I walked over to Vaughn, who’d been staring fixedly at the mud during all this time.
I cleared my throat. “Horse country, eh? What type of horses? Hunters, you think?”
“Oh yes, you could stretch a hunter out here,” he said.
Definitely a Catholic.
“So how long will this house take?”
Vaughn rubbed his chin. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“Well, the blueprints are done and we’re in today looking at the drainage. The site drains beautifully, by the way. But we’ll need to get planning permission for a house from the authorities in Ballymena. This is redlined for agricultural buildings only, you know?”
“So they might say no?”
“Oh they’ll say yes, Mr Macdonald is very well-connected, but it’ll take a wee while.”
“How long?”
“Six months, or even up to a year to get the planning permission for the house. If they give it for this one they’ll have to give it for all of them along this road.”
“How long to build it?”
“Four or five months if he turns the whole crew loose on it.”
“So when can we think about moving in?”
“Well, if you’re lucky the end of the year.”
“And if we’re unlucky?”
“The autumn of 1989.”
“And if we’re very unlucky with planning permission and building delays?”
“The spring of 1990?”
Sigh of relief.
I was a conservative animal. I didn’t like to move and I liked living on Coronation Road, but 1990 seemed like a very, very long way away. The 1990s were the future. In the 90s things were bound to be very different from now. Thatcher would be gone. Kinnock would be Prime Minister. According to Gerry Anderson’s Space 1999 we would all be living in colonies on the moon at the end of the decade, although that, admittedly, seemed a little bit unlikely.
So why the big fit, Duffy? You’re a lucky man. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to have Beth and Emma. So what if you end up out here in the sticks in some bullshit Proddy mansion? Small price to pay isn’t it?
“Mr Macdonald’s daughter, she’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” Vaughn said.
“Aye.”
“Good-looking.”
“Steady, mate. This is the mother of my child.”
“You remember that line from the old John Wayne film?”
“I remember it,” I said.
“Two women in the house and one of them a redhead,” presumably was the quote he was referring to from The Quiet Man, although when I thought about my actions of this morning “Life’s tough and even tougher when you’re stupid,” from The Sands of Iwo Jima, floated into my mind.
Vaughn nodded and offered me a cigarette. I was still gagging for one but I shook my head.
“Look, can someone give me a lift back to Carrickfergus, please? I’ve got work to do this morning.”
“A lift? That shouldn’t be a problem. Troy!”
Yeah, back to Carrick. Interview the victim’s wife. Establish the insolubility of this case without eyewitness or forensic evidence. Log it in the yellow file. Hoof it to the flower shop and the chocolate shop and apologise big time: I overreacted, Beth. Very generous on the part of your da. Might take us two years to move in so we’ll stay here just for now …
And maybe in those two years she’ll learn to love this part of Carrick? Maybe, Duffy, maybe. As the Russians say, getting what you want sometimes requires moving like the knight in chess: forward and to the left.
5: INSPECTOR DALZIEL
When I arrived at Carrickfergus RUC barracks there was an air of embarrassment hovering over the place. In my experience, Ulster Protestants were capable of being embarrassed by everything and anybody so I wasn’t particularly alarmed by this.
I was worried when Crabbie and Lawson intercepted me at the top of the stairs.
“Morning, Sean,” Crabbie said darkly.
“Oh God, what’s amiss? It’s not about our Bulgarian, is it? She didn’t escape or hang herself or anything like that?”
“No, it’s not about her. She’s fine. The victim support unit has been with her all morning.”
“What’s the victim support unit?”
“WPC Green,” Lawson said.
“Oh, OK. And the translator?”
“Apparently he’s at Carrick Train Station. We’ve sent a car for him. He should be here in about five minutes,” Crabbie explained.
“So what’s wrong?”
“Chief Superintendent Strong is here with a couple of people from HR and Dr Havercamp and a nurse,” Lawson said.
“Dr Havercamp?”
“It’s the fitness tests. The Chief Constable has given an order that this year the RUC fitness tests are to be held on the same day at every station so that people can’t bunk off,” Crabbie explained.
“Fitness tests? Jesus, you had me concerned there for a second. Don’t worry about those, lads. That’s only for beat cops. I haven’t done a police fitness assessment since I moved here and that was in 1981.”
“How do you keep getting out of it?” Lawson asked, amazed.
“Like I said yesterday. Do you ever listen?”
“I do, I—”
“All you do is call in sick.”