Adrian McKinty - The Cold Cold Ground

“We can’t just let him shoot at us!” Heather said, her cheeks redder than ever with her blood up.

“No, by God, we can’t! We’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget!” Brennan answered her.

“Sir, we can’t fire into Divis Tower. It’s full of people,” I said.

“Sir, it’s actually a standing order for West Belfast, the rules of engagement do not permit return fire into the Divis Flats complex without permission of a Divisional Commander,” Sergeant McCallister added firmly.

There was another burst of fifty cal fire that shook us and sent fragments of steel plate sheering from the Land Rover’s side. It was like being inside a pin-ball machine.

Inside a pin-ball machine with the added frisson of imminent death.

The reserve constable whose name I didn’t get began throwing up between his legs.

“So what do you suggest, ya lily-livered scoundrels?” Brennan yelled.

“Sir, if they hit a tyre we’ll be stuck here so I suggest we drive around the bus and then maybe call the army, this is more their scene,” I said.

“Just fucking leave! What about the big picture? We’re here to enforce law and order. We can’t run away from every bloody fight.”

Yet, much to Brennan’s chagrin, run away we did.

We drove round the burning bus, reported the shooting to the army and sat in humiliated silence all the way back to Carrickfergus Police Station.

We parked the Rover and were all very impressed by the big chunks the fifty-cal had carved in the armour plate.

My good kit had a stink of vomit in it now, so I stripped it off, changed into my jeans and desk-drawer emergency Deep Purple concert T-shirt. I got one of the bored looking reserve constables to leave my suit at the dry cleaners and cornered Sergeant McCallister at the coffee machine. “Did you make that thing up about the rules of engagement?”

He nodded. “Of course I did. How would I bloody know the rules of engagement for West Belfast?”

I made a mug of sweet Irish breakfast tea for Constable Fitzgerald and gave it to her when she came out of the ladies toilets, looking pale and trembly.

“That was some fun today, wasn’t it?” I said.

She took the tea gratefully. “I’ve never been in a gun battle before,” she said.

“Not really a battle if only one side was shooting,” I said.

She was walking to the gloomy area for the reservists but I led her over to my desk by the window. “Sit over here where there’s light,” I said.

I let her rest her cute bum on my leather swivel chair.

“You have a nice view,” she said.

The tide was out and the beach was littered with shopping trolleys, beer cans, plastic bags, decaying seaweed, the remains of a Ford Escort which had been driven off the Fisherman’s Quay in 1978, dead fish, dead jellyfish, raw sewage and oil.

“Aye, it’s a lovely view,” I replied.

She sipped the tea appreciatively.

“This is good, what is it?” I explained the arcane secrets of the Tetley tea bag.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

“Greenisland now, Islandmagee originally,” she said.

“Is Islandmagee nice?”

“It’s very nice. When you go there it’s almost as if there are no Troubles.”

“I’d love to visit some time.”

She put down the tea and picked up one of my arrow and question mark-filled pieces of A4 paper. I had written in block capitals: “HOW DID HE SELECT HIS VICTIMS?”

“How did he select his victims?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but if we can find out then we might-”

There was a tap on my shoulder. It was McCrabban. He was smiling sleekitly at me. “Sorry to interrupt your work , Sean, but there’s a call for you on line #4.”

“Excuse me,” I said to Heather and pushed the button on line #4.

“Is that Sergeant Duffy?” a voice asked.

“Who’s this?”

“You don’t need to know my name, but we met earlier today,” he said.

Flunky #2.

“Go on,” I said.

“Tommy Little had a boyfriend. His name is Walter Hays. I don’t where he’s living now. We kicked him out.”

I wrote it down in my notepad. “Walter Hays. Got it. I’ll find him. Thank you,” I said.

Flunky #2 didn’t hang up.

“Is there anything else?” I asked hopefully.

“I read the Belfast Telegraph today.”

“Yes …”

“Tommy Little was not a man to hide anything. Everybody knew Tommy Little was queer.”

I didn’t see where he was going with this. “Ok, so what does that mean?”

“So you have to ask yourself, Sergeant Duffy, why were Tommy Little’s proclivities tolerated?”

“Why were his proclivities tolerated? What are you trying to say-”

But then it came to me. If Tommy Little was only an occasional driver for Sinn Fein officials he would have been kneecapped and drummed out of the movement long ago.

But he wasn’t an occasional driver, was he?

“They were tolerated because Tommy Little was important. Tommy was a player, that’s it, isn’t it?”

“Have a good evening, Sergeant Duffy.”

The line went dead.

I grabbed Crabbie and Matty and took them into one of the interview rooms and told them what had happened.

“What does this mean?” Matty asked.

“It means, Matty, that the RUC files are wrong about Tommy Little. That’s what it means. He was big,” Crabbie said.

“I want you to find out how important. I want you to bug Special Branch and MI5 and army intelligence if you have to. Somebody knows who this guy was and I want to know too,” I said.

Matty nodded.

I turned to McCrabban. “And you and I are going to find out where Walter Hays is living now and we are going to pay Mr Hays a wee visit.”

I walked out of the interview room and smiled at Heather.

“What time does your shift end, love?” I asked her.

“Seven,” she said.

“Have you ever eaten Indian food?”

“No.”

“Do you fancy a quick bite after work? Unwind a bit after the day’s events, you know?”

She looked sceptical. “Its not spicy, is it? I don’t do well with spicy.”

I shook my head. “Nah, where did you hear that? It’s fine. Listen, if I’m not back by seven would you do me a favour and wait for me? Get changed out of your kit and wait for me, ok?”

“Ok,” she said and gave me a beautiful smile.

Crabbie came out of the interview room with a piece of paper. “Stone walls on Tommy Little from the Brits of course but Special Branch say they’ll look into it. Meanwhile here’s Walter Hays’s address: 99 New Line Lane, Ballycarry.”

“Let’s take the Beemer,” I said. “I’ve had my fill of Land Rovers today.”

We went downstairs past the noticeboard. Someone had cut out the picture of Sergeant McCallister from the Belfast Telegraph . Unfortunately for Alan his mug was right under the word “homosexual”. The station wits had deleted the rest of the headline.

“Is this what passes for comedy around here?” I asked.

“Don’t ask me. I’m more of a Laurel and Hardy fan,” Crabbie said.

“And of course they slept in the same bed, didn’t they?”

Crabbie sighed, “That’s what’s wrong with the modern world, Sean. Cynical people like you. It was a more innocent time back then. But those days have gone forever.”

“They have indeed, mate, they have indeed.”

The sky was blue and Concorde was doing a big burn above our heads on the outward leg of the TransAt. We watched it for a moment before getting in the BMW and driving through the gate. Outside the police station a bunch of elderly Jesus freaks were singing about homosexuals, the Second Coming, and proclaiming that we coppers were agents of the anti-Christ.