I turned off the radio and walked into the hall.
That absurd Sterling sub-machine gun was still sitting there on the hall table.
“If someone breaks in and steals that thing Brennan will have my guts for garters,” I said to myself.
I wondered if I could sign the gun back in on a weekend when the armoury officer was off duty.
I grabbed the post from the hall floor and opened the front door to take in the milk before the starlings got at it. Mrs Campbell was bringing in her milk. She was holding her dressing gown closed with one hand, picking up the bottles with the other. I could see the curve of both breasts.
“Morning, Mr Duffy,” she said.
“Morning, Mrs Campbell,” I replied.
“Did the filthy tinkers wake you too?” she asked.
“No, Mrs Campbell, I was already up,” I lied to pre-empt a racist rant about “tinkers”, “gypsies” and the like. She smoothed a loose strand of red hair back onto her scalp, smiled and went inside.
Up in the fields beyond the cow pasture I could hear the crack crack crack of repeated clapping. Perhaps a local virtuoso was practising a modernist piece by Steve Reich, I thought sardonically … Sardonically because, of course, it was in fact someone shooting at targets with a .22 pistol.
A couple of annoyed starlings flew onto the porch looking for milk bottles to vandalise and rob but I had out-generalled them this morning.
I closed the front door and carried the milk and the post to the kitchen.
I lifted up a brown electricity bill and underneath saw a postcard. I picked it up. It was a picture of the Andrew Jackson presidential homestead in Boneybefore.
A little white-washed cottage not unlike that of …
I flipped it over.
A first-class stamp. Posted yesterday.
I read it.
A note.
For me.
From the killer.
In lower-case letters: “I found out your name, Duffy. You are young, careful. Your circumspection mirrors my own. Perhaps we are opposites who share the path through the λαβρινθος. Perhaps we are not true opponents, but key and lock, eternal duellists forced into the fray by rules of which we have no understanding. As a brother of the mirror I have one request of you: do not let them say that I hate queers. I do not hate them. I pity them. My task is merely to free them from this world and let them have true judgement before the Lord. He, not I, will decide their fate.”
I set the postcard on the counter, put on a rubber glove, turned on the fluorescent lamp and read the whole thing again.
λαβρινθος.
Of course the Jesuits had beat Latin, Greek and Irish – the languages of culture – into us but still I couldn’t quite remember the word until I had sounded it out.
Lah, Buh, Ree, N, Thos … λαβρινθος was “labyrinth”.
We share the path through the labyrinth together. You and I. Theseus and the Minotaur. Man and monster. I put down the postcard and went to the phone book lying in the hall. It was the newest edition. I looked up “S Duffy” and sure enough I was the only one in Carrickfergus: “S Duffy, 113 Coronation Road, Carrickfergus Tel: 67093”. He gets my name from the switchboard, he looks me up in the book. He’s no mastermind.
I called McCrabban at home. “Hello?”
“Crabbie, it’s me.”
“Sean? What’s the matter, is there—”
“It’s all happening, mate. The killer sent me a postcard. Case conference at nine thirty. I’m inviting the big white chief and Sergeants Burke and McCallister. It’s all hands on deck. If Matty’s late he’s getting my boot up his arse.”
“I’ll tell him.”
I hung up and looked at the postcard a third time. Aye, who do you think you are? Sending this? Name-dropping your dead languages. You’re nothing special. Big fish. Little pond. My fucking pond. You’ll see pal. “You’ll see.”
I went out to the car and started her up.
I was at the site of the bonfire on Victoria Road when I remembered that I had forgotten to check underneath for bombs. I slammed on the brakes in front of dozens of wee muckers building a Twelfth of July pyre out of tyres, pallets and furniture. Not that it was in need of further construction – the thing was already massive enough to endanger the entire estate.
The kids all turned to look at me. Sleekit wee shites with skinheads, hardman T-shirts and DM boots. “Hey, check out yon Beemer!” one of them called out and they all began walking over to the car. One wee lad was carrying a tin of red paint for painting the kerbstones around the bonfire red, white and blue, his dripping brush making a trail on the cement behind him.
There was no way I was getting out and doing a full inspection on the vehicle in front of them.
I put my foot on the accelerator and drove on.
It was stupid, very stupid.
The way a mercury tilt switch works is by establishing an electrical current through the mercury which then sets off a charge in a detonator. The detonator explodes into a pancake-sized wedge of Czech Semtex or Libyan C4 which then reacts and expands in a violent decay of heat and gas that would be powerful enough to eviscerate me and disintegrate the car. I’d seen pics of IRA car bombs that had thrown the vehicle two hundred feet and transformed the occupants inside into offal.
I kept on going.
Dolly Parton came on the radio, singing an old bluegrass song.
My knuckles were white. The downslope was coming up.
The reason the IRA used mercury tilt switches is that they only work when the mercury establishes contact on an incline or decline. While the mercury remains level the bomb is safe, thus it could sit under a car for days or even weeks. As soon as it was driven, however, eventually you’d encounter a hill …
I looked out the window.
This is what death would look like.
Victoria Council Estate, a grim appendage of consumptive Carrickfergus, itself a distension of the dying city of Belfast. Grey, wet, unloved. A ghetto supermarket, a bookies, a derelict house and on the gable terrace a massive mural of crossed AK-47s above the Red Hand of Ulster.
The downslope grew steeper. I held my breath as Dolly made her point:
When I was young and in my prime,
I left my home in Caroline,
Now all I do is sit and pine,
For all the folks I left behind …
I clenched my fists.
Counted. One. Two. Three.
The road flattened out.
The bomb had not gone off.
There was no bomb. The danger had passed.
I pulled into the car park in front of the newsagents.
Reborn.
My whole life ahead of me …
Until the next fuck up.
6: THE LONG BAD SATURDAY
I turned off the engine and sat in my little existential prison before going outside into the bigger existential prison of Northern Ireland.
The car park was empty and I checked under the car just to be on the safe side. Nothing, of course.
I said hi to Oscar McDowell and perused the front pages.
“Liz Taylor Collapses” was the headline in the Sun and the Daily Mirror. “Ripper Trial Final Days” was the offering from the Daily Mail. “Royal Wedding Mix Up” was the lead in the Daily Express. A couple of the Irish papers covered the Frankie Hughes riot and were speculating about which of the hunger strikers would die next, while the others led with the ex-Mrs Burton.
“What happened to Liz Taylor?” I asked Oscar.
“Buy the paper and find out,” he said.
I bought a packet of Marlboro Lights, a Mars bar and a Coke instead.
Oscar gave me a funny look with my change.
“What?” I said.
He examined his shoes, cleared his throat.
“You’re a copper, aren’t you, Sean?”
“Yeah,” I said suspiciously.
“Look, is there … is there nothing you can do about the
boys?”
“What boys?”
“I’m fed up with it. We barely scrape by here. No one has any money any more. Magazine subscriptions are off by fifty per cent since ICI closed. And you can’t tell them that … You know what I’m talking about.”
I did. He was talking about the protection money he had to pay every week to the paramilitaries. The money he gave straight out of his till to the local hoods so they wouldn’t burn him out.
Oscar was in his sixties. Everything about him radiated exhaustion. He should have sold up and moved to the sun years ago.
“What’s the going rate these days?” I asked.
“Bobby asks for a hundred pound a week. I can’t do it. Not in this economy. It’s impossible! Can you have a word with them, Sean? Make them see sense? Can you?”
I shook my head.
“There’s nothing I can do, Oscar. If you were willing to testify that would be one thing, but you’re not willing to testify, are you?”
He shook his head. “Not on your life!”
“Well then, like I say, nothing I can do.”
“There must be some kind of back channel, Sean, you know, where you can just talk to them. Just tell them that they are charging far too much for this economy. If I go out of business, everybody loses.”
“I can’t meet them. Internal Affairs would say it was collusion.”
“I don’t mean a formal meeting or anything, I’m only saying that in the course of your duties, if you happen to come across those particular gentlemen, perhaps you can drop a wee hint or two.”
I picked up my Mars bar, smokes and Coke.
“I suppose the Bobby you’re referring to is Bobby Cameron on Coronation Road?” I asked.
“You heard no names from me.”
“Ach, I’ll see what I can do.”
Oscar sighed with relief.
“Here, you forgot your papers,” he said, giving me The Times and the Guardian for nothing.
I took them as a matter of course.
I put them on the passenger’s seat and looked at myself in the mirror.
“Your first freebie in your new gig, Sean. This is how it starts. Baby steps,” I said to myself.
Another army checkpoint on the Marine Highway. This time the bloody Paras. They looked at my warrant card and sent me through with a sarcastic thumbs up.
Ray was back in the box at the RUC station and gave me a nod as he raised the barrier to let me into the barracks car park.
I got out into a drizzle and decided to leave the smokes. I was down to two or three bummed ciggies a day. Only bought my own for emergencies.
I went upstairs to the CID evidence room.
I reread the postcard through the evidence bag.
I wrote “eternal duellists/labyrinth/queers” in my notebook.
I checked for any faxes from Belfast.
Nothing.
I put my feet on the chair and had a think.
Two victims. Two hands. Symmetry. Mirrors, opposites, duellists, opponents, key and lock. It was all two.
All except the labyrinth.
“We share the path through the λαβρινθος”
There was only one route through the labyrinth.
One true way. The labyrinth. Built by Daedalus the flyer …
Maybe that meant something.
Daedalus, Icarus, Stephen Daedalus, James Joyce, Dublin …
Nothing.
I rubbed my chin and thought and bounced a pencil off the desk.
I called ballistics.
“Preliminary indications were that the two slugs came from the same gun,” I was told.
I grabbed a typewriter and began work on the presentation. I ate the Mars bar and drank the Coke. McCrabban showed up at 8.30. I told him about the postcard.
He read it, asked me if I’d lifted anything from it.
“You think it’s the real deal?” I asked him.
“We get a lot of hoaxes on every case, but this, I don’t know, it seems different.”
“Any ideas about our boy?”
“He hates queers. Which makes me think that John Doe must be one too. Has to be, right?”
“Aye.”
Crabbie typed up a transcript of the note, made photocopies and helped me with my presentation.
At 8.45, Matty called to say he was running late because of a bomb scare on the Larne–Carrick train.
“Where are you calling from?” I asked.
“The train station,” he lied.
“How come I can hear David Frost in the background?”
“Uhm.”
“Get your arse in here, you lazy hallion!” I said and hung up.
“Youth,” McCrabban said.
“What about them?”
“They need more sleep than us,” he said.
“You know, I don’t think we can do this case with just three people.”
McCrabban nodded.
“I’m beginning to feel overwhelmed,” I said.
Crabbie didn’t like to hear that sort of thing (or anything about anyone’s feelings) and he began furiously filling his pipe to cover his embarrassment.
He lit the thing, coughed and blew a blue smoke ring out of his mouth.
“Yes,” he said, which was about as much consolation as I was going to get from that dour visage.
“Do me a favour and find out who sells postcards of the Andrew Jackson cottage in Carrickfergus and Belfast and ask them if they’ve sold any lately and if so do they remember to whom.”
“So basically call up every single newsagent in Carrick and Belfast?” McCrabban asked.
“Yeah.”
“Ok, boss.”
Matty finally came in and I showed him the postcard and he took it away to do more tests. He did fingerprints and the black light and the UV light. All the prints were smudged except for two sets that he suspected were mine and the postman’s. I told him to send a reserve constable round to Carrick post office to print the mail carrier from Coronation Road.
At 9.05 I was done typing my presentation and did a dry run in front of the lads. They felt it was ok, although McCrabban made me cut it shorter because Sergeant McCallister had a poor attention span.
At 9.15 I called up Mike Kernoghan in Special Branch, told him about my anonymous letter writer and asked him if his boy could put a tap on my phone just in case the killer decided to get more intimate.
Mike thought this was a good idea and said that he’d send a couple of boys round this afternoon “to fix my TV”.
I told him that I kept the spare key under the cactus plant and he said that his boys didn’t need no key, a rusty nail could get you into a Northern Ireland Housing Executive terraced house – a fact that did not fill me with confidence about my home security.
I checked again for any faxes from Belfast and I called up the forensics lab just to make sure they were working their arses off ID’ing my John Doe. They claimed that they were and that they had a promising line of inquiry.
“Really? You’re not just messing with me, are you?”
“We wouldn’t do that, sir.”
“When do I get the good word?”
“We like to confirm these things first, Sergeant Duffy, but I’m reasonably sure that we’ll have a positive hit by the end of the day.”
“Positive hit?”
“Yes.”
“So you know who he is?”
“We’re fairly certain. We’re in the confirmation process at this moment.”
“Can you give me a clue? It’s not Lord Lucan, is it? DB Cooper? Lady Di?”
The forensics guy hung up on me. I called around for a next of kin on Andrew Young but his work colleagues were the best we could come up with.
When Matty was done with the prints I asked him to start running down any sexual abuse allegations against Young. An enraged former pupil would be a nice go-to guy in a case like this.
At 9.30 I assembled my team in the CID room, set them up in chairs next to me and put t
hree chairs in front of the white board.
At 9.35 Sergeants McCallister and Burke came in. Burke was another old-school peeler about fifty-five years old. No nonsense bloke. He was ex-army and military police. He had served in Palestine, Cyprus, Kenya, all over the shop. He looked like someone’s scary father. He didn’t talk much, did Burke, but what he did say was usually the wisdom acquired from a long and interesting life … either that or total bollocks.
Chief Inspector Brennan came in last. He was wearing a top hat and tails.
“Hurry up, Duffy, I don’t have long,” he said.
“Aye, you don’t want to be late for the play Mr Lincoln,” Sergeant McCallister said and everyone roared.
“Maybe he does a magic act on the side,” Sergeant Burke said.
“I’m off to my niece’s wedding. Get on with it, Duffy!” Brennan snapped.
I read them the presentation. There were seven main points:
1. The as yet unidentified victim in Barn Field had been shot execution-style by a 9mm.
2. He had had a recent homosexual encounter and a piece of music had been inserted in his anus.
3. His right hand had been replaced with the hand of Andrew Young, a known homosexual who had also been murdered in his house in Boneybefore also by a 9mm.
4. The musical score was La Bohème and contained the lines “your tiny hand is frozen” sung by Rudolfo to Mimi.
5. Andrew Young was a music teacher at Carrick Grammar School and ran the Carrick festival. No, he had never done La Bohème at either the school or the festival.
6. The killer had apparently called up Carrick Police Station, found out who the lead detective was and sent me a bizarre postcard (photocopies of which I passed around) that might contain clues or might be a complete distraction.
7. The 9mm slugs from both victims matched.
Brennan and the two sergeants listened to the whole thing without interruption.
“What is your current working hypothesis, Sergeant Duffy?” Brennan asked when I was done.
“Obviously the two murders are linked. Dr Cathcart feels there was a two- or perhaps three-hour delay between the two deaths. She’ll know more precisely when she’s performed an autopsy on Mr Young. Therefore I feel that we have a potential serial murderer on our hands. At this stage I do not see any evidence of a paramilitary link, which would make this the first non-sectarian serial killer in Northern Ireland’s history,” I said.
The Cold Cold Ground Page 8
