educated at an expensive private school, one where they learned you to say “leand” instead of “land”.
“We’re here to see the widow McAlpine,” I said.
“She’s a tenant on my property and this is a private residence. I would prefer it if you would come back stating the precise nature of your business on a warrant.”
I ignored him and turned to Tony. “This is the influence of American TV. Second time this week I’ve been told to get a warrant by some joker. Not like this in the old days.”
Tony cleared his throat. “Listen, mate, you don’t want to mess with us. We’re conducting inquiries into a murder investigation. We can go wherever the hell we like.”
The geezer shook his head. “No, you cannot. It was my younger brother who was murdered and I have seen the efficacy or lack thereof in your procedures. The RUC have not impressed me with their competence these last months.”
“You’re Dougherty’s brother?” I asked.
“Who’s Dougherty? I am speaking of Martin McAlpine, Captain Martin McAlpine. My brother.”
“No, sir, we’re not investigating that murder. Not as such. We’re looking into the death of Detective Inspector Dougherty who was murdered last night in Larne. We wanted to ask Mrs McAlpine a few questions.”
“What on earth for?” the man asked.
“We’d like to speak to her about it, sir,” I insisted.
“I’ll not have Emma disturbed. She’s already had several visits from so-called detectives coming out to see her this week on various wild goose chases. I suppose her name popped up on one of your computers – well, let me tell you something, young man, I am not going to stand for it. She’s been very upset by all this. She’s a strong woman but this nonsense has taken a toll. You fellows are messing with people’s lives.”
“Sir, it’s our duty to investigate Inspector Dougherty’s murder and we know for a fact that he came here recently to see Mrs McAlpine. We need to find out what they were talking about and so we will be questioning Mrs McAlpine and there is nothing, sir, that you can do about it,” I said with authority.
His cheeks reddened and he made a little grunting sound like a sow rooting for truffles. He rummaged in one of the pockets of his shooting jacket and removed a notebook and pencil.
“And what is your name, officer?” he asked me.
“Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, Carrickfergus RUC.”
“And yours?” he asked Tony.
“Detective Chief Inspector Antony McIlroy, Special Branch.”
“Good,” he said, writing the names in his book. “You will both be hearing from my solicitors.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Tony said, and then went on: “May we inquire as to your name, sir?”
“I am Sir Harry McAlpine,” he announced, as if that was supposed to make us fall to our knees or genuflect or something.
“Fine, now if you’ll kindly move to one side, we’ll be about our business,” Tony said.
He moved. We got back in the BMW.
“Watch your dogs,” I said, and turned the key in the ignition.
“Funny old git,” Tony said.
“I’ll tell you something funny,” I began.
“What?”
“He lets two armed men go to his sister-in-law’s house only a couple of months after her husband, his brother, has been shot by a couple of armed men on a motorbike.”
“We told him we were police,” Tony protested.
“Aye, we
“Which means?”
“He knew we were the police and he knew we were coming.”
“Because of Dougherty?”
“Because of Dougherty.”
“Why fuck with us, then?”
“He wanted to introduce himself, he wanted us to know that Emma McAlpine was the sister-in-law of Sir Harry McAlpine.”
“What good does that do?”
“He wanted to put the fear of God up us.”
“It didn’t work because neither of us have bloody heard of him.”
“I have an ominous feeling that we’re going to though, eh?”
Tony nodded and we drove into the familiar McAlpine farmyard.
Cora was chained up under an overhang, but soon began barking and snapping at us.
“Friendly dog,” Tony said.
“She does that, when she’s not tearing your throat out or watching calmly while two terrorists shoot her master.”
We got out of the car and walked across the muddy farmyard.
The hens were out, pecking at crumbs, and a proprietary rooster gave us the evil eye from a fence post.
There was a note on the front door:
“Gone to get salt. Back soon.”
I took it off and showed it to Tony, who was a little nearsighted.
“You think she means that literally?” Tony asked.
“What else could she mean?”
“I don’t know. Could be a country euphemism for something.”
Tony looked at his watch. This had been fun and all. But he was a man in a hurry and he had things to do. It didn’t matter about my time but his was valuable.
“I suppose we’ll wait for her,” I said.
“Aye,” Tony answered dubiously.
“Speaking of notes … Uhm, in your long and storied career has anyone ever sent you an anonymous note about a case?”
“All the time, mate. Happens all the time. In fact, I’d say that I get more anonymous tips than ones from people who actually come forward to be identified. Why, what did you get? You look worried.”
“Some character left me a note that was a verse from the Bible.”
Tony laughed. “Ach, shite, is that all? You should see the bollocks we get in Special Branch. Bible verses, tips about who may or not be a Soviet agent or the Antichrist … you name it, Sean. Last week we had a boy who got passed up to us from Cliftonville RUC, who had convinced them that he was ‘the real Yorkshire Ripper’. The cops in Cliftonville actually thought we might want to interview him.”
“‘Now I see through a glass darkly’ was the verse.”
“I remember that one. That’s popular with the nuts. Is that from the Book of Revelation?”
“Corinthians. It was a woman who left me the note. English accent maybe. She left me a note at Victoria Cemetery and then she went off on a motorbike.”
Tony pulled out his smokes and offered me one. We went over to the stone wall and sat down on it. Two fields over a horse was tied up against a tumbledown shed. Three fields the other way there was chimney smoke coming from the big house at the top of a hill – almost certainly the home of the lord of the manor. The rain, thank God, had taken a momentary breather in its relentless guerrilla war against Ireland.
“Go on,” Tony said.
“I called it in and they found the girl and arrested her and took her to Whitehead RUC. She spent a few hours in the cells and then she was supposedly taken away by a couple of goons from Special Branch. One of them was a guy called McClue – a fake name if ever I heard it – and of course when I called up Special Branch there was no McClue and no one had been sent to get her in Whitehead.”
Tony frowned. “Several things occur to me. First, if you had found her, what would you have charged her with? Leaving you a strange message and riding away on her motorbike? What crime is that? You’d be looking at a bloody lawsuit, mate. Secondly, who is she? Certainly not a lone nut if she had a couple of friends who were willing to pose as Special Branch agents to come get her.”
