Gun Street Girl by Adrian McKinty Page A

at me. I looked at him. We sipped the Jura sixteen-year-old single malt. Outside, through the rain and wind, the afternoon was withering like a piece of fruit in an Ulster pantry.
    â€œWe serve shortbread at communion, sometimes,” Crabbie said dolefully.
    I was not going to have a conversation with him about shortbread’s Eucharistic qualities. I drained my glass and got to my feet.
    â€œIt’s still your case, mate, but before I went and told Chief Inspector McArthur that you were closing it, I’d let it sit for a bit. Maybe bring the wee lassie in again, next week. A second time can’t hurt and we might get some inconsistencies in her story.”
    â€œLet it sit. Bring her in in a few days or a week or so,” he repeated dutifully, but I could tell he didn’t like it.
    â€œSound good?”
    â€œCan I at least tell the Chief Inspector that we’re close to closing the book on this one?”
    â€œTell him that when you hand in the written progress report.”
    â€œAnd Lawson and Fletcher?”
    â€œTell Lawson to dial it down, tell Fletcher to dial it up. She’s a police officer not a bloody secretary.”
    â€œOK, cheers, Sean.”
    â€œCheers, Crabbie, and well done. Case number one nearly under your belt. And it’s a murder. Whew. I see Chief Constable in your future.”
    And he touched wood to ward off a jinx that might possibly have been impressed by my oracular abilities.

8: POLICE STATION BLUES
    Rain and cold. Boredom. And then . . . 180. The pancake flipped. The pancake fell on the fucking floor.
    Thatcher . Thatcher, like Stalin, was making a Five Year Plan . . .
    Northern Ireland had been too quiet. This is the mid-eighties, love. Time to get your handbag swinging and shake things up .
    Sara Prentice gave me the news.
    Brriinng. Brriinng .
    Office phone. The direct line.
    â€œHello, Sean Duffy, Carrickfergus CID.”
    â€œI love hearing you say that. You sound so sexy and official.”
    â€œSara? What’s up? You’re not canceling dinner for tonight, are you?”
    â€œNo way. I’m cooking. That’s a rarity. That’s Halley’s Comet. And besides we have to go out tonight. We’re both going to be busy in the coming weeks.”
    â€œOh God. What have you heard?”
    â€œIt’s going to be called the Anglo-Irish Agreement. Cross-border cooperation, devolved powers going back to the Province, groundwork for a new Assembly. Thatcher has cooked it up with the Irish prime minister.”
    â€œJesus! When is this going to happen?”
    â€œ Belfast Telegraph sources say tomorrow afternoon.”
    â€œNo consultation with the Unionists?”
    â€œNo consultation with anyone. It’s just going to be announced as a fait accompli by the Secretary of State . . . so you know . . .”
    â€œIt’s going to be trouble.”
    â€œYup. A lot of work for both of us.”
    â€œThanks, Sara, I’ll see you later.”
    She gave me a kiss down the phone and I hung up.
    I closed the office door, found an emergency joint, rummaged in the bottom-drawer cassette box, stuck in “Police Station Blues” by Peetie Wheatstraw. It didn’t quite take, so I fast forwarded the tape to “Stack O’ Lee” by Mississippi John Hurt, which worked a little better.
    Emotionally righted, I went to see the Chief Inspector. He was white faced, shaking, and he’d already broken out the Black Label.
    â€œHave a drink with me, Duffy.”
    Didn’t need to be told twice. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, sir.”
    â€œI was at a pow-wow in Belfast.”
    â€œWhat have the Brits cooked up for us now?”
    â€œIs it that obvious?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œNew Assembly, devolved powers, the Irish government to have a say in Northern Irish affairs.”
    â€œSounds reasonable.”
    â€œIt’s completely