The Cold, Cold Ground

dozen houses for sale and a boarded-up ice cream shop. I thought she was going to talk but she had nothing to say.
    I offered some remarks about the weather and such but she wasn’t biting on those either.
    “Hey, you said you were at a loose end. You wanna come? We could do with your expertise,” I suggested and that was the hook she was looking for.
    “To the murder scene?” she asked. “Am I allowed?”
    “Of course you’re allowed. I’m the big Gorgonzola in these parts. Although fair warning, it might be on the grim side.”
    “You don’t know grim, pal, trust me … Still, I’m not really dressed for it,” she said.
    She was wearing a wool coat, slacks, heels, and a white blouse.
    “Go home, get changed.”
    “All right,” she said, perking up. “It’ll take my mind off things. Meet me at the flat in fifteen minutes?”
    “Ok.”
    She turned and walked briskly in the other direction.
    It’s all on/off off/on with that lass, I thought.
    I went inside the barracks. Matty had the Land Rover out ofits parking spot and Crabbie was standing next to it raring to go.
    “Jump in, Sean,” Crabbie said.
    “Hold your horses lads. With Chief Inspector Brennan gone to Belfast and with Burke and McCallister away too I’m senior officer here. I can’t just tear out of Dodge. We’ve got to go organize things.”
    On the way inside Carol stopped me.
    Wonderful woman Carol. Ageless. Thin, stooped, piercing blue eyes, hard as an iron bar. Had worked in Carrick station since 1941. On her second week on the job the barracks had been bombed by the Luftwaffe. A big Heinkel 111 who saw a target of opportunity near the railway station. The Luftwaffe! You gotta love it.
    “Mr Sean?” she said.
    “Yes?”
    “I was wondering if I could go home early today, I wanted to watch that programme about Lady Diana on BBC2.”
    “That’s fine, Carol,” I told her. I couldn’t really spare her but I knew better than to come between the great British public and Lady Di. The world could be going to hell in a handbasket but the Royal Wedding was in two months and that’s all that mattered.
    I went upstairs and asked which of the reservists had the most seniority.
    A trainee dentist called Jameson, who looked about eleven, put his hand up. He’d been in the force since ’79 which would have to do. I told him to call Inspector Mitchell who was technically Brennan’s deputy but in fact was almost never here because he more or less single-handedly ran the RUC substation in Whitehead.
    “Tell Mitchell that I’ve had to leave, maybe for the day and he probably should close Whitehead station and get up here. It’s his call, of course.”
    “And if he doesn’t come?” Jameson asked nervously.
    “Then you’re it, mate. The skipper’s gone and the sergeants are gone and now Carol’s gone. “
    He opened his mouth to speak, didn’t know what to say and closed his gob again. He looked petrified.
    “Out with it, man!” I ordered him.
    “Well, uh, I was just wondering what I should do if the IRA attack us while you’re away?”
    “Break out the machine guns and return fire. And don’t kill any tax-paying customers. Ok?”
    He nodded.
    “You know where the armoury key is?”
    “No.”
    “On the hook next to the fire extinguisher. Got that?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jesus,” I muttered as I went back downstairs. If I was an IRA mole in the RUC, this would be my moment to shine …
    I got in the Land Rover and kicked Matty out of the driver’s seat.
    I drove out of the station and over the series of speed bumps that were supposed to be a deterrent for a drive-by attack. I got into second gear and finally third and took the heavy vehicle along the Marine Highway.
    “We’re going to pick up Dr Cathcart on the way, lads,” I said.
    Neither Matty nor McCrabban seemed fazed by this.
    We stopped outside her place and she was already changed into Wellington boots and a white forensic boiler suit. “What does she look like!” Crabbie muttered.
    “ Clockwork Orange ,” Matty concurred.
    “We all should be wearing them things to avoid contamination,” I said. “Do you boys ever go to the training seminars?”
    “What training seminars?” Matty asked.
    “You wouldn’t catch me dead in one of them,” Crabbie said, although his orange shirt, paisley tie and beige jacket weren’t exactly Savile Row.
    “You lads get in the back. Our guest can ride up front with me.”
    There was an ancient police superstition that