Free I Hear the Sirens in the Street by Adrian McKinty Page B

the eleven o’clock shakes. At lunch time he’d slip out to the nearest pub and after a couple of triple vodkas he’d be right as rain again.
    We met him in a large book-lined office overlooking the harbour and ferry terminal. The books were mostly thrillers and detective fiction which I found encouraging, but they were all from the ’60s and early ’70s, which wasn’t such a good sign. At some juncture in the last decade he’d lost interest in reading – had lost interest in everything probably. There was no wedding ring on his left hand, but many Presbyterians didn’t wear a ring because they considered it a Papist affectation. Even so, the room stank of divorce, failure and alcoholism – the standard troika for many a career RUC officer.
    We were both the same rank, detective inspector, but he’d been on the force twenty years longer than me, which made me wonder what the hell he had been doing all that time, and whether I was destined to go the same route.
    The rain was still pelting the windows and Scotland was a blue smudge to the east.
    â€œGentlemen, have a seat,” he said. “Cup of tea or coffee?”
    â€œThanks but no, we’re all tea’d out this morning,” I replied, with as decent an apologetic smile as I could muster.
    Dougherty folded his hands across his ample belly. He was wearing a white shirt and a brown suit that he’d obviously had for quite a few years, which, as he sat down, bunched at the sleeves and gave him an unfortunate comic air. A peeler could be a lot of things: a drunk, a thug, an idiot, a sociopath, but as long as you looked the part it was usually fine. Even in Larne Dougherty would have a hard time currying respect.
    â€œSo what brings you gentlemen down from Carrick?” he asked.
    â€œI’d like to ask you a couple of questions about the McAlpine murder,” I said, all business.
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œMartin McAlpine. He was a part-time UDR captain who was shot at his farm on Islandmagee last December.”
    â€œAh, yes, I remember. What’s this pertaining to?”
    I explained about the suitcase and the John Doe and how we had traced the suitcase back to Martin McAlpine.
    â€œAnd what did his wife say happened to his suitcase?” Dougherty asked.
    â€œShe says she left it in at the Carrickfergus Salvation Army before Christmas,” Matty said.
    Dougherty looked puzzled.
    â€œShe left it at the Salvation Army before Christmas?” he asked.
    â€œYup,” Matty said.
    â€œSo, what’s his murder got to do with anything? The murderer of your John Doe obviously just bought the suitcase for a pound from the Sally Army and used it to dump a body, right?”
    â€œAlmost certainly,” I agreed.
    â€œSo, why bother dredging up the McAlpine case? Your killer could have grabbed any random suitcase, couldn’t he?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd the timeline … She leaves the suitcase in just before Christmas. McAlpine is murdered back in early December.Your body is discovered this week? In April?”
    I shook my head. “The body had been frozen for an indeterminate amount of time, but aye, I’m with you, Dougherty, I agree, it’s weak beer; but you see it’s not us, it’s our Chief; he’s going to want us to have pursued every lead out there and as soon as he finds out that the suitcase belonged to a UDR captain who was assassinated by the IRA, he’s going to be firing a million questions at me.”
    Dougherty breathed a sigh of relief. I was not an internal affairs spook come to investigate his work, I was just another working stiff dealing with an arsehole boss.
    â€œI’ll get the file,” he said.
    He opened a metal cabinet and flipped out a thin – very thin – cardboard file.
    He spread it on the desk between us and very slowly he sat down again with one hand on the desk and one hand to balance him. Jesus, how