The Cold, Cold Ground

obvious. The inferences we drew from our inquiries took us down several blind alleys just like in a real labyrinth.
    On Tuesday afternoon we got a fax from the coroner’s office. Sir David Fitzhughes, the Coroner for East Antrim, had read Dr Cathcart’s pathology report and our notes and had issued a preliminary finding of death by suicide on Lucy Moore. The full inquest would be in November but this preliminary finding was enough to have Brennan breathing down my neck to bin the case.
    On the one hand we didn’t know where Lucy had been staying since Christmas. On the other hand hiding a pregnant woman wasn’t a crime. Not even in Belfast. Brennan wanted my full attention on the murders. The patho said Lucy killed herself, the coroner said Lucy killed herself, the papers said Lucy killed herself.
    I wasn’t that happy about it. I agreed to suspend the investigation but not close the case. I wrote “Possible suicide” on the file.
    I completed my psych profile of the killer. It was standard stuff from the Wrigley-Carmichael index: A white male, 25-45, moderately high IQ, almost certainly an ex-prisoner, and almost certainly a sex offender of some type. We ran the names through the database. We got twenty-three matches but no one who was still around. Every single one of them was living in England, Scotland or further afield. As soon as they got out of prison sex offenders fled Northern Ireland because they knew that sooner or later they would be kneecapped or murdered by a paramilitary chieftain looking to make a name for himself.
    In a normal society that’s where you’d look for your leads.
    But this was not a normal society.
    No leads. Brick walls. And then there was Shane. Shane boy was as bent as a five-bob note. Billy and Shane jungled up together? Or was Shane a heroic loner in a murderously intolerant world? If Shane and Tommy Little were having an affair, Shane might have killed him to cover it up. Anything could have happened: lovers’ quarrel, fear of exposure, you name it. Sure he talked the talk about incurring the wrath of God from the IRA but in the heat of a fight you don’t think of such things.
    The problem with Shane was his alibi. After Tommy Little left he said that he played snooker with Billy and the other lads until midnight. They would cover for him as a matter of course.
    I thought about the angles. Shane didn’t seem like the type who embraced opera and Greek culture, but you never knew, did ya? It would be nice to have a nosey around his place …
    On Tuesday night Laura and I went to see Chariots of Fire . It was about running. The two British guys won. I had a feeling they might. No one, however, blew up the cinema and there were no bomb scares.
    Laura asked me about Heather. I told her part of the truth. A reserve constable who was a little drunk and freaked out after a riot in Belfast had briefly come on to me. She was, I added, married.
    “You’ve every right to see whoever you want, we’re not really going out,” she said.
    “I’m not going to see anybody else,” I told her.
    I walked her to her apartment door but she wouldn’t let me in for a coffee. I didn’t mind. She kissed me on the cheek and said something about the weekend.
    I said something in reply.
    I was distracted.
    I was thinking about that other kiss.
    Trying to get it the fuck out of my mind.
    On the way home from the station I met Sammy, my Marxistbarber, walking his bulldog. He told me that I looked depressed. I said that I was. He said that it wasn’t surprising because the collapse of capitalism was imminent. He said that this was a reason for celebration, not anxiety, and that I should start listening to Radio Albania on the shortwave.
    I went home, made myself a vodka gimlet and found Radio Free Albania. Sammy was right – it did cheer me up. The Americans were denounced, the Russians were denounced, Mao was praised, Comrade Enver Hoxha’s achievements at chess, athletics, in research physics, agricultural innovation were all saluted …
    Wednesday morning: I checked under the car for bombs, drove to the cop shop and sat staring at McCrabban’s ugly mug from 9 until 10.
    “Crabbie, you want to go up to Belfast with me?”
    “What for?”
    “Let’s go see Scavanni.”
    “Why?”
    “I’d like to get your take on him, Crabbie. I didn’t like him and I think he’s hiding something.”
    Crabbie yawned. “Aye, why not? I’ve just been pretending to work.”
    We signed out a Land