I Hear the Sirens in the Street

place smelled bad. Clothes everywhere. A sleeping bag on one of the bunks.
    “Standing offer, sir. If you’re looking for somewhere to stay for a while, I have two spare bedrooms and—”
    His face went red. His fist clenched. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
    “If you and Mrs Brennan are having any sort of—”
    “I’ll thank you not to mention my wife’s name, if you don’t mind, Inspector Duffy!”
    I nodded
    “And for your information, I am fine. Everything’s normal. Sometimes I choose to sleep out here. I go fishing early. I don’t know what gossip you’ve been listening to down at the station but it’s all fucking lies.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “A man’s allowed to go fishing, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I mean, I have your bloody permission, don’t I?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He swallowed his glass of whiskey. Poured himself another.
    “So, Duffy, this morning you paid a call on a man called Harry McAlpine, is that right?”
    “I encountered him, yes.”
    “Sir Harry McAlpine?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you went to his house without a warrant and conducted a search, is that right?”
    “No. I went to see him. I was invited in by one of his servants. I waited for him. He didn’t show up and I left.”
    “That’s not the story I was told,” Brennan said.
    “Has there been some sort of complaint?”
    “Aye. There has. To Ian Paisley MP MEP. Ian fucking Paisley.”
    “Sir, look, all I did—”
    “Spare me the details, Duffy. I’d never heard of this cunt McAlpine before but he’s obviously fucking connected. Stay away from him, all right?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    His eyes drooped and he seemed to fall into a microsleep for a moment.
    “Sir?”
    “If a man pours you a fucking whiskey, you fucking drink it!” he said angrily.
    I drank the rotgut whiskey.
    “All right, Duffy, you can go.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He sighed and rubbed his face. “It’s one thing after another isn’t it, Duffy?”
    “That it is, sir. That it is.”

19: THE CHIEF CONSTABLE
    It felt like I had just closed my eyes before I heard some eejit throwing stones against my bedroom window. I checked the clock radio: 6.06 a.m. Goddamn it. If this was Cameron again I’d go out there and shoot the fat fuck.
    I opened the curtains and looked down into the front garden.
    It was Matty and another constable in their full dress uniforms.
    Oh dear.
    I went downstairs and opened the front door.
    “They’ve been phoning you for the last hour,” Matty said. Not only was he in his dress uniform but he had shaved and the ever-present cheeky grin was gone from his face.
    “Am I in trouble?”
    “What?”
    “Who have I pissed off now? The Prime Minister? The Bishop of Rome?”
    “It’s not about you, boss. It’s Sergeant Burke.”
    “What about him?”
    “Accidentally shot himself last night. Dead.”
    “Jesus! Are you sure?”
    “Quite sure.”
    “Fuck. How?”
    “Accidental discharge of his personal sidearm,” Matty said, as if he was reading it from a newspaper.
    I looked at the other constable.
    The other constable smelled of church and breath mints. He seemed about fourteen.
    “He topped himself?” I asked Matty in an undertone.
    “I wouldn’t know,” Matty replied.
    Of course, it was well known that the RUC had the highest suicide rate of any police force in Europe, but you didn’t expect someone in your parish to go off and do himself in.
    “I’ll get changed, you lads come in. Who wants coffee?”
    I made toast and coffee and shaved and got my dress uniform out of the dry-cleaning wrapper.
    We drove to the cop shop where the mood was blacker than the Dulux matt fucking black.
    I found Inspector McCallister, who was always on top of things.
    “What happened, Jim?” I asked him.
    He was pale and his breath reeked of coffee and whiskey.
    “Neighbour heard the shot and called it in. I was duty officer so I went out myself. Me and Constable Tory. He was in the living room. Gunshot wound to the side of the head.”
    “Did he have any family?”
    “He was divorced. Two grown-up kids.”
    “Definitely suicide?”
    “Keep your fucking voice down, Duffy! We won’t use that word in here. When the fucking internals come round asking questions, we’ll all say that Burke was a first-class officer with no fucking problems, all right?”
    I understood. Suicide invalidated any potential life insurance policy, but an “accidental discharge of a firearm”, was exactly that …
    “Just between