I Hear the Sirens in the Street

much?”
    “You’d choke on your chocky biscuits. The man’s a cancer. I just hope to God the Yanks don’t find out before they buy a million of his cars.”
    “Yes, I—”
    “And I’ll tell you something else. Ever been in his office? He’s got a sign on his desk, ‘Genius At Work’. Genius at work, my foot! You know who’s behind the curtain, don’t you? You know who the real Wizard of Oz is?”
    “No.”
    “DeLorean didn’t even design the car. He made a sketch, a bullshit sketch. Colin Chapman, heard of him?”
    “The name rings a bell.”
    “Lotus! Lotus Sports Cars. Colin Chapman is the man who made Lotus. He’s the real designer of the DeLorean, not John D.L., as he likes to be called.”
    I was familiar with the Lotus sports cars from the James Bond movies.
    “Colin Chapman’s the designer, the money’s coming from the British government, the land came from me, the workers are ex Harland and Wolff guys from Belfast, so what exactly does DeLorean do? He’s just the front. That’s all. Just the front. He’s just the fucking hair and the fucking million-dollar smile.”
    “And if the front falters?”
    He made a plane crashing sound and smacked one hand into another.
    “And God help Northern Ireland if it does,” he added.
    “So you don’t really see him very much on a social basis.”
    “Only when he needs something.”
    “Hmmm.”
    “So how does this tie into Martin’s murder?” he asked.
    “That’s what I’d like to know.”
    We sipped our tea and we talked for a few more minutes about this and that, but nothing came of the conversation. He either knew nothing or he was a pretty decent chancer himself.
    I finished my tea and stood and offered my hand.
    “I’m sorry that we seemed to get off on the wrong footing,” I said.
    “My fault, I’m sure. Tarred all you boys with the same brush … If you find anything about Martin, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Only …”
    “Yes?”
    His eyes moistened. “Only, he’s my wee brother, you’re supposed to look after your wee brother, aren’t you?”
    “I suppose so.”
    I walked down the palm-lined drive in a thoughtful mood.
    I got in the Beemer.
    He hadn’t reacted to the rosary pea crack and he seemed genuinely interested in finding out about his brother’s death.
    His connection to everything might be tangential.
    But that entry in his brother’s book … it was a coincidence.
    And coincidence is the sworn enemy of all detectives everywhere.

25: INTO THE WOODS
    I’d driven about a hundred yards from Sir Harry’s house when I saw Emma wearing army boots, a blue dress and a raincoat, walking along the sheugh and carrying a basket. Her back was to me on the road and she had an umbrella up, but she was unmistakable with that wild curly red hair.
    I pulled the car beside her and wound the window down.
    “Hello,” I said.
    She seemed a little startled.
    “Oh, hi … What are you doing down here?”
    “I was seeing your brother-in-law.”
    “About Martin?”
    “Yes.”
    “Anything new?”
    “I’m afraid not. Just tidying up some loose ends.”
    She nodded, frowned and then smiled.
    “What on earth is that music?” she asked.
    “It’s Plastic Bertrand.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Belgian New Wave guy.”
    “What’s New Wave?”
    “Jesus, I mean they have the wheel down here, don’t they? And fire?”
    She laughed.
    “You’re not still living in caves, hunting for woolly mammoths?”
    She lifted her basket. “Mussels more like.”
    “You need a lift?” I asked.
    “A car can’t go where I’m going.”
    “Where’s that?”
    “Down to the shore.”
    She smiled again and something down below decks remembered last night with Gloria.
    “Can I come with you?” I asked.
    She hesitated for a moment. “What have you on your feet?”
    “Gutties,” I said, showing her my Adidas sneakers.
    “They’ll get soaked.”
    “That’s okay.”
    I pulled the BMW over and locked it. I got my leather jacket out of the boot and zipped it up over my sweater and jeans.
    “We go down the lane there and then we’re back through the wood,” she said.
    Her hair was blowing every which way round her face. She looked elemental and slightly scary and very beautiful.
    “This way,” she said, and led me along a lane past a ruined farm with broken windows and a roof with half the tiles missing. The farm was pitched on a rocky red outcrop that bled down the cliff to the water. It was only about