circled the air.
âThis is a man capable of planning and executing the killing. The clean record is a puzzle unless thereâs some higher conspiracy beyond us.â
âLeave that alone. No point in speculation. Right?â
âYes, sarge. Heâs undercover, I believe, probably CIA.â
âWhy do you say that?â Stephen was starting to get nervous.
âBeen in a lot of hot spots with the Brits in Belfast. Then I came into the no-go area and was politely told to mind my own business. Wife died after being bullied and getting cancer later. He did time for threatening the life of the bully. He pleaded guilty.â
Stephen leaned back in his chair. âAnything else?â
âGot a lad in the job who applied for CIB â Shane Smith.â
âYes, heâs been accepted. Now I know⦠I met his dad â your suspect. A real-life war hero.â
Graham was anxious to get his last point in. He noted that Stephen was in a speculative mood. âI checked out his house and saw a black Labrador inside.â
âHow many black Labs are there?â
âIt was registered two weeks after the killing. What do you reckon, sarge?â
âAny cellmates with this man?â
âYes, one. Died of lung cancer a while back. Bill Newman, a Vietnam vet.â
âYou might be stepping into a very big black hole, Graham. He would have powerful friends, I imagine. Look, bring him in for the sake of completeness.â
Smithy was interviewed about his connections and he explained that Ted had wandered in off the streets. The fruitless exercise came to an abrupt end after a phone call two hours after the interview had terminated, and the suspect was driven home.
Stephen answered the phone and the voice on the other end spoke in his usual coached manner; he was the main spokesman for federal government matters.
âJeff Jones, sergeant.â
âYes, superintendent.â
âWell, what have you been up to, laddie?â
The condescending tone with the know-it-all voice that displeased most members of the force. Probably came down from his club where he spent most of the time hobnobbing, Stephen surmised.
âWhat do you mean, sir?â Stephen replied in an agitated voice.
âDonât take that tone with me, sergeant.â
Stephen calmed down.
âI have just had the Minister of Defence breathing down my neck, enquiring on behalf of his US counterpart why you chose to interview one of our two countriesâ best agents.â
âJust routine, sir. Clearing up an old case.â
âThe bikie shot with a crossbow, right? Bloody good riddance. Unless you have any more than a wandering dog to support the allegations, put it to sleep, right.â
The sergeant did not reply.
âNo DNA, no tyre marks, no weapon. Am I making myself perfectly clear on this matter, laddie?â
âYes, sirâ
The phone hung up and Stephen realised the case would go no further. There might be a lone vigilante about but he would make sure there would be no further enquiries. He took the file from the cabinet once again and, with a red stamp, marked broadly on theface of the first page and the folder CLOSED. But Stephen was a careful man and was taught from a young age in the police to cover his arse. He wrote in his own hand in brackets alongside the red letters âOn order of Supt Jeff Jonesâ. He added day, date and time and shoved the file back in the cabinet.
He saw the doctor that night and was subjected to some tests. The flashing sparks had caused a minor stroke. Tablets were to be taken night and morning and further tests would be conducted. His career prospects had taken a dive.
14
Smithy
Smithy was meditating in his cupboard, which he still scrubbed with Jasol, his favourite disinfectant. His phone rang. He was expecting the call and let it ring four times before he picked it up.
A man with a Southern US drawl spoke. âSmithy, two
âThis is a man capable of planning and executing the killing. The clean record is a puzzle unless thereâs some higher conspiracy beyond us.â
âLeave that alone. No point in speculation. Right?â
âYes, sarge. Heâs undercover, I believe, probably CIA.â
âWhy do you say that?â Stephen was starting to get nervous.
âBeen in a lot of hot spots with the Brits in Belfast. Then I came into the no-go area and was politely told to mind my own business. Wife died after being bullied and getting cancer later. He did time for threatening the life of the bully. He pleaded guilty.â
Stephen leaned back in his chair. âAnything else?â
âGot a lad in the job who applied for CIB â Shane Smith.â
âYes, heâs been accepted. Now I know⦠I met his dad â your suspect. A real-life war hero.â
Graham was anxious to get his last point in. He noted that Stephen was in a speculative mood. âI checked out his house and saw a black Labrador inside.â
âHow many black Labs are there?â
âIt was registered two weeks after the killing. What do you reckon, sarge?â
âAny cellmates with this man?â
âYes, one. Died of lung cancer a while back. Bill Newman, a Vietnam vet.â
âYou might be stepping into a very big black hole, Graham. He would have powerful friends, I imagine. Look, bring him in for the sake of completeness.â
Smithy was interviewed about his connections and he explained that Ted had wandered in off the streets. The fruitless exercise came to an abrupt end after a phone call two hours after the interview had terminated, and the suspect was driven home.
Stephen answered the phone and the voice on the other end spoke in his usual coached manner; he was the main spokesman for federal government matters.
âJeff Jones, sergeant.â
âYes, superintendent.â
âWell, what have you been up to, laddie?â
The condescending tone with the know-it-all voice that displeased most members of the force. Probably came down from his club where he spent most of the time hobnobbing, Stephen surmised.
âWhat do you mean, sir?â Stephen replied in an agitated voice.
âDonât take that tone with me, sergeant.â
Stephen calmed down.
âI have just had the Minister of Defence breathing down my neck, enquiring on behalf of his US counterpart why you chose to interview one of our two countriesâ best agents.â
âJust routine, sir. Clearing up an old case.â
âThe bikie shot with a crossbow, right? Bloody good riddance. Unless you have any more than a wandering dog to support the allegations, put it to sleep, right.â
The sergeant did not reply.
âNo DNA, no tyre marks, no weapon. Am I making myself perfectly clear on this matter, laddie?â
âYes, sirâ
The phone hung up and Stephen realised the case would go no further. There might be a lone vigilante about but he would make sure there would be no further enquiries. He took the file from the cabinet once again and, with a red stamp, marked broadly on theface of the first page and the folder CLOSED. But Stephen was a careful man and was taught from a young age in the police to cover his arse. He wrote in his own hand in brackets alongside the red letters âOn order of Supt Jeff Jonesâ. He added day, date and time and shoved the file back in the cabinet.
He saw the doctor that night and was subjected to some tests. The flashing sparks had caused a minor stroke. Tablets were to be taken night and morning and further tests would be conducted. His career prospects had taken a dive.
14
Smithy
Smithy was meditating in his cupboard, which he still scrubbed with Jasol, his favourite disinfectant. His phone rang. He was expecting the call and let it ring four times before he picked it up.
A man with a Southern US drawl spoke. âSmithy, two
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