I Hear the Sirens in the Street (28 page)

Three thousand men were employed here and maybe twice that in subsidiary trades. That was nine thousand men in West Belfast who wouldn't join the terrorists.

Everybody loved DeLorean: the local press, the British Government, the Northern Ireland office, the Irish government … Everybody, that is, except for a few privileged American auto journalists who had actually driven the DeLorean and said that it was clunky, unreliable and sloppily put together by an inexperienced workforce.

These criticisms had publicly been dismissed by John DeLorean, who trusted his own judgement, not the judgement of “know nothing journalists”. He, after all, was the “man who had single-handedly saved GM” and by implication had therefore saved America.

On TV his persona was half hard-headed businessman, half televangelist. In person he was trim, handsome, soft spoken, and for our interview he was wearing a conservative, unshowy blue suit.

His hair was more grey than black. He had an interesting face: a long aquiline nose that didn't really go with his squat peasant eyebrows and cheeks. It was a tanned, handsome visage that both radiated intelligence and a kind of weary, punchy vitality.

As I entered the office he was sitting in a “Helsinki” Java wood mahogany armchair reading a report, tutting to himself as he marked it up with a yellow highlighter.

I liked his shoes – they were hand-made Oxfords in a soft brown leather.

His socks were red which I also liked.

He smelled of cologne and cigars.

There was an engraved sign on his desk that said “Genius At Work”.

“Inspector Sean Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC,” a tall attractive secretary called Gloria reminded him when I came in.

He got up and shook my hand.

“Inspector Duffy. Pleased to meet you. I take it this is about the fundraising ball?” he said, with a gleaming and rather charming smile.

“No, this is about a rather different matter,” I said, momentarily thrown.

“Oh?”

His big eyebrows knitted together and I knew that Gloria was going to catch it after I left.

“I'm investigating the murder of an Army captain called Martin McAlpine.”

DeLorean shrugged. “Never heard of him, should I have?”

“He was an intelligence officer. He was murdered late last year, apparently by the IRA.”

“What's the connection to us?” DeLorean said.

“We went through Captain McAlpine's notes and an associate of his was keeping an eye on someone who was spying on this factory. It could be unrelated to Captain McAlpine's murder but I thought I'd follow up on the lead.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Would there be a reason why anyone would be interested in spying on your car plant?”

DeLorean laughed at that. “Of course! Haven't you ever heard of industrial espionage?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“They've been doing it to me my whole career!” he said. He got to his feet and pointed through the plate-glass windows to the factory floor. “You see what we're doing down there? We are radically re-engineering the model of American sports-car manufacture. In Detroit they are terrified. If I can be blunt, Inspector Duffy, I have them shitting in their pants. Ford, GM, Chrysler, Toyota. Spying? Of course they're spying. I expect no
less of them. They have no original ideas. They have to steal them from me!”

“Would they kill to get information about your plant?”

DeLorean smiled and nodded. “Nothing would surprise me in this country. Nothing. You have no idea the kind of deals I've had to do with all sorts of people to get this factory up and running. Pretty unsavoury characters, I can tell you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you get my drift, Inspector?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“No, nothing would surprise me, but as for actual secrets … Well, the blueprints of the DeLorean are well known and have been in the public domain for years. Our production design is also well known, even our factory layout is common knowledge. We don't have that many secrets as such …”

“New models or anything like that?” I inquired.

“Oh, sure. I'm always sketching, planning, scheming, but I don't keep that stuff here.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“In my house in Belfast, or my place in Michigan.”

“Have you had any burglaries? Anything like that?”

“No. Certainly not in my place here. The house in Michigan's empty but I have a security firm looking after it. They would have told me.”

“What about poaching of company employees, that sort of thing, I've heard that—”

“No, no, no, you're barking up the wrong tree, Inspector,” DeLorean said, becoming animated. “The reason people work for me is that they want to be part of something bigger than themselves. All my people have already been offered more money elsewhere, but they want to be part of a company they can be proud of. No, my staff is loyal. I wouldn't put it past your local thugs to try and kidnap someone who works here, but they're not leaving to join fucking Ford.”

“So you can't think of any reason why someone might be
nosing around the plant?”

“A million reasons! Desperation! Panic! They know I'm going to wipe the floor with them. But they can't stop it! Ten years from now we're going to be the biggest car company in the word. Not just sports cars. Light trucks. Mid-sized economy sedans. You name it. Electric cars. You should see my plans for electric vehicles.”

“And it's all going to be headquartered right here in Belfast?”

“You bet!”

He looked at his watch. Our time was almost up.

I gave him my card. “If anything out of the ordinary happens, I would certainly appreciate a call.”

“It depends what you mean by out of the ordinary. In Belfast the ‘out of the ordinary' happens every day!”

I nodded. “Well, if you think of anything, please, get in touch …”

“Sure thing,” he said, and got to his feet. “I'll see you out.”

He walked me across the office, opened the door and shook my hand again. The secretary got up from her desk to whisk me away from her boss in case I proved intractable. There was already another man waiting on the sofa. He was wearing a leather jacket, had a thin black tie, messy brown hair and he was smoking a Camel. Everything about him said “reporter”.

DeLorean disengaged my hand

“Have a good day, Inspector.”

“I will.”

The secretary smiled at me. She was a blonde, classic high cheekbones, blue eyeshadow, big hair, very American.

She put up a finger to prevent me from speaking and addressed the man on the sofa.

“You can go in now, Mr Burns.”

“My photographer hasn't showed up,” Burns said in an East End accent. “Can we wait a few minutes?”

“If you want to talk to Mr DeLorean you'll have to go in now,
Mr Burns, Mr DeLorean has another meeting at twelve fifteen.”

“All right,” Burns said.

The secretary pressed a button and formally announced him. “Mr Jack Burns from the
Daily Mail
.”

Burns went into DeLorean's office.

It was unusual to hear an American woman's voice in Northern Ireland, and I tried to think if I'd ever heard one here before. I doubted it. The American news networks didn't send their female reporters to war zones.

“Is he a good boss?” I asked.

“He's a great man,” she said.

“‘Genius at work', it says on his desk.”

“Oh, that? That's sort of a joke. That was a gift from Ronald Reagan when he was campaigning through Michigan.”

She began to roll a sheet of paper into her electric typewriter when suddenly another secretary came running down the hall and burst into Mr DeLorean's office.

“What!” DeLorean yelled, and then a moment later: “Goddammit!”

DeLorean came out of the office, fuming.

“This, when I'm talking to a reporter!” he muttered to Gloria.

He turned to me. “I suppose you'll want me to evacuate the place? Stop production?”

“I'm sorry, I've no idea—”

A young man came breathlessly up the stairs. “Mr DeLorean we've had a—”

“Yes, I know!” DeLorean exclaimed. The
Daily Mail
hack had come out of the office now and was writing furiously in his notebook.

DeLorean turned to the man. “You want to know what difficulties we have to deal with? This kind of goddamn difficulty! Every goddamn week!”

An alarm began sounding and the workers began putting down their tools.

“Who pulled the fire alarm?” DeLorean screamed.

“One of the shop stewards, probably,” the young man said.

“Jesus Christ! All right, all right, show it to me!” DeLorean said.

“I think we should evacuate the premises,” the young man said.

“Show it to me!”

The young man led DeLorean towards a fire exit. Gloria grabbed her handbag, notepad and followed and I followed her. We were met at the bottom of the fire escape by two uniformed security guards.

“Where is it?” DeLorean demanded.

“On the slip road to the south gate,” one of the security guards said.

I went with DeLorean and the motley band to the south gate. And there I saw what the problem was. Someone had hijacked a Ford Transit van and dumped it there.

“There is no bomb in there – I'll show you!” DeLorean said, marching towards the van.

“Stop right there!” I ordered, and DeLorean froze in his tracks. “What's going on here?” I asked the harassed young guy.

“Suspect device. Someone called in a bomb threat,” he said.

“There's no bomb in that vehicle! We get this all the time, Inspector Duffy. It's a hoax. I'll show you!” DeLorean said, and continued striding towards the transit van.

“No, you won't! You'll go back inside and evacuate the factory and call the bomb squad,” I said, with a voice of absolute authority.

DeLorean glared at me with pure malice.

He pointed a finger at me, but said nothing. After a couple of seconds of this he nodded at the young man, who ran back towards the factory.

“I'll check out the van, I'll show you, Mr DeLorean,” a beefy Liverpudlian security guard said.

“Yes!” DeLorean said excitedly.

“You'll do no such thing,” I insisted.

The security guard shook his head. “Every day, Inspector, it's the same story. Someone calls Downtown Radio to request Fleetwood Mac and call in a bomb threat at the DeLorean factory.”

“Nevertheless, no one's going to touch that van until the bomb squad shows up,” I reiterated.

“Okay, we'll wait here and I'll show you that I'm right,” DeLorean insisted.

I knew he was right. Nine times out of ten it's a hoax. But that one time … that's the time that gets you.

The Army bomb disposal unit showed up and the robot blew open the back doors of the Transit. The robot looked inside and fired a shotgun into a wooden box, but it only contained tools. Behind us the blue-collar staff was filing out of the factory, most deciding to go home for the day. An enterprising mobile chip van showed up and DeLorean bought our little group fish suppers out of his own pocket.

The Army EOD unit still wasn't completely satisfied with the situation, so they carried out a further controlled explosion which destroyed the van completely, sending metal fragments and a fireball into the air. There had been no secondary blast which proved that the Ford had contained no bomb or combustible materials.

DeLorean was not triumphant. He was resigned now. Fed up. He shook my hand.

“I yelled out of turn,” he said. “You did the right thing. Better safe than sorry.”

“It's all right,” I replied.

The Army gave us the all clear but some fool had left a backpack in the executive car park in his haste to evacuate and the disposal unit roped off the car park to carry out a controlled explosion on that too. It was five o'clock now. Many of the white-collar
staff were effectively trapped until the Army said that this was a negative result too.

“My car's in the visitor's car park. Anyone need a lift going Carrick way?” I asked.

Gloria put up her hand. “I do,” she said.

“No problem.”

We drove through the centre of Belfast where rush hour and a string of incendiary devices on buses had created chaos.

“Where do you live?” I asked her.

“A town called Whitehead. An apartment overlooking the water. Wonderful view, full of charm.”

“Sounds like a nice place.”

“Oh, yes. Mr DeLorean picked our accommodations out personally.”

We were stuck in traffic for twenty-five minutes.

I was getting annoyed.

Worse. Losing face.

“This is ridiculous. Time for my
Starsky and Hutch
moves,” I said.

I took the portable siren out of the glove compartment and put it on the roof of the Beemer. I turned it on and drove the wrong way down the one-way system at the City Hall.

“Are you allowed to do this?” Gloria asked, in what I discovered later was a South Carolina burr.

“I'm allowed to do anything, love, I'm the Johnny Law.”

“You're the what?”

“Put the windows down, sweetheart!”

She wound down the window and I cracked Zep in the stereo. Good Zep.
LZIII
. We ran the one-way systems and frightened the civvies and hit the ten lanes where the M2 leaves the city. Six camouflaged sacks of shit were stopping suspicious characters where the M2 merges with the M5, but the siren got me past them and on the M5 I got the Beemer up to a ton. At Hazelbank I killed the woo woo and took us down to seventy-five.

We drove past Whiteabbey RUC.

“A rocket went through that police station,” I said.

“A rocket?”

“Yeah, not an RPG. A rocket.”

“What's the difference?”