“Have a wee think, boys, will ya?” I said, and went to the kitchen, made three mugs of tea, got some chocolate biscuits and brought them back to the lads.

“Well? Any brainwaves?” I asked.

“The McAlpine angle seems more and more like a distraction. The note is slightly more interesting, but not much. The woman? Someone you met in a pub stalking you? It’s probably not relevant for us, in this particular case, is it?” Matty said.

“Your take, Crabbie?”

“I agree with young Matty. The McAlpine angle might be something but it’s Larne RUC’s something. Or Special Branch’s something. The note? Well, I’ll have to have a think about that. There’s some really good stuff in Corinthians.”

“Should we drop the McAlpine angle?”

“I don’t think that’s the best use of our resources, Sean. The fact that O’Rourke’s killer used Martin McAlpine’s old suitcase that he picked up in the Salvation Army is neither here nor there. If he’d used Princess Diana’s old suitcase we wouldn’t spend all this time investigating her.” Crabbie said soberly.

“Knowing Sean, I’d say that he definitely would, the old horn dog,” Matty chipped in.

They were both content to close the book on Emma McAlpine, at least for now. I took a chocolate digestive and we had a collective think about the note, but it was impossible to say if someone was messing with us or not. I wrote it all up in the case file anyway, in case it became significant.

No one could think of anything else. I went to my office and pretended to work, but really spent time drawing glasses and moustaches on every wanker in the Daily Mail, and that is a lot of wankers.

A knock at the door. It was McCrabban, jacket off, revealing a yellow shirt and green paisley tie underneath.

“Come in.”

“Fallows from the Consul’s office called.” McCrabban said. “They want the body released from the morgue. They’d like to bury O’Rourke in the Arlington National Cemetery. It’s a big deal apparently. A real honour.”

“I don’t trust that Fallows guy. I wasn’t entirely happy with some of his answers,” I said.

“Aye, he looked shifty,” McCrabban agreed.

“You think everybody not raised in the Free Presbyterian Church religion is shifty. Still, maybe the Consulate are trying to sweep this under the rug? What say you?”

Normally Crabbie would leap at any hint of conspiracy, but I could see the scepticism in his eyes. He knew and I knew that the avenues were beginning to close one by one. The whole McAlpine diversion had been an attempt to hide the fact that this entire case was slowly grinding to a halt.

“I don’t know, mate,” he muttered.

“Tell them they can have the body,” I said.

“Okay.”

I ate a biscuit, looked at the sea, continued my work on the Mail.

Time passed.

Maybe somebody somewhere would come up with something.

Another knock at the door and Crabbie came in.

“Well?”

“I talked to your man, Fallows. I don’t think he knows anything. He’s just a functionary. I told him he could ship the body home. He seemed happy with that,” Crabbie said.

I yawned. “All right, I’ll write this all up tomorrow. Tell Matty we can head on home,” I said.

“I’ll stay and write it up. I want to study for my sergeant’s exam anyway,” McCrabban muttered.

“Suit yourself, mate,” I said, but later I thought that I should have said “Thank you very much, Crabbie.”

I went outside, turned the collar up on my raincoat.

I got inside the BMW and had a reasonably straight run home. Only one patrol stopped me this time. A bunch of Gurkha rifles who were a long way from Nepal. None of them could speak English, which made explaining my cop I.D. a barrel of laughs.

When I finally got back to Coronation Road the street was full of kids playing football. I didn’t have the heart to break up their game so I parked on Victoria Road and walked the rest of the way.

I was turning into the house when Bobby Cameron saw me at the door.

“Oi, Duffy, need your help,” he said.

Bobby was not only the local paramilitary commander but also a man that I owed my life to when he had shot a man shooting at me a year ago. He knew that I was obliged to him and he loved that.

“Yes?” I said.

“Follow me,” he muttered.

“Where?”

“Just follow me. We have a wee problem.”

“Tell me what this is about.”

“Just come!”

“Not until you tell me.”

He glared at me. The rain was light but we were both getting soaked. “Fine! When the trouble comes just remember that I fucking tried to prevent it and you couldn’t fucking be arsed,” he said.

“What trouble?”

“Too late! You had your fucking chance, peeler. You had your fucking chance!” he said huffily.

I went inside and closed the door. I took off my raincoat and let it fall on the floor. It had been a psychically draining day and I was shattered. I made myself a vodka gimlet and plonked myself down in front of the TV. I watched The Rockford Files. You had to like the fact that Rockford got shat on all the time and was living in penury with his old man in a caravan. Seemed about right for a detective.

The phone rang. “Tell me about the bint and her alibi,” Tony asked.

“No alibi. She said she was reading George Eliot.”

“Animal Farm and all that?”

“You’re thinking of George Orwell.”

“Did Dougherty come to see her?”

“He did. She said that he was drunk and raving, not making a lot of sense.”

“Does that sound like him?”

“Yeah, it does. I asked her if she’d ever shot a pistol,” I said.

“And what did she say?”

“She said she hadn’t, but she’d fired a shotgun many times.”

“Who hasn’t? So what do you think? Did she kill him?”

“Which ‘him’?”

“Dougherty.”

“I don’t know.”

“You gave her the third degree?”

“Yes. Well, maybe the second degree.”

“And?”

“I have no idea.”

“Jesus. You’re no help, are you?”

“No.”

“I suppose I’ll have to see her too, then.”

“I suppose you will.”

Tony decided to let it go at that. He detected some note in my voice that he didn’t quite like. “Are you all right, mate? I mean, are you doing all right?” he asked in a big brother tone.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

A long pause.

“When I’m over the water I can look for a place for you, too, you know,” he said.

“Thanks…but you know how I feel.”

“Have a wee think. I mean, really, this place is finished, there’s no future here. Especially not for bright boys like you and me.”

“Sure, Tony. I’ll think about it.”

“I know you won’t, but you should. That doctor friend of yours. She’s doing the right thing.”

“I know.”

“Any more mysterious women leaving you Valentines?”

“Not today.”

“If it was anything serious she would have just told you, she wouldn’t have left you a cryptic note. That stuff’s strictly for the flicks.”

“I was thinking the same thing myself.”

Dead air for a second or two. “Don’t let the job get to you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Take care now.”

“I will.”

He hung up. I made another vodka gimlet, dimmed the lights and put on Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. I moved the stylus to “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” – the song about Syd Barrett’s mental breakdown – and put the record player on repeat. I called up Carrick RUC and asked for DC McCrabban.

“McCrabban,” he said.

“Christ, are you still there?”

“You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name. And yeah, I am still here.”

“What are you doing, Crabbie, studying?”

“Aye. Got the old law books out. It’s quiet here, although intelligence has been coming through about prep for trouble in Belfast.”

“You better get out of there before you get dragooned into riot duty.”

“I wouldn’t mind riot duty. Double time and danger money. We could do with the cash.”