Gun Street Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

talking.”
    â€œHeated arguments, she says.”
    â€œPushing and shoving?”
    â€œNo, but yelling matches.”
    â€œAbout?”
    â€œThe boy’s future. The boy’s friends. Late nights, the usual thing.”
    â€œWhat does this kid do for a living?”
    â€œHe’s unemployed.”
    I nodded. “OK, so that’s one track. But leaving that to one side for the moment, what about signs of forced entry?”
    â€œOn an initial inspection, none.”
    â€œFirearms in the house?”
    â€œShotgun for rabbits, nine-millimeter handgun for personal protection.”
    â€œWhose personal protection?”
    â€œOn the license Mr. Kelly said that he feared that he would be subject to kidnap because of his wealth.”
    â€œWhere is this nine-millimeter now?”
    â€œIt’s not in the drawer where Mrs. McCawly says he kept it.”
    â€œDo you think these victims were shot by a nine-millimeter?”
    â€œAgain forensics will tell us for sure, but if you ask me the wounds are consistent with a pistol of that caliber.”
    â€œYeah. Almost certainly.”
    â€œBut you’re not happy?” he said, reading my expression accurately.
    I shook my head. “I don’t know, Crabbie, I can see where you’re pointing me, but this thing has a professional killing vibe about it, don’t you think?”
    â€œIt’s certainly very clean and those head shots are impressive.”
    â€œBut you still like the son for it, do you?”
    â€œI’m not jumping to any conclusions just yet, Sean.”
    â€œYou have alerted our stout comrades in Traffic Branch about this kid and his car?”
    â€œOf course. Would you like to talk to Mrs. McCawly?”
    Before I could answer that a big vacant-eyed arsehole with a black ’tache got in my face. “Are you Duffy?” he asked, looking at me with slow-boiling fury.
    â€œThat’s what they call me. Sometimes The Space Cowboy or the Pompatus of Love,” I said, winking and offering him my hand. He let the hand dangle.
    â€œI’m CI Kennedy, Larne RUC. Listen to me, Duffy, your fucking sergeant won’t let my men get started because he says this is your case. This isn’t your case. The cleaner, Mrs. McCawly, called Larne RUC. We were the first responders, and if you look at the map you’ll see that this is . . .”
    I let him drift out. His ’tache, his big red face, his trousers too short for his ankles, and his ankles swollen by too-tight shoes are the early signs of congestive heart failure. Chief Inspector Kennedy was that most common and dangerous thing, the old man in a hurry. Passed over for promotion and keen to retire with a rank and commensurate pension that would allow him to pay his golf club dues and get his missus her winter bronzing holidays in Tenerife.
    The Cure’s “Close to Me” started replaying in my head. It would really be a much better song if they cut the saxophone. Most pop songs would be better without the saxophone. Bruce Springsteen’s works the prima facie case for this, and perhaps Live At The Harlem Square Club a rare counter-example.
    â€œDuffy?”
    Kennedy had ceased his initial rant.
    He was staring at me in a way that could get a civilian sectioned under the Mental Health Act. In fact the whole room had fixed their peepers on me. Half a dozen bleary-eyed coppers. A photographer. Men in boiler suits from the new forensic unit in Belfast waiting to get started. Classic zugzwang situation. As long as I stood here nobody would do anything and everything would be fine, but any move I made was going to piss someone off. If I let Kennedy have the case, Crabbie would resent me for months, and Kennedy looked like he’d throw an atomic eggy if I tried to poach this juicy murder from under him.
    â€œWait one second, please,” I said to Kennedy.
    I took McCrabban out onto the living-room balcony which