Gun Street Girl

by Adrian McKinty

  “Tommy Atkins? You’re having us on.”

  “No.”

  He looked all of nineteen. Younger than Lawson maybe. Skinny, tall, blond, with lifeless but not unintelligent blue eyes.

  We shook hands. “Oh!” he cried. “Oh, hold on, I’ve got a present for you, from the Super, inter-service cooperation and all that. I left it in the café. Shit. Hang about. Hold on.”

  He ran to the café and came back with a paper bag with a box in it.

  “From the Super,” he said again.

  It was a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Macallan.

  “Nineteen sixty,” Atkins said appreciatively, and doing an awful Scottish accent he added: “If I was a drinker I’d definitely have a wee dram of that.”

  “Tell the Superintendent thanks,” I said.

  “Oh, I will. He knew you’d like it. ‘Those RUC boys will love this,’ his very words.”

  While we waited at the luggage carousel Atkins went off to find a pay phone and let the station know we’d arrived.

  “They think we’re eejits. Drunken Paddy eejits,” I said to Lawson.

  “I see that, sir.”

  Atkins came back.

  The bags.

  The exit.

  A police Ford Sierra. Me in the front. Lawson sprawled out over the back.

  The M42 to the M40. England racing past at 80 mph.

  “We’ve put you up in a little B&B on the Banbury Road. Lovely little spot. We use it all the time. Get a police rate. Although I’m not really sure if the RUC’s paying for it or us. I’m not privy to all the details . . . Actually they haven’t told me much of anything. I’m just your liaison. It’s your case, Inspector Duffy. The Super will sort you out I’m sure.”

  “Were you on the team working on Anastasia Coleman’s death?”

  “Me? No. It was hardly a team, Inspector, if I remember correctly. I think it was a fairly straightforward affair, no?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Oh yes, I think so.”

  “You get a lot of cabinet ministers’ daughters taking overdoses around here?”

  He smiled. “No, can’t say that we do. But fortunately for us, if I’m remembering correctly, there was no hint of foul play, so we—the investigating officers—dealt with it fairly quickly.”

  I caught Lawson’s eye in the rear-view.

  This had been a major tabloid story for nearly a week. Surely it must have been all hands on deck at Oxford Police HQ. I mean, what else did they have to deal with around here? Stolen bikes?

  “Have either of you gentlemen been to Oxford before?” Atkins asked.

  We hadn’t.

  “I think you’ll have a lovely time. You’re right next to one of the best pubs in the city. And London’s only forty minutes away on the train. Suppose you’re not into clubbing at all?”

  “We’re here to investigate a murder,” I grumbled.

  “Oh yes, sure, of course, mate.”

  Mate. Not sir.

  Green fields. Woods. Church spires. The names of the exits: Horton-cum-Studley, Weston-on-the-Green. This wasn’t England, this was bloody Trumpton.

  “Nah, I only meant that once you have your investigation wrapped up, there will be plenty of time for sightseeing and a spot of R&R. London’s close and Oxford has some wonderful old pubs, as I’m sure you’ll find out.”

  He drove us into the city down Headington Hill. He gave us a tour. The full Waugh, the full Morse: Magdalen Bridge, the High Street, All Souls, and then by a complicated series of cop-car-only routes: Broad Street, Trinity College, the Sheldonian, Balliol . . .

  Atkins ran a commentary which I tuned in and out. “Christopher Wren . . . Bridge of Sighs . . . of course ‘new’ really means five hundred years old . . . And this is where they burned Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley, the Oxford Martyrs.”

  “Where is this B&B?” I asked.

  “Nearly there.”

  Atkins drove up the Banbury Road and dropped us at a red-bricked Victorian with tubs of plastic flowers, twee ornamental gargoyles obstructing the work of the gutters, and an ornate cast-iron sign that said, “Mrs. Brown’s Family Guest House.”

  “The Superintendent thought you’d like to meet at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, Inspector Duffy?”

  “Aye, eleven sounds fine for a meeting. But we’ll want to get an early start. We’ll need an office for nine.”

  “An office?”

  “Of course an office. We can’t read the case files at the B&B.”

  Constable Atkins shook his head. “I don’t know anything about any case files. I was told you were having a meeting with the Super. He’s going to clear everything up for you.”

  I looked at Lawson in the mirror. Your turn, son.

  “We’ll need to read the case files, if we’re to determine if a crime’s been committed here,” he said.

  Atkins smiled, apparently unperturbed. “Oh, I see. No, I think you fellows may have got the wrong end of the stick. Thames Valley Police has already conducted a thorough investigation into Anastasia Coleman’s tragic death. As you know, Miss Coleman died of an accidental overdose of heroin. There was an inquest. A coroner’s inquest. The coroner returned a verdict of death by misadventure . . . you may even, ha, ha, have read about it in one or two national newspapers.”

  He could see by the look in my eye that he had overplayed the pH level that I was willing to tolerate in a constable from the Thames Valley Police.

  “But if you’d like, I’ll make sure you get a full copy of the coroner’s report and the inquest transcripts.”

  “Not enough?”

  “And I’ll get a WPC to get you a photocopy of the CID final report on Miss Coleman’s death.”

  “That’s all very good, Constable Atkins, but we’ll still need the actual case files. And the office. And the full cooperation of Thames Valley Police which I’m sure will be forthcoming. None of us wants this to get kicked upstairs to Chief Constable level, eh?”

  “Chief Constable level? No! No, of course not! I was merely pointing out that there’s no point in both of you wasting your time wading through a bunch of old dusty box files. We’ve already, uh, solved this case. The coroner has already returned a verdict.”

  Lawson and I exchanged another look. Was he being condescending or obstructionist, or was he merely a lazy functionary in a department that had become complacent? And which of those was the more interesting answer?

  “I’m sure your work has been exemplary, but we all have masters to serve and our boss wouldn’t like us to come back without turning over every stone,” I said diplomatically.

  “Yes, I understand. For the sake of form. Yes, of course. But those files . . . they might not even be here. They might be in the records office in Reading. I know it’s your right, Inspector, but if you insist upon it, it might take a while and it’s going to put a lot of people out.”

  He was starting to grow on me, this Atkins. He’d been playing his part quite well for the last two hours. That “Daffy” sign at the airport. The inane chatter. But he had mettle. They had picked a good one when they selected him for the delicate operation of dealing with the invading Paddies.

  I nodded at Lawson, Your turn again, son.

  “Constable Atkins, even if it was an accidental overdose there’s still the question of who supplied Miss Coleman with the heroin. Was anyone with her when she injected herself? Did she really inject herself? Who were the witnesses? Who were her roommates? What did her parents know? We will definitely need to see the case files. We can’t possibly just go on the coroner’s report and what we’ve read in the News of the World, can we?”

  Good job, Lawson.

  “Well, I shall certainly pass your request on to the CID. Like I say, the records may be in Reading.”

  Like fuck they are, son, I almost blurted out.

  “But if they’re not we’ll need them by tomorrow morning in an office,” Lawson said.

  “I shall endeavor to do my best.”
<
br />   “Excellent.”

  I got out of the car and we got our bags from the boot.

  “And once the business end of your trip is out of the way you lads should really avail yourselves of the opportunity to enjoy a couple of days off from what must be a very stressful job over there. If, uh, half of what we see on the news is true. Like I say, London is very close.”

  “If we get the time,” I said.

  “Do you want me to help you in with your bags?”

  “No, we’ll manage.”

  “Until tomorrow, then. A pleasure to meet you both.”

  “The pleasure’s ours, I’m sure.”

  He drove off.

  “What do you think, Lawson?”

  “Seems like a nice place.”

  “Of Atkins.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A bit of a fool?”

  “You think so?”

  “You don’t, Inspector Duffy?”

  “I’m not so sure they would have sent an idiot to liaise with us on such a sensitive matter.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Not unless they consider us to be even bigger fools. But he was nervous, though, wasn’t he? And he wasn’t telling us everything.”

  “How do you know that, sir?”

  “Because nobody ever tells you everything. We’ll go deeper tomorrow. The German gets kicked out of the university and his name is in the papers, the Mick gets kicked out of the university and his name is in the papers, but the third man gets to keep his anonymity and presumably continues with his brilliant career. A lot at stake for that bloke, eh?” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve never been terribly fond of conspiracy theories, but even if a crime hasn’t been committed, even if this is a wild goose chase, the last thing Thames Valley want are a couple of Mick detectives blundering in and digging up God knows what, eh, Lawson?”

  Up the steps to the B&B.

  If there was a theme to the place then the theme would have been Claustrophobic Edwardian: chintzy carpets, uncomfortable chairs, lace, porcelain cats, real cats, Hummel figurines, clocks, ornate candleholders, scented candles, gloomy portraits of severe young women.

  In through the hallway to a little desk with a bell. The Archers coming from enormous stereo speakers mounted over William Morris–style wallpaper.

  I dinged the bell and a little old woman and her pointy-headed son appeared Mr. Benn-like from a side room. She was dressed in a blue cardigan and an apron that said Martini on it. He was got up like a 1950s teddy boy. “A pair of lovable eccentrics,” someone had written in the guest book. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  I introduced myself and Lawson. She looked us up and told us that we were expected and that all expenses had been paid. That board included breakfast but not lunch or dinner. That there were to be no guests after 10 p.m. That we had to be in no later than 11:15; otherwise we would be forced to pay an unspecified penalty. That all local and UK phone calls had to be paid for. That international calls were not allowed except in emergencies.

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said.

  She held out a pen.

  “Inspector Sean Duffy,” I wrote in the book. She didn’t notice the “Inspector,” but the name and the accent gave her a fond memory: “Of course, in my late husband’s time we had a strict rule about Irishmen. He was very particular. Do you remember that, Jeffrey?”

  “No Irish, no West Indians,” Jeffrey said.

  “Oh yes, he was very particular was my Kenneth. You knew where he stood.”

  “He was stood over there at the old bar, mostly,” Jeffrey said, and he and his mother both chuckled.

  “Now, Mr. Duffy, it’s the off-season at present, of course, so I can let you have the two rooms overlooking the garden—213, 214,” she said. “Keep the windows closed, mind. The squirrels will come in. We had a shocking incident two years ago with a gentleman from Norway.”

  “Windows closed to keep out the squirrels. I’ll remember that,” I said, and, resisting the urge to inquire further about the “shocking incident,” took the keys.

  Mrs. Brown gave me a smile and in a confidential tone added: “These days, of course, it’s the Pakistanis who are the real troublemakers, God love them. You wouldn’t think it, but they are. It’s the drink. They’re not used to it. Oh dearie me no.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any problem with us,” I said, picking up my suitcase and putting the bottle of whiskey under one arm.

  We went upstairs to a narrow landing.

  “Half an hour to freshen up and then we’ll get some food, OK, Lawson?” I said.

  The lad nodded.

  I put the key in the lock and went into the room. More faux William Morris wallpaper, a thick, dirty-looking, red carpet, an old-fashioned, uncomfortable-looking bed. Thick, mahogany dresser. New TV. Ancient radio. Push-up window that overlooked a rather lovely garden.

  I undid the swivel lock and opened the window. An oak tree. A square of lawn. A tabby cat walking along a wall. An innocent-seeming squirrel sitting on a tree branch looking at me. I took in the autumnal air and, remembering to close the window, lay down on the heaving, springy bed.

  I called Sara at the Belfast Telegraph. She answered on the third ring.

  “Sara Prentice, Women’s Page.”

  “Guess where I am?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Sean.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in England.”

  “What are you doing over there?”

  “I’m on a case. The same case actually. Michael Kelly.”

  “Really? I thought that was a suicide?”

  “There may be further developments.”

  “You’ll keep me abreast of those developments, though, right?”

  “Well, I’ve got to keep a lid on everything at the moment, but if something big’s going to happen, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Definitely keep me informed. You can call me any time . . . Look, Sean, I’m a bit swamped—”

  “I’ll let you go. I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  Phone in cradle.

  She couldn’t have got rid of me quicker.

  Bathroom.

  Reflection.

  Cadaverous cheeks, pale complexion, grey hairs, dull-witted, sleep-deprived eyes.

  TV on. Carol’s numbers: 25, 50, 75, 100, 3, 6. The target was 952.

  No point in even trying.

  Cold shower.

  Walkman. Fast-forwarding through a Pogues knock-off band mix tape until I got the exact song I wanted:

  Like the six men in Birmingham or the four in Guilford town,

  The Old Bill will lift you and beat your knackers down,

  The filth will get promotion and you’ll be up the farm,

  Your crime was being Irish, tho’ you’ve done no one any harm . . .

  Yeah, I know. A little on the nose. A little obvious. But you had to be there lying on the chintzy bed with that dick Atkins’ smug smile still in your cerebral cortex.

  I flipped on the TV and put the news on mute. The pictures were of young men in masks throwing stones and Molotovs in Belfast. I turned it off.

  The phone was ringing. Sara? Push-back from Oxford CID?

  Neither.

  “Hello?”

  “Sean, you’re in Oxford!” It was Kate Albright from MI5.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing over here?”

  “A case. I still work for the RUC, you know.”

  “But you’re thinking about our offer?”

  “How did you find me? Are you watching me?”

  “No! Of course not! . . . Well, maybe a little. Do you want to have dinner tonight?”

  “Are you over here too?”

  “Naturally. I’m at Chicksands. A little conference I’m running.”

  “What’s Chicksands?”

  “Oh . . . you don’t want to know. It’s only up the roa
d, though. Not a million miles away. Shall I treat you?”

  “It’s awkward . . . I’m with one of my trainee detective constables.”

  “Is the redoubtable Sergeant McCrabban with you?”

  “How do you even know about him?”

  “I know a surprising amount about you and your colleagues, Sean.”

  “That doesn’t fill me with comfort.”

  “It shouldn’t. Are you on a per diem?”

  “No, not really, it’s . . .”

  “That settles it. I know this wonderful little brasserie in North Oxford. I’ll meet you all at the Eagle at seven.”

  “No, really—”

  “Bye, Sean!” and with that she hung up.

  “Bugger,” I said, and, smiling, I put the phone back in its cradle.

  13: GUN STREET GIRL

  The front room of the Eagle and Child. A pint for Lawson, a vodka tonic for me. A sour, sawdusty smell. Obnoxious, good-looking male students. Ridiculously pretty female students.

  With a pint of Theakston’s already in him Lawson was displaying a not completely lovable chatty streak. “Big fan of Tolkien, actually,” he was saying. “Not so much for your man Lewis though. Bit too heavy on the God stuff for me . . . Same again, Inspector?”

  “Why not.”

  When he came he was carrying two pints and two packets of crisps and no vodka tonic. He took a big hungry gulp of his beer and launched straight back in: “Both of them were in the trenches—1917. Explains a lot. The violence, obviously. Lewis liked allegory. Aslan is Jesus, you know? Tolkien hated the form. He wanted to write an alternative mythology of Europe. People thought he was talking about the Nazis but he wasn’t, he wasn’t.”

  “Fascinating. You’re a smart lad. How come you never went to uni, Lawson?” I asked.

  “Well, as I explained, sir, my heart was set on getting in here, and, uhm, I screwed up the interview. A-levels were coming up . . . and then the RUC recruitment officers came round the school and they said if I got an A and two Bs I could be inducted straight into the CID after the usual training and stuff.”

  “And what did you get in your A-levels?” I asked, pretending that I hadn’t already read his personnel file.

  “I got three As. Four actually. Bit of a cheat, though, as I did maths and further maths. So, you know, it was a job and money and if I put in ten years I reckon I can always go back to uni as a mature student.”