The Cold, Cold Ground

father,” Crabbie said.
    Hays lowered the shotgun.
    “Who were you expecting?” I asked pointing at the weapon.
    “You never know, do you?” Hays said.
    “Is this your house?” I asked.
    “It was my da’s. We used to come here now and again to get away from Belfast.”
    “You and Tommy Little?”
    “No comment.”
    “What do you do for a living, Mr Hays?” I asked.
    “I work for the forestry commission.”
    “Ah, interesting work, I’m sure. I’ve heard that as late as 1800 a squirrel could go from one side of Ireland to the other jumping from tree branch to tree branch.”
    “That’s about right,” he mumbled and narrowed his eyes.
    I’ve seen many a hold-out and this guy was as dour as they came. In normal circumstances he would be a tough interview, but fortunately for us he was frazzled, humiliated and best of all – angry.
    “Who told you not to speak to us, Mr Hays?”
    “Who do you think?”
    “The IRA?”
    “Them and my innate common sense.”
    “Can we come in, Mr Hays?”
    He shook his head.
    “Look, Mr Hays, I’m a detective sergeant at Carrickfergus RUC. I’m looking into Tommy’s death. Unlike your friends in the IRA who want this whole thing just to go away, I want to find the killer. I want to find out who did it.”
    “Tommy went out that night, that’s all I know,” Hays said and tried to shut the door.
    I got my foot in the jam and held it open.
    “Where did he go?”
    “I’m not saying anything more.”
    “Where did he go?” Crabbie asked.
    “I don’t know anything.”
    “Come on, we’re trying to find out who killed him,” I insisted. His eyes were filling with tears now but he still shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything. That much was made clear tome. I was tied to a fucking chair. They placed a gun against my forehead. I was told that I was lucky that I was being let live!”
    I took a deep breath and put my hand on his shoulder. “Just tell us where he was going,” I whispered.
    Hays glared at me but he kept his mouth shut.
    I looked at Crabbie. Of course we could take him in, but with a Sinn Fein lawyer in the room with him it would be the stone wall … Besides we both could see that he was caving.
    He was starting to tremble, not one big tremble but little shunts building towards climax, like people on the bus to the shrine of Our Lady of Knock.
    This was the big holy shit. This was grief.
    “We need to know where Tommy was going,” Crabbie said gently.
    “Who was he going to see, Walter?” I asked.
    Hays shook his head. “I read the paper. It’s nothing to do with Tommy’s job, is it? It was some nut randomly going round killing people. Killing queers!”
    He said the word “queers” with a sneer – the way he thought we said it.
    But it was too late now. He’d given us something important.
    Tommy’s job .
    “What did Tommy do for the IRA, Walter?”
    “You don’t even know that?” Hays said with contempt. “You boys are fucking clueless.”
    Crabbie and I shared an excited look.
    “What did he do, Walter?”
    “I’m telling you nothing!” Hays barked.
    Different tack now. Build it like a staircase.
    “Did Tommy’s car ever show up?” I asked.
    Walter shook his head.
    “What car did he drive?” Crabbie asked.
    “1978 blue Ford Granada, BXI 1263.”
    I wrote the licence plate down in my notebook.
    “How long were you and Tommy together?” I asked.
    “Four years.”
    “Four years. He must have meant the world to you. Come on, Walter. Don’t you want us to find Tommy’s killer?”
    “You’ll get nothing out of me. Nothing,” he said with a sob. “Now you’ll really have to leave!”
    I reached in my pocket to give him one of my cards but he wouldn’t take it.
    “If they find it in the house, they’ll top me for sure,” he said.
    There were real tears now.
    “It’s ok, mate,” I said. I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s ok,” I said. “It’s ok.”
    The tears flowed.
    A minute went by.
    He sniffed and pulled himself together. I looked him in the eyes.
    “Who was he going to see, Walter? Give us a name.”
    He sniffed again. A hint of flintiness in his expression. A resolution.
    “It’s two names,” he whispered.
    “Tell me.”
    “It won’t help you.”
    “Why not?”
    “Neither one of them is the killer. The IRA already did an internal investigation and both of them are still alive.”
    “Tell me anyway. Tell me the whole thing.”
    He wiped his nose. “All right. If it’ll