The Detective Up Late

ONE

PERDIDO STREET STATION

Cold hand on arm. Sean . . . Sean . . .

Wha . . . ?

Sean!

What?

You were a million miles away. I thought you were having a stroke.

A thousand miles and ten years away.

Uhm, I’m fine. I was just . . . thinking.

Thinking, forcing time forward through the hourglass . . .

What time is it?

Midnight in one minute, Beth said.

Sixty seconds. That’s all we had to get through now.

You could hold your breath for sixty seconds.

The crow flew. The sands ran. And then, midnight. A few church bells followed by nothing. Silence all across this ancient holy city.

Silence but for . . . Sussudio / I just say the word / Oh, Su-Su-Sussudio / Oh, Su-Su-Sussudio, oh, oh, oh / Just say the word . . .

After a moment or two there was a kind of discontented muttering from around the room.

12.01, my watch said now. The 1980s, at least in this time zone, were definitively over. There had been twelve hundred Troubles-related murders in Northern Ireland over the decade, and for every murder there had been a dozen shooting or bombing victims who had lived but who were horribly injured.

But the 1980s, at last, were over.

I breathed out a sigh of relief and swallowed the last of my brandy.

Somewhat surprisingly, Beth and myself were not in Belfast celebrating this significant temporal event, but were in a restaurant on Jericho Street halfway up the Mount of Olives with an excellent view over the entire eastern portion of the city of Jerusalem. Behind us was the grove of the Garden of Gethsemane and in front of us the Dome of the Rock and beyond that the rest of the Old City which was lit up by spotlights.

Outside the restaurant it was eerily quiet: secular Israelis looking to party had all gone to Tel Aviv for the New Year’s Eve concert and fireworks display, religious Israelis were asleep, most of the Palestinians were also all abed effectively leaving this part of Jerusalem to the tourists and the odd party of religious nutcases.

Case in point, Beth’s father and his party. It’s that bloody racket. That would put anybody off.

There are a lot of reasons to hate Phil Collins but blaming him because the world hadn’t come to an end yet seemed to be a bit of a stretch. Nevertheless, it was after midnight, Jesus had not yet appeared and nowhere in the Bible is the Prince of Peace recorded as being tardy. Using only sundials and perhaps the odd water clock, Jesus had managed to keep all of his Judean appointments in timely fashion.

Sussudio continued to reverberate through the speakers for what seemed to be the third time this evening. It was not good Judgement Day music, but I imagined that it was high up in the rotation on the radio station that the damned listened to in hell.

Why was my (de facto but not de jure) father-in-law disappointed? Well, everybody knows that the date of Jesus’ birth was wrongly calculated by Dionysius Exiguus when he was setting up the whole Anno Domini system, but exactly how wrong was he? Should the year AD 1 have been put where 4 BC is now or at the 6 BC mark as some claim? Apparently only the Elders of the Free Presbyterian Church of Ireland had been able to compute the correct hour and time of Our Lord’s nativity: 3.15 in the morning, December 25, 10 BC, exactly four thousand years after (according to Bishop Ussher, the Archbishop of Armagh) the creation of the universe.

Armed with this information, it had been further deduced that the double millennium spoken of in the book of Revelation would come to an end at the stroke of midnight on December 31, 1989. This would be the real year 2000, and, of course, the end of the double millennium would bring with it the Second Coming and the end of the world.

Hence this trip to the Holy Land for my father-in-law (a high-up muckety muck in said church) and his party and hence the invitation to Beth and myself to witness firsthand Jesus’ triumphant return. All of that was definitely a must-miss but for three factors which had changed my mind: (1) Hector was paying, (2) we didn’t actually have to travel with the church group and (3) I had ten days of vacation time from the police that I had to take before December 31, 1989, otherwise I would lose it.

Belfast to Ben Gurion then where Beth and I said our goodbyes to the Presbyterians, rented a car and carved out our own itinerary through Israel and the Palestinian territories, only joining up with them for this, the final night.

12.04 now. No Jesus on a donkey or white horse (opinions differed), no opening of the heavens, no blaring trumpets, no dead rising from the grave. Only stray cats, the occasional passer-by and Phil Collins.

Sussudio came to a close and You Know and I Know began. Synthesiser, drum machine, sax and horns combining together in a horrifyingly up-tempo number. Great songs, like great books, illustrated the ineffable, and this was a song, I felt, that was emblematic of the failure of the whole of the 1980s corporate Brit pop project.

This was the third time the restaurant had played this CD. No sane human could possibly bear No Jacket Required three times in a row and I wondered if, like Zacharias, father of John the Baptist, I too could get the Lord to strike me deaf.

I helped Beth to her feet.

Well, Hector, thanks for the meal, but I think we’ll be getting back to the hotel now, I said, shaking the big old eejit’s hand.

Hector was obviously disappointed. He’d been expecting gnashing of teeth and the Angels Michael, Gabriel and Raphael carrying swords, kicking arse and taking names. The only people on the planet who would, apparently, be spared the harrowing were the members of the Free Presbyterian Church of Ireland and, just possibly, congregants of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland. Definitely not yours truly: a Papist policeman who drank alcohol, conducted idol worship at the Marian shrine of Knock and supported Celtic FC.

12.05 now.

We called a taxi and went to wait for it on the street. The Presbyterians at the outside tables were undergoing a curious synthesis of expressions: fearful anticipation that was slowly transmuting into disappointment with maybe just a smidgen of relief.

Suddenly a spectacular burst of brilliant white light appeared in the East Jerusalem skies in front of us. Beth gripped my arm. Fireworks. A little late, I said, but perhaps the dazzling light and its suddenness would⁠—

Yes, it surely would.

Comedy lives in the reaction shot. And for a delicious couple of seconds there was a confused screaming and yelling from the Irish Presbyterians behind us.

It’s the end!

Oh my God!

The redeemer cometh!

The redeemer did not, of course, cometh but the taxi did. Fifteen minutes later we were in our quaint but well-proportioned hotel room in a very quiet part of West Jerusalem near Sacher Park.

Beth got ready for bed while I opened the mini fridge and popped the cap on a Heineken. I looked out the window at the city. Devotees of many faiths were making their way home from midnight masses and celebrations, cats were leaping across the narrow alleys, the odd drunk was staggering up Eilat Street looking for a falafel stand.

It’s really been a nice break this, I said as Beth sat on my lap and took a swig of the beer. I squeezed her bum and she kissed me.

You deserve a break, Sean. And from here on in you can take it easy in the part-timers.

Yeah, I said, not completely convinced.

Beth mind-read me.

You’re not abandoning anyone moving to Scotland. You’ve done your bit, you know? she said with such conviction I almost bought it.

"Yeah, I have done my bloody bit. More than my bloody bit and it hasn’t made a damn bit of difference. Four years as a beat cop. Two as an acting detective. Ten years as a detective. And what have I achieved?"

This was the rather obvious cue for Beth to leap in here with a list of my achievements, but she didn’t pick up on it or perhaps was just too dog-tired to say anything. I took another sip of beer.

What’s that light over there by the phone? Beth asked.

What light? Oh, that light. Dunno.

I think that means we have a message! What if it’s about Emma? Beth said with alarm.

While we had gallivanted around the Holy Land, Emma, our precocious three-and-a-bit-year-old, was hopefully being spoiled rotten by my parents back in Belfast.

I played the message, but it was nothing to do with Emma. It was a call from John McCrabban at the station. Sean, I hope your holiday’s going well. Listen, I know you were hoping for an empty ledger to complete the handover to young Lawson tomorrow but there’s an MPC that you’ll have to put to bed first. I’m very sorry, Sean, but it’s on our watch and you’ll have to sign off on it. Action/no action. Give me a call if you get the chance. Cheerio. Best to Beth, of course.

Beth looked at me. What’s an MPC?

Missing Persons Case. Won’t be a big deal, I said as I dialled the number for Carrick RUC.

Crabbie picked up. Carrick RUC. This is Detective Sergeant McCrabban.

It’s Sean.

Sean! My goodness. How’s the Holy Land?

Interesting trip mate and I’m calling from the future, which would normally set me off on a tangent, but international phones rates being what they are we better get down to business. What’s the case?

MPC. This afternoon. A Traveller girl called Kat McAtamney. I talked to the Chief Inspector and he said that it was a waste of police time running after an MPC on New Year’s Eve. He said that tinker girls went missing all the time and nobody gave a crap. Except, uhm, he didn’t say crap.

So what does the Chief Inspector think we should do?

Nothing. File the paperwork on the robbery, log it in the computer and then both of us gracefully bow out and turn the department over to Sergeant Lawson.

Cos no one gives a shite about a missing tinker?

That was the gist of his remarks.

I give a shite, Crabbie.

I thought you might which is why I’ve left the case file open and asked Lawson to look into it.

All right. I’ll come in first thing. I’m still hoping this is going to be a straightforward handover.

Me too. I promised Helen I was done with all this palaver.

After this one we will be. You and me both, mate.

Crabbie cleared his throat. "Do you think this has sufficient, uhm . . . what’s the word . . . gravitas to be Sean Duffy’s last case?"

They can’t all be homicides, can they?

I’d be happy never to be part of another murder investigation in my born days.

Me too. See you tomorrow, buddy.

I hung up the phone and looked at Beth.

I heard, she said. Don’t worry. It’ll be a good excuse for getting you out of my hair on packing day.

I’ll never hear the end of it. You’ll say I didn’t help with the move.

Oh, my God, is that what your previous girlfriends would do? Cos that is so not one of my moves.

‘Previous girlfriend’ is it? We’ve a kid. We’re practically⁠—

Don’t you say it, Sean Duffy.

I won’t then.

She yawned, and I kissed her.

I’m off to bed, she said, and in five minutes she was sound asleep between the sheets.

I couldn’t sleep.

Never could. Never will. Worrying about a case. Worrying about the family. Just general every day worrying. You’re always being chastised by time’s whips. You’ve read Schopenhauer haven’t you? No? Lucky you. Take my advice: don’t.

Beer to the balcony.

Quiet now on Gezer Street, Eilat Street and on Nisim Bachar, quiet save for the jackals calling to one another in the Judean hills.

Amazing, really, to be here.

Belfast is Jerusalem’s twin.

Both holy cities.

Both at the crisscross of evil lay lines that demand blood and sacrifice.

Both blessed, cursed.

Ciudad Perdida. Cahill Chathair. עיר אבודה.

I took another sip of beer and put the bottle against my forehead.

Eyes closed.

To have survived the 1980s when dozens of my colleagues did not. To have cheated death so many times. Aye, Crabbie, it’s fine to finish up my career in the peelers with a bog standard missing persons case.

Eyes open.

Light from dead stars. Uncoiling of bat wings. Jackal calls.

The night mild and beautiful and the starfield rich and deep.

Part of my brain began thinking about the missing girl, but the other part was thinking about John Strong. Strong was an Assistant Chief Constable in the RUC but who had been for the last decade or so a double agent working for the IRA. I had turned John Strong a year ago and now he was working for us as a triple agent. He was a flighty, highly strung, nervous agent and it took me and three other guys in MI5 to handle him. I had agreed to continue to help baby him even after he got a permanent full time set of case officers. Even after I moved to Scotland, I’d still have to be involved as he was an important asset. It had been ten days since I’d heard anything about Strong or even thought about him, but his big orange beardy face was nagging me.

I stretched the phone cable all the way to the balcony and called the duty office in Cultra.

Wilson Foods, this is Siobhan, said a woman with a voice so posh she was never going to convince anybody she was a Siobhan in a million frigging years.

I have a case number, Siobhan, I said.

What is your four-digit case number?

4556.

And the reference number?

Tango 887.

Is this an emergency Tango 887?

No. I just need to speak to the duty office.

I’m putting you through.

A pause. Then, Duty office.

This is Duffy. Case number 4556.

Duffy, good to hear from you! A little bird told me you were in bloody Israel of all places, Oliver said. This was young, lanky, good looking Oliver Carson, twenty-two, from Manchester. He had a BA in Russian and Slavic languages which is why MI5 with its typically twisted logic had put him in their Belfast station.

The little bird was well informed.

Where are you exactly?

Jerusalem.

Only you, Duffy, would take a holiday from Belfast and go to an even more religiously riven and dangerous city.

I was thinking that myself just now. Father-in-law’s idea. And he was paying for it, so why not? How’s our boy, Oliver?

Oh, he’s a mess as usual. He keeps thinking they’re onto him.

Are they onto him? I asked with some concern.

No! Of course not. He’s paranoid.

So everything’s all right?

Everything’s fine.

Good. This is my last week in the full-timers remember.

Jesus, that’s right, you’re moving to Scotland aren’t you?

Yup. Just one last case to put to bed and then that’s it.

Strong will be upset. He trusts you, Duffy.

You’ll have to get him to trust you too. As soon as I’m done with my case you’ll be seeing a lot less of me.

What’s the case? Something juicy?

Nope. A missing girl. A Traveller girl.

Jesus, who can keep track of them lasses? I see them all the time in Lavery’s. Sixteen, tarted up to look like they’re thirty. Little sluts.

Charming as always, Oliver. Talk to you later.

I hung up, listened to the jackals for a bit longer and went to bed. Who gives a shite about a lost tinker girl?

Carrick CID does, I muttered and slid between the sheets.

I slept for a couple of hours and woke suddenly. The clock said 5.00 a.m. What time was that in the UK? I counted back the time zones. Two in the morning, which meant, aye, the 80s were finally over there too. The grim, greasy, seedy seventies had bled into the violent, neon, awful 80s.

The 90s can’t be worse, was something I would not only never say but something I wouldn’t even allow myself to think.

I climbed out of bed and opened the shutters. It was quiet and an early morning golden light was spilling spectacularly onto Jerusalem’s white limestone buildings. Maybe this was a good place to meet the new decade, the last decade of the second millennium. Maybe a prayer for better times? The air above of Jerusalem was already thick with prayers but one more couldn’t hurt. I checked to see that Beth wasn’t looking and got down on my knees. "Salve Regina, mater misericordiae, I whispered. Two decades the Troubles have been going. Let this be the last one. There are other lands. Other feuds lying dormant under the ice. Let peace come to Ireland. Let the fools in London be more circumspect. Let the fools in America close their wallets. Let the fools in Belfast think of the soft brows of their children and fight no more forever. Please."

TWO

DUFFY’S LAST CASE

We flew out of Ben Gurion at 8.00 a.m. Everyone made the flight on time. Dour Presbyterian farmer types from the County Antrim hill country could be called many things but late was not one of those things.

You had to wonder, though, why they’d even bothered booking the return leg of the trip if they were so confident that the end of the world was nigh . . . I kept these thoughts to myself and managed to kip a bit on the journey back to Ulster, God’s other promised land.

It was a five-hour flight to Belfast but since the UK was three hours behind Israel, the direct charter actually landed at 10.00 a.m.

I picked up the Beemer from the medium-term car park. It was the brand-new 1991 525i sport. This was the first all-wheel drive I’d gotten in the 5 Series. It was powered by the M50 engine and—(if you hate car talk you should skip ahead) the centre differential normally would divide 36% torque to the front axle and 64% to the rear axle, but crucially it could adjust the ratio according to the driving conditions. Perfect for Ireland’s cattle tracks, single lane roads and motorways and perfect too for those Irish days when it would be snowing in the morning, sleeting in the afternoon, sunny in the evening and belting with rain at night.

The top speed was 143 mph but the car itself was computer restricted in the UK and Ireland to a top speed of 110 mph. As a policeman I had been able to get the computer restrictions removed and at 1.00 a.m. on the motorway I’d had her up to a ton and a quarter.

But with Beth in the vehicle I kept to a sensible speed back to Carrickfergus. I put on the radio and killed it after a few seconds. Radio 1 was still playing the dystopian 80s music that was dominating the top of the singles chart: Phil Collins, Cher, Kylie—but on other stations hints of a musical revolution were starting to appear from Manchester and Seattle. You didn’t want to jinx anything, but it seemed probable that in terms of music, at least, the 90s could be a turning point for the better.

We pulled into Carrickfergus along the top road, down North Road to the road formerly known as Kennedy Drive, past the leisure centre and home to Coronation Road.

Feelings of nostalgia as I weaved the Beemer between groups of kids playing kerby and soccer and 1-2-3 kick-a-tin. This would be our last full day on the street. We were finishing our packing this evening and moving tomorrow. Of course I’d still live here while I was doing my seven-days-a-month part-time service but eventually we’d sell the house and I’d buy a one-bedroom flat down near the Marina which would be more appropriate for my needs.

I pulled the Beemer into my spot outside #113.

Dad and Mum were outside waiting for us. Mum was affectionately holding Emma and Dad was much more reluctantly holding Jet the cat.

As the car stopped, Beth bolted out of the front seat and hugged Emma.

Never again. I’m never leaving you again. Ten days was too long. Never again. You’re coming with us next time! she wailed and began to cry. I had missed Emma too, but this display surprised me a little. Beth was normally pretty reserved. These Protestants were full of surprises. I hugged Emma too, hugged my mum, man-hugged my father and patted the cat on the head. We gave Emma her gifts: chocolates and a cuddly camel.

Daddy! You’re all red! she said.

You have got a bit of the sun, my mother said scoldingly. You know you don’t do well in the sun, Sean. Like Bromeliads.

It was winter sun, I’m fine, I said.

We went inside the house which smelled of my mum’s powerful home-made dish soap. All the surfaces had been scrubbed and the pictures dusted. I hoped to God they hadn’t scrubbed or dusted my records. I quickly checked a few LPs at random, but they were unscathed.

I wouldn’t let her near them, my father whispered.

Emma safe, cat safe, records safe, I said to dad, Pretty successful bit of babysitting there.

What were you expecting? The house burned down, the cat run off and the kid in the hospital? Dad replied a bit huffily.

I had, in fact, feared all of those things. No, I knew you’d handle it, I said.

Your father tried to put a leash on the cat so he wouldn’t go after the starlings but Jet was having none of it, Mum added.

Sean, here’s one I’ve been saving for you: there once was a kid from Peru / whose limericks stopped at line two, Dad said.

Very good. Listen, I can only stay for five minutes, folks, work calls, I explained.

We retired to the living room. There were boxes everywhere and we still had more packing to do. The movers were due tomorrow morning first thing. We’d already furnished the house across the water but we had to bring cutlery, books, bed linen and most of my records.

So where did youse travel to? Mum asked.

Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, the Dead Sea, Eilat and then we drove up to the north, I said while Beth cooed with Emma and Emma played with the camel.

Did you see the Sea of Galilee? Dad asked.

Saw, swam in it, sunbathed by it. In fact we brought you some holy water from Beit Yerah where the Jordan flows south of out of the lake.

Oh yes! Beth said and rummaged in the suitcases for the bottles of holy water.

My father looked sceptically at the bottle. It’s not just water from the sink in your hotel room is it? I know you only too well.

I wouldn’t let him get away with that Mr Duffy! Beth said. We filled this up by the riverside.

Did you see any birds? he asked.

Millions of them.

And?

I didn’t sit down and write the names of the birds in a big bird book for you, dad. I was on me bloody holidays. My first holiday in about five years, actually.

Stop torturing him, Sean, Beth said and dived into the suitcases again. She passed him the notebook I’d made with observations on black vultures, grebes, pygmy cormorants, squacco heron and a wallcreeper. Beth had even done some drawings, so naturally, the old man was in raptures.

Did you really see a wallcreeper?

Yes, Dad.

Oh! What a find! It is the only member of the genus tichodrome, Emma.

Emma nodded solemnly and recalled something to mind. Are you going to tell Daddy and Mummy about Mary Poppins, grandpa?

My mum shook her head. No, we don’t want to get your grandfather all worked up again.

Grandpa was upset about the robin, Emma explained.

The robin? Beth asked missing my throat cutting gesture. Whatever this was about it was clearly one of dad’s hobbyhorses and the smart thing would be not to engage it.

Oh, yes, the robin, Emma said, with a sarcastic tone I wasn’t convinced I liked in a three year-old. It lands on Mary’s finger, Emma said.

That? It was obviously a bad special effect, dad, you have to remember this was 1964 or something⁠—

It wasn’t about the special effect. The mechanical or stop motion nature of the robin is neither here nor there. They could never have trained a real robin to alight on Mary’s finger, so that doesn’t bother me at all, Dad said.

So what was the problem? Beth asked.

The problem was that the robin that landed on Mary’s finger was a North American robin. A songbird of the thrush family. It is named after the European robin because of its reddish-orange breast, although, as everybody knows, the two species are not remotely related! The European robin belongs to the Old World flycatcher family and that is what should have landed on Mary’s finger as she is supposed to be in London.

Your father got quite upset, Mum whispered in that stage whisper of hers. He stopped the video and he wanted to write to Walt Disney until I told him that Mr Disney had passed on. I’ll make everyone a cup of tea.

Mum went to put the kettle on. Jet went outside to chase the starlings. A silence descended on the living room. Beth and Emma were looking at me to fix things.

"Uhm, the North American robin is a migratory bird, is it not, dad? Turdus migratorius. Could not one have been blown off course and ended up in London by accident? The prevailing winds are from west to east and in a hurricane force gale?"

The wind was strong enough to carry away all the other nannies, grandpa, Emma said.

My father cleared his throat. Well, I suppose it’s not impossible, he admitted.

Whew, that’s one crisis dealt with! And now if you’ll excuse me, folks, I have to head into the station to deal with what everyone’s been calling Sean Duffy’s last case.

I slipped outside and made a mental note never to let dad see David Lynch’s Blue Velvet—the robin at the end of that would probably give him a heart attack.

I looked underneath the Beemer for bombs and finding none drove to the station at a cool 50 mph down Victoria