The Cold, Cold Ground

found.
    I walked back to the vehicle and took a second look at the corpse.
    Those pale cheeks, a pierced ear, no earring.
    The victim’s left hand was by his side, but his right was detached from the body and lying at his feet on the accelerator pedal. He’d been shot in the chest first and then in the back of the head. There wasn’t much blood around the hand which probably meant that it had been cut off after the victim’s heart had stopped pumping. Severing a limb while he still lived implied at least two men. One to hold him down, one wielding the bone saw. But shooting him and then cutting off his hand was easy enough to do on your own.
    I looked for the customary plastic bag containing thirty sixpences or fifty-pence pieces but I didn’t find it. They didn’t always leave thirty pieces of silver when they shot informers but often they did.
    Here’s the hand that took the dirty money and here’s the Judas’s bargain .
    The right hand looked small and pathetic lying there on the accelerator. The left had scars over the knuckles from many a bout of fisticuffs.
    There was something about the other hand that I didn’t like, but I couldn’t see what it was just at the moment.
    I took a breath, nodded to myself, and stood up.
    “Well?” Brennan asked.
    “It’s my belief, sir, that this was no ordinary car accident,” I said.
    Brennan laughed and shook his head. “Why is it that every eejit in the CID thinks they’re a bloody comedian?”
    “Probably to cover up some deep insecurity, sir.”
    “All right what have you got, Sean? First impressions.”
    “I’d say our victim was a low-ranking paramilitary informer. They found out he was snitching for us or the Brits and they killed him. In typical melodramatic fashion they cut off his right hand after they topped him and then they left the body in a place where he could easily be found so the message would go out quickly. I’d say the time of death was sometime around midnight last night.”
    “Why low-ranking?”
    “Well, neither you nor Matty nor I recognized him so he’ll just be some crappy low-level hood from the Estates; also this place, bit out of the way, so the killer will be somebody local too. Somebody Carrick at least. I’ll bet Sergeant McCallister can ID our stiff, and I’ll bet you we find out who ordered the killing through the usual channels. Who called it in?”
    “Anonymous tip.”
    “The killer?”
    “Nah, some old lady out walking her dog. Unless you think the terrorists are using old lady hit men?”
    “What time was the call?”
    “Six fifteen this evening.”
    I nodded. “That’s a bit later than our killers wanted but he was seen in the end. I’m sure we’ll have the prints by tomorrow. I’d be very surprised indeed if this boy doesn’t have a record.”
    Brennan slapped me hard on the back. “So, you’re happy enough to take this as lead?”
    “What about the Ulster Bank fraud?”
    “White-collar crime is going to have to wait until we’re back from the edge of the abyss.”
    “Nice way of putting it.”
    “It’s going to get worse before it gets better, don’t you think?”
    I nodded. “Aye, I do.”
    “Have you handled a murder before, Sean?”
    “Three.”
    “A triple murder or three separate murder investigations?”
    “Three separate.”
    “What, may I ask, were the results of those murder inquiries?”
    I winced. “Well, I found out who did it on all three of them.”
    “Prosecutions?”
    “Zero. We had good eyewitness testimony on two but no one would testify.”
    Brennan took a step backwards and regarded me for a second. He opened my raincoat. “Is that bloody Che Guevara?”
    “It is, sir.”
    “You’re a big pochle, aren’t ya? You turn up at a crime scene with no gun, wearing trainers and a Che Guevara T-shirt? I mean, what’s the world coming to?”
    “A sticky end more than likely, sir.”
    He grinned and then shook his head. “I don’t get you, Duffy. Why did a smart aleck like you join the peelers?”
    “The snazzy uniforms? The thrilling prospect of being murdered on the way to work every morning?”
    Brennan sighed. “Well, I suppose I should leave you to it.” He tapped his watch. “I might be able to get a wee Scotch and soda at the golf club.”
    “Before you go, sir, I’ve one question. Who will I get to work this one with me?”
    “You can have the entire resources of the CID.”
    “What, all three of us?” I asked with a trace of sarcasm.
    “All