I Hear the Sirens in the Street

security guard shook his head. “Every day, Inspector, it’s the same story. Someone calls Downtown Radio to request Fleetwood Mac and call in a bomb threat at the DeLorean factory.”
    “Nevertheless, no one’s going to touch that van until the bomb squad shows up,” I reiterated.
    “Okay, we’ll wait here and I’ll show you that I’m right,” DeLorean insisted.
    I knew he was right. Nine times out of ten it’s a hoax. But that one time … that’s the time that gets you.
    The Army bomb disposal unit showed up and the robot blew open the back doors of the Transit. The robot looked inside and fired a shotgun into a wooden box, but it only contained tools. Behind us the blue-collar staff was filing out of the factory, most deciding to go home for the day. An enterprising mobile chip van showed up and DeLorean bought our little group fish suppers out of his own pocket.
    The Army EOD unit still wasn’t completely satisfied with the situation, so they carried out a further controlled explosion which destroyed the van completely, sending metal fragments and a fireball into the air. There had been no secondary blast which proved that the Ford had contained no bomb or combustible materials.
    DeLorean was not triumphant. He was resigned now. Fed up. He shook my hand.
    “I yelled out of turn,” he said. “You did the right thing. Better safe than sorry.”
    “It’s all right,” I replied.
    The Army gave us the all clear but some fool had left a backpack in the executive car park in his haste to evacuate and the disposal unit roped off the car park to carry out a controlled explosion on that too. It was five o’clock now. Many of the white-collarstaff were effectively trapped until the Army said that this was a negative result too.
    “My car’s in the visitor’s car park. Anyone need a lift going Carrick way?” I asked.
    Gloria put up her hand. “I do,” she said.
    “No problem.”
    We drove through the centre of Belfast where rush hour and a string of incendiary devices on buses had created chaos.
    “Where do you live?” I asked her.
    “A town called Whitehead. An apartment overlooking the water. Wonderful view, full of charm.”
    “Sounds like a nice place.”
    “Oh, yes. Mr DeLorean picked our accommodations out personally.”
    We were stuck in traffic for twenty-five minutes.
    I was getting annoyed.
    Worse. Losing face.
    “This is ridiculous. Time for my Starsky and Hutch moves,” I said.
    I took the portable siren out of the glove compartment and put it on the roof of the Beemer. I turned it on and drove the wrong way down the one-way system at the City Hall.
    “Are you allowed to do this?” Gloria asked, in what I discovered later was a South Carolina burr.
    “I’m allowed to do anything, love, I’m the Johnny Law.”
    “You’re the what?”
    “Put the windows down, sweetheart!”
    She wound down the window and I cracked Zep in the stereo. Good Zep. LZIII . We ran the one-way systems and frightened the civvies and hit the ten lanes where the M2 leaves the city. Six camouflaged sacks of shit were stopping suspicious characters where the M2 merges with the M5, but the siren got me past them and on the M5 I got the Beemer up to a ton. At Hazelbank I killed the woo woo and took us down to seventy-five.
    We drove past Whiteabbey RUC.
    “A rocket went through that police station,” I said.
    “A rocket?”
    “Yeah, not an RPG. A rocket.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “Oh, there’s a difference, baby. Believe me. I was in there half an hour later.”
    I scoped her, and my God, she was a stunner. She looked like Miss World 1979, one of the ones Georgie Best couldn’t get.
    “You want to get a bite to eat? I know this fabulous Italian that just opened up in Carrick. The food’s so good the place won’t survive past Christmas.”
    “Italian food?”
    “Italian food.”
    “I’ll try anything once.”
    “Oooh, I like the sound of that.”
    She laughed and I knew I was in like Flynn.
    The Tutto Bene was deserted apart from a bald gourmand who was loving everything he was given and kept sighing dramatically at each new dish. We were given the window seat overlooking the harbour. I ordered the second most expensive red. She plumped for the spag carbonara and I got the risotto.
    She didn’t like the grub but the desserts killed her.
    I asked her if she wanted to come back chez Duffy and hear my records. She said that that sounded interesting.
    Coronation Road. Nine in the