I Hear the Sirens in the Street Read Free

found nothing.
    I waded through assorted factory debris: wet cardboard, wet cork, slate, broken glass and lead pipes while Mr Barry and Crabbie waxed philosophic: “Jobs for the boys, isn’t it? It’s all thieves and coppers these days, isn’t it?”
    â€œSomebody has to give out the unemployment cheques too,mate,” Crabbie replied, which was very true. Thief, copper, prison officer, dole officer: such were the jobs on offer in Northern Ireland – the worst kakistocracy in Europe.
    I climbed back out of the skip.
    â€œWell?” Crabbie asked.
    â€œNothing organic, save for some new lifeforms unknown to science that will probably mutate into a species-annihilating virus,” I said.
    â€œI think I saw that film,” Crabbie replied.
    I took out the fifty-pence piece. “All right, couple more bins to go, do you want to flip again?” I asked.
    â€œNot necessary, Sean, that first coin toss was the toss for all the skips,” Crabbie replied.
    â€œYou’re telling me that I have to sort through all of them?” I said.
    â€œThat’s why they pay you the big bucks, boss,” he said, making his beady, expressionless eyes even more beady and expressionless.
    â€œI lost fair and square but I’ll remember this when you’re looking for help on your bloody sergeant’s exam,” I said.
    This had its desired effect. He shook his head and sniffed. “All right. We split them up. I’ll take these two. You the other two. And we should probably get a move on before we all freeze to death,” he muttered.
    McCrabban found the suitcase in the third bin along from the fence.
    Blood was oozing through the red plastic.
    â€œOver here!” he yelled.
    We put on latex gloves and I helped him carry it out.
    It was heavy.
    â€œYou best stand back,” I said to Mr Barry.
    It had a simple brass zip. We unzipped it and flipped it open.
    Inside was a man’s headless naked torso cut off at the knees and shoulders. Crabbie and I had some initial observationswhile behind us Mr Barry began with the dry heaves.
    â€œHis genitals are still there,” Crabbie said.
    â€œAnd no sign of bruising,” I added. “Which probably rules out a paramilitary hit.”
    If he was an informer or a double agent or a kidnapped member of the other side they’d certainly have tortured him first.
    â€œNo obvious tattoos.”
    â€œSo he hasn’t done prison time.”
    I pinched his skin. It was ice cold. Rigid. He was dead at least a day.
    He was tanned and he’d kept himself in shape. It was hard to tell his age, but he looked about fifty or maybe even sixty. He had grey and white chest hairs and perhaps, just perhaps, some blonde ones that had been bleached white by the sun.
    â€œHis natural skin colour is quite pale, isn’t it?” Crabbie said, looking at the area where his shorts had been.
    â€œIt is,” I agreed. “That is certainly some tan on him. Where would he get a tan like that around these parts, do you think?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI’ll bet he’s a swimmer and that’s the tan line for a pair of Speedos. That’s probably how he kept himself in shape too. Swimming in an outdoor pool.”
    Northern Ireland of course had few swimming baths and no outdoor pools, and not much sunshine, which led, of course, to Crabbie’s next question:
    â€œYou’re thinking he’s not local, aren’t you?” Crabbie said.
    â€œI am,” I agreed.
    â€œThat won’t be good, will it?” Crabbie muttered.
    â€œNo, my friend, it will not.”
    I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together. The snow was coming down harder now and the grim north Belfast suburbs were turning the colour of old lace. A cold wind was blowing up from the lough and that music in my head was still playingon an endless loop. I closed my eyes and tripped on it for a few bars: a violin, a