The Cold, Cold Ground (25 page)

“The, uh … she’s been a bit … Pregnant, you know.”

This, I felt, was a major breakthrough in my attempt to get him to open up.

“My treat. Breakfast. Question is where?”

Because of the sky-high insurance rates there were no major chains in Belfast: no McDonald’s, no Burger King, no Kentucky Fried Chicken, nothing.

“Anywhere.”

We found a greasy spoon off Anne Street and I got the cornflakes. Crabbie got the Ulster fry and I waited while he scarfed: pancakes, potato bread, soda bread, sausages, bacon, egg, black pudding, white pudding – all of it fried in lard. A heart-attack special.

We walked over to the Cornmarket and found Bradbury House.

The painters were in doing the lobby in Mental Hospital Beige.

“Scavanni’s in a new Sinn Fein press office up on the second floor,” I was explaining when I noticed on the directory that the offices of Councillor George Seawright were on the ground floor.

That was interesting. It was like finding Rommel and Montgomery sharing the same tent.

I pointed it out to Crabbie.

“I’ve heard rumours about him,” McCrabban said.

“About who? Seawright?”

“They say he’s tight with the paramilitaries.”

“Let’s go pay him a visit.”

“What for?” Crabbie asked.

“He hates homos, doesn’t he? Let’s see what he was doing on the night Tommy got himself topped.”

“You’re reaching, mate,” Crabbie said.

“Exactly the sort of thing you do when you have no leads.”

I was wearing my black polo neck and leather jacket and Crabbie was in his orange shirt and tie so Seawright’s secretary had to be convinced that we were peelers by our warrant cards. She showed us into his office which, like Scavanni’s, also overlooked Cornmarket Street where they had hanged the United Irishmen, the last time Protestants and Catholics had ever come together to fight the blah, blah, blah …

Unlike Scavanni’s digs, however, Seawright’s office was adorned by several Union Flags and boxes and boxes of a little DUP pamphlet entitled
Proof The Bible Is True
. Seawright was a big guy with a mop of greasy hair and thick 1970s glasses. He was wearing a grey checked suit that was a size too small. The Napoleon haircut and the suit gave him a comedic air and in truth he wasn’t that funny.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked after his secretary showed us in.

I told him that we were from Carrick RUC and were investigating the murders of Tommy Little and Andrew Young.

“The two fruits? That guy should get a medal, so he should,” he said with a hideous grin.

“Where were you on the night of Tuesday the twelfth?”

“I was in bed with my wife, so I was.”

“She’ll vouch for that?”

“She better.”

“Did you know either Tommy Little or Andrew Young?”

Seawright leaned back in his chair. “Your investigation must be in a sorry way if you’ve come to question me just because I’ve said a few things about the queers. I mean, excuse me, officer Duffy, but isn’t being queer still illegal in Northern Ireland?”

“Being homosexual isn’t, homosexual acts are, but there is an interesting case up before the European Court of Human Rights that—”

“Fucking Europe. The fucking whore of Babylon will bring about the apocalypse. Sixteen years, Sergeant Duffy, 1997. Not 2000, no. The fenians got the calendar wrong. 1997, that’s the Millennium. That’s when our Lord Jesus Christ will return and cleanse this world of the idolaters and fenians and queers and all the mockers of the holy Bible.”

“Any particular day I should keep clear?” I asked him.

“August twenty-ninth,” he said immediately. I was a little thrown by that and I glanced at Crabbie and he asked Seawright if any of his followers had been bragging about the murders. Seawright denied that they had.

Seawright’s secretary spoke through the intercom: “Councillor, I’m afraid you have another appointment.”

Crabbie gave me a “Why are we wasting our time here?” look.

I nodded and got to my feet.

“If any of your followers do feel the urge to hasten the work of the Millennium I hope you’ll dissuade them, Councillor Seawright. Murder is a crime too,” I said and left my card on his desk.

I picked up one of the
Proof The Bible Is True
pamphlets and walked out into the reception area. It would be an understatement to say that I was surprised to see Freddie Scavanni talking good-naturedly to Councillor Seawright’s secretary. He was wearing a tailored black silk suit with a black shirt and a black tie. Anywhere else you wouldn’t have given Freddie a second look but in Northern Ireland terms Scavanni was a bit of a dandy.

“Hello, Freddie,” I said cheerfully, “We were just coming to see you. Fancy you hanging out here. With Councillor Seawright of all people. That’s interesting isn’t it, Detective McCrabban?”

“Very interesting,” McCrabban agreed.

“What do you want see me about?” Scavanni asked, clearly irritated.

“We’ll wait for you upstairs and then we’ll talk,” I said, winked
at him and we went up.

Freddie’s office was buzzing with earnest young men with beards and bell-bottomed corduroys. The women were in miniskirts and tight Aran sweaters and looked as if they’d bang you at the drop of a hat if you said you were on the run from the Johnnie Law.

I nodded at Scavanni’s secretary and waltzed into his office.

“Don’t worry, Freddie’s expecting us,” I said.

McCrabban lit his pipe and I read
Proof The Bible Is True
until Freddie came in fifteen minutes later.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, apparently in a better mood.

I passed him across the DUP pamphlet. “Fascinating stuff, Freddie. Your buddy Seawright down there thinks the fossils were placed under the ground by God to test our faith. Is that what you think?”

Freddie took the pamphlet and dropped it in the trash can.

“I don’t have time for games. As you can see, we are very busy at the moment.”

“What were you doing hanging with George Seawright? Aren’t you supposedly mortal enemies or something?”

“Don’t be naive, peeler.”

I nodded. Yeah. I
had
been naive. Freddie had something that Seawright didn’t. An aura, a charisma, an arrogance. He was relaxed. Too relaxed. Two detectives had come to see him about a murdered man and he didn’t even break a sweat. He was cool as a goddamned Irish summer.

When people like Freddie came into a room the gravity changed. You could feel it. Freddie had presence, like Billy Wright and Gerry Adams. Perhaps all players had it. Was that what Freddie was … a player?

I thought about it for a heartbeat or two.

“This job is largely a front isn’t it?” I suggested.

“What?”

“A front, a cover, a beard.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You work for the Force Research Unit too don’t you, Freddie?”

McCrabban looked at me in amazement.

“Never heard of them,” Freddie said.

“The FRU, the ‘nutting squad’, the IRA internal security unit.”

“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” he said with a shake of the head.

“Something’s been troubling me, Freddie. Tommy Little was the head of the Force Research Unit. He was coming over to see you the night he was murdered. If I’m an ordinary foot soldier and the head of the FRU is coming to see me I’d be shitting my pants. I’d be on a plane to fucking Indochina. But not you. Why is that, Freddie?”

“
I
called him. About cars. Remember?”

“The story about the homosexual serial killer didn’t break for two full days after Tommy went missing. That’s two days in which the IRA knows one fact and one fact only: Tommy Little, the head of their internal security branch, is on his way to see you. Why aren’t you dead, Freddie? Why didn’t they torture you and kill you?”

He sighed. “I’m assuming these are not rhetorical questions.”

They had been twenty minutes ago but they weren’t now. If you were setting up a press office why have Councillor Seawright from the DUP in the same building? Surely office space in Belfast wasn’t that precious, was it? Why share a building with Seawright? I suppose the real question was why not? What have you got to fear if you’re FRU? If you’re FRU everybody else better watch out, not you. You certainly don’t fear a punk like Seawright.

I smiled, leaned back in the chair and tried another bluff: “I know who you are, Freddie. You’re FRU too, aren’t you? More
than that. You
were
Tommy Little’s deputy, you
were
the second in command of the FRU.”

“Brilliant!” he said and laughed.

“Why was Tommy coming to see you? It crossed my mind that you and Tommy were having an affair. You’re a good looking guy, but that can’t be it, can it? If you’re homosexual you wouldn’t still be in this job, would you? There’s a purge going on right now to distance the IRA from this nasty business.”

“You have quite the imagination, officer. You’re clearly wasted in the RUC.”

“And Tommy wasn’t coming over to brace you, was he? If he was coming over on orders from the IRA Army Council he would have brought an entire team, wouldn’t he? Nah, he was coming over to consult you about something. The reason you’re not dead, Freddie, is because you’re still a valued member of the team, aren’t you?”

“Maybe he’s the one who’s leading the investigation into Tommy Little’s death? Maybe he’s the one bracing other people?” Crabbie said, jumping on the bandwagon. I liked that and I grinned at him.

“All this, the new job, the new office with the DUP just one floor below. Seawright’s UVF isn’t he? Seawright’s UVF, Billy White is UDA and you’re the brand new head of FRU and the new liaison between the loyalist paramilitaries and the IRA,” I said.

Freddie folded his hands across his lap and chuckled. “That’s a very good story. You boys should turn pro.”

“You want to hear a story? How about this? You wanted Tommy’s job so you fucking topped him and then you went and shot some random gay guy that you knew about. And you did this because the IRA army are a conservative bunch and they’d buy any old shite about poofters killing each other or a lunatic running around killing homosexuals,” I said.

Freddie grinned at me. He looked at McCrabban. “You must have a great time keeping up with him, I’ll bet you lads don’t
even need TV down the station.”

“Do you like opera, Freddie?”

“Some.”

“Do you play an instrument?” I asked.

“A piano,” Scavanni said with an open easy grin. “Where the hell are you going with any of this?”

“What about Greek? Do you know Greek, Freddie?” I asked quietly.

“Ancient Greek?”

“Yes.”

“I studied it in school.”

“You know the story of Ariadne?”

“The Minotaur, of course.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t hum and ha. He just sat there, amused by me. Fifteen seconds went past. His grin widened a little.

I began to think that
I
was the one lost in the labyrinth.

I closed my eyes and tried to think.

The secretary said: “Mr Scavanni, the calls are stacked up, if you’re through here …”

“Gentlemen please, I’m really jam-packed today,” Freddie said.

I opened my eyes, got to my feet. “Let’s go, Crabbie,” I said and, turning to Scavanni, I added, “You and I will be talking again.”

“The next time you try and barge in here you better have a warrant, Sergeant Duffy. Some of us have work to do.”

I nodded, but did not reply.

We went outside and walked back to Queen’s Street police station.

In the cop shop we ate sandwiches and I found their local Special Branch rep and asked him if there was any intel at all on Freddie Scavanni. He pulled the folders. Freddie had a file, of course, but he’d been out of the game for at least six or seven years and had restricted his activity purely to the political side.

“Not a player?”

“Not a player.”

In the Land Rover back to Carrick Crabbie put on Downtown Radio and we listened to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. When we got through the roadblocks and army checkpoints McCrabban turned to me in the passenger’s seat.

“I’m surprised you’re not seasick, Sean,” he said.

“Oh, aye? Why’s that?”

“After that fishing expedition.”

“You’re funny.”

“No, that was really something.”

“You don’t think Scavanni’s holding out on us?”

“He’s definitely holding out on us. But even if he is FRU it means what exactly? We’re looking for Tommy Little’s killer and if Freddie Scavanni was that man, he’d be dead by now, wouldn’t he?”

“You may have a point.”

“You want me to drive us home?”

I shook my head. “Let’s take this old trawler to Rathcoole and see if we can piss off Billy White and his dashing young assistant Shane the same way we pissed off Freddie.”

North Belfast. The Shore Road. The M5 motorway. Rathcoole Estate. All the previous beats: Drizzle, tower blocks, terraces, murals of masked gunmen proudly displaying that icon of the second half of the twentieth century: the AK-47.

Stray dogs. Stray cats. No women. No cars. Rain and oil separating into strange colours and patterns by a process of organic chromatography.

The snooker hall. The back room.

The boxes of ciggies and UDA posters. Billy pouring over a ledger filled with accounts. Shane reading a comic book.

“You again?” Billy said, looking vaguely disappointed.

“What? You thought you’d bought me off with two cartons of cigarettes?”

“I thought you weren’t going to bother me since I was so nice as to answer all your questions.”

Shane was looking at me over the top of the comic.

Batman.

Do you have a secret identity, Shane my lad? What do you get up to after dark?

“Are you a married man, Billy?” I asked conversationally.

“Aye, two kids.”

“Boys? Girls?”

“One of each, Caitlin, two, Ian, four. You want to see pictures?”

“Love to,” I said.

We saw the pictures. They’d been taken on a pilgrimage to the site of the Battle of the Boyne in County Meath.