The Cold, Cold Ground

“And you and I are going to find out where Walter Hays is living now and we are going to pay Mr Hays a wee visit.”
    I walked out of the interview room and smiled at Heather.
    “What time does your shift end, love?” I asked her.
    “Seven,” she said.
    “Have you ever eaten Indian food?”
    “No.”
    “Do you fancy a quick bite after work? Unwind a bit after the day’s events, you know?”
    She looked sceptical. “Its not spicy, is it? I don’t do well with spicy.”
    I shook my head. “Nah, where did you hear that? It’s fine. Listen, if I’m not back by seven would you do me a favour and wait for me? Get changed out of your kit and wait for me, ok?”
    “Ok,” she said and gave me a beautiful smile.
    Crabbie came out of the interview room with a piece of paper. “Stone walls on Tommy Little from the Brits of course but Special Branch say they’ll look into it. Meanwhile here’s Walter Hays’s address: 99 New Line Lane, Ballycarry.”
    “Let’s take the Beemer,” I said. “I’ve had my fill of Land Rovers today.”
    We went downstairs past the noticeboard. Someone had cut out the picture of Sergeant McCallister from the Belfast Telegraph . Unfortunately for Alan his mug was right under the word “homosexual”. The station wits had deleted the rest of the headline.
    “Is this what passes for comedy around here?” I asked.
    “Don’t ask me. I’m more of a Laurel and Hardy fan,” Crabbie said.
    “And of course they slept in the same bed, didn’t they?”
    Crabbie sighed, “That’s what’s wrong with the modern world, Sean. Cynical people like you. It was a more innocent time back then. But those days have gone forever.”
    “They have indeed, mate, they have indeed.”

11: THE FRIENDS OF TOMMY LITTLE
    The sky was blue and Concorde was doing a big burn above our heads on the outward leg of the TransAt. We watched it for a moment before getting in the BMW and driving through the gate. Outside the police station a bunch of elderly Jesus freaks were singing about homosexuals, the Second Coming, and proclaiming that we coppers were agents of the anti-Christ.
    It was a sizeable crowd and a mobile chip van had parked up the road selling chips, fried dough and hot jam doughnuts.
    “Doughnut?” I asked Crabbie.
    “Wouldn’t say no.”
    We got half a dozen and drove up into the country.
    New Line Lane was just off New Line Road about a mile from the village of Ballycarry.
    There were a lot of potholes and the bramble bushes closed in tightly on both sides of the track to such an extent that it made me worried about the paintwork.
    When we finally came to the cottage it wasn’t large: merely one floor, whitewashed stone, cubby windows and a thatched roof. No doubt tourists would have gone apeshit for it and no doubt the occupant complained about the leaks and the damp. Blue turf smoke was curling from the chimney.
    I parked the Beemer, got out, and glanced behind me, down the lane, to the grey tongue of Belfast Lough and beyond it to the yellow cranes of the shipyards in Harland and Wolff. Thecity looked peaceful as it always did from up here. There was no fire but you could tell something serious was going on because of the number of choppers hovering over the Ardoyne: two Gazelles, a Sea King and a Wessex.
    The sun had made an appearance so I left my raincoat in the cab. It wasn’t that professional to do your police work in a Deep Purple T-shirt, but what could you do?
    We knocked on the little wooden door, which had been painted a fetching shade of green.
    “Mr Hays?” Crabbie asked.
    The door opened. Hays was tall and thin, about twenty-five. He was wearing blue-tinted John Lennon glasses and his blond hair was gelled. He was wearing white jeans and a white shirt. He had a bruise on his cheek and a split lip, barely healed from when – without a doubt – the IRA had interrogated him about Tommy’s death. He was pointing a double-barrelled 12-gauge shotgun at us.
    “Can I help you?” he asked in a well-to-do South Belfast accent.
    “We’re the police. We’re looking into the death of Tommy Little,” I said, showing him my warrant card.
    “I’ve got nothing to say,” Hays replied, before reading the card carefully.
    “Until recently were you living with Tommy Little on 44 Falls Crescent?”
    “Until yesterday,” he muttered.
    “Until the IRA kicked you out?”
    “No comment.”
    “Maybe you could aim that shotgun away from my bollocks, I’m about to become a