Free Gun Street Girl by Adrian McKinty

dear.”
    â€œAye.”
    â€œAre you there now?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you want me to come down?”
    â€œIf you want to.”
    I looked at “Sigourney” and smiled. “In fact, Crabbie, I’m sort of talking to a charming young lady at the moment. I mean, mate, it’s your case, the training wheels are off, you know?”
    Crabbie sighed. Clearly he was still a bit nervous about running a high-profile investigation like this. But you had to get stuck in sooner or later. “All right, Sean, I just thought you might want to know. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
    â€œCheers, mate. See ya.”
    I hung up.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” “Sigourney” asked, putting on her coat.
    â€œA double murder. A kid killed his parents last night and felt bad about it and did a Wiley Coyote off Blackhead cliff.”
    â€œA double murder?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œAnd they want you to investigate it?”
    â€œNo, my colleague, Detective Sergeant McCrabban, is investigating it. He just wanted my input . . . but it’s a pretty straightforward one.”
    â€œAnd not a terrorist-related thing?”
    â€œDoesn’t look like it.”
    â€œI couldn’t, uh—” she began and her voice trailed off.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI couldn’t possibly beg you to go and take me with you, could I?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œA scoop’s a scoop, isn’t it? One day assistant editor on the women’s page, next day front-page leader writer.”
    â€œSteady on, Lady Macbeth, what do I get out of this arrangement?”
    â€œI’ll tell you my real name.”
    â€œI already know your real name.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œSara,” I said. “Sara Prentice.”
    â€œHow did you do that?” she asked, astonished.
    â€œMaybe I read the Belfast Telegraph and because of my brilliant photographic memory I recalled your byline.”
    â€œIs that what you did?” she asked, her almond-green eyes still wide with amazement.
    â€œNo. It’s written on the inside of your duffel coat.”
    â€œAh. Yes. Embarrassing.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œWell, you know, still using the same coat you got in sixth form. Not cool for a fashion-conscious women’s page reporter.”
    â€œI’m wearing an old trench coat.”
    â€œThat is cool.”
    â€œIs it?”
    â€œYeah. So I can come with you?”
    â€œUhm, OK, if you want to.”
    â€œHow about I cook you dinner or something?”
    â€œI already said yes.”
    We went outside and ran through the rain to the Beemer. She put on her seat belt and smiled at me. “This is exciting.”
    â€œAh, speaking of exciting . . . hold on a minute.”
    I got out of the car and looked underneath it for mercury tilt bombs.
    I got back inside.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” she asked naively.
    â€œNothing. Can you really cook? I mean, this is in return for a scoop on a murder-suicide,” I said to distract her from the fact that there had been a possibility—slim, yes, but still a possibility—that we could have been blown up if I’d driven off without checking.
    â€œYou won’t regret it. I did domestic science to O-level.”
    â€œSo did I and I can’t open a tin of beans.”
    â€œWell, I can.”
    I turned on the engine and my newly installed police radio.
    I called the station.
    â€œThis is Detective Inspector Duffy, can you tell Detective Sergeant McCrabban that I’ll meet him at the crime scene?” I said.
    â€œWill do, Inspector,” one of the constables said back at the barracks.
    I turned off the radio and slipped in the clutch.
    â€œA detective inspector,” Sara said, sounding impressed. “Do you have a gun and everything?”
    â€œYup,” I said as I turned right on to the Albert Road.
    â€œEver kill