The Cold, Cold Ground

walked from the door back to the sofa with a cane.
    The flat was as nice as he could make it.
    There were books, records and he kept it clean. He had a cat.
    I let McCrabban run it while I looked through the books and records.
    “Where were you on the night of May twelfth?”
    “I was here.”
    “All night?”
    “Yes.”
    “Can anyone vouch for that?”
    “What’s this about?”
    “Can anyone vouch for the fact that you say you were here all night?”
    “Not really, no.”
    “Do you own a car, Mr Combs?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know a man called Tommy Little?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know someone called Andrew Young?”
    “No. What is this about?”
    The records weren’t that impressive. Boring collections of classical music done in the early ’70s by cheapo German firms. No sheet music.
    I looked at Crabbie and he shook his head. Combs certainly didn’t look as if he could get too physical with anyone.
    “Under the terms of your probation I have the right to search these premises for a firearm. I am exercising that right,” I said.
    No gun. No contraband. Nothing suspicious.
    But there was the fact that he had no alibi.
    “Why are you still in Northern Ireland, Mr Combs? Aren’t you afraid that you’ll be kneecapped because you’re a sex offender?” I asked.
    Combs’s grey face became greyer. “Let them kneecap me. Let them do anything they want. I don’t care. Let them kill me. I didn’t do anything wrong and they know it. My life’s ruined. Everything’s ruined. My family won’t speak to me. My friends. Fuck it. Let them come. Let them do their fucking worst.”
    “I like the defiance. Do you have anything to back it up? A wee pistol maybe?” I asked.
    “What did you find?” he asked.
    “Nothing.”
    He nodded. “Who’d sell me a piece anyway?”
    “Just about anybody,” Matty said.
    I sat on the sofa and looked at him. “What happened to you, mate?”
    He didn’t reply for a long time.
    “Love happened,” he said at last.
    I looked into his strangely pale eyes.
    “Go on.”
    He shook his head. “It was my mistake. I flew too close to the sun.”
    We took our leave and drove back to Carrick Police Station.
    “Big tubby,” Matty scoffed. “He flew too close to the bun more like.”
    Crabbie laughed and then pointed at me.
    “Remind Matty about Icarus, why don’t you, Sean.”
    “Icarus was the son of Daedalus who was famous for building the labyrinth before he got famous for building wings that didn’t work.”
    “Coincidence,” Matty said.
    “Probably,” I agreed.
    We got to the station. I sent the lads home and I went in and briefed the Chief. Brennan poured me some Jura while he listened to my report.
    “Not much progress, eh, Sean?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, at the least the nutter hasn’t struck again, has he?”
    “Not that we know of.”
    “What else is new?” he asked.
    I drank the whiskey. “In my life, sir?”
    “In your life, Sean.”
    “I went to the flicks, saw Chariots of Fire .”
    “Any good?”
    “They go for a run along the beach at the Old Course in St Andrews. I think you’d like that bit, sir.”
    He yawned. “All right. Sally forth! And take my advice and go to bed early. We’ll be needing you before dawn.”
    “What for?”
    He tapped his nose. “Top Secret VIP on her way.”
    Her could only mean Mrs Thatcher or the Queen. Either would be bad news.
    I went home but I couldn’t go to sleep early. Never could. I took some of the EEC bacon, fried it with eggs and potato bread. I ate it in front of the TV. There was a brand new cop show on called Magnum P.I . He was a PI. He was called Magnum. Like Serpico he had an impressive moustache. This, I realized, was my problem.
    I phoned Laura but she told me that she was just on her way out.
    “Who with?”
    “A friend.”
    “What friend?”
    “A friend from college.”
    “Man or woman?”
    “Oh, you’re impossible!” she said and hung up.
    I called an old mate of mine, Jack Pougher, from Special Branch intel. I span him my “Freddie Scavanni is a major player” theory. He’d heard nothing about it. He told me I should stick to detecting. I told him I was shite at that. We discussed cop moustaches and agreed that they were on the way out.
    I took a pint glass out of the freezer and made myself a vodka gimlet.
    The phone rang. It was ballistics. “This gun did not fire the bullets that killed your homicide victims,” some fucking Nigel said in a home-counties