The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty Page A

me.”
    â€œAch, I’ll see what I can do.”
    Oscar sighed with relief.
    â€œHere, 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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œPreliminary 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.
    â€œYou think it’s the real deal?” I asked him.
    â€œWe get a lot of hoaxes on every case, but this, I don’t know, it seems different.”
    â€œAny ideas about our boy?”
    â€œHe hates queers. Which makes me think that John Doe must be one too. Has to be, right?”
    â€œAye.”
    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.
    â€œWhere are you calling from?” I asked.
    â€œThe train station,” he lied.
    â€œHow come I can hear David Frost in the background?”
    â€œUhm.”
    â€œGet your arse in here, you lazy hallion!” I said and hung up.
    â€œYouth,” McCrabban said.
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œThey need more sleep than us,” he said.
    â€œYou know, I don’t think we can do this case with just three people.”
    McCrabban nodded.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYes,” he said, which was about as much consolation as I was going to get from that dour visage.
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œSo basically call up every single newsagent in Carrick and Belfast?” McCrabban asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOk, 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