“So where did you go to uni, Queen’s?” I asked.
“No, I was at the University of Edinburgh.”
“And you still came back?”
“Yup.”
She didn’t ask me where I had gone to uni because in general coppers did not bother with college. She was more relaxed now and that lovely smile came back again.
I was starting to like her.
“So what do you make of everything that I told you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “This was a pretty complex killing possibly disguised to look like the simple execution of an informer.”
“Badly disguised.”
“Maybe he thought we would never find the paper in the victim’s rectum.”
“No, it was sticking out. It was quite obvious. And that’s what made me check for signs of rape.”
“So he’s signposting everything. His working assumption is that we’re lazy and incompetent and he needs to underline everything. He put the body where he knew it would be found fairly soon. He’s bold and a bit too sure of himself and he has contempt for us. I imagine he’s had a few dealings with the cops over the years if that’s his attitude.”
“Is the RUC not noted for its competence?” she asked with a slight sarcastic edge to her voice.
“Oh, there are worse police forces but it’s not exactly Scotland Yard, is it?”
“You’re the expert.”
“When was the last time you’ve seen a male rape in the course of your duty?” I asked.
“Never.”
“It’s not in the paramilitaries’ MO, is it?”
“Not it in my limited experience.”
“Both sides are extremely conservative. And the normal way they deal with informers is virtually identical.”
“Is that so?” she asked, her eyebrows arching with interest.
“There’s really no difference at all between your average IRA man and your average UVF man. The markers are always the same: working class, poor, usually an alcoholic or absent father. You see it time and again. Identical psycho-social profiles except for the fact that one identifies himself as a Protestant and one as a Catholic. A lot of them actually come from mixed religious backgrounds like Bobby Sands. They’re usually the hardcore ones, trying to prove themselves to their co-religionists.”
“Sorry, you lost me there. Do you want a slice of cake or something? I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“I’m all right, but you go ahead,” I said. “Seeing John Doe all disembowelled like that has somewhat smothered my appetite.”
“Speaking of appetites, his last meal was fish and chips.”
“I hope he enjoyed it.”
“The fish was cod.”
“You’re just showing off now, aren’t you?”
She grinned, got up and came back with two slices of Madeira cake. Despite my protestations she gave me one of them.
“How come you ended up in the police?” she asked.
Her real question had been “So what’s a nice, bright, Catholic boy like you doing in the peelers?”
I thought about what I’d said to Brennan last night. “I just wanted to be part of that thin blue line holding back the chaos.”
“Thin green line,” she said.
She was right about that too, bless her: in the nineteenth century British peelers had been given a blue uniform to distinguish them from the Red Coats, but the Royal Irish Constabulary had worn dark (very dark) green uniforms from the start. The successor to the RIC after partition was the Royal Ulster Constabulary, based in Belfast, and the uniform hadn’t changed even though green was a colour associated with Irish nationalism.
“Thin green line doesn’t really work as a metaphor though, does it?” I said.
“No,” she agreed. She ate her slice of cake and looked at her watch. “Do you have any more questions or are we about done here?”
I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything. You’d better give me your number though, in case something comes up.”
“You can reach me here,” she said.
She hadn’t liked that. It was too sly. Maybe the direct approach: “What are you doing later? Do you want to go out for a drink or anything?” I asked.
“You’re fast,” she said.
“Is that a no?”
She didn’t say anything, just tapped her fingers on the Formica table.
“Look, I’ll be at the Dobbins from nine o’clock onwards, if you fancy a quick drink, drop in,” I said casually.
She stood up. Got her bag. Gave me the once over. “Maybe,” she said.
In an odd, formal gesture, she offered me her hand. I shook it.
“It was nice meeting you,” she said.
“Nice meeting you too,” I said and gave her a conspiratorial wink. Here we were: two wee fenian agents in Proddy Carrickfergus.
I watched her walk into the car park and saw her get into a green Volvo 240.
I finished my tea and was thinking about the remaining cake when Sergeant McCallister showed up with the photocopy of the musical score from poor John Doe’s arse.
“What are you doing here, Alan? I asked Crabbie to send this over via some useless ganch.”
Alan took off his hat and fixed his thin thatch of greyish brown hair.
“No, Sean, no reserve constables this time. You’re going to have to be more careful about the protocols, mate. Looks like you’ve got yourself a freaky one.”
“Aye, you’re right,” I thought, slightly chastened. The reserve constables were all chatty bastards.
“There’s been two phone calls already this morning asking for the head of Carrick CID.”
“Shit.”
“Carol said that Sergeant Duffy was not available and could she take a message.”
“And?”
“They hung up.”
“The press?”
“My advice: don’t give them anything.”
“Did you hear about the rape?”
“I got Crabbie to tell me everything. Different hands? Pieces of music? Queer sex? This thing’s far too complicated already,” McCallister muttered darkly.
McCallister was close to fifty, a twenty-five-year man with a lot of experience both before and after the Troubles.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t and I don’t like it.”
“Me neither.”
“Are you eating that cake?”
Alan walked me back to my car and I drove to the centre of Carrickfergus.
A bunch of kids were walking around aimlessly. There was nothing for them to do with school cancelled except that there was always potential for a rumble since the Proddy kids were easily identifiable by their red, white and blue school uniforms and the Catholics by their uniforms of green, white and gold.
There were few actual shoppers. Since ICI had shut down the centre of Carrick had withered. The bookshop had closed, the shoe shop had closed, the baby clothes shop had closed …
