The Cold, Cold Ground

Relocated to Cork 1950 and to Belfast 1951. Father one of the many Italian immigrants who came to Ireland just after the war. Educated on a scholarship at the Portora Royal School, Enniskillen. 12 O-Levels. 3 A-Levels. Another smart kid. Interned for IRA membership 1972 and released in 1973. BA in journalism from Queen’s University Belfast 1976. Currently Sinn Fein press officer. Current IRA rank: unknown.
    I closed both files and put them on my desk.
    I called up Sinn Fein HQ and asked to speak to Scavanni but they told me to take a long, spiritually fulfilling walk into the nearest peat bog.
    “Oi, Crabbie, remember when the chief said that it was great that we had a nice wee normal murder case for once that didn’t involve the paramilitaries or have a sectarian angle?”
    “Yeah,” he said sourly, looking at his watch.
    “I’m not sure we have that any more.”
    I rubber-banded the files on Scavanni and White and chucked them over to him. He read them and whistled.
    It was five o’clock. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day, mate,” I said. “You better go home.”
    “Busier than today?” he asked.
    “Oh aye. We’re going to interview Lucy Moore’s ma and da and her husband in the Maze to close that investigation andthen we’re going to have to interview our two new best friends: Freddie and Billy.”
    “I’ll be late in, Sean. I have to go to Derry tomorrow for me Uncle Tom’s funeral,” Crabbie said.
    “All right then, it’ll be a busy day for Matty.”
    “I’ll write those names up on the scoresheet.”
    Crabbie wrote FREDDIE SCAVANNI and BILLY WHITE on the whiteboard.
    He put on his coat. “Is it really ok if I go on home?”
    “Aye.”
    “What about me?” Matty asked.
    “Jesus, you’re here? Where are you?”
    “Lying on the floor by the radiator.”
    “Why?”
    “My back’s killing me. I must have done something to it. I could barely reel in that ten-pounder yesterday. I should be off on sick leave.”
    “No sick leave! Did you find out where the homosexuals go to do their business?”
    “No.”
    “Did you find where Lucy Moore’s been hiding since Christmas?”
    “No.”
    “Did you find out if there was a link between Tommy Little and Andrew Young?”
    “No.”
    “Did you find out what Tommy Little really did for a living?”
    “No.”
    “Brilliant. All right, you can go home too.”
    Matty grinned and thanked me. When they were both gone, I turned on the portable TV to catch the Six O’Clock Northern Ireland News. Our story was only the fifth lead, behind a bus bombing, the Royal Wedding, the hunger strikes and an attack on an army helicopter: Two homosexual men had been shot inpossibly related incidents. The BBC, in their wisdom, interviewed Belfast City Councillor George Seawright of the DUP, who, as a responsible elected representative called homosexuals an “abomination under God deserving of the very worst torments of hell”.
    I turned down the sound and called Special Branch and asked them to send me their latest intel files on the IRA High Command and Army Council. Then I called the Northern Ireland Prison Service to ask how you went about interviewing a prisoner on hunger strike.
    Until Heather Fitzgerald’s shift ended I killed some time working up my psych profile of the killer, but there wasn’t a whole lot to go on. Male 25-50. Intelligent. Into classical music. Into mythology. Knowledge of Greek? That didn’t really narrow it down as I’d learned Latin and Greek as did most kids who went to Catholic school or a Proddy Grammar.
    At seven o’clock Heather and I walked to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant on North Street. We were the only customers.
    She had changed into her civvies: a black sweater, long brown skirt and short-heeled boots. She’d kept her end up and she looked lovely.
    I ordered half a dozen things off the menu and instead of any of that they just brought us what they’d already made. The waiter grew strangely evasive when I asked for details so I didn’t press him. She pecked at her food like a bird, eating practically nothing. I hadn’t had a proper meal in days and I scarfed what she left.
    We were both on three Kingfishers when we walked hand in hand down to the Dobbins on West Street. She wanted a gin and tonic and I got a pint of bass.
    Two more drinks and we were getting on famously.
    She went off to the toilet and I stood by the fireplace watching the peat bricks crack.
    “I thought you might be here,” a voice