Adrian McKinty - I Hear the Sirens in the Street

PRAISE FOR THE COLD COLD GROUND,

THE FIRST OF ADRIAN MCKINTYS SEAN

DUFFY THRILLERS

The Cold Cold Ground is a razor sharp thriller set against the backdrop of a country in chaos, told with style, courage and dark-as-night wit. Adrian McKinty channels Dennis Lehane, David Peace and Joseph Wambaugh to create a brilliant novel with its own unique voice Stuart Neville

Its undoubtedly McKintys finest Written with intelligence, insight and wit, McKinty exposes the cancer of corruption at all levels of society at that time. Sean Duffy is a compelling detective, the evocation of 1980s Northern Ireland is breathtaking and the atmosphere authentically menacing. A brilliant piece of work which does for NI what Peaces Red Riding Quartet did for Yorkshire Brian McGilloway

The setting represents an extraordinarily tense scenario in itself, but the fact that Duffy is a Catholic in a predominantly Protestant RUC adds yet another fascinating twist to McKintys neatly crafted plot a masterpiece of Troubles crime fiction: had David Peace, Eoin McNamee and Brian Moore sat down to brew up the great Troubles novel, they would have been very pleased indeed to have written The Cold Cold Ground Declan Burke, Irish Times

The Cold Cold Ground is a fearless trip into Northern Ireland in the 1980s: riots, hunger strikes, murders yet Adrian McKinty tells a very personal story of an ordinary cop trying to hunt down a serial killer John McFetridge

McKintys The Cold Cold Ground has got onto my five best books of the year list as it is riveting, brilliant and just about the best book yet on Northern Ireland Ken Bruen

The Cold Cold Ground confirms McKinty as a writer of substance The names of David Peace and Ellroy are evoked too often in relation to young crime writers, but McKinty shares their method of using the past as a template for the present. The stories and textures may belong to a different period, but the power of technique and intent makes of them the here and now Theres food for thought in McKintys writing The Cold Cold Ground is a crime novel, fast-paced, intricate and genre to the core Eoin McNamee, Guardian

Adrian McKinty is the voice of the new Northern Irish generation but hes not afraid to examine the past. This writer is a legend in the making and The Cold Cold Ground is the latest proof of this Gerard Brennan

Detective Sergeant Sean Duffy could well become a cult figure McKinty has not lost his touch or his eye for the bizarre and the macabre, or his ear for the Belfast accent and argot McKinty creates a marvellous sense of time and place he manages to catch the brooding atmosphere of the 1980s and to tell a ripping yarn at the same time There will be many readers waiting for the next adventure of the dashing and intrepid Sergeant Duffy Maurice Hayes, Irish Independent

McKinty [has] a razor-sharp ear for the local dialogue and a feeling for the bleak time and place that was Ulster in the early 80s, and pairs them with a wry wicked wit If Raymond Chandler had grown up in Northern Ireland, The Cold Cold Ground is what he would have written Peter Millar, The Times

Adrian McKinty is fast gaining a reputation as the finest of the new generation of Irish crime writers, and its easy to see why on the evidence of this novel, the first in a projected trilogy of police procedurals. At times The Cold Cold Ground has the feel of James Ellroy, the prose is that focused and intense, but then there are moments of darkest humour, with just a hint of the retro feel of Life On Mars thrown in Doug Johnstone, Herald

I Hear the Sirens in the Street

Adrian McKinty

MARTY MCFLY: Wait a minute, Doc. Are you telling me that you built a time machine out of a DeLorean?

DR EMMETT BROWN: The way I see it, if youre gonna build a time machine into a car, why not do it with some style?

Robert Zemeckis & Bob Gale, Back to the

Future (1985)

Now I lay me down to sleep

I hear the sirens in the street

All my dreams are made of chrome

I have no way to get back home

Tom Waits, A Sweet Little Bullet

From A Pretty Blue Gun (1978)

1: A TOWN CALLED MALICE

The abandoned factory was a movie trailer from an entropic future when all the world would look like this. From a time without the means to repair corrugation or combustion engines or vacuum tubes. From a planet of rust and candle power. Guano coated the walls. Mildewed garbage lay in heaps. Strange machinery littered a floor which, with its layer of leaves, oil and broken glass was reminiscent of the dark understory of a rainforest. The melody in my head was a descending ten-on-one ostinato, a pastiche of the second of Chopins tudes; I couldnt place it but I knew that it was famous and that once the shooting stopped it would come to me in an instant.

The shotgun blast had sent the birds into a frenzy and as we ran for cover behind a half disassembled steam turbine we watched the rock doves careen off the ceiling, sending a fine shower of white asbestos particles down towards us like the snow of a nuclear winter.

The shotgun reported again and a window smashed twenty feet to our left. The security guards aim was no better than his common sense.

We made it to safety behind the turbines thick stainless steel fans and watched the pigeons loop in decreasing circles above our heads. A superstitious man would have divined ill-omened auguries in their melancholy flight but fortunately my partner, Detective Constable McCrabban, was made of sterner stuff.

Would you stop shooting, you bloody eejit! We are the police! he yelled before I even had the chance to catch my breath.

There was an impressive dissonance as the last of the shotguns echo died away, and then an even more impressive silence.

Asbestos was coating my leather jacket and I pulled my black polo neck sweater over my mouth.

The pigeons began to settle.

Wind made the girders creek.

A distant bell was ringing.

It was like being in a symphony by Arvo Prt. But he wasnt the composer of the melody still playing between my ears. Who was that now? Somebody French.

Another shotgun blast.

The security guard had taken the time to reload and was determined to have more fun.

Stop shooting! McCrabban demanded again.

Get out of here! a voice replied. Ive had enough of you hoodlums!

It was a venerable voice, from another Ireland, from the 30s or even earlier, but age gave it no weight or assurance only a frail, impatient, dangerous doubt.

This, every copper knew, was how it would end, not fighting the good fight but in a random bombing or a police chase gone wrong or shot by a half senile security guard in a derelict factory in north Belfast. It was April 1st. Not a good day to die.

Were the police! McCrabban insisted.

The what?

The police!

Ill call the police!

We are the police!

You are?

I lit a cigarette, sat down and leaned against the outer shell of the big turbine.

This room in fact was one enormous turbine hall. A huge space built for the generation of electricity because the engineers whod constructed the textile factory had decided that autarchy was the best policy when dealing with Northern Irelands inadequate and dodgy power supplies. I would like to have to seen this place in its heyday, when light was pouring in through the clear windows and the cathedral of turbines was humming at maximum rev. This whole factory must have been some scene with its cooling towers and its chemical presses and its white-coated alchemist employees who knew the secret of turning petroleum into clothes.