I Hear the Sirens in the Street

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 yougentlemen 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.
    “Poisoned?”
    “Poisoned, yes.”
    He opened his briefcase and looked at the notes in front of him. “I’ve never heard of this ‘Abrin’ – it’s rare, is it?”
    “Very rare. In fact, one of the things we wanted to ask you about was whether you can provide any information for us about Mr O’Rourke’s horticultural connections. Did he have a greenhouse,was he a grower of exotic plants, were any of his relatives engaged in that kind of activity?” Crabbie asked.
    “I wasn’t aware that you were here to solicit help with your investigation,” Fallows said.
    “Why did you think we were here?” I asked.
    “I had been led to believe that this was merely a formal briefing.”
    “You’re not refusing to help us with our inquiries, are you?” I asked incredulously.
    Crabbie and I exchanged a look.
    “Of course not,” Fallows ululated. “You will be given the full and complete cooperation of the United States Embassy to the Court of St James.”
    “That’s what we were hoping for,” I said. “For a start the local police force in Newburyport are having some trouble faxing Mr O’Rourke’s driving licence to us. Apparently that requires another level of authorisation or something. I’m not sure what the hold up is but I was wondering if you