Gun Street Girl by Adrian McKinty

left in Belfast. The community had been much larger before the Troubles, but now even Israel during the Intifada was a better bet than Northern Ireland.
    I stuck the files back in the cabinet.
    I read the Sun in the bog.
    Coffee machine, office, feet on desk. Looking out the window, pretending to be interested in a series of unsolved muggings at Carrick train station.
    Eventually the clock got its sorry arse round to five o’clock.
    â€œSean?”
    The office door was open, Chief Inspector McArthur was standing there all uniformed up and rosy cheeked. He was wearing a Tyrol hat with a feather in it, and in case you didn’t get the message, the hat had been placed at a jaunty thirty-degree angle on his head. He’d worn this hat before and you could see that he wanted desperately to be asked about it, which is why all the senior officers had made a silent pact never to bring it up.
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œYou want a quick one?”
    â€œWell, I was on my way out.”
    â€œHave a seat. I’m buying.”
    We retreated to his office, which he had painted a sort of citrusy yellow. He’d moved in several palms and potted plants, and there were arty black and white photographs of boats on beaches and kids at country fares and so forth.
    â€œYour photos?” I asked, pointing at the pictures.
    â€œI dabble,” he said.
    It was my place to be encouraging. “They’re really good,” I said, and in truth they were good. Good enough to make into a calendar for American tourists, not like Diane Arbus good or anything.
    He gave me a glass of whiskey. I sat.
    â€œWhat are you working on at the moment, Sean?”
    â€œMe, nothing much. Crabbie’s got himself a double murder. I’ll be assisting him on that one, no doubt, in due course.”
    â€œI want to thank you for last night; you were very helpful under the circumstances.”
    â€œLast night? Oh, that? Yeah.”
    McArthur took a gulp of his whiskey and I did the same. Twelve-year-old Islay. Good stuff if you liked peat, smoke, earth, rain, despair, and the Atlantic Ocean, and who doesn’t like that?
    McArthur smiled. “You’ve had quite a wee career, haven’t you, Sean?”
    â€œHave I?”
    â€œOh yes. You certainly have.”
    His eyes were twinkling. There was something he wasn’t telling me. He looked at me significantly. “What are you not telling me, er, sir?”
    â€œI’m just off the phone talking about you,” he said.
    â€œYou were talking to someone on the phone about me?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat did you say?”
    â€œRefill?”
    â€œSure.”
    He poured us each another healthy measure.
    â€œWhat were you saying about me?” I persisted.
    He laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, it was all good stuff. I told them I’ve hardly had a chance to know you, but even in my limited experience I saw that you were a first-class officer.”
    â€œAm I getting a promotion or something?”
    â€œBetter than that, I think.”
    â€œBetter than a promotion?”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t tell you any more, Sean. My lips are sealed.”
    â€œYou can’t do that to me, sir,” I said.
    He shook his head. “Nope, sorry, I can’t breathe a word.”
    â€œCome on, sir,” I protested.
    â€œ Vulpes , vulpes , Duffy,” he said with a wink.
    â€œThe common fox?”
    â€œActually, the not so common fox,” he insisted.
    I’d been neutral on McArthur before, but last night’s shenanigans and now this confirmed in my mind that I actively disliked the wee shite. I knew I wasn’t going to get any more out of him so I pushed the chair back, stood, and gave him a nod.
    â€œI have to get on, sir,” I said.
    â€œOK. Go if you must.”
    I had a slash and went to see Crabbie, who was typing up his case notes in the incident room. He was smoking his pipe and the blue tobacco