chaos everywhere but nowt in our parish.”
Next door the phone in my tiny windowless office was ringing. I didn’t even know it had been connected.
“Later, mate,” I said.
I went into the bare room and picked up the receiver.
“Duffy,” I said.
“Sean, it’s me, Kate. I was looking for you at home.”
“Well, you found me at work.”
“Sean, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t drive into Derry last night, torch Poppy Devlin’s off-license, burn it to the ground, take Orla McCann out of there, return her to her mother, and threaten Poppy Devlin with death if he didn’t leave Ireland within twenty-four hours, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I knew that couldn’t have been you. You wouldn’t want to jeopardize everything we’ve done for you with a hot-headed and silly act like that, would you?”
“Certainly not.”
“That’s what I said.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Sean, I thought I would come with you today but I find that I’m swamped here. Would you be cross if I stood this one out?”
“Not in the least. I’ll give you a full report. I promise.”
“Thank you, Sean. Please do. You can’t imagine the bureaucracy.”
“Oh, I think I can. But I promise I’ll fill you in.”
“Please be discreet.”
“Always am.”
“Yes. Ciao.”
I hung up and went out to find the Crabman. He was in a cubicle cleaning his pipe.
“Busy?” I asked him.
“Not especially.”
“Fancy a run up to Antrim?”
“And let Matty steer the ship?” he asked skeptically.
“And let Matty steer the ship.”
“OK, then.”
When we reached the outskirts of Antrim town I handed him the Ordnance Survey map. “Where does Annie McCann live?” McCrabban asked.
“After the divorce she moved back in with her parents. It’s a wee village called Ballykeel just outside of town. Take the map and direct me. It’s complicated around here. If we take the wrong turn, we could end up on the motorway or the airport road. Those airport road coppers can delay you for hours with all their questions.”
Crabbie unfolded the map. “I’m not seeing the village.”
“It’s off the A6 toward Lough Neagh. You can’t miss it. Come on! We’re coming up to the first roundabout.”
“Ballykeel? Oh, I see it. Actually, you could miss it, it’s tiny. Go straight through the roundabout and take a right.”
“And then what?”
“What’s the actual address?”
“Number 3, Lough Neagh Road, Ballykeel, County Antrim.”
“I see it. Go through the next roundabout and head for the lough. Don’t go into the town, just follow the signs for the lough.”
I followed his directions, avoiding Antrim completely.
Lough Neagh was the largest freshwater lake in the British Isles but it was surprisingly underdeveloped, and visiting the villages dotting its shores was often like stepping back into an Ireland of a hundred or several hundred years before. Ballykeel lay a mile from Shane’s Castle, the residence of Lord O’Neill, one of the ancient Anglo-Irish families of the area. The village houses were whitewashed stone cottages, many with original thatched roofs. There was a spirit grocer and a newsagent and not much else. Lough Neagh itself lay to the south, a vast, still, pale blue presence with no boats and few birds. We were surrounded by woodland: oak, ash, elm, and wild apple trees.
We found number 3 Lough Neagh Road, which was an old two-story coaching inn or post house. It was a handsome structure built from local stone with a small stable block to the right.
“They must have money,” I said.
“Maybe, but I think you can get these old barns cheap. The money comes into it when you try to do them up, then you’ll need deep pockets.”
“I think they do have money, though. In the briefing notes I was given it said they had land in Donegal.”
“Aye, but there’s land in Donegal and land in Donegal. You could have a thousand acres and every inch of it sucking bog.”
We
Next door the phone in my tiny windowless office was ringing. I didn’t even know it had been connected.
“Later, mate,” I said.
I went into the bare room and picked up the receiver.
“Duffy,” I said.
“Sean, it’s me, Kate. I was looking for you at home.”
“Well, you found me at work.”
“Sean, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“You didn’t drive into Derry last night, torch Poppy Devlin’s off-license, burn it to the ground, take Orla McCann out of there, return her to her mother, and threaten Poppy Devlin with death if he didn’t leave Ireland within twenty-four hours, did you?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I knew that couldn’t have been you. You wouldn’t want to jeopardize everything we’ve done for you with a hot-headed and silly act like that, would you?”
“Certainly not.”
“That’s what I said.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Sean, I thought I would come with you today but I find that I’m swamped here. Would you be cross if I stood this one out?”
“Not in the least. I’ll give you a full report. I promise.”
“Thank you, Sean. Please do. You can’t imagine the bureaucracy.”
“Oh, I think I can. But I promise I’ll fill you in.”
“Please be discreet.”
“Always am.”
“Yes. Ciao.”
I hung up and went out to find the Crabman. He was in a cubicle cleaning his pipe.
“Busy?” I asked him.
“Not especially.”
“Fancy a run up to Antrim?”
“And let Matty steer the ship?” he asked skeptically.
“And let Matty steer the ship.”
“OK, then.”
When we reached the outskirts of Antrim town I handed him the Ordnance Survey map. “Where does Annie McCann live?” McCrabban asked.
“After the divorce she moved back in with her parents. It’s a wee village called Ballykeel just outside of town. Take the map and direct me. It’s complicated around here. If we take the wrong turn, we could end up on the motorway or the airport road. Those airport road coppers can delay you for hours with all their questions.”
Crabbie unfolded the map. “I’m not seeing the village.”
“It’s off the A6 toward Lough Neagh. You can’t miss it. Come on! We’re coming up to the first roundabout.”
“Ballykeel? Oh, I see it. Actually, you could miss it, it’s tiny. Go straight through the roundabout and take a right.”
“And then what?”
“What’s the actual address?”
“Number 3, Lough Neagh Road, Ballykeel, County Antrim.”
“I see it. Go through the next roundabout and head for the lough. Don’t go into the town, just follow the signs for the lough.”
I followed his directions, avoiding Antrim completely.
Lough Neagh was the largest freshwater lake in the British Isles but it was surprisingly underdeveloped, and visiting the villages dotting its shores was often like stepping back into an Ireland of a hundred or several hundred years before. Ballykeel lay a mile from Shane’s Castle, the residence of Lord O’Neill, one of the ancient Anglo-Irish families of the area. The village houses were whitewashed stone cottages, many with original thatched roofs. There was a spirit grocer and a newsagent and not much else. Lough Neagh itself lay to the south, a vast, still, pale blue presence with no boats and few birds. We were surrounded by woodland: oak, ash, elm, and wild apple trees.
We found number 3 Lough Neagh Road, which was an old two-story coaching inn or post house. It was a handsome structure built from local stone with a small stable block to the right.
“They must have money,” I said.
“Maybe, but I think you can get these old barns cheap. The money comes into it when you try to do them up, then you’ll need deep pockets.”
“I think they do have money, though. In the briefing notes I was given it said they had land in Donegal.”
“Aye, but there’s land in Donegal and land in Donegal. You could have a thousand acres and every inch of it sucking bog.”
We
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