The Cold, Cold Ground (17 page)

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.”

“They won’t like it.”

“But you’ll make them do it.”

“Aye,” he said and made the call.

“Now let’s go through what we’ve got so far …”

We reread the patho reports as a team and went through the physical evidence. We discussed motivations and theories. I was the only one who knew anything about serial killers and I gave them some of the standard feeders – childhood trauma, witnessing violence, peer rejection – which unfortunately covered about half the citizenry of Belfast. Another feeder, of course, was juvenile or adult detention – that also covered a healthy percentage of the population.

“Somebody who hates queers probably had a bad experience with one when they were a kid,” Crabbie offered, and gave me a quick glance under his eyelids. It was, I knew, the common perception among Protestants that all Catholic altar boys had been raped by priests in their childhood. I saw that there was no point trying to argue so I decided that logic might be a better tack: “I think that kind of anger would be directed at the individual, not at random targets,” I said and then a thought occurred to me. “If these are random targets.”

McCrabban nodded. “They’re linked by the hands and the bullets. Could they be linked some other way?”

“Good point. Matty, will you look into that?”

Matty nodded.

Sergeant McCallister popped his head in through the door. “Mind if I sit in, lads? I won’t open my bake.”

“Alan, mate, any contributions you could offer would be greatly appreciated.”

McCallister sat down next to me. I sipped my coffee and continued: “I don’t know what you lads think but I think the key to this investigation so far is victim number one. Tommy Little. Where was he killed, when was he killed, who was he living with?”

Matty picked up a piece of a paper. “According to the notes there was no next of kin in Ireland. Older brother in Australia. He worked for Sinn Fein as a driver and quote security guard unquote. Bit of a loner, I imagine.”

“Yes, but we’ll need to find out his movements somehow, won’t we? A neighbour, a friend. Somebody must know something,” I said.

“No one will speak to us. And we’ll be lynched if we go up there. He lived on the Falls Road,” Matty said.

“He’s right. They have a policy with the peelers: whatever you say, say nothing,” Crabbie said.

I shook my head. “One of their own was killed by some nut. I think they’ll cooperate.”

Alan put his hand on my arm. “If I may, Sean … the IRA find out one of their own was killed in some kind of sordid homosexual encounter? I think they’re going to brush the whole thing under the rug and pretend he never existed. What if the money men in Massachusetts find out that their hard-earned dollars are going to a bunch of poofs? No, no, no. If you go up there you’ll be meeting the stone wall.”

He had a point. But if we didn’t pursue the Tommy Little angle we didn’t have much of anything. Andrew Young was killed in his house with no witnesses and no forensic evidence. Young’s record was clean, no abuse allegations, no complaints against him. He may have been a gay man but he was sixty years old and seemed to live a largely celibate life style. Of course we would follow any and all leads on Andrew Young but it would be
foolish not to hunt down everything we could on Little, even if it meant another visit to bandit country.

“We’ve got nothing else. We have to follow up on this,” I said.

“Well, I’m not going back into West Belfast after what happened last time. We’re sitting ducks. I’ll go with you to the Maze but not West Belfast,” Matty said.

“Didn’t you hear what Sean said about your memoirs? Could be a whole chapter in this,” Crabbie said.

“If I’m writing a book it’ll be about fly fishing. I am not going to the Falls Road.”

Crabbie went to the machine to get us coffees. When he came back he had news. “The uniform we sent to Little’s house says he thinks it’s empty. Good for us if it is. Don’t need a warrant for a vacant property.”

“Great for us. I mean, think about it lads, what if there’s a note on his fridge: ‘Off to see X, hope he doesn’t murder me’.”

Alan laughed.

“He was probably going to some well-known poofter place,” Crabbie said.

“Aye, but where? Where do you go if you’re a poofter in Carrickfergus or Belfast? Is there a hangout? Is there a cottaging area?”

Both Matty and McCrabban looked embarrassed by the very idea.

And they were – or claimed to be – utterly clueless.

“Do you know any benders, either of you?”

“No thanks!” Crabbie said.

“It doesn’t make you queer if you know a queer,” I said.

“It doesn’t help, does it?”

“Well, ask around, will ya?” I said.

“Ask who?” Matty wondered.

“I don’t know. Use your imagination! Go to the public toilets and ask some of the pervs hanging about.”

“They’ll think I’m a perv!” Matty said, horrified.

“And let’s pull out the stops on finding Tommy’s car, there’s bound to be forensic in it,” I said.

When everyone had finished writing in their notebooks I got to my feet. “Ok lads, so we’re agreed, we’re going to go up to Tommy Little’s house on the Falls Road. Matty, you can either check out the toilets or you can come with us.”

“Fine, I’ll do the bloody toilets. You boys are old. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. I’m not going back to West Belfast after last time.”

“What happened last time?” Alan asked.

“Ach, it was nothing, some wee lads threw a couple of bottles at us. No big deal,” I said.

Alan looked grave. Of course I hadn’t written about this in the logbook which only made it seem worse.

“I’ll go with you and I’ll drive and we’ll bring a couple of cannon fodder just for the laugh of it,” Alan said.

I looked at Crabbie. “I’d take his offer, boss. Sergeant McCallister is the best driver in the station,” Crabbie said.

“Up the Shankill and down the Falls for the poor wee peeler it’s a kick in the balls,” Matty sang cheerfully.

“Let’s hope not,” Crabbie said with a worried look on his beetle brows.

10:
SITTING DUCKS

We suited up in riot gear and all the boys checked their Sterling sub-machine guns out of the armoury, except for me, naturally, because I still hadn’t managed to return mine from Coronation Road.

On the way out the door Chief Inspector Brennan saw us.

“Where are you boys headed like it’s fucking Christmas?” he asked.

“The Falls, we’re going to do a drop on Tommy Little’s house.”

“Tommy Little is?”

“Victim number one.”

“Oh yeah. You wouldn’t mind if I tagged along, would you? Bit of a fug now after all the excitement of the press this morning,” Brennan said.

“Nah, sir, better not, be a bit of a tight squeeze,” I replied, unwilling for this to become even more of a charabanc ride to the circus.

Brennan was not to be deterred. “Won’t be a tight squeeze for me. I’ll be sitting in the front.”

Cut to twenty minutes later: McCallister driving, Brennan next to him in the bird-dog seat, me, Crabbie and two gormless constables in riot gear, sweltering in the back. One of the constables was a woman. First one I’d seen in Carrick. Her name was Heather Fitzgerald and her cheeks were so red it was like they were on fire. Nice looking wee lass with her emerald eyes and curly black hair, timid as a mouse, too; it would be a real
shame if we all copped it in some roadside bomb and she got that pretty face blown to smithereens.

“What’s the address?” McCallister asked as we hit West Belfast.

“33 Falls Court off the Falls Road,” I said.

Falls Road was not as bad as we’d been expecting. Sure there was a mad press scrum outside the Sinn Fein advice centre and there were police checkpoints and a couple of army helicopters up, but most people were just getting on with their business, going to the grocers, the butchers, the milk shop and of course the pub and the bookies.

Falls Court was another one of those murderous dead-end streets that peelers hated and number 33, naturally, was right at the end.

“Alan, when you get to the house, turn us round, keep the engine on, me and the constables will deploy and prepare to give covering fire while Crabbie and Sean can go inside and do their fancy-pants detecting,” Brennan said.

“Sounds good to me,” I concurred.

“And if you hear shooting, come out,” Brennan added with a grin.

He was enjoying this, the old goat.

The Land Rover stopped and Brennan and the two reserve constables disembarked, pointing their Sterlings at the cardinal points of the compass.

Crabbie and I walked over to #33. It was the last house in a typical red-brick terrace which had a huge new mural of Bobby Sands and Frankie Hughes on the gable wall and above them in big white letters Patrick Pearse’s quote from 1915: “The fools, the fools, they have given us our fenian dead!”

Crabbie and I looked at the mural and each other. We both were thinking the same thing: aye, this is how you grow a movement.

There were two men sitting on plastic chairs outside #33:
short hair, spiderweb tats, denim jackets, white T-shirts, drainpipe thin bleached jeans, DM boots. They were IRA enforcers and they were probably packing heat. If we’d wanted to we could have arrested them for that but why give ourselves the aggravation?

I didn’t know why they were sitting there or why the front door of the house was open.

The constable I had sent over had put up some yellow “Police Evidence: Do Not Enter” tape on the front door, tape which was now lying in a heap at the men’s feet.

“Is this Tommy Little’s house?” I asked.

“What the fuck do you want, peeler?” one of the men asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, world peace, an explanation for why they stopped making Puffa Puffa Rice, news that Led Zeppelin have finally got a replacement drummer for Bonzo … that kind of thing,” I said.

The IRA men were unimpressed by the banter. “You’re not welcome around here and if I were you I’d tootle on home,” the other man said, a greasy character with quite the face full of zits.

I pulled out my service revolver. “Let me be clear about this, sunshine, I don’t
tootle
anywhere!” I said and went inside.

I heard the other IRA man stifle a guffaw.

Crabbie followed me in.

We saw immediately that we were too late.

The house had been completely stripped. No furniture, no carpets, no pictures on the wall, nothing. It was as if Tommy Little had never existed.

We went upstairs but that was stripped too.

They had already sold or burned Tommy’s stuff, no doubt distancing themselves from every aspect of his life. Nobody wanted the complication of being mixed up with a gay serial killer just when they were getting their biggest propaganda victory in decades.

“It’s like Trotsky. They’re erasing him from history,” I said.

We went back downstairs to Flunky #1 and Flunky #2.

“What did you do with Tommy’s gear? The Salvation Army?” I asked.

Flunky #2 shook his head. “We dumped it all at a Proddy bonfire.”

“Does he have any next of kin apart from the brother in Oz? Kids, nephews, nieces?” I asked. Nothing had come up in the files but there was no harm in asking.

“Tommy wasn’t the fucking parental type, was he?” Flunky #1 said.

“No friends, family, nothing like that?” I asked.

“Tommy’s fucking dead to us! Fucking queer got what was coming,” Flunky #1 muttered.

“These lads are no help. Let’s get out of here, mate,” Crabbie said.

“Tommy was murdered by some nutcase and I want to find out who killed him, so if either of you can think of something, give me a call, please.”

I handed them each one of my cards which had my name and the number of Carrick CID.

Flunky #1 looked at the card and looked at me.

“Are you a Catholic?” he asked.

“Yeah, I am. Well spotted.”

He spat on the ground. “You’re a fucking traitor, that’s what you are. Taking the fucking King’s shilling. How do you sleep at night?”

I leaned in close so that my nose was an inch from his pointy neb.

“Usually on my left-hand side, with a big, fluffy pillow and my favourite Six Million Dollar Man pyjamas,” I said in a gravelly Clint Eastwood voice.

Flunky #2 and Crabbie both laughed.

We walked back to the Land Rover and everyone got inside.

“Any information?” Brennan asked.

“A total bust,” Crabbie said. “They’ve stripped the house and are moving somebody else in already.”

Brennan raised his eyebrows at me. “What did I tell you?” he said.

“You were right, sir,” I replied.