The Cold, Cold Ground Read Free Page B

hung up the phone. This is where the Serpico moustache would have come in handy. You could look at yourself in the hallmirror, stroke the Serpico moustache and have a ponder.
    Instead I rubbed my stubbly chin while I extemporized. Pretty nice timing for a murder, what with the riot in Belfast and the death of a hunger striker and the poor old Pope halfway between Heaven and Earth. It showed … What? Intelligence? Luck?
    I grabbed my raincoat and opened the front door. Mrs Campbell was still standing there, nattering away to Mrs Bridewell, the neighbour on the other side.
    â€œAre you away out again?” she asked. “Ach, there’s no rest for the wicked, is there, eh?”
    â€œAye,” I said with gravity.
    She looked at me with her green eyes and flicked away the fag ash in her left hand. Something stirred down below.
    â€œThere’s, uh, been a suspected murder on Taylor’s Avenue, I’m away to take a gander,” I said.
    Both women looked suitably shocked which told me that for once in my police career I was actually ahead of the word on the street.
    I left the women and walked down Coronation Road. The rain had become a drizzle and the night was calm – the acoustics so perfect that you could hear the plastic bullet guns all the way from the centre of Belfast.
    I walked south past a bunch of sleekit wee muckers playing football with a patched volleyball. I felt sorry for them with all their fathers out of work. I said, hey, and kept going past the identical rows of terraces and the odd house which had been sold to its tenants and subsequently blossomed into window treatments, extensions and conservatories.
    I turned right on Barn Road and cut through Victoria Primary School.
    The new graffiti on the bike shed walls was jubilant about the Pope: “Turkey 1, Vatican City 0” and “Who Shot JP?” – a none too subtle
Dallas
reference.
    I slipped over the rear fence and across the Barn Field.
    The black tongue of Belfast Lough was ahead of me now and I could see three army choppers skimming the water, ferrying troops from Bangor to the Ardoyne.
    I crossed a stretch of waste ground and a field with one demented looking sheep. I heard the generator powering the spotlights and then I saw Brennan with a couple of constables I didn’t yet know and Matty McBride, the forensics officer. Matty was dressed in jeans and jumper rather than the new white boiler suits that all FOs had been issued and instructed to wear. I’d have to give the lazy bastard a dressing down for that, but not in front of Brennan or the constables.
    I waved to the lads and they waved back.
    Chief Inspector Tom Brennan was my boss, the man in charge of the entire police station in Carrickfergus. The bigger stations were run by a Superintendent but Carrick was not even a divisional HQ. I, a buck sergeant with two months’ seniority, was in fact the fourth most senior officer in the place. But it was a safe posting and in my fortnight here I’d been impressed by the collegiate atmosphere, if not always with the professionalism of my colleagues.
    I walked across the muddy field and shook Brennan’s hand.
    He was a big man with an oval face, light brown, almost blondish hair and intelligent slate-blue eyes. He didn’t look Irish, nor English, there was probably Viking blood somewhere in that gene pool.
    He was one of those characters who felt that a weak handshake could somehow damage his authority, which meant that every handshake had to bloody hurt.
    I disengaged with a wince and looked about me for a beat or two. Brennan and the constables had done a hell of a job contaminating the crime scene with their big boots and ungloved hands. I gave a little inward sigh.
    â€œGood to see you, Sean,” Brennan said.
    â€œBit surprised to see you, sir. We must be a wee bit short-staffedif you’re the responding officer.”
    â€œYou said it, mate. Everybody’s away manning