The Cold Cold Ground

Eventually he stuck in Bessie Smith which was a nice soundtrack to the unfolding Belfast tragedy.

We avoided the worst of the trouble and I pulled in at Carrick railway station.

“Thank you,” Walter said.

He opened the car door but didn’t get out.

“So,” he said.

“Do you have any leads?”

I shook my head. “Not really, but I did learn something today.

If somebody wanted to kill Tommy, mixing him up with a homosexual serial killer was a smart move. Tommy’s the head of the IRA’s internal security wing and not a single comrade shows up? He’s being wiped from history commie style.”

Walter nodded.

We stared at one another. I was waiting for it.

Waiting …

“Do you know Cicero?” I asked.

“They beat him into us in school,” he said.

“Us too. Father Faul made us read his murder trials. His defences of accused killers. Cicero would always start his orations by asking cui bono? Who benefits? So I’ve been wondering who benefits from Tommy’s death?”

“You tell me,” he said.

“Let me run a few ideas past you. Tommy’s the head of the Force Research Unit and if he dies there are many current FRU investigations that would get suspended. That might buy someone some time.”

Walter shrugged. “What else are you thinking?”

“A rival? Tommy had to have made many enemies and rivals at the top.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“The people he interrogated, over the years. Important people. They could hold a grudge.”

“Perhaps.”

Now the time for my ace … “And then there’s Freddie Scavanni, isn’t there? Tommy dies and Freddie Scavanni moves into Tommy’s place.”

He nodded and crucially did not deny that Freddie was next in line.

“But if Tommy Little died when he was on his way over to see Freddie, wouldn’t that set off all the alarm bells in the world? Wouldn’t Freddie get the full Spanish Inquisition from the FRU and the IRA?” I said, airing my doubts as much as asking him. He sighed. “That’s why it can’t have been Freddie.”

“Do me a favour, Walter, tell me again about that phone call Tommy got the night he was killed.”

“He got the phone call. He talked. He hung up. He was on his way out anyway, but … I don’t know … maybe the phone call gave him an added urgency.”

“What precisely did he say to you?”

“He said that he had to, let me think … he had to ‘see Billy White and then he had to take care of some business with Freddie’. Yeah, that’s it.”

I flipped open my notebook and skipped back through the pages. “Previously you said Tommy told you he was going to ‘take care of some business with Billy and then go see Freddie’. Which was it? It’s important, Walter.”

He thought for a moment.

“I don’t remember. It wasn’t important at the time. I didn’t know then that it was the last thing I would ever hear him say.”

“You’ll let me know if anything else occurs to you?”

He nodded, got out of the car and went to catch the train.

2 p.m. Carrickfergus

I was reading the killer’s postcard to me and making no headway with it when the CID phone rang. Daedalus — inventor — Athenian — labyrinth — mirrors — bull worship — Crete — Poseidon. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Will somebody please get that?”

Matty was in the bog again, Crabbie was still out at lunch.

I picked up the phone. “Hello, I’d like to speak to Sergeant Duffy, please,” a Dublin-accented voice said.

“This is Sergeant Duffy.”

“Sergeant Duffy, this is Tony O’Rourke from the Sunday World. We’ve just received a letter on a sheet of A4 here in our Dundalk offices. It’s a hit list. It says above it, ‘Queers who will die soon’. There’s half a dozen names. The first two, Tommy Little and Andrew Young, have been crossed out. The others are all prominent people in Northern Ireland. We’ve photocopied the note and sent the original to the Dundalk peelers.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Listen, we’re going to run the list and the story about the killer in this Sunday’s paper and we were wondering if you had any comment.”

“Wait a minute! You can’t run that. You’ll be putting those people’s lives in danger.”

“You’ve seen it then?”

“Yes. He sent it to us too,” I admitted.

“We’re publishing the list, Sergeant, it’s newsworthy. We just wanted to know if you had any comment.”

“You will be putting those people’s lives in jeopardy! Let me speak to your editor.”

“I am the editor, Sergeant. Look, we already know from our sources that the people on the list are getting Special Branch protection. We’re endangering no one.”

“You can’t publish it! It’s dangerous and it’s libellous.”

“It’s not libellous to publish a list of alleged homosexuals.”

“You can’t do this, Mr O’Rourke, it’s completely irresponsible. I don’t want to have to threaten you-”

“I’d love to hear you threaten me, Sergeant.”

“Come on, Tony, please. Surely you can see that this is completely the wrong thing to do.”

“Ask me that on Monday when our circulation has doubled.”

“Don’t you see that he’s using you?”

“So you’ve no official comment then?”

“No. Of course not.”

“All right then,” he said and hung up.

I ran into Brennan’s office and told him. He hit the roof.

“How could you let this happen?” he yelled.

“The killer must have sent them his list. We’ve got to stop them publishing it. We’ve got to take out an injunction.”

“They’re based in the Republic, right?”

“Yes.”

“How in the hell could we can get an Irish court to issue an injunction restricting prior publication?”

“I don’t know but we have to. You have to make some phone calls, sir!”

Brennan nodded and dismissed me with a wave of his hand.

He summoned me back into his office an hour later.

“There’s nothing we can do, Duffy. They’re publishing,” he said.

“How can they-”

He held up a hand. “Don’t speak. Don’t say a fucking word. There’s nothing we can do. Sit down, Duffy.”

I sat. “Sir?”

“What progress are you making finding this guy?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, like I say in my report, I’ve interviewed Freddie Scavanni and Billy White and I’ve talked to Walter Hays and uhm …”

“Were you in Ballycarry this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was at Lucy Moore’s funeral.”