Smokescreen Chapter 7

The car and plenty of rubber abandoned in front of the Station, I bounded up the steps, almost bowled McCrackers over on the other side of the door. He wasn’t in uniform. Wax Jacket and brogues: he looked dressed to shout abuse at the England Rugby XV at Twickers. Funny how sport still went on; persuading people that life was normal. What was it? Opium for the people. A religious experience in more ways than one.

‘Careful, Murray, what’s your hurry?’ He laughed, I wasn’t sure why.

‘It’s five to, Sir. I only just made it.’

‘Just one more, was it?’

‘Something like that.’

His eyes were the worst. Some rugby incident had detached a retina; he was blind in one eye. This one always seemed to follow you, no matter where he was actually looking. He really did look like some hellfire Protestant preacher. The Belfast accent made it worse; good Fenian McCrackers would have been mortified to know it.

‘My office.’

And I puffed following him up the stairs, he’d stayed fit, even though the last scrummage was long ago.

We sat in his dull, monochrome office. I’d been thinking on the drive over. How much should I tell him? The only cannon in the nick looser than I was.

‘Well?’

‘You saw the news?’

‘I did.’

He reached into the drawer. Pulled out a bottle, and two dainty stemmed glasses. It was fucking sherry. I’d have laughed if I’d dared. He poured.

‘I knew he wanted you there; Elvis.’

His accent made it come out Eyal-vuss and he bit it off and spat it out, expelling around 30 years of rivalry and bitterness. He went on:

‘I just wanted to know why. Only one way to find out.’

‘Send me?’

‘Just so. And so?’

He gave a little smile, as though he found the word play amusing.

‘Well, Sir, it’s just about how it looks.’

‘Just about?’

‘Well, there’s a couple of things… No-one else but me and and DS Chryssipous knew anything about the contraband cigs. Not even the Revenue.’

‘Customs didn’t know, hmm? So you’re wondering where the tip-off came from?’

And I thought to myself: you crafty old bugger; wondered how much of the anger was a management tool, and how valuable he found it. I sipped the old lady’s drink.

‘Yes, sir. And it’s the lack of real police work, interviews, forensic, path report. I mean, they might have done it… but Task Force HQ is… well it’s like a Christmas tree display in a shop window: there are the presents all wrapped, lying around it, but the boxes are all empty.’

‘Who’s the senior officer, apart from Elvis?’

‘Me, I suppose…’ I felt something horrific was somewhere just out of sight.

‘Get the files. Point out you’re 2 IC, poke the nest, see what the ants bring out.’

‘Yessir.’

‘Don’t let me down.’ It was a dismissal.

Down at the front desk, I used the phone to call Harry’s home phone. Unavailable. The lines were probably down or water had got into an exchange. I texted his mobile.

’00.25. Meet. Urgent. Number Six, Noon.’

I launched it into the void with a thumb. He’d get it, or he wouldn’t, he’d be there, or he wouldn’t. I’d need about a packet of twenty after a morning with Elvis, anyway.

I climbed in the motor and left for the Commons Bar, heading for the spare clothes and maybe some kip on those velvet banquettes. One of the uniforms would be manning the phones until lights out, maybe he’d lend me his toothbrush.