Adrian McKinty - The Cold Cold Ground

I nodded and got to my feet.

“If any of your followers do feel the urge to hasten the work of the Millennium I hope you’ll dissuade them, Councillor Seawright. Murder is a crime too,” I said and left my card on his desk.

I picked up one of the Proof The Bible Is True pamphlets and walked out into the reception area. It would be an understatement to say that I was surprised to see Freddie Scavanni talking good-naturedly to Councillor Seawright’s secretary. He was wearing a tailored black silk suit with a black shirt and a black tie. Anywhere else you wouldn’t have given Freddie a second look but in Northern Ireland terms Scavanni was a bit of a dandy.

“Hello, Freddie,” I said cheerfully, “We were just coming to see you. Fancy you hanging out here. With Councillor Seawright of all people. That’s interesting isn’t it, Detective McCrabban?”

“Very interesting,” McCrabban agreed.

“What do you want see me about?” Scavanni asked, clearly irritated.

“We’ll wait for you upstairs and then we’ll talk,” I said, winked at him and we went up.

Freddie’s office was buzzing with earnest young men with beards and bell-bottomed corduroys. The women were in miniskirts and tight Aran sweaters and looked as if they’d bang you at the drop of a hat if you said you were on the run from the Johnnie Law.

I nodded at Scavanni’s secretary and waltzed into his office.

“Don’t worry, Freddie’s expecting us,” I said.

McCrabban lit his pipe and I read Proof The Bible Is True until Freddie came in fifteen minutes later.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, apparently in a better mood.

I passed him across the DUP pamphlet. “Fascinating stuff, Freddie. Your buddy Seawright down there thinks the fossils were placed under the ground by God to test our faith. Is that what you think?”

Freddie took the pamphlet and dropped it in the trash can.

“I don’t have time for games. As you can see, we are very busy at the moment.”

“What were you doing hanging with George Seawright? Aren’t you supposedly mortal enemies or something?”

“Don’t be naive, peeler.”

I nodded. Yeah. I had been naive. Freddie had something that Seawright didn’t. An aura, a charisma, an arrogance. He was relaxed. Too relaxed. Two detectives had come to see him about a murdered man and he didn’t even break a sweat. He was cool as a goddamned Irish summer.

When people like Freddie came into a room the gravity changed. You could feel it. Freddie had presence, like Billy Wright and Gerry Adams. Perhaps all players had it. Was that what Freddie was … a player?

I thought about it for a heartbeat or two.

“This job is largely a front isn’t it?” I suggested.

“What?”

“A front, a cover, a beard.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You work for the Force Research Unit too don’t you, Freddie?”

McCrabban looked at me in amazement.

“Never heard of them,” Freddie said.

“The FRU, the ‘nutting squad’, the IRA internal security unit.”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” he said with a shake of the head.

“Something’s been troubling me, Freddie. Tommy Little was the head of the Force Research Unit. He was coming over to see you the night he was murdered. If I’m an ordinary foot soldier and the head of the FRU is coming to see me I’d be shitting my pants. I’d be on a plane to fucking Indochina. But not you. Why is that, Freddie?”

“ I called him. About cars. Remember?”

“The story about the homosexual serial killer didn’t break for two full days after Tommy went missing. That’s two days in which the IRA knows one fact and one fact only: Tommy Little, the head of their internal security branch, is on his way to see you. Why aren’t you dead, Freddie? Why didn’t they torture you and kill you?”

He sighed. “I’m assuming these are not rhetorical questions.”

They had been twenty minutes ago but they weren’t now. If you were setting up a press office why have Councillor Seawright from the DUP in the same building? Surely office space in Belfast wasn’t that precious, was it? Why share a building with Seawright? I suppose the real question was why not? What have you got to fear if you’re FRU? If you’re FRU everybody else better watch out, not you. You certainly don’t fear a punk like Seawright.

I smiled, leaned back in the chair and tried another bluff: “I know who you are, Freddie. You’re FRU too, aren’t you? More than that. You were Tommy Little’s deputy, you were the second in command of the FRU.”

“Brilliant!” he said and laughed.

“Why was Tommy coming to see you? It crossed my mind that you and Tommy were having an affair. You’re a good looking guy, but that can’t be it, can it? If you’re homosexual you wouldn’t still be in this job, would you? There’s a purge going on right now to distance the IRA from this nasty business.”

“You have quite the imagination, officer. You’re clearly wasted in the RUC.”

“And Tommy wasn’t coming over to brace you, was he? If he was coming over on orders from the IRA Army Council he would have brought an entire team, wouldn’t he? Nah, he was coming over to consult you about something. The reason you’re not dead, Freddie, is because you’re still a valued member of the team, aren’t you?”

“Maybe he’s the one who’s leading the investigation into Tommy Little’s death? Maybe he’s the one bracing other people?” Crabbie said, jumping on the bandwagon. I liked that and I grinned at him.

“All this, the new job, the new office with the DUP just one floor below. Seawright’s UVF isn’t he? Seawright’s UVF, Billy White is UDA and you’re the brand new head of FRU and the new liaison between the loyalist paramilitaries and the IRA,” I said.

Freddie folded his hands across his lap and chuckled. “That’s a very good story. You boys should turn pro.”

“You want to hear a story? How about this? You wanted Tommy’s job so you fucking topped him and then you went and shot some random gay guy that you knew about. And you did this because the IRA army are a conservative bunch and they’d buy any old shite about poofters killing each other or a lunatic running around killing homosexuals,” I said.

Freddie grinned at me. He looked at McCrabban. “You must have a great time keeping up with him, I’ll bet you lads don’t even need TV down the station.”

“Do you like opera, Freddie?”

“Some.”

“Do you play an instrument?” I asked.

“A piano,” Scavanni said with an open easy grin. “Where the hell are you going with any of this?”

“What about Greek? Do you know Greek, Freddie?” I asked quietly.

“Ancient Greek?”

“Yes.”

“I studied it in school.”

“You know the story of Ariadne?”

“The Minotaur, of course.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t hum and ha. He just sat there, amused by me. Fifteen seconds went past. His grin widened a little.

I began to think that I was the one lost in the labyrinth.

I closed my eyes and tried to think.

The secretary said: “Mr Scavanni, the calls are stacked up, if you’re through here …”

“Gentlemen please, I’m really jam-packed today,” Freddie said.

I opened my eyes, got to my feet. “Let’s go, Crabbie,” I said and, turning to Scavanni, I added, “You and I will be talking again.”

“The next time you try and barge in here you better have a warrant, Sergeant Duffy. Some of us have work to do.”

I nodded, but did not reply.

We went outside and walked back to Queen’s Street police station.

In the cop shop we ate sandwiches and I found their local Special Branch rep and asked him if there was any intel at all on Freddie Scavanni. He pulled the folders. Freddie had a file, of course, but he’d been out of the game for at least six or seven years and had restricted his activity purely to the political side.