The Cold, Cold Ground

anybodywould have wanted her dead.”
    Seamus shook his head, but I could tell he was thinking it over.
    “I don’t think so,” he said at last.
    There was a but in there.
    “But …” I began.
    “Well,” he looked behind him and lowered his voice. “The old-timers might not have taken too kindly to her getting knocked up while I’m up for me stretch.”
    “Even after you got divorced?” I said.
    Seamus laughed. “In the eyes of the church there is no divorce, is there?”
    I was about to follow up on this but before I could a voice yelled to us from the other side of the visitor’s room.
    “What is going on in here?”
    I turned and saw Sinn Fein President, Gerry Adams, and another tall man that I didn’t know, marching towards us. Matty and I stood up.
    Adams was furious. “Are you a peeler? Are you a cop? Who gave you permission to talk to one of the martyrs?” Adams demanded.
    “Shouldn’t you wait to call them martyrs until after they’re dead?” I said.
    This was the wrong thing to say.
    Adams’s beard bristled.
    “Who gave you permission to talk to our comrade?”
    “I’m investigating the death of his ex-wife.”
    The other man got in my face. “You are not permitted to talk to any of the prisoners in our wing of Long Kesh without a solicitor being present,” he said in a soft southern-boarding-school/almost-English accent.
    “Seamus doesn’t mind,” I insisted.
    The other man ignored this. “Seamus, get back to your section. Remember you’ve got a phone call with America this morning!”
    “Ok, Freddie,” Seamus said and, with a little nod to me, walked quickly towards the exit.
    “And now, you might want to be running along, peeler,” Freddie said. He was a big lad, six three and built, but he was relaxed and he wore his size well. He had a dark complexion and he was wearing a tailored blue suit and a green silk tie. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail. A little badge on his lapel said PRESS OFFICER. Adams was in his bog-standard white Aran sweater and he looked scruffy in comparison with his companion. The contrasts didn’t end there. Freddie had dark brown, almost black, eyes and a long, continental nose and he was a good-looking cove and he knew it. Adams’s vibe was all puffy left-wing history teacher, with his full beard, thick glasses and unkempt brown hair flecked with the occasional strand of grey.
    “You’re not Freddie Scavanni, are you, by any chance?” I said to the second man.
    He was taken aback. “What of it?” he asked, visibly nonplussed.
    “I’ve been trying to have a wee talk with you too,” I said. “I called up Sinn Fein twice yesterday, I got nowhere.”
    “We don’t have wee talks with the peelers,” Freddie said.
    Adams and Freddie turned to go.
    “Hold the phone, lads, this’ll only take two seconds,” I begged them.
    “We have a busy morning, we have to get back to headquarters,” Adams said.
    “I just need one second of your time, boys,” I said, getting in front of them.
    It was alleged that Gerry Adams was on the IRA Army Council and thus could pretty much have anyone in Ireland killed at any time if he wanted. His “Get out of our way, constable, or you’ll regret it” stare was therefore a solid down payment on a year’s worth of nightmares.
    “Aye, let’s get some fresh air, Gerry,” Freddie said.
    “Wait! You’re going to want to listen to this: I think we canhelp each other,” I said.
    “How so?” Adams asked.
    “I spoke to you, yesterday, Mr Adams, I’m the lead investigator into the death of Tommy Little and I need to speak to Mr Scavanni about Tommy. Tommy was on his way to see Mr Scavanni when he disappeared.”
    I had hoped to maybe surprise Adams with this information but he obviously knew it already. It made sense. Scavanni wouldn’t still be working for the movement if he hadn’t been investigated and cleared by the IRA.
    “Now what we probably have on our hands here, Mr Adams, is a serial killer preying on homosexuals. That’s a pretty sensational story and as soon the Ripper Trial concludes in England, the British tabs are going to be desperate for something like that until the actual Royal Wedding. This is where our interests coincide. You’d like the press to keep its focus turned on the hunger strikes but if this serial-killer story gets momentum, it’s going to be bad news for you and your lads. Imagine dying for Ireland and nobody cares because the new Irish Ripper has taken