The Cold, Cold Ground

in my Converse gutties. Gently down onto the leaves, onto the twigs, gently right up behind the fucker.
    I placed the barrel of the .38 on his neck.
    “Drop the gun and slowly put your hands on your head.”
    He did as he was told.
    I took a step backwards. “Laura! It’s all right now! I’ve got him.”
    “Are you sure?” she called back.
    “See if you can find my raincoat, it’s got my handcuffs in it.”
    Scavanni turned and looked at me. He was grinning. I felt like pistol-whipping that smile off his fucking face.
    Laura gave me the raincoat. Her face was flushed. Her chest heaving. For an insane second I wanted to blow his brains out and lay her down and fuck her into next week.
    “Hold your hands out!” I said to Scavanni. “Laura, reach into the pocket, take out my handcuffs and cuff him.”
    She seemed reluctant.
    “Don’t worry, if he so much as twitches, I’ll put one in his left ear.”
    “It’s not that. How do these things work?” she asked.
    “Put his hands in and close them tight,” I explained.
    “Oh, I see.”
    She cuffed him.
    “What now, Sergeant Duffy?” Scavanni said.
    “Now, Mr Scavanni, we go back to the house, I call Detective Chief Inspector Todd and he shows up with a bunch of men anxious to have a wee chat with you. You get lifted, I get a fucking medal and maybe a promotion and you get life in prison. Probably in solitary cos I think they’ll be out to make an example of you, won’t they?”
    Scavanni did not seem ruffled or concerned in any way.
    “There’s a phone in my living room,” he said.
    “All right, let’s go.”
    We went back inside the garden walls. His car was in the driveway and the front door was open. The phone call to his office had obviously spooked him and he had driven home to see what, if anything, was up. Better for me.
    “Why did you kill her?” Laura asked him.
    “My dear, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Scavanni said.
    “Dr Laura Cathcart. Pathologist.”
    “Charmed. Freddie Scavanni, Sinn Fein Press Officer,” Freddie said.
    “Why did you kill her?” she asked again.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”
    “Who were you shooting at in the woods?”
    “I thought it was that dreadful fox again. He causes havoc in my bird feeder. I suppose I should have gotten the shotgun.”
    “Fox my arse. You saw us near the car. You knew the game was up. There’s no point running your bullshit any more, Freddie.”
    We reached the living room and I put Freddie in the beanbag chair. Laura sat in the sofa and I sat in the chair next to the phone.
    “Before you call Carrick RUC, would you indulge me in my one phone call?” Freddie asked.
    “No fucking way.”
    “I think you’ll find that it explains everything.”
    “Yeah, it goes right to an IRA hit squad who’ll speed down here and try and save you before the coppers come.”
    “Oh no,” Freddie said. “Nothing like that. It’s a London number. 01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, tell them it’s Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”
    “Pardon?”
    “01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, you tell them Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”
    “What are you playing at, Scavanni?”
    “Dial the number. You’ll see. If you don’t, your entire career will go down the shitter.”
    “Don’t threaten me, my lad!”
    “That’s not a threat, believe me. Call the number. And if at any stage you are not completely happy, immediately hang up and call Carrick RUC. What have you got to lose?”
    “Well, I’m slightly curious,” Laura said, still flushed and excited by it all.
    “All right, I’ll indulge you. Consider this your phone call. And if I don’t like it I’m hanging up.”
    “It’s a deal.”
    I dialled 01 793 9000.
    “Hello? Who’s calling, please?” a young female, English voice said.
    “Stakeknife.”
    “What is your four-digit reference number, Stakeknife?”
    “1146.”
    “Thank you, Stakeknife, I’m putting you through to Mr Allen.”
    There was a pause and then a man came on. An older Englishman.
    “What is it, Stakeknife?”
    “Who is this?”
    “Who’s this? How did you get this number?” Allen demanded.
    “My name is Detective Sergeant Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC,” I said.
    “Where’s Stakeknife?”
    “He’s nice and safe.