you?”
“Get out of the car.”
We walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. I knocked on the McCanns’ door.
Fiona opened it. She saw me and she saw her sister. Fiona was about to begin a harangue but she caught the look in my eyes and buttoned it, hugged Orla, and both of them burst into tears.
I let them hold each other for a minute and then I walked them inside the flat.
Mrs. McCann observed the scene. “Oh, the wee hoor’s come running back, has she. Well, she can—”
I silenced her with a look.
“You will say nothing. Not one fucking word,” I told her.
I reached into my raincoat pocket and produced the bags of heroin. I gave them to Fiona.
“You were a nurse, weren’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “This will stop her from getting sick. You’ll have to figure out the dose. And once she’s weaned off, then it’ll have to be cold turkey. You think you can manage that?”
“We can manage,” Fiona said.
“This is her money,” I said, handing over four hundred quid. “It’s hers, this will help you see her through.”
“Thank you.”
“Remember, no lectures. No nonsense. She’s back and that’s all that matters,” I said to Mrs. McCann.
“All right,” she said, crying now too.
“What about Devlin?” Fiona muttered. “He’ll come for her.”
“No he won’t. You’ll never hear from Poppy Devlin again.”
We stood there for a few seconds and I turned to go.
“We’re still not going to tell you where Dermot is,” Fiona said.
“I know. That’s not what this was about.”
“What was it about?”
“It was for old time’s sake.”
I went downstairs, got in the Beemer, and turned the lights on. The rain was harder than ever so I maxed the wipers and the defogger. I drove through the Shantallow. Fire engines were arriving from the Waterside to put out the fire in Poppy Devlin’s off-license, but, as was traditional, a mob had turned out to gawp at the blaze and throw milk bottles and stones at the firemen to keep them away. I rummaged in the cassette box and sought out my Blind Willie Johnson tape. I fast-forwarded until I got to track four: “Tear This Building Down.” The box guitar strummed and Blind Willie Johnson growled the words: “Well, if I had my way Lord, in this wicked world Lord. If I had my way Lord I would tear this building down . . .”
The rain finally came to an end and I made good time on the ride south. When I got back to Carrickfergus it was only ten o’clock but I was so tired I went to bed immediately and, for once, I slept the sleep of the just.
I made a cup of Nescafé, added some condensed milk, one sugar, stirred it all up, and carried it into the hall. I put on the radio. It was The Smiths, and Morrissey’s Manky whingeing carried me through breakfast and a lightning shower.
I dressed in black jeans, a black polo neck, and my black sports coat jacket. I put on my shoulder holster and noticed there was dried blood on the butt of my Smith and Wesson .38 Police Special.
I washed it under the tap in the kitchen. A pimp’s blood from a crazy last night, and I wondered why I hadn’t kept just one block of the smack. I was still wondering that when McCrabban found me spacing out in the CID incident room at Carrick station.
“What are you doing, Sean?” McCrabban asked cheerfully.
“I came in to get some maps of Antrim town, but now I’m just sort of daydreaming,” I told him.
“May I ask why you are going to Antrim?”
“You may, Detective Sergeant McCrabban. I’m going to Antrim to interview Annie McCann, Dermot McCann’s ex-wife, to ask her if she happens to know his whereabouts these days.”
“If she does, she won’t tell you,” McCrabban said.
“Of course she won’t tell me.”
“But you have to do it anyway.”
“That I do, laddie. The Brits have me jumping through hoops.”
McCrabban nodded thoughtfully.
“What are you working on?” I asked him.
“Nothing much,” he admitted. “Death, murder, and
“Get out of the car.”
We walked up the stairs to the fourth floor. I knocked on the McCanns’ door.
Fiona opened it. She saw me and she saw her sister. Fiona was about to begin a harangue but she caught the look in my eyes and buttoned it, hugged Orla, and both of them burst into tears.
I let them hold each other for a minute and then I walked them inside the flat.
Mrs. McCann observed the scene. “Oh, the wee hoor’s come running back, has she. Well, she can—”
I silenced her with a look.
“You will say nothing. Not one fucking word,” I told her.
I reached into my raincoat pocket and produced the bags of heroin. I gave them to Fiona.
“You were a nurse, weren’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “This will stop her from getting sick. You’ll have to figure out the dose. And once she’s weaned off, then it’ll have to be cold turkey. You think you can manage that?”
“We can manage,” Fiona said.
“This is her money,” I said, handing over four hundred quid. “It’s hers, this will help you see her through.”
“Thank you.”
“Remember, no lectures. No nonsense. She’s back and that’s all that matters,” I said to Mrs. McCann.
“All right,” she said, crying now too.
“What about Devlin?” Fiona muttered. “He’ll come for her.”
“No he won’t. You’ll never hear from Poppy Devlin again.”
We stood there for a few seconds and I turned to go.
“We’re still not going to tell you where Dermot is,” Fiona said.
“I know. That’s not what this was about.”
“What was it about?”
“It was for old time’s sake.”
I went downstairs, got in the Beemer, and turned the lights on. The rain was harder than ever so I maxed the wipers and the defogger. I drove through the Shantallow. Fire engines were arriving from the Waterside to put out the fire in Poppy Devlin’s off-license, but, as was traditional, a mob had turned out to gawp at the blaze and throw milk bottles and stones at the firemen to keep them away. I rummaged in the cassette box and sought out my Blind Willie Johnson tape. I fast-forwarded until I got to track four: “Tear This Building Down.” The box guitar strummed and Blind Willie Johnson growled the words: “Well, if I had my way Lord, in this wicked world Lord. If I had my way Lord I would tear this building down . . .”
The rain finally came to an end and I made good time on the ride south. When I got back to Carrickfergus it was only ten o’clock but I was so tired I went to bed immediately and, for once, I slept the sleep of the just.
I made a cup of Nescafé, added some condensed milk, one sugar, stirred it all up, and carried it into the hall. I put on the radio. It was The Smiths, and Morrissey’s Manky whingeing carried me through breakfast and a lightning shower.
I dressed in black jeans, a black polo neck, and my black sports coat jacket. I put on my shoulder holster and noticed there was dried blood on the butt of my Smith and Wesson .38 Police Special.
I washed it under the tap in the kitchen. A pimp’s blood from a crazy last night, and I wondered why I hadn’t kept just one block of the smack. I was still wondering that when McCrabban found me spacing out in the CID incident room at Carrick station.
“What are you doing, Sean?” McCrabban asked cheerfully.
“I came in to get some maps of Antrim town, but now I’m just sort of daydreaming,” I told him.
“May I ask why you are going to Antrim?”
“You may, Detective Sergeant McCrabban. I’m going to Antrim to interview Annie McCann, Dermot McCann’s ex-wife, to ask her if she happens to know his whereabouts these days.”
“If she does, she won’t tell you,” McCrabban said.
“Of course she won’t tell me.”
“But you have to do it anyway.”
“That I do, laddie. The Brits have me jumping through hoops.”
McCrabban nodded thoughtfully.
“What are you working on?” I asked him.
“Nothing much,” he admitted. “Death, murder, and
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