The Cold, Cold Ground

few papers about this. At the present moment, no, but perhaps in a few years they will be able to do DNA sequencing or something like that. I’vefrozen a sample just in case.”
    I nodded. She was good.
    We sipped our tea.
    “Where’s the music?” she asked. “I thought we could figure it out together.”
    “I gave it to McCrabban. It’s a nineteenth-century opera. Italian. Other than that I have no idea. He’s getting it photocopied, either that or he’s run off screaming to the Witchfinder General. Good lad, McCrabban, but he’s from Ballymena. Different world up there.”
    “And you’re not from up there, are you?”
    “Geographically a little. Spiritually, no.”
    We looked at one another.
    “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
    “How do you know I’m a nice girl?”
    “The Malone Road accent, the fact that you’re a doctor …”
    “What’s your accent?”
    “Cushendun.”
    “Cushendun? Oh, that’s way up there, isn’t it? What primary school did you go to?”
    “Our Lady, Star of the Sea.”
    And just like that she had established that I was a Catholic. Of course I’d known she was a Catholic from the get-go because of the cross around her neck.
    She took another sip of her tea and added a decadent third cube of sugar.
    “No, seriously, you could be earning a fortune over the water,” I said.
    “Does it always have to be about money?”
    “What should it be about?”
    She nodded and tied back her hair. “My parents are here and my dad’s not very well.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “It’s his heart. It’s not fatal. Not immediately fatal. And bothmy little sisters are still here. What about you? Brothers, sisters?”
    “Only child. Parents still up in Cushendun.”
    “Only child?” she asked incredulously. She obviously thought that all country Catholics had twelve children each. The only possible explanation was that something terrible had happened to my mother. She gave me a pitying look that I found adorable.
    “So where did you go to uni, Queen’s?” I asked.
    “No, I was at the University of Edinburgh.”
    “And you still came back?”
    “Yup.”
    She didn’t ask me where I had gone to uni because in general coppers did not bother with college. She was more relaxed now and that lovely smile came back again.
    I was starting to like her.
    “So what do you make of everything that I told you?” she asked.
    I shook my head. “This was a pretty complex killing possibly disguised to look like the simple execution of an informer.”
    “Badly disguised.”
    “Maybe he thought we would never find the paper in the victim’s rectum.”
    “No, it was sticking out. It was quite obvious. And that’s what made me check for signs of rape.”
    “So he’s signposting everything. His working assumption is that we’re lazy and incompetent and he needs to underline everything. He put the body where he knew it would be found fairly soon. He’s bold and a bit too sure of himself and he has contempt for us. I imagine he’s had a few dealings with the cops over the years if that’s his attitude.”
    “Is the RUC not noted for its competence?” she asked with a slight sarcastic edge to her voice.
    “Oh, there are worse police forces but it’s not exactly Scotland Yard, is it?”
    “You’re the expert.”
    “When was the last time you’ve seen a male rape in the courseof your duty?” I asked.
    “Never.”
    “It’s not in the paramilitaries’ MO, is it?”
    “Not it in my limited experience.”
    “Both sides are extremely conservative. And the normal way they deal with informers is virtually identical.”
    “Is that so?” she asked, her eyebrows arching with interest.
    “There’s really no difference at all between your average IRA man and your average UVF man. The markers are always the same: working class, poor, usually an alcoholic or absent father. You see it time and again. Identical psycho-social profiles except for the fact that one identifies himself as a Protestant and one as a Catholic. A lot of them actually come from mixed religious backgrounds like Bobby Sands. They’re usually the hardcore ones, trying to prove themselves to their co-religionists.”
    “Sorry, you lost me there. Do you want a slice of cake or something? I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
    “I’m all right, but you go ahead,” I said. “Seeing John Doe all disembowelled like that has somewhat smothered my