Adrian McKinty - The Cold Cold Ground

The other man ignored this. “Seamus, get back to your section. Remember you’ve got a phone call with America this morning!”

“Ok, Freddie,” Seamus said and, with a little nod to me, walked quickly towards the exit.

“And now, you might want to be running along, peeler,” Freddie said. He was a big lad, six three and built, but he was relaxed and he wore his size well. He had a dark complexion and he was wearing a tailored blue suit and a green silk tie. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail. A little badge on his lapel said PRESS OFFICER. Adams was in his bog-standard white Aran sweater and he looked scruffy in comparison with his companion. The contrasts didn’t end there. Freddie had dark brown, almost black, eyes and a long, continental nose and he was a good-looking cove and he knew it. Adams’s vibe was all puffy left-wing history teacher, with his full beard, thick glasses and unkempt brown hair flecked with the occasional strand of grey.

“You’re not Freddie Scavanni, are you, by any chance?” I said to the second man.

He was taken aback. “What of it?” he asked, visibly nonplussed.

“I’ve been trying to have a wee talk with you too,” I said. “I called up Sinn Fein twice yesterday, I got nowhere.”

“We don’t have wee talks with the peelers,” Freddie said.

Adams and Freddie turned to go.

“Hold the phone, lads, this’ll only take two seconds,” I begged them.

“We have a busy morning, we have to get back to headquarters,” Adams said.

“I just need one second of your time, boys,” I said, getting in front of them.

It was alleged that Gerry Adams was on the IRA Army Council and thus could pretty much have anyone in Ireland killed at any time if he wanted. His “Get out of our way, constable, or you’ll regret it” stare was therefore a solid down payment on a year’s worth of nightmares.

“Aye, let’s get some fresh air, Gerry,” Freddie said.

“Wait! You’re going to want to listen to this: I think we can help each other,” I said.

“How so?” Adams asked.

“I spoke to you, yesterday, Mr Adams, I’m the lead investigator into the death of Tommy Little and I need to speak to Mr Scavanni about Tommy. Tommy was on his way to see Mr Scavanni when he disappeared.”

I had hoped to maybe surprise Adams with this information but he obviously knew it already. It made sense. Scavanni wouldn’t still be working for the movement if he hadn’t been investigated and cleared by the IRA.

“Now what we probably have on our hands here, Mr Adams, is a serial killer preying on homosexuals. That’s a pretty sensational story and as soon the Ripper Trial concludes in England, the British tabs are going to be desperate for something like that until the actual Royal Wedding. This is where our interests coincide. You’d like the press to keep its focus turned on the hunger strikes but if this serial-killer story gets momentum, it’s going to be bad news for you and your lads. Imagine dying for Ireland and nobody cares because the new Irish Ripper has taken all the headlines. They’re not going to like that, are they?”

Adams shook his head dismissively “I don’t like your flippant tone, young man. It’s trivializing an important matter. Now, if you don’t mind-”

“An IRA man is mixed up with a gay serial killer? Is that really a distraction you can afford to have this summer? Wouldn’t you rather have your boy Scavanni cooperate with us, tell me what he knows, help me catch this nutcase and hey presto: distraction over, hunger strike number one story again and the brave struggle by your volunteers can resume its rightful place on all the front pages.”

Adams looked at Scavanni who merely shrugged.

I could see that it made sense to both of them.

“Again, I don’t like your tone, but in this case I suppose our interests do converge. We, uh, we have not made much progress finding out who killed Tommy Little,” Adams said.

“Mr Scavanni?” I said.

“I’m not sure how I can help. Tommy never made it to see me that night but if you want to chat about it come to my office at noon today. Bradbury House #11,” Scavanni said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

“See, I knew we’d all become fast friends,” I said with a wink at Matty.

“Maybe we could all go to the pictures some time,” Matty said dead pan.

“Aye, if those cheeky boys would only stop blowing up all the cinemas.”

They walked away from me in disgust.

When they were gone Matty and allowed ourselves a little laugh.

I was quite pleased with our work and after we got back in the Land Rover I put in a tape of Stiff Little Fingers. It was bucketing now and the rain was coming in sideways from Lough Neagh. Matty was no Stiff Little Fingers fan and was less impressed with what we had achieved. “That was a waste of time,” he muttered.

“We got an interview with Scavanni.”

“What’s that, another bloody trip to Belfast? Another pointless interview. He’s IRA, he’s not going to tell us anything. And if he did, what difference would it make? He says Tommy Little never made it to his house and if that’s a lie the IRA would have found out about that and he wouldn’t be standing next to Gerry bloody Adams, would he?”

It was a valid point but I didn’t like Matty’s negativity.

If McCrabban disagreed with you he just sat there and said nothing.

And if he agreed with you, he also just sat there and said nothing.

“I just don’t see where this gets us in either investigation,” Matty went on.

“We’ve made progress! I don’t think the husband had Lucy killed,” I replied as I flipped the volume and the window wipers to maximum.

“We didn’t think he’d had her killed before. We didn’t think anybody had her killed,” Matty protested.

We drove through the gates past a long line of protesters, journos and other rabble gathering outside the fence.

“Bloody hunger strikers, they’re never going to win,” Matty said sourly.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you ever root for the underdog? You’d be on the side of the Sheriff of Nottingham.”

“We are the Sheriff of Nottingham, Sean.”

I pulled over the Land Rover at a spot where cameramen were jostling for position on a little hill that gave you a shot down onto the H Blocks themselves.

“Hey friend, I’ll give you twenty pounds if you’ll let me take some snaps from the roof of your vehicle,” a Yank photographer said to me as I walked round to the passenger’s side.

“The cheek of ya. This isn’t Bongo Bongo Land mate. We are the incorruptible representatives of Her Majesty’s Government. I will, however, accept a hundred-quid donation to the police widows benevolent fund and you’re to be quick about it.”

He climbed onto the bonnet, took some nice shots and gave me two crisp fifty-pound notes.

I gave one to Matty and kept the other.

Matty put the Land Rover in gear and headed for the M2 motorway.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Betty Dennis Florist on the Scotch Quarter in Carrick,” I told him.

We avoided the rush hour and were back in Carrickergus in fifteen minutes.

A dock strike had been called so there were panicked queues of people outside the supermarket and the grocers but no one wanted to waste their few coppers on flowers so I had no problem at Betty Dennis’s. I bought carnations, which are a nice neutral sort of flower. Boring yes, but neutral.

“Carrick Hospital,” I told Matty.

We parked the Rover and walked to reception with the flowers.

Hattie Jacques. Unsmiling.

I gave her the flowers.

“These are for Dr Cathcart,” I said.

“I’ll make sure she gets them,” Hattie said.