The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty Page B

man and your average UVF man. The markers are always the same: working class, poor, usually an alcoholic or absent father. You see it time and again. Identical psycho-social profiles except for the fact that one identifies himself as a Protestant and one as a Catholic. A lot of them actually come from mixed religious backgrounds like Bobby Sands. They’re usually the hardcore ones, trying to prove themselves to their co-religionists.”
    â€œSorry, you lost me there. Do you want a slice of cake or something? I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
    â€œI’m all right, but you go ahead,” I said. “Seeing John Doe all disembowelled like that has somewhat smothered my appetite.”
    â€œSpeaking of appetites, his last meal was fish and chips.”
    â€œI hope he enjoyed it.”
    â€œThe fish was cod.”
    â€œYou’re just showing off now, aren’t you?”
    She grinned, got up and came back with two slices of Madeira cake. Despite my protestations she gave me one of them.
    â€œHow come you ended up in the police?” she asked.
    Her real question had been “So what’s a nice, bright, Catholic boy like you doing in the peelers?”
    I thought about what I’d said to Brennan last night. “I just wanted to be part of that thin blue line holding back the chaos.”
    â€œThin green line,” she said.
    She was right about that too, bless her: in the nineteenth century British peelers had been given a blue uniform to distinguish them from the Red Coats, but the Royal Irish Constabulary hadworn dark (very dark) green uniforms from the start. The successor to the RIC after partition was the Royal Ulster Constabulary, based in Belfast, and the uniform hadn’t changed even though green was a colour associated with Irish nationalism.
    â€œThin green line doesn’t really work as a metaphor though, does it?” I said.
    â€œNo,” she agreed. She ate her slice of cake and looked at her watch. “Do you have any more questions or are we about done here?”
    I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything. You’d better give me your number though, in case something comes up.”
    â€œYou can reach me here,” she said.
    She hadn’t liked that. It was too sly. Maybe the direct approach: “What are you doing later? Do you want to go out for a drink or anything?” I asked.
    â€œYou’re fast,” she said.
    â€œIs that a no?”
    She didn’t say anything, just tapped her fingers on the Formica table.
    â€œLook, I’ll be at the Dobbins from nine o’clock onwards, if you fancy a quick drink, drop in,” I said casually.
    She stood up. Got her bag. Gave me the once over. “Maybe,” she said.
    In an odd, formal gesture, she offered me her hand. I shook it.
    â€œIt was nice meeting you,” she said.
    â€œNice meeting you too,” I said and gave her a conspiratorial wink. Here we were: two wee fenian agents in Proddy Carrickfergus.
    I watched her walk into the car park and saw her get into a green Volvo 240.
    I finished my tea and was thinking about the remaining cake when Sergeant McCallister showed up with the photocopy of the musical score from poor John Doe’s arse.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Alan? I asked Crabbie to send this over via some useless ganch.”
    Alan took off his hat and fixed his thin thatch of greyish brown hair.
    â€œNo, Sean, no reserve constables this time. You’re going to have to be more careful about the protocols, mate. Looks like you’ve got yourself a freaky one.”
    â€œAye, you’re right,” I thought, slightly chastened. The reserve constables were all chatty bastards.
    â€œThere’s been two phone calls already this morning asking for the head of Carrick CID.”
    â€œShit.”
    â€œCarol said that Sergeant Duffy was not available and could she take a