The Cold, Cold Ground

fingerprints in it,” Billy said. “You might get the wrong idea.”
    “Or the right idea,” I said.
    Crabbie didn’t know what I knew about Shane. And I wondered for a moment how exactly I could tell him.
    “Are you sure Tommy didn’t meet with some kind of unfortunate accident when he was here?” Crabbie asked.
    Bobby shook his head. “Come on, peeler. Why would we do that? There’s no angle in it for us.”
    “Maybe Detective Constable McCrabban’s on the right lines. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you were showing Tommy your brand new Glock 9mm when … boom!”
    “Wise the bap!” Billy muttered.
    I looked at McCrabban. He shrugged. I stood up. “Are the pair of you going to be here for a while? We might have more questions,” I said.
    “We’ll be here,” Billy said.
    We went back outside to the Land Rover. While we’d been talking some wee shite had graffitied “SS RUC” on the rear door.
    “Oh my God,” I said. “If Brennan sees this!”
    Crabbie put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t have an eggy fit, Sean. We’ll drive past a garage, get some white spirit and clean it off before we get back to Carrick.”
    “Wee fucking shites!” I yelled at the estate and my voice echoed off all the concrete at right angles.
    I checked underneath for a mercury tilt bomb and we climbed in and I called up Matty on the radio. They took forever to get him because he was on the bog.
    “Yes?” he said.
    “Give me the addresses of Billy White and Shane McAtamney and make it sharpish,” I said.
    He took his sweet time about it. “18 Queens Parade, Rathcoole and, uhm, number 4, 134 Straid Road, Whiteabbey. Oh, and I’ve got a bit of news,” he said at last.
    “What news?”
    “Your man, Seawright. Back in his Glasgow days, him and a bunch of welders allegedly beat up a couple of transvestite hookers. Beat them near to death,” Matty said.
    “Cheers, Matt,” I said.
    I looked at Crabbie. “What was that you were saying about fishing expeditions?” I added.
    “Back to Belfast, talk it over with Seawright?” McCrabban wondered.
    I shook my head. “Nah, I don’t really see it, mate. He’s hardly going to go on the BBC calling for death to the queers if he’s actually out killing queers.”
    “What was it your man on the telly says: the only two things that are infinite are the universe and human stupidity.”
    “It’s a fair point.”
    “Oi, lads, I’m not done yet!” Matty said over the radio.
    “There’s more?” I asked.
    “There’s more.”
    “Go on then.”
    “I cross-tabbed all the pervs and kiddie fiddlers that have been released from prison in the last year. The probation office tells me that every one of them has left Northern Ireland except for three. Lad called Jeremy McNight who is in Musgrave Park Hospital with terminal lung cancer, a guy called Andy Templeton who was killed in a house fire. Suspicious house fire,I might add. And finally after a lot of gruelling leg work and—”
    “Just get on with it.”
    “One name. Could be our boy. Got four years for homosexual rape. Released two months ago.”
    “Better not give his name out over the airwaves,” I said.
    “Of course not! I’m not a total eejit. Give you it back at the station.”
    “Ok. Good work, mate.”
    We turned off the radio.
    “Where to then, kemosabe?” Crabbie asked.
    “Billy’s first. 18 Queens Parade. We’ve got a wee window here.”
    We drove about half a mile to an end terrace with a big mural of King William crossing the Boyne on the gable wall. It was a modest home. A council house, which made me think that Billy had all his money in a secret bank account – either that or he had lost it all down the bookies like every other medium-level crook. Which reminded me: 100 quid on Shergar for the win even if it meant an overdraft.
    We walked along the path and rang the bell. While we were waiting we heard an explosion in Belfast. “Two hundred pounder by the sound of it,” Crabbie said.
    A woman opened the door. She was an attractive, skinny blonde in a denim skirt and a union jack T-shirt. She had a cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth, a glass of gin in one hand and a crying baby in the other. I assumed this must be Caitlin.
    “Who the fuck are you?” she asked.
    “We’re the Old Bill,” I said.
    “He’s not in.”
    “That’s why we’re here,” I said.
    We brazened our way inside. I sent Crabbie upstairs to get the gun Billy no doubt kept under his pillow,