The Cold Cold Ground

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.