The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty Page B

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.
    â€œReally? You’re not just messing with me, are you?”
    â€œWe wouldn’t do that, sir.”
    â€œWhen do I get the good word?”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œPositive hit?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo you know who he is?”
    â€œWe’re fairly certain. We’re in the confirmation process at this moment.”
    â€œCan 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 three 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.
    â€œHurry up, Duffy, I don’t have long,” he said.
    â€œAye, you don’t want to be late for the play Mr Lincoln,”Sergeant McCallister said and everyone roared.
    â€œMaybe he does a magic act on the side,” Sergeant Burke said.
    â€œI’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