were divorced, yes, but perhaps he still carried a torch. My first order of business would be to drive up to Derry and ask his ma and sisters what they knew and then plough the more fertile territory that might be a disgruntled ex-wife . . .
Nico began singing “All Tomorrow’s Parties.” Somehow it seemed totemic. “This case is going to be all about the women,” I prophesied out loud.
Completely correctly, as it turned out.
The man in the mirror: a facsimile of me but scrubbed, shaved, and wearing an ill-fitting white shirt, red tie, and leather jacket. Ill-fitting because I’d lost a lot of weight in the last six months. Easily a stone and a half through a diet of marijuana, ciggies, vodka, lime cordial, and little else. I scuttled down the stairs and stepped quickly out onto the porch. Spring was here in the form of daffodils, bluebells, and a slick street after a shower of rain. The McDowell kids kicked a football in my direction. I hesitantly kicked it back. “Off for a job interview?” Mrs. Campbell asked solicitously from Mrs. McDowell’s porch, where she was enjoying a cigarette.
Thanks to gossipy Sammy McGuinn everyone on Coronation Road knew that I had resigned from the peelers.
“No, no, no! Sure, he’s back in the polis now! The scunners saw the error of their ways and put him back, so they did!” Mrs. McDowell said.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Campbell asked, looking at me for confirmation.
“It is!” Mrs. McDowell insisted between puffs, while nursing a baby at her breast. That was, what, kid number ten for her?
“Are you back in right enough, Mr. Duffy?” Mrs. Campbell asked.
“Well, I—”
“He’s in the Special Branch now! A detective inspector no less,” Mrs. McDowell yelled for all and sundry to hear. That certainly was what it said on my new warrant card, which had been posted to me last week: Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, RUC Special Branch, Assigned to Carrickfergus RUC. How Karen McDowell knew this I have no idea but her old man did work as a letter carrier for the Royal Mail . . .
Mrs. Campbell’s face glowed with excitement. “Oh, congratulations, Mr. Duffy! I am so happy. I had a feeling that that, uhm, misunderstanding you had with the higher-ups would soon get sorted,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied and cleared my throat. “Well, I don’t want to be late. First day back and all that.”
“Wait there!” Mrs. Campbell commanded, and ran into her house.
She came back with a comb.
“Bend over the fence there, love.”
“That’s not necessary, I—”
“Bend over the fence!”
I leant over the fence and she combed my hair to get the cowlicks out.
“Ta,” I said sheepishly, and walked to my somewhat battered 1982 BMW E30. I checked underneath it.
“Any bombs today, mister?” one of the McDowell sprogs asked me.
“Not today.”
“Ach,” he said, with mild disgust.
I got inside, tuned the radio to Downtown, and drove to Carrickfergus police station. The guard inspected my warrant card, and with a suspicious shake of the head he let me through.
I parked the car in the small CID section, walked by the potholes filled with rainwater and diesel, and went inside.
At the incident desk there was a fat copper with a silver moustache and skin the color of lard. The old desk sergeant used to do the People’s Friend crossword and have a hard time with it. This guy was halfway through Middlemarch .
“Detective Inspector Duffy reporting for duty,” I announced.
“Aye, you’re expected,” he muttered without looking up.
When I got up to the first floor I saw that there’d been even bigger changes since my last visit. Most of the office walls had been torn down and the space filled with cubicles. CID had been moved from their prime location at the windows overlooking the lough to the drafty cinder-block extension at the back of the building. Apple computers had replaced the typewriters on most desks and the dull yellow light bulbs, which I’m
Nico began singing “All Tomorrow’s Parties.” Somehow it seemed totemic. “This case is going to be all about the women,” I prophesied out loud.
Completely correctly, as it turned out.
The man in the mirror: a facsimile of me but scrubbed, shaved, and wearing an ill-fitting white shirt, red tie, and leather jacket. Ill-fitting because I’d lost a lot of weight in the last six months. Easily a stone and a half through a diet of marijuana, ciggies, vodka, lime cordial, and little else. I scuttled down the stairs and stepped quickly out onto the porch. Spring was here in the form of daffodils, bluebells, and a slick street after a shower of rain. The McDowell kids kicked a football in my direction. I hesitantly kicked it back. “Off for a job interview?” Mrs. Campbell asked solicitously from Mrs. McDowell’s porch, where she was enjoying a cigarette.
Thanks to gossipy Sammy McGuinn everyone on Coronation Road knew that I had resigned from the peelers.
“No, no, no! Sure, he’s back in the polis now! The scunners saw the error of their ways and put him back, so they did!” Mrs. McDowell said.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Campbell asked, looking at me for confirmation.
“It is!” Mrs. McDowell insisted between puffs, while nursing a baby at her breast. That was, what, kid number ten for her?
“Are you back in right enough, Mr. Duffy?” Mrs. Campbell asked.
“Well, I—”
“He’s in the Special Branch now! A detective inspector no less,” Mrs. McDowell yelled for all and sundry to hear. That certainly was what it said on my new warrant card, which had been posted to me last week: Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, RUC Special Branch, Assigned to Carrickfergus RUC. How Karen McDowell knew this I have no idea but her old man did work as a letter carrier for the Royal Mail . . .
Mrs. Campbell’s face glowed with excitement. “Oh, congratulations, Mr. Duffy! I am so happy. I had a feeling that that, uhm, misunderstanding you had with the higher-ups would soon get sorted,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied and cleared my throat. “Well, I don’t want to be late. First day back and all that.”
“Wait there!” Mrs. Campbell commanded, and ran into her house.
She came back with a comb.
“Bend over the fence there, love.”
“That’s not necessary, I—”
“Bend over the fence!”
I leant over the fence and she combed my hair to get the cowlicks out.
“Ta,” I said sheepishly, and walked to my somewhat battered 1982 BMW E30. I checked underneath it.
“Any bombs today, mister?” one of the McDowell sprogs asked me.
“Not today.”
“Ach,” he said, with mild disgust.
I got inside, tuned the radio to Downtown, and drove to Carrickfergus police station. The guard inspected my warrant card, and with a suspicious shake of the head he let me through.
I parked the car in the small CID section, walked by the potholes filled with rainwater and diesel, and went inside.
At the incident desk there was a fat copper with a silver moustache and skin the color of lard. The old desk sergeant used to do the People’s Friend crossword and have a hard time with it. This guy was halfway through Middlemarch .
“Detective Inspector Duffy reporting for duty,” I announced.
“Aye, you’re expected,” he muttered without looking up.
When I got up to the first floor I saw that there’d been even bigger changes since my last visit. Most of the office walls had been torn down and the space filled with cubicles. CID had been moved from their prime location at the windows overlooking the lough to the drafty cinder-block extension at the back of the building. Apple computers had replaced the typewriters on most desks and the dull yellow light bulbs, which I’m
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