“How did you do that? Some kind of latent paranormal ability?”
“Uh, no, sir, there’s a stack of receipts on a spike in his dining room. Had a look through them while we were waiting for you.”
“What else did the receipts tell you?”
“Mostly receipts for furniture, white goods and dishware.
Stuff you need for moving house.”
“What kind of a name is Deauville?”
“Huguenot.”
“Tell me everything you got on him.”
“According to the rent bill from the housing executive he only moved in on January 15th – that’s why we hadn’t heard of him yet in Carrick CID, although he has a charge sheet as long as your arm. Robberies, burglaries and it looks like for the last year or two he’s been dealing drugs.”
“Heroin?”
“Sergeant Mulvenny’s dog thinks so.”
“How does a brand new drug dealer suddenly break into the heroin trade?”
“Don’t know so, sir.”
“Enemies?”
“He’s not a known player, so I imagine the local paramilitaries here weren’t too happy with someone muscling in on their territory. And taking the temperature of the local residents – Mrs McAleese and the minister there – apparently Mr Deauville hadn’t gone out of his way to make friends.”
“At least his missus was upset at his demise. What did she tell you before she was carted off?”
“Not much, sir.”
“Hates the cops, eh?”
“English isn’t her mother tongue.”
“No need to bring her mother’s tongue into the discussion, little too early in the morning for that sort of talk.”
“What? Sir, I wasn’t trying—”
“I know,” I said wearily. “Where’s she from?”
“Bulgaria. We couldn’t understand anything.”
“Bulgaria?”
“Bulgaria.”
“How did those two love birds meet?”
“He went on a package trip to the Bulgarian Riviera, sir.”
“There’s a Bulgarian Riviera?”
“Yes, sir, on the Black Sea coast.”
“Didn’t know that. Holiday romance?”
“Apparently so, sir. She came back with him last year and they married in September. This according to Bangor RUC.”
“And she doesn’t speak any English?”
“Not any that she’s used with us. How’s your Bulgarian, sir?”
“Rusty, I’ve got to admit. Although it’s one of the Romance languages, I think.”
“No, sir. You’re thinking of Romanian, which has a Latin root. It’s a Slavic language.”
“OK. Well, without wishing to slight the intellectual capacities of the station I have a feeling we don’t have a Slavic speaker on the staff.”
“We don’t. Already checked, sir.”
“So did she say anything about what happened?”
“She said plenty. I wrote some of it down.”
Lawson flipped open his notebook. “When we arrived she was hugging the body and screaming obícham te! obícham te! over and over.”
“What do you think that means? Is that his name in Bulgarian, do you think?”
Lawson gave me one of those looks that young people reserve for older people when they wish to convey their patience with the oldster’s folly.
“Te is probably the tu form in Bulgarian, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“Oh … yes, I’m sure you’re right. So she’s saying what happened to you or I love you, or something like that.”
“I imagine so, sir.”
“Good-looking woman?”
Lawson coloured. “Uhm, I don’t know. I suppose if you like that sort of thing, uhm …”
“No one is going to accuse you of a lack of gallantry, Lawson. Is she young?”
“Mid twenties, sir.”
“Yes, good contact to have if you’re dealing heroin. Young, reasonably attractive woman with a Bulgarian passport. Bulgaria is right next to Turkey, I believe, where the emerald fields of marijuana and the scarlet fields of poppy grow in the plentiful Mediterranean sunshine. And of course there’s the—Oh shit, that bloody goat again.”
The goat was tied to a shopping trolley that had been filled with bricks. There were about thirty bricks in the shopping trolley which probably weighed about forty pounds. If sufficiently motivated the goat could in fact have pulled the shopping trolley behind it and made an admittedly slow escape through the estate. The goat, however, being a goat, was smarter than that and had decided to eat the rope with which it had been tied to the trolley. It had been munching on this rope since we had arrived and presumably for much of the previous couple of days. Escape was now imminent.
“That goat is our only eyewitness, Lawson. Get the tow rope from my car and tie it up properly and when you’ve done that—Oh my God, here comes our old friend, back from the wars!” I said getting to my feet.
Detective Sergeant McCrabban was getting out of a Land Rover that he’d driven back here himself from the hospital.
I ran over and gave the big galoot a hug, which, of course, horrified him – Crabbie not being the biggest fan of outward shows of affection or human contact.