Adrian McKinty - The Cold Cold Ground

We said Proddy grace.

No wine, of course, but a pot roast, potatoes and mashed carrot and parsnip. I wondered how they could afford such a spread on Mr B.’s unemployment benefit but he explained that the meat was a free gift from the European Economic Community and there was plenty of it. I’d seen Bobby Cameron distributing this European meat — it was yet another way the paramilitaries got their hooks into people.

Dessert was bread and butter pudding with custard — gooey and crispy and fabulous.

After dinner I played a quick game of chess with their older boy, Martin and tried to lose in a way that didn’t look condescending. My condescension quickly turned into a serious asskicking from him, as he knocked off my major pieces one by one and forced me to resign.

I went home and flipped through the contemporary section of my record collection. What did I need? Led Zeppelin, The Undertones, The Clash, The Rolling Stones, Deep Purple, AC/DC, Motorhead? Nah, I wasn’t in that kind of mood. Carole King, Joan Baez, Joan Armatrading, Bowie? I flipped the sleeves and wondered if Tapestry might be ok to listen to. I stuck it on, made myself a vodka gimlet and lay on the sofa with the window open.

Carole King reinterpreted her own song “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” that she had originally written for the Shirelles. King’s was the better version.

Bobby Cameron pulled into the spot in front of his house. He was driving a white transit van. When he got out of it he was wearing a rolled-up balaclava. I could have arrested him on the spot for that. His sixth sense kicked in and he realised that someone was looking at him. He checked both sides of the street. He examined the terrace and spotted the open window.

He saw that the watcher was only me. He gave me a finger wave and I gave him the slightest nod in return.

I made myself another vodka gimlet and switched on the TV. At eleven o’clock the snooker was interrupted by a BBC news bulletin. Time-delayed incendiary devices were exploding all over Belfast and shops were on fire in Great Victoria Street, Cornmarket and the York Road. Key holders were being urged to return to their premises, off-duty firemen were being told to report to their nearest available station.

The snooker came back on but I didn’t get to see who won because, at exactly midnight, the street lights went off and the TV died.

The power-station workers had, as anticipated, come out on strike.

Sergeant McCallister was a bluff, old-fashioned copper not au fait with the new forensic methods and clinical police work and because of this I tended to underestimate him.

I saw that now as I watched his press briefing. It was masterful stuff. He handled the questions with aplomb and was charming but firm. He played down the sensational aspects of the case and told the media merely that we were dealing with a person who had killed two suspected homosexuals and had threatened to kill more. That was all we knew at this stage.

When asked how we knew that both killings had been done by the same person he said that there were forensic similarities and certain markers that we did not wish to reveal at his stage.

The press turn-out was slightly disappointing.

None of the American hacks had showed up and only three Brits from the Sun , the Guardian and the Daily Mail .

We still had the locals: the Belfast Telegraph , the Irish News , the Newsletter and the Carrickfergus Advertiser; and from Dublin: the Irish Independent and the Irish Times .

We had our own diesel generator in the basement so the power outage didn’t bother us. I listened to McCallister talk and gazed out the window at the massive grey Kilroot Power Station, one mile up the coast, which for the first time since I’d come to Carrick was not belching out black smoke from its six hundred foot chimney.

“Why do you think the Yanks didn’t show up?” Matty whispered as McCrabban showed the hacks the location of the two killings on a map.

“I suppose that two murders hardly makes a ‘serial killer’ in US terms,” Brennan whispered back.

I had a different view. I reckoned the Yanks hadn’t come because this little incident was an unnecessary layer of complication compared to a simple story of peace-loving Irish patriots starving themselves to drive out the evil British imperialists.

That would have been my view too if I’d gone to New York and stayed there.

Felt a bit like that sometimes anyway.

“ … will be handled by Sergeant Duffy, who is an experienced detective and is actively pursuing several leads at the moment.”

“Can we ask Sergeant Duffy any questions?” the guy from the Belfast Telegraph piped up.

I reddened and looked at my polished DM shoes.

“Sergeant Duffy is busy with the case, but I assure you gentlemen that if there are any major developments you will be kept informed …”

There were a few more questions and the guy from the Daily Mail wondered if homosexuality’s illegality in Northern Ireland would affect our investigation.

“Keeping pigeons without a licence is illegal as well, but we can’t have people going round shooting pigeon-keepers, can we? It is the job of the RUC to enforce the law in Northern Ireland, not paramilitary groups, not vigilantes, not ‘concerned citizens’, it’s our responsibility and ours alone,” McCallister said which made me proud of him. Not quite tears-in-eyes but maybe warm-glow-in-tummy.

No one could think of any more questions.

“Ok, gentlemen, I think that’s enough for this morning,” McCallister said.

I gave Alan the thumbs up and he gave me a broad wink back.

I got my team together in the CID evidence room. Tommy Little’s current address had finally come through, not from RUC intelligence, but the friggin tax office. He lived off the Falls Road which would mean another hairy visit to West Belfast.

“Ok, first things first,” I began. “Lucy Moore. Patho says suicide and no doubt the coroner will too, but I slept on this last night and I’ve decided that I want you to keep the file open. We’ve a lot on our plate, boys, but any spare moment you get, I want you to hunt down leads where she might have been living, who she was seeing and what happened to her bairn.”

McCrabban stuck a finger up and flipped open his notebook. “Fourteen babies left at the St Jude Mission, the Royal Victoria Hospital, Whiteabbey Hospital, the City Hospital and the Mater Hospital in the last week. Apparently that’s a pretty standard number. Similar number the week before. All anonymous dropins, of course.”

“Good. I’m going to go and see her parents and her ex husband tomorrow and see if they offer us any insights. At the very least, I’d just like to close the book on this.”

Crabbie’s mouth opened and closed in amazement. “Did you say that you’re going to go see the husband?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“You know he’s on hunger strike, right? In the Maze.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to go into all that madness?”

“Yes.”

“Count me out of that mess,” Crabbie said, shaking his head.

“All right, I’ll go by myself.”

“I’ll go with you,” Matty said.

I pointed at Matty and looked at Crabbie. “See? The lad’s a thinker. Who’s going to have the better story for his memoirs?”

“He’ll need to learn to type first,” McCrabban said.

“Ok, down to the main business. We’ll need to find this Tommy Little character’s car. Matty, will you get working on that?”

“Aye.”

“And we’ll definitely need to visit his house. Today. Did he live alone? With a boyfriend? A cat? What? We’ll need to check that out. Crabbie, call up whatever the local barracks is and get a uniform over there to protect the evidence.”