The Cold, Cold Ground

files so we thought it best to call you.”
    “How did he die?”
    I filled him in on the details that we were prepared to reveal at this stage: Tommy had been shot and he was possibly the victim of a serial killer targeting homosexuals. I kept back the things I wasn’t prepared to reveal yet: the switched hands, the musical scores, the killer’s hit list, the postcard to me and the message to the Confidential Telephone.
    “You say this was in Carrickfergus?” Adams asked.
    “Yes, the Barn Field in Carrickfergus.”
    “What would Tommy be doing there?”
    “That’s not where he was murdered. He was murdered somewhere else and dumped there.”
    “And you think it’s a multiple murderer doing this? A serial killer? With all that’s going on?”
    “This would be an ideal time to do it, Mr Adams, with police resources stretched so thin.”
    “Someone’s going around killing homosexuals?”
    “That’s our working hypothesis. Did you know that Mr Little was a homosexual?”
    “Well, we, uh … we don’t pry into people’s private lives.”
    “Is there anything you can tell me about Mr Little’s movements or acquaintances or …”
    “No, I can’t. Thank you for getting in touch, Sergeant Duffy,” Adams said and hung up.
    “That was a little abrupt, wasn’t it, Gerry?” I said to myself. Igot out my notebook and wrote: “Adams … what does he know that he’s not saying.”
    Not that I would ever get a chance to interview him.
    “All right, I’m out of here!” I informed Preston and told him to man the ship until Sergeant Burke came in at eight o’clock.
    I drove home but when I got back to Coronation Road I remembered that there was no food in the fridge and I went to Mrs Bridewell to beg a can of soup and some bread. Mrs Bridewell looked like Joan Bakewell from off the telly. The “thinking man’s crumpet” – short black bob, cheekbones, blue eyes. Her husband had been laid off by ICI and like half the male population was currently looking for work.
    She asked if I wanted to join them for Sunday roast.
    “No, I just want some soup if you’ve got any. All the supermarkets are closed.”
    “Join us!” she insisted.
    I told her I didn’t want to impose but she dragged me in.
    “Sit down back down, everyone!” Mr Bridewell said in an old-fashioned country accent that you didn’t really hear any more. Everyone sat. There were two kids and a granny. The granny looked at me, pursed her deathly pale lips and shook her head. She was wearing a long black taffeta dress that had gone out of fashion with the passing of the late Queen Mary.
    We said Proddy grace.
    No wine, of course, but a pot roast, potatoes and mashed carrot and parsnip. I wondered how they could afford such a spread on Mr B.’s unemployment benefit but he explained that the meat was a free gift from the European Economic Community and there was plenty of it. I’d seen Bobby Cameron distributing this European meat – it was yet another way the paramilitaries got their hooks into people.
    Dessert was bread and butter pudding with custard – gooey and crispy and fabulous.
    After dinner I played a quick game of chess with their olderboy, Martin and tried to lose in a way that didn’t look condescending. My condescension quickly turned into a serious asskicking from him, as he knocked off my major pieces one by one and forced me to resign.
    I went home and flipped through the contemporary section of my record collection. What did I need? Led Zeppelin, The Undertones, The Clash, The Rolling Stones, Deep Purple, AC/DC, Motorhead? Nah, I wasn’t in that kind of mood. Carole King, Joan Baez, Joan Armatrading, Bowie? I flipped the sleeves and wondered if Tapestry might be ok to listen to. I stuck it on, made myself a vodka gimlet and lay on the sofa with the window open.
    Carole King reinterpreted her own song “Will You Love Me Tomorrow” that she had originally written for the Shirelles. King’s was the better version.
    Bobby Cameron pulled into the spot in front of his house. He was driving a white transit van. When he got out of it he was wearing a rolled-up balaclava. I could have arrested him on the spot for that. His sixth sense kicked in and he realised that someone was looking at him. He checked both sides of the street. He examined the terrace and spotted the open window.
    He saw that the watcher was only me. He gave me a finger wave and I gave him the slightest nod in return.
    I made myself another vodka