I Hear the Sirens in the Street Read Free

mutate into a species-annihilating virus,” I said.
    “I 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.
    “Not necessary, Sean, that first coin toss was the toss for all the skips,” Crabbie replied.
    “You’re telling me that I have to sort through all of them?” I said.
    “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, boss,” he said, making his beady, expressionless eyes even more beady and expressionless.
    “I 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.
    “Over here!” he yelled.
    We put on latex gloves and I helped him carry it out.
    It was heavy.
    “You 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.
    “His genitals are still there,” Crabbie said.
    “And 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.
    “No obvious tattoos.”
    “So 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.
    “His natural skin colour is quite pale, isn’t it?” Crabbie said, looking at the area where his shorts had been.
    “It is,” I agreed. “That is certainly some tan on him. Where would he get a tan like that around these parts, do you think?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I’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:
    “You’re thinking he’s not local, aren’t you?” Crabbie said.
    “I am,” I agreed.
    “That won’t be good, will it?” Crabbie muttered.
    “No, 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 viola, a cello, two pianos, a flute and a glass harmonica. The flute played the melody on top of glissando-like runs from the pianos – the first piano playing that Chopinesque descending ten-on-one ostinato while the second played a more sedate six-on-one.
    “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s see if we can find any papers in the case,” Crabbie said, interrupting my reverie.
    We looked but found nothing and then went back to the Land Rover to call it in. Matty, our forensics officer, and a couple of Reservists showed up in boiler suits and began photographing the crime scene and taking fingerprints and blood samples.
    Army helicopters flew low over the lough, sirens wailed in County Down, a distant thump-thump was the sound of mortars or explosions. The city was under a shroud of chimney smoke and the cinematographer, as always, was shooting it in 8mm black and