“It’s hardly shut, son, is it? No prosecutions, no convictions?”

Conlon coughed. “What I mean is, I mean, we know who done it, don’t we?”

“Do we? Who done it? Gimme their names and I’ll have them fuckers in the cells within the hour,” I said.

“I mean, we know who done it in the corporate sense. The IRA killed him.”

“The corporate sense is it now? The IRA did it. Just like they killed Dougherty himself.”

“Well, didn’t they?” Conlon asked.

“Yes, they did,” Tony said. He waved a file at me.

I looked at Conlon. “That’ll be all. And do us a favour, mate, keep your mouth shut.”

“About what?”

“Exactly. Now fuck off.”

He exited the office and I closed the door.

“What did you find, mate?” I asked Tony.

“Nothing of interest in any of them. Dougherty has nothing in his ‘active’ file and there’s a layer of dust on everything else.”

“I take it that’s the McAlpine file?”

He slid it across the table to me.

The last notes on it had been made in December. He’d added nothing since my visit.

I shook my head. Tony squeezed my arm again. “Everybody can’t be as impressed by you as I am, mate. I’m afraid you didn’t wow Dougherty as much as you would have liked.”

“I suppose not.”

Tony was almost laughing now. “Maybe you should have worn your medal or told him about that time you met Joey Ramone.”

“All right, all right. No point in raking me. Let’s skedaddle.”

We straightened the desk, closed the filing cabinets.

“And look, if you find a case notebook in the house or the car or anything, I’d be keen to take a look at it,” I said to Tony.

“You got it, mate,” Tony assured me.

“And I did see Joey Ramone, he was right across from me in the subway.”

“Big stars don’t ride the fucking subway.”

We had almost made it out of the incident room when young Conlon approached us diffidently. “Yes?” Tony wondered.

“Well, it’s probably nothing.”

“Go on,” I said encouragingly.

“There was one thing that was a wee bit of the ordinary,” Conlon began.

“What was it?” I asked, my heart rate quickening.

“Well, Dougherty knows that I’m from Islandmagee, doesn’t he? And he knows that I take the ferry over here every morning, instead of driving round through Whitehead. It saves you twenty minutes.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I suppose that’s why he asked me how much it cost.”

“He asked you how much the ferry cost from Larne to Islandmagee?”

“Aye.”

“And that was strange, was it?” Tony asked.

“A wee bit. Because he hadn’t spoken to me at all this year. You know?”

I looked at Tony. “He was going to take the ferry over to Islandmagee and he wanted to check the price.”

Tony nodded.

“Did he say anything else?” I asked.

“Nope. I told him it was twenty pence for pedestrians and a quid for cars. And he thanked me and that was that.”

I looked at Tony. He gave me a half nod.

“You done good, son,” I told DC Conlon.

Tony and I did the rounds, said hello to a couple of sergeants and left the station. We got in the Beemer and headed out into the street.

“When he investigated McAlpine’s murder he would have had a driver. He would have gone over there in a police Land Rover the long way round through Whitehead. But he was going over himself in his own car,” Tony said.

“Going to question Mrs McAlpine,” I said.

“Possibly. What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. “Nine thirty.”

“I feel like that ad for the army: ‘We do more things before breakfast than you’ll do all day.’”

“Aye, more stupid things.”

“Yeah.”

“Shall we go do one more stupid thing?”

“Aye.”

I drove the Land Rover down into Larne and easily found the ferry over the Lough to Islandmagee. We paid the money and drove on. It left on the half hour and five minutes later we docked in Ballylumford, Islandmagee. “Let’s go see what alibi this bint of yours has cooked up for her whereabouts last night,” Tony said.

15: SIR HARRY

I drove the car over the cattle grid and up the lane marked “Private Road No Entry”.

“What’s all this?” Tony asked, pointing out the window.

“It’s a private road on private land.”

“The IRA drove all the way up here on private land just to murder this woman’s husband?” Tony asked.

“That’s what we’re supposed to believe.”

“Well, I’ve seen stranger things.”

“Me too.”

The trail wound on, over a hill and down into the boggy valley.

Tony sighed. “So, what about you, Sean? I haven’t really seen you since the hospital.”

“I’m okay. What about you? How’s the missus? Any kids on the way?”

“Nah, not yet. She’s keen as mustard but I’d rather wait until, uh, we’re more settled. You can’t bring kids up in a place like this…What about you and yon nurse lady?”

“Doctor lady. She’s gone. Over the water.”

“Over the water? Well, you can’t blame her, can you?”

“No. You can’t.”

“Hopefully that’ll be me in about a year. Then we can do kids, mortgage, the whole shebang.”

“You’ve actually put in for a transfer?”

“The Met. Keep it between us for now. There’s no future here, Sean. Bright young lad like yourself should consider it too. How tall are you?”

“Five ten.”

“You’d be fine. I think.”

“What if I stood on tip toes.”

“What’s keeping you here, Sean?” he asked, ignoring my facetiousness.

“I wanna stay and be part of the solution.”

“Jesus. They must be putting something in the water or planting subliminal messages in those health and safety films.”

I laughed and we were about to turn into the McAlpines’ farm when a man with a shotgun came hurrying towards us.

I put the Beemer in neutral and wound the window down.

Tony put his hand on his service revolver.

“Oi, youse! This is a private road,” the man yelled.

“Put the gun down!” I yelled at him.

“I will not!” he yelled back.

“We’re police! Break open that gun this instant!” I howled at the fucker.

He hesitated for a moment, but didn’t break open the shotgun and kept coming towards us at a jog. He was in green Wellington boots, khaki trousers, a white shirt, tweed shooting jacket and a flat cap. He was dressed in a previous generation’s get up but he was only about forty if he was a day.

We got out of the Beemer, drew our weapons and put the car between him and us.

“First time I’ve drawn my gun in two years,” Tony said.

“A man shot at me with a shotgun just the other week,” I said.

“I’ve been on the job eight years and I’ve never had anyone shoot at me.”

“I’ve been shot at half a dozen times.”

“What does that tell you about yourself?”

“What does it tell you?”

“It tells me that people don’t like you. You rub them the wrong way.”

“Thanks, mate.”

The man jogged along the track towards us. He had a couple of beagles with him. Beagles I noted, not border collies, so he wasn’t a farmer, or at least he wasn’t farming today. He arrived at the Beemer slightly out of breath but not in too bad nick considering his little run down the hill. He had a grey thatch, a long angular face and ruddy cheeks. His eyes were blue and squinty as if he spent all his down-time reading and rereading Country Life.

“This is private property and you are trespassing,” he said.

“We’re the police,” I said again.

“So you claim,” he said, and then after a brief pause he added, “and even if you are, you’ll still need a warrant to come onto my land.”

His accent was a little peculiar. Not Islandmagee, not local. It sounded 1930s Anglo-Irish. He’d clearly been educated at an expensive private school, one where they learned you to say “leand” instead of “land”.

“We’re here to see the widow McAlpine,” I said.

“She’s a tenant on my property and this is a private residence. I would prefer it if you would come back stating the precise nature of your business on a warrant.”