The Cold, Cold Ground

the earlybird that catches the worm, sir,” he said.
    “Aye.”
    I checked to see if that fingerprint evidence had come in yet but of course it hadn’t. I reread the killer’s postcard and the tip from the Confidential Telephone. Nothing leapt out at me.
    I couldn’t think what else to do so I took my sleeping bag from out of my locker, lay down on the ancient sofa in the CID room and slept like a log until morning.

8: ORPHEUS IN THE UNDERWORLD
    McCrabban and McCallister’s faces staring at me. McCrabban holding a mug of coffee.
    “Thank you,” I said, sitting up in the sleeping bag and taking it. “What time is it?”
    “Nine,” McCallister said.
    “What day is it?” I asked.
    “Sunday,” Crabbie said.
    “You two came in on a Sunday? Why?” I wondered.
    “Well, I have a press conference to prepare for tomorrow and Crabbie and you are on an active murder investigation,” McCallister said.
    Crabbie grinned. “And we’re all on time and a half!” he announced with glee.
    “I’ve been here since four.”
    “Sleeping time doesn’t count,” McCallister said.
    I sipped the machine coffee. “I was just resting my eyes,” I muttered.
    McCallister rubbed my head. “Back to the coalface for me,” he said.
    Crabbie was wearing a suit today. As a detective he normally wore his own clothes which consisted of various outlandish jackets, shirts and ties. I hadn’t seen him in a proper suit before.
    “What gives with the threads?” I asked.
    “Had church this morning. And this evening. You wanna come? Leave aside your Romish superstition and follow the onetrue faith,” he said with a glint in his eyes – the only sign of a gag in his Spock-like visage.
    I had been to an Ulster Presbyterian church service before. It was a masterclass in boredom. The building itself was deliberately bland with no ornament or accoutrements, merely simple wooden benches and a pulpit upon which a picture of the burning bush had been draped. There was no kneeling, incense, overly stimulating hymns, or raised voices. The sermons were long and focused on obscure passages of the Bible.
    “I think I’ll give it a miss, mate,” I said.
    Crabbie’s shrug seemed to convey the notion that one hour of tedium was a small price to pay to avoid eternity in the hellfire.
    “Where’s Matty?” I asked.
    “Fishing in Fermanagh,” Crabbie said.
    “Doesn’t he care about this fabled time and a half?”
    “Nothing messes with his Sunday fishing.”
    I yawned and stretched. “Is there anything going on in the world?” I asked.
    “The rumour is that the power-station workers are going to go on strike.”
    “Any more hunger strikers die?”
    “Nope.”
    “Did we ever get that fax from Belfast about John Doe’s ID?” Crabbie shook his head. “We were supposed to get it yesterday morning. You know what I think?” he said.
    “What?”
    “I think it’s being repressed. I think John Doe is somebody important and Belfast is scrambling to lay the groundwork before releasing the information to us.”
    “You’re paranoid,” I scoffed and then reconsidered. “Although William Burroughs said that a paranoid is somebody who knows what is actually going on.”
    “Billy Burroughs said that? The guy that runs the fish shop?”
    I drank the rest of the coffee and stood up. “Let’s go roundthe hospital and see if our patho has made any progress,” I said.
    “All right.”
    It was only drizzling so we walked to Carrick Hospital along Taylor’s Avenue and over the railway bridge at Barn Halt. I stopped when we were halfway over.
    “I was here last night,” I said. “Checking out Lucy Moore’s vanishing act. I don’t see how she did it. A guy sees her waiting at the halt two minutes before the train is due to arrive. The train pulls in, her ma’s leaning out the window looking for her and she’s not there? How?”
    “Maybe somebody abducted her.”
    “Impossible. The platform was full of people.”
    “Maybe she got on the train but her mum missed her.”
    “It was only three carriages long and her ma looked in every one.”
    Crabbie shrugged. “Well, that’s all moot now, isn’t it?” he said.
    “Yeah, I suppose it is.”
    We went on. The rain and the fact that it was Sunday had deterred all but the hardiest of cases and the waiting room was empty except for one crazy-looking guy with his arm wrapped up in a DIY bandage made of toilet paper.
    Hattie Jacques saw us come in. “Good afternoon, gents. You’ll