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hardly need to have police about on site. People leave us
alone.’
    ‘Why this time? Did his interview with Cleary cause it?’
    Millar glanced across at Forbes. ‘Possibly. Maybe it drew attention to the fact we were here; some kids might have decided to do some damage. It just sets us back a day. Everywhere will be
closed today. We’ll have to hire in two diggers from Strabane tomorrow, and two new ditching buckets.’
    Presumably he could tell from my expression that I didn’t understand, for he continued, ‘We can’t use buckets with teeth on them when we dig, for obvious reasons. Ditching
buckets are flat edged; they scrape off around five inches of surface clay at a time. The ones we had fitted to our diggers may not fit the new machines.’
    I nodded as I offered him a cigarette. ‘Whereabouts was the cillin found again?’
    ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
    We took the 4x4 across the length of the island, the drive taking a few minutes on the potholed pathways which served as roads. The field in which the cillin lay was at the extreme tip of
the island, a promontory stretching into the Foyle. As I stood I silently understood the impulse which had driven the bereaved to select this spot as the final resting place of their loved one. The
sun had broken through a bank of clouds to the east, as if to shine directly on the spot, its brightness caught on the river’s surface and shattered into many pieces. The river’s
current here, where its streams merged, having been diverted around the island, was slow and lazy, the reflected sunlight winking against the light breeze. The banks of the river on both sides were
low-lying, running down to mudflats along the river’s edge. The fields beyond were flat and grown to meadow. A single hawthorn tree stood in the centre of the field on the Republic side.
    ‘The border runs right through this spot,’ Millar said after a moment. ‘It runs up the centre of the river, then cuts diagonally across the island here, presumably along the
line of the old railway. It really is neither here nor there.’
    ‘Limbo,’ I agreed.
    The peace was broken by my mobile ringing. I found myself apologizing to Millar before answering it. I glanced at the screen and noted that I had missed a call already, the signal strength on
the screen a single faltering bar.
    ‘Ben? Jim Hendry here.’ Hendry was a DI in the Police Service of Northern Ireland, across in Strabane.
    ‘Jim. How’re things?’
    ‘I tried calling a few minutes ago but it went to voicemail.’
    ‘I’m on Islandmore, over at the Cleary dig. I must have lost reception.’
    ‘Anything found yet?’
    ‘Nothing. The diggers were petrol bombed last night following Sean Cleary’s interview. Everything has been held up. I hope he’s happy.’
    ‘I doubt it. He’s over here. And he’s dead.’

Chapter Nine
    Hendry was waiting for me at the police cordon at the entrance to Beechmount Avenue, just off the main thoroughfare of Melmount Road in Strabane. He wore a loose-fitting suit
that served only to accentuate his wiry frame. He raised one hand in salute when he saw me approach, the other hand tugging at the edges of his sandy moustache.
    ‘He’s in the playground,’ Hendry said, as I ducked under the cordon and followed him along the road.
    ‘What happened to him?’
    ‘Looks like a shooting,’ Hendry said, glancing back at me.
    ‘Who found him?’
    ‘A young mother, bringing her kids in for a run-around this morning. He’s down at the back.’
    ‘How did you ID him so soon?’
    Hendry shook his head. ‘Apart from his appearance on TV last night? We found his wallet lying a few feet from the body; emptied apart from his supermarket loyalty card which had his
name.’
    As we walked, I glanced across to my left. The entire far side of the street was now derelict wasteland. A factory had once stood here but, since its demolition some years earlier, the spot had
not been redeveloped. The entrance gates