Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell

This ain’t a Saint Patrick’s Day parade.”
    There wasn’t a hint of American in the accent. Grant could feel another Bunker Hill moment coming. He might as well be trying to interview a prisoner in Northern Ireland—or southern Ireland at a pinch. The feckers Rooney was referring to were two prisoners being given back their property in a plastic bag. They’d just signed the custody record and were trying to tear open the seal. A single uniform cop countersigned the receipt. It was tough luck if the prisoners wanted to check their property first. Grant didn’t think Rooney was the patient type.
    â€œFeck off, the lot of yer. Out the door before I decide to keep yer for court.”
    The prisoners gave up on the bags and were hustled towards a heavy door to the backyard. It slammed shut behind them, and two more were free. The conveyer belt wheeled out another one who had just been fingerprinted and photographed.
    Kincaid handed his firearm to a detention officer behind the counter, who secured it in a network of small, square lockers and gave Kincaid a numbered tag. The big detective waved a hand at Grant in a give-it-to-me gesture. Grant shook his head and held his hands out, palms upwards. Kincaid looked surprised. “No sidearm?”
    â€œI hate guns. Back home we use kind words and CS spray.”
    â€œCS spray?”
    â€œLike aerosol mace.”
    â€œEnglish cops are unarmed?”
    â€œI’ve got a side-handled baton and a stab vest back home.”
    â€œBut no guns?”
    Grant shook his head. “Frontline bobbies don’t carry firearms. If we turn up at something where there’s guns, we call for backup and they deploy an armed response vehicle. They carry the guns.”
    â€œBut you’re firearms trained, right? Being in the army and all.”
    â€œI was a typist. Had no use for guns.”
    Sergeant Rooney overheard the exchange and came over. “Feckin’ Jesus. No wonder we tanned the English at Bunker Hill.”
    Grant ignored the jibe.
    Rooney did not. “You must be our English guest. Hard to miss you in that gay cavalier orange.”
    â€œThat’s the idea. Not the gay part.”
    â€œNot sure about that. A man that don’t like guns in a country that loves ’em.”
    â€œCrooks shoot at cops because they know you’re going to shoot at them. Best way to avoid getting shot is hold your arms out and wear an orange jacket.”
    Rooney glanced at Kincaid like he’d got shit on his shoe. “Must be the training page that got torn out—by the last man tried to tackle an armed robber with a kind word and his dick in his hand.”
    â€œDick in his hand would make him a wanker. Maybe that’s why he got shot.”
    â€œA philosophizing Yorkshireman. I’ve seen everything now.”
    Kincaid leaned against the counter and jerked a thumb at Grant. Rooney leaned on the opposite side like two conspirators plotting an explosives night. Guy Fawkes in the modern age.
    â€œThis Yorkshireman’s ready to clear you some space.”
    â€œSullivan? That foaming little shit.”
    â€œExactly. Quick interview and kick him out. You can charge him with soap theft if you want.”
    Rooney waved a hand around the room with a frown that bordered on comical. “You seen it around here? Not a chance of an interview room until tonight at the earliest. Maybe even tomorrow.”
    Grant was losing patience. He knew it was busy. He’d done busy in the past and knew what it was like. The difference was that he’d always look for ways to help get it less busy, not put obstacles in the way. This whole Anglo-Irish debate was wearing pretty thin. They were all cops together in his book. Not as if he was a firefighter—he could understand the rivalry there. “What about the one out in reception?”
    Kincaid and Rooney turned to him as if an unwanted child had spoken. Grant felt as