Irish, a language Mattydidn’t speak, so I had to turn it off. Neither of us could stand the constant jabber about the Falklands on news radio so we went for Ms Armatrading again.
    Matty drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. “I know what you’re thinking, Sean, you’re thinking we should stick our noses in here, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Listen, Sean, what if she’s telling the truth about the suitcase but she was, for whatever reason, lying about her husband’s murder?”
    “What about it?”
    “Then it’s not our case, mate, is it?” he said.
    “And if she killed the poor bastard?”
    “If she killed the poor bastard, it becomes, in the coinage of Douglas Adams, an SEP.”
    “Who’s Douglas Adams? And what’s an SEP?” I asked.
    “If you were down with the kids, Sean, you’d know that Douglas Adams has written this very popular radio series called The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy . I listen to it when I’m fishing.”
    “I’m not down with the kids, though, am I? And you still haven’t answered my question. What’s an SEP?”
    “Someone else’s problem, Sean,” Matty said, with a heavy and significant sigh.
    I nodded ruefully. Ruefully, for it was the sorry day indeed when my junior colleague felt the need to remind me that in Ireland you swam near the shore and you kept your mouth shut and you never made waves if you knew what was good for you.
    “SEP. I like it. I’ll bear it in mind,” I said.

7: SHE’S GOT A TICKET TO RIDE (AND SHE DON’T CARE)
    The Salvation Army was a bust. The lady there, Mrs Wilson, said that they sold dozens of suitcases every month, especially now that everyone was trying to emigrate. They didn’t keep records of who bought what and she did not recall a red plastic suitcase or a Mrs McAlpine.
    “Have a wee think. You might remember her, she was a recent widow. She brought in her husband’s entire wardrobe.”
    “You’d be surprised how many of those we get a month. Always widows. Never widowers. Cancer, heart attack and terrorism – those are the three biggies.”
    “Well, thank you for your time,” I said.
    When we got back to the station Crabbie’s dour face told me that Customs and Immigration had not yet given us the list of names of all the Americans entering Northern Ireland in the last year.
    “What’s their excuse?” I asked him.
    “They’re transferring everything from the card file to the new computer.”
    “Jesus, I hope to God they’ve haven’t lost them. We’ve had enough of that today.”
    “Nah, there was no note of panic in their voices, just bored stupidity.”
    “Par for the course, then,” I said under my breath,