The Cold, Cold Ground

evidence. Young’s record was clean, no abuse allegations, no complaints against him. He may have been a gay man but he was sixty years old and seemed to live a largely celibate life style. Of course we would follow any and all leads on Andrew Young but it would befoolish not to hunt down everything we could on Little, even if it meant another visit to bandit country.
    “We’ve got nothing else. We have to follow up on this,” I said.
    “Well, I’m not going back into West Belfast after what happened last time. We’re sitting ducks. I’ll go with you to the Maze but not West Belfast,” Matty said.
    “Didn’t you hear what Sean said about your memoirs? Could be a whole chapter in this,” Crabbie said.
    “If I’m writing a book it’ll be about fly fishing. I am not going to the Falls Road.”
    Crabbie went to the machine to get us coffees. When he came back he had news. “The uniform we sent to Little’s house says he thinks it’s empty. Good for us if it is. Don’t need a warrant for a vacant property.”
    “Great for us. I mean, think about it lads, what if there’s a note on his fridge: ‘Off to see X, hope he doesn’t murder me’.”
    Alan laughed.
    “He was probably going to some well-known poofter place,” Crabbie said.
    “Aye, but where? Where do you go if you’re a poofter in Carrickfergus or Belfast? Is there a hangout? Is there a cottaging area?”
    Both Matty and McCrabban looked embarrassed by the very idea.
    And they were – or claimed to be – utterly clueless.
    “Do you know any benders, either of you?”
    “No thanks!” Crabbie said.
    “It doesn’t make you queer if you know a queer,” I said.
    “It doesn’t help, does it?”
    “Well, ask around, will ya?” I said.
    “Ask who?” Matty wondered.
    “I don’t know. Use your imagination! Go to the public toilets and ask some of the pervs hanging about.”
    “They’ll think I’m a perv!” Matty said, horrified.
    “And let’s pull out the stops on finding Tommy’s car, there’s bound to be forensic in it,” I said.
    When everyone had finished writing in their notebooks I got to my feet. “Ok lads, so we’re agreed, we’re going to go up to Tommy Little’s house on the Falls Road. Matty, you can either check out the toilets or you can come with us.”
    “Fine, I’ll do the bloody toilets. You boys are old. I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. I’m not going back to West Belfast after last time.”
    “What happened last time?” Alan asked.
    “Ach, it was nothing, some wee lads threw a couple of bottles at us. No big deal,” I said.
    Alan looked grave. Of course I hadn’t written about this in the logbook which only made it seem worse.
    “I’ll go with you and I’ll drive and we’ll bring a couple of cannon fodder just for the laugh of it,” Alan said.
    I looked at Crabbie. “I’d take his offer, boss. Sergeant McCallister is the best driver in the station,” Crabbie said.
    “Up the Shankill and down the Falls for the poor wee peeler it’s a kick in the balls,” Matty sang cheerfully.
    “Let’s hope not,” Crabbie said with a worried look on his beetle brows.

10: SITTING DUCKS
    We suited up in riot gear and all the boys checked their Sterling sub-machine guns out of the armoury, except for me, naturally, because I still hadn’t managed to return mine from Coronation Road.
    On the way out the door Chief Inspector Brennan saw us.
    “Where are you boys headed like it’s fucking Christmas?” he asked.
    “The Falls, we’re going to do a drop on Tommy Little’s house.”
    “Tommy Little is?”
    “Victim number one.”
    “Oh yeah. You wouldn’t mind if I tagged along, would you? Bit of a fug now after all the excitement of the press this morning,” Brennan said.
    “Nah, sir, better not, be a bit of a tight squeeze,” I replied, unwilling for this to become even more of a charabanc ride to the circus.
    Brennan was not to be deterred. “Won’t be a tight squeeze for me. I’ll be sitting in the front.”
    Cut to twenty minutes later: McCallister driving, Brennan next to him in the bird-dog seat, me, Crabbie and two gormless constables in riot gear, sweltering in the back. One of the constables was a woman. First one I’d seen in Carrick. Her name was Heather Fitzgerald and her cheeks were so red it was like they were on fire. Nice looking wee lass with her emerald eyes and curly black hair, timid as a mouse, too; it would be a realshame if we all copped it in some roadside