good for him personally. And I realized that he had achieved the success he wanted for his retirement.
When I got to Porthall, I discovered that Kerr had never checked into the B&B. The owner told me she saw him being dropped off. He had waited until I drove away, then turned and begun to walk back up the road along which I had just driven.
As I indicated to pull out on to the road, I spotted the remains of his umbrella, all the spokes broken, discarded on the grass verge outside the woman’s house, hunched like a metallic spider.
By the time I got back to the station the celebrations had begun. Someone had been to the off licence and had bought crates of beer and Costello was standing in the reception area with two bottles of Bushmill’s whiskey which he was serving to those around him. As I passed he caught my eye and gestured towards a new poster on the wall behind him, inviting applications for Superintendent posts. He nodded as he handed me a drink. I took a proffered glass of beer and retreated to the storeroom at the back of the station’s main area.
During a previous murder investigation my team had been given the use of the storeroom to coordinate things. Until then, we had all shared one large open-plan space, except for Costello who had his own office to the west of the building. After the case had concluded, the room had remained as a spare office.
I sat there, pretending to smoke an unlit cigarette and sipping at the beer while I flicked through the notes Costello had given me on Kerr. I have never really taken to whiskey in the way expected of an Irishman and could not differentiate between brands and ages in the ways I knew some of my colleagues could. But then, I had never really taken to drinking at all. At times this made me feel a bit of an outsider among the other men in the station who frequently went to the pub together after work. On the other hand, it suited my family life just fine.
I was studying the burn marks on the desk when the door of the storeroom opened and Caroline Williams came in, two bottles of beer in her hands.
‘Want some company?’ she said, smiling, beers held aloft.
‘Sure, what’s up?’ I said, moving a chair towards her so she could sit.
Caroline and I had been partners for a few years now and, though we were colleagues, I couldn’t say for certain that we were friends. She was a private woman who’d suffered more than once in her relationships with men and maintained a distance between her home and professional lives. It was a quality I admired in her, and knew I would do well to emulate on occasion myself.
‘That’s my question. What’re you doing in here on your lonely ownsome?’
‘I’m just going over some stuff about this guy Kerr.’
‘It was some find,’ she said, handing me one of the bottles which I took and placed on the desk. ‘Patterson and Colhoun. It’s really something.’
‘Remarkable,’ I found myself saying, again. ‘Almost unbelievable.’
‘Why?’ Williams asked, pausing mid-drink.
‘It’s kind of a stretch for those two to find their desks of a morning, never mind something this big.’
‘Do you think maybe you’re a bit annoyed we didn’t find them? Detective branch and all that?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘No . . . maybe. I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Hey, if it’s good for the station, it’s good for us. Forget about it.’ She drained her beer and nodded towards the untouched one she’d brought in for me. ‘You gonna drink that, partner?’ she said, then burped and grinned.
Chapter Three
Tuesday, 1 June
The following morning broke in a spectacular sunrise. The last drifts of mist, hanging like cannon smoke along the base of the hills behind Strabane, were dissolving and the heat had thickened sufficiently that all the men in the station were in their shirt sleeves by nine-thirty.
Williams and I were standing in the station’s kitchenette making coffee. Patterson
When I got to Porthall, I discovered that Kerr had never checked into the B&B. The owner told me she saw him being dropped off. He had waited until I drove away, then turned and begun to walk back up the road along which I had just driven.
As I indicated to pull out on to the road, I spotted the remains of his umbrella, all the spokes broken, discarded on the grass verge outside the woman’s house, hunched like a metallic spider.
By the time I got back to the station the celebrations had begun. Someone had been to the off licence and had bought crates of beer and Costello was standing in the reception area with two bottles of Bushmill’s whiskey which he was serving to those around him. As I passed he caught my eye and gestured towards a new poster on the wall behind him, inviting applications for Superintendent posts. He nodded as he handed me a drink. I took a proffered glass of beer and retreated to the storeroom at the back of the station’s main area.
During a previous murder investigation my team had been given the use of the storeroom to coordinate things. Until then, we had all shared one large open-plan space, except for Costello who had his own office to the west of the building. After the case had concluded, the room had remained as a spare office.
I sat there, pretending to smoke an unlit cigarette and sipping at the beer while I flicked through the notes Costello had given me on Kerr. I have never really taken to whiskey in the way expected of an Irishman and could not differentiate between brands and ages in the ways I knew some of my colleagues could. But then, I had never really taken to drinking at all. At times this made me feel a bit of an outsider among the other men in the station who frequently went to the pub together after work. On the other hand, it suited my family life just fine.
I was studying the burn marks on the desk when the door of the storeroom opened and Caroline Williams came in, two bottles of beer in her hands.
‘Want some company?’ she said, smiling, beers held aloft.
‘Sure, what’s up?’ I said, moving a chair towards her so she could sit.
Caroline and I had been partners for a few years now and, though we were colleagues, I couldn’t say for certain that we were friends. She was a private woman who’d suffered more than once in her relationships with men and maintained a distance between her home and professional lives. It was a quality I admired in her, and knew I would do well to emulate on occasion myself.
‘That’s my question. What’re you doing in here on your lonely ownsome?’
‘I’m just going over some stuff about this guy Kerr.’
‘It was some find,’ she said, handing me one of the bottles which I took and placed on the desk. ‘Patterson and Colhoun. It’s really something.’
‘Remarkable,’ I found myself saying, again. ‘Almost unbelievable.’
‘Why?’ Williams asked, pausing mid-drink.
‘It’s kind of a stretch for those two to find their desks of a morning, never mind something this big.’
‘Do you think maybe you’re a bit annoyed we didn’t find them? Detective branch and all that?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘No . . . maybe. I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Hey, if it’s good for the station, it’s good for us. Forget about it.’ She drained her beer and nodded towards the untouched one she’d brought in for me. ‘You gonna drink that, partner?’ she said, then burped and grinned.
Chapter Three
Tuesday, 1 June
The following morning broke in a spectacular sunrise. The last drifts of mist, hanging like cannon smoke along the base of the hills behind Strabane, were dissolving and the heat had thickened sufficiently that all the men in the station were in their shirt sleeves by nine-thirty.
Williams and I were standing in the station’s kitchenette making coffee. Patterson
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