I Hear the Sirens in the Street

been informed that Bill was a keen swimmer and further that he had a condo in Fort Lauderdale, Florida where he usually spent the winters …
    “I think I have the bastard!” Matty yelled.
    Crabbie and I put down our phones.
    “Matty my lad, you have the moves, son,” Crabbie said.
    He laughed. “I am sweet to the beat, boys!” and told us all about Mr O’Rourke.
    To be on the safe side we worked out our way through the other names on our list but not a single one of them had served in the First Infantry Division.
    Now it was action stations. We called the Newburyport Police Department and talked to a Sergeant Peter Finnegan. We explained the situation and Sergeant Finnegan gave us his Bill’s dates and social security number and promised to fax us a copy of his driver’s licence from the DMV. Sergeant Finnegan didn’t know about kids or next of kin but said that he would look into it for us.
    I also put in a call to the FBI and after half a dozen suspiciousflunkies I got someone who said that he would let me know if Bill had a criminal record. This information had only been forthcoming after a threat to go through the State Department “or the President himself”, which had Matty and Crabbie cracking up in the aisles.
    I went in to tell the Chief.
    “We may have our John Doe, sir.”
    “Who is it?”
    “A retired IRS inspector called Bill O’Rourke from Massachusetts.”
    “What’s the IRS?”
    “Internal Revenue Service. He was a taxman.”
    “A taxman. Jesus. There’s your motive.”
    “A retired taxman. Born 1919. Apparently he had come here to trace his roots. He’s the right age, he’s a veteran of the right regiment and no one’s heard from the bugger in months.”
    “1919, eh? Lucky baby to have survived the influenza.”
    “Not so lucky now, of course.”
    Brennan nodded. “Who are you following up with?”
    “I’ve asked the Yank cops to fax me a copy of his driver’s licence and after a lot of pushing and shoving I even got the FBI to come on board and send me any files they have on him.”
    “Why bother the FBI?”
    “It’s an unusual case. I just want to be sure that he wasn’t mixed up in anything he shouldn’t have been mixed up in.”
    Brennan grinned and slapped his hand into his fist. “You’re dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s. It’s an American after all. I’ll confirm the bad news with the Consulate. They’ll want to know one of their own has definitely met with a sticky end. And the press too, they’ll want a piece of this. The Irish press, the English press, the American press,” Brennan said, starting to see other angles in this case. PR angles. Promotion angles.
    “Hold your horses, Chief. If we go to the media everybody’s going to be looking over our shoulder and we’re not completely sure that he’s our stiff,” I complained.
    “The newspapers will want this, Duffy. A dead American’s worth a hundred dead Paddies any day of the week,” Brennan said.
    Brennan opened his desk drawer and took out the Tallisker single malt. I sat down and was persuaded into a glass.
    “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” he said.
    “Maybe we should wait a day or two before turning on the spotlights,” I said, trying to erase his overconfident grin.
    “O’Rourke’s our lad! I can smell it.”
    “What does this magic nose of yours tell you about who killed him?”
    “Don’t mock your elders! My intuition comes from years of experience. I had a premonition about Elvis’s death two weeks before he passed on, God rest his soul. I told Peggy and she said I should call Graceland. I didn’t of course. Shame … Lost my train of … What were we … Oh, yes – if it makes you happy, we’ll say that he’s a ‘possible victim’ in a ‘possible homicide’, will that satisfy you?” he asked.
    “I suppose so, sir.”
    I drank another round of Tallisker and Brennan opened a packet of Rothmans, fired one across to me and lit one for himself. I noticed a sleeping bag bundled up in the corner of the office. I decided not to comment on it.
    “Any leads on the poison angle?” Brennan asked.
    “None at all, sir, I am sorry to say. Abrin is an extremely rare substance. I don’t know who the hell would have taken the trouble to refine and process it or why they would have used it as a murder weapon on an island filled to the brim with guns.”
    He nodded and blew smoke at the brown stain on the ceiling that uncannily resembled Margaret Thatcher’s