The Cold Cold Ground

“Let’s go see Scavanni.”

“Why?”

“I’d like to get your take on him, Crabbie. I didn’t like him and I think he’s hiding something.”

Crabbie yawned. “Aye, why not? I’ve just been pretending to work.”

We signed out a Land Rover and drove up the Shore Road. We passed the Loughshore Park in Newtownabbey. There was no point telling either McCrabban or Matty about Shane. Not yet. Not until I knew something.

The rain was heavy, the traffic light.

We drove past a fresh bombsite that was, with ruthless efficiency, being bulldozed into a car park. Soon Belfast would be the only city in the world with more parking spaces than cars.

We left Queen’s Street RUC and walked through the search gates into the centre of town.

“Oi, chief, I’m starving, I had no breakfast this morning, can we get something to eat?” Crabbie said.

“No breakfast?” I said, staring at the ghost of his black eye. “Are you sure everything’s sweetness and light at chez McCrabban?”

“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