“His dad’s a viscount,” Sergeant Burke told me over bangers and mash in the Oak. “He has three older brothers and if they all die and he outlives them he’ll become Lord Todd of Ballynure.”
“Seems like the sort of cunt who would do precisely that,” I muttered.
After lunch I went to get a haircut. Anything but work on that bloody Ulster Bank fraud case. After a murder investigation all other cases were anticlimactic.
Carrick was a goddamn mess.
There were two more TO LET signs in empty shop windows, three stores had been boarded up completely and the library had a notice in the window that said “Book Sale! New, Old, Fiction and Non Fiction! Thousands of Books!” which could not be a good thing.
West Street had two competing street preachers, one of whom was saying “Repent for the millennium is at hand and ye are doomed” but the other felt it was the time to “Rejoice now, for Jesus died that we might live!”
Sammy, as usual, was doing a roaring trade. Of course Friday evening was his busy time. Men getting “a little something for the weekend”.
He had three guys lined up in the chairs and another two waiting.
I picked up a paper. The English press was dominated by the Yorkshire Ripper trial. A verdict was expected today.
Sammy looked at me, nodded. “Guilty on all counts,” he said. “It just came through on the wireless.”
Good. That was one less bastard for us coppers to worry about. When it was my turn in the chair, I ordered a short back and sides. Sammy went to work with the scissors. “You like your music, don’t you, Sean? Thought I’d let you know. Town hall. Auction tomorrow morning at nine. The entire stock of CarrickTrax.”
“Paul’s going out of business?”
“Moving to Australia. Selling everything. Three thousand LPs. It’s breaking his heart. Classical. Non-classical. You name it. Rarities. Everything.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Aye, me too. You’re not a Beatles fan, are you?”
“No. Not really.”
“Are you more of a Stones fan?”
“Aye.”
“Well, look, if you don’t bid on the Beatles, I won’t bid on the Stones. Ok?”
“Ok.”
“What about Mozart?”
Like ghouls we split up his collection between us and I wondered exactly how much money I had in the bank. A hundred quid? One fifty? I’d saved up six years pay to buy the house for cash. Still, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. CarrickTrax was the deepest and best record shop in East Antrim and had been in business forever. The stuff they might have …
We moved on to other topics. He told me about the record renting shops in Moscow and then he got to talking about the Red Army choir and finally about his father who had been interned by the Japanese. “Fascinating people, the Japs. They say that death is lighter than a feather but duty is heavier than a mountain …”
I had heard the story of his father’s experiences in Burma twice already so I changed the subject. “What do you think of yon girl marrying Princess Charles?”
“When I think of that wee lassie in the clutches of that corrupt family of decadent imperialists …”
When I left the rain was heavier. I crossed the railway lines at Barn Halt and channelled Lucy Moore again.
“Your mother didn’t see you, Lucy, because you were on the Larne side of the tracks waiting for the Larne train to get you to the ferry. Isn’t that right? You and your boyfriend were going to Glasgow to get an abortion. But you got cold feet. You decided to have the baby and live with your boyfriend until it was born. Decent enough plan. What went wrong, Lucy?”
What went wrong? I stood there getting soaked. Walked home. Heated soup. Drank vodka and lime. I put on La Bohème again. This time the classic 1956 Sir Thomas Beeching version.
Read the lyrics as I listened. Mimi’s solo aria.
“My name is Lucia. But everyone calls me Mimi. I don’t know why. Ma quando vien lo sgelo. Il primo sole è mio. When the thaw comes, the sun’s first kiss is mine.”
I lifted the needle and put it down on the record and played it again. And again. I’d heard it before but this time it struck a nerve. Lucia = Lucy? Was that a stretch? Could Lucy Moore’s death have something to do with the murders of Tommy Little, Andrew Young and the others? A deliberate or even a subconscious link?
I listened to the record over and over, getting drunker and drunker. At midnight I played Orpheus in the Underworld. I began to see patterns there too. Eurydice is a daughter of Apollo, the lord of light. Lucia means light. The more I listened I began to see links everywhere, in everything. In Mozart, in Schubert, in Bowie.
Human beings are pattern-seeking animals. It’s part of our DNA. That’s why conspiracy theories and gods are so popular: we always look for the wider, bigger explanations for things.
The more I delved the clearer it all became. DC Todd was in on it. Brennan was in on it. It was the masons. It was the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Yeats was in on it. All the crazy Prods were in on it. I drank so much vodka that I made myself sick. I kept on drinking. The one smart thing I did was unplug the phone lest I call Laura or my ma. I climbed upstairs and hugged the toilet. Alcohol poisoning. Pathetic. What was I? Sixteen? I began to cry. Eventually the power went off and I closed my eyes and fell asleep dry heaving.
17: ARIADNE’S THREAD
I woke on the bathroom floor sometime after first light. I was a sorry spectacle in the mirror, and the house was worse.
I put on the Ramones, cleaned up the vomit, had a cold shower, brushed my teeth, made a Nescafé, drank the coffee, replugged the phone and called Laura.
“You wanna get breakfast and go to an auction?” I asked her.
“I have my clinic in the afternoon.”
“This is at nine. Come on. We’ll get breakfast at the Old Tech and bid on some records.”
The Old Tech. I couldn’t face the Ulster fry so I just got a cup of tea instead.
Laura got pancakes.
We talked and read the papers.
The headlines on all the tabs were the same: GUILTY over a picture of Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. The broadsheets too were obsessed by the Ripper with his trial and the verdict occupying most of their front pages with a little bit about the hunger strikes. According to The Times, senior figures in the Tory party were speaking about “compromise” and “new ideas” but Thatcher was having none of it; she had come to Ulster to stiffen the resolve of the troops: the lady would not negotiate with terrorists, the lady was not for turning.
Only the local papers, the Irish News and the Newsletter had the attack on the gay pub in Larne.
One dead. Twenty hospitalised.
The report was done in a restrained, let’s not talk too much about this, style.
The killer had used a tried and true terrorist grille-bomb method. Had Todd seen that? Maybe I should call him?
No.
I shouldn’t.
I went to the cashier and asked if she had any aspirin.
She said that she did and I popped a couple and splashed my face in the bathroom and went back to Laura who was reading a fold-out special on Lady Di’s wedding plans from the Daily Mail.
I didn’t tease her.
We finished our breakfast and went round to the auction in the town hall.
The place was packed.
Word had got out and the vultures had come in from high and low. Only Paul himself had not come by to watch his valuable records gets sold to the hoi polloi.
I nodded to Sammy.
He nodded back.
I ignored the first few lots which were ’30s-’40s Americana.
I bought some ’60s Motown and a mint condition, first pressing of Dusty in Memphis for a pound, which was an absolute sin.
It was when we were into the classical section that I noticed our old friend Freddie Scavanni in the audience.
He was buying early Italian stuff with not much com
petition.
I watched him bid and buy.
He was initially cautious but eventually he lost his patience and jumped on the things he wanted like everybody else. I let Sammy take most of the Mozart. I bought the Schubert.
I bought some knick-knacks too: some anti-static cloths, an oil lamp from Chess Records in the shape of a guitar, Beatles pencil sharpeners.
None of it was terribly interesting and I could see that Laura was bored out her mind. I had spent about ten quid but had gotten enough records that I was going to have trouble getting them home.
“Do you want to head?” I asked her.
She nodded.
I went to the auctioneer’s assistant, gave him my lots, paid my money and got my discs. The Dusty in Memphis album turned out to be number eleven of a limited edition signed by Dusty Springfield and Jerry Wexler. Karmically there was no way I could keep it. “Laura, here, this is for you,” I said, giving her the album.
We were leaving when I saw that a low-key bidding war was going on between Freddie Scavanni and Sammy.
They were both after a pressing of Richard Strauss’s Ariadne auf Naxos by Karl Bohm and the Vienna State Orchestra that had been recorded live for Strauss’s eightieth birthday on 11 June 1944 in the presence of many top Nazis. It was a very rare record indeed but the bidding was only going up in twenty-pence increments and now stood at two pounds sixty.
I was disgusted and sad for Paul. I went outside with Laura.
“Do you want to go back to my place for a cup of tea?” she asked.
It was a good idea. I could leave the records at her house and come back for them when I had the car.
We went to her flat and she put the kettle on. I hadn’t been there since we’d made love. Nothing had changed. Except spiritually. Emotionally.
I sat in the easy chair and looked at the harbour.
“Thank you so much for this album,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ve never heard her before.”
“You’re going to love it.”
“Why don’t you put it on?”
I went to the turntable, cleaned the record with my antistatic cloth and put on the B-side, which begins with the Randy Newman song “Just One Smile”.
“You probably shouldn’t play this too much, it’s very valuable,” I told her as Dusty’s breathy vocals competed with the heavy strings on what was really a subpar song.
“How do you take your tea again?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. It suddenly hit me. Richard Strauss. Ariadne auf Naxos. After they kill the Minotaur in the labyrinth, Ariadne is abandoned by Theseus on the island of Naxos; bewailing her fate, she mourns her lost love and longs for death. Three nymphs, Naiad, Dryad and Echo then announce the arrival of a stranger on the island. Ariadne thinks it’s death’s ambassador but it is in fact the god Bacchus. He falls in love with Ariadne and promises to set her in the heavens as a constellation.
I remembered the killer and his talk of labyrinths. And here we had Freddie Scavanni bidding on Richard Strauss. Was this a coincidence? He wasn’t a stupid man but, my God, there were getting to be a lot of coincidences in this case.
I stood up. “I’ve got to go to the auction. I won’t be long,” I yelled. I jogged across the harbour car park to the town hall.
The auction was over now and I found Freddie Scavanni getting help with his purchases. Loading milk crates full of records into the back of a Ford Transit van. Even on a Saturday he was wearing a suit and tie. A rather nice cashmere blue suit. A rather nice silk tie.
“Hello, Freddie,” I said.
He squinted his eyes as if trying to recall who I was.
“Sergeant Duffy, Carrick CID,” I said.
“Oh yes, of course. I meet so many people, as you can imagine.”
“Did you get the Richard Strauss?” I asked.
“No, I was outbid,” he said cheerfully. “But I got plenty of other stuff.”
“Interesting record that. Ariadne conquers the labyrinth with Theseus but then Theseus shows his gratitude by abandoning her on an island where he leaves her to die.”
Scavanni shrugged. “Well … yes. If that’s your thing, sure, great. But with that record it’s more the rarity of the recording, isn’t it?”
“Why are you in Carrick, Freddie? Do you live around here?”
“You know where I live, Sergeant Duffy. Near Straid.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
I stared at him. His smile began to falter a little.
“Is there something I can help you with, Sergeant?”
“I didn’t see you at Tommy Little’s funeral.”
He shook his head. “No. Too busy.”
“I suppose it would have been seen as a distraction. A dilution of the message in this time of great sacrifice, is that it?”
“Perhaps. I don’t really go into the politics. I just do as I’m told.”
“You didn’t go to Lucy Moore’s funeral either.”
He shook his head. “No. I read about that. We did send along a representative from Sinn Fein.”
He looked impatiently at the sky. “Well I suppose I should—” he began.
“Maybe we can help one another,” I said.
“How so?”
“As one professional to another, Freddie, you wouldn’t mind telling me how the FRU investigation in Tommy’s death went? Any suspects? Any leads? We’re both after the same thing, aren’t we? The killer.”
“The FRU?”
“The FRU. The Force Research Unit, the IRA’s internal security outfit.”
He sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you? I know nothing about the IRA. Nothing at all.”
So that’s the way he wanted to play it. “Labyrinths, Freddie? La Bohème? Who knows about that stuff? Nobody. It’s classic misdirection, isn’t it? Somebody wanted us to get caught up in the minutiae, to get distracted. So we’ve all run off like a crazy fox hound on a scent trail.”
“I’m afraid I’m not following you at all,” he said cheerfully.
“I think you are, Freddie,” I said grimly.
“I think you’re barmy!” he laughed.
“Do you own an Imperial 55?”
“A what?”
“Can you account for your movements on Thursday night?”
“I can actually, I was at work in Belfast sending out press releases.”
“You didn’t get a moment to pop down to Larne by any chance, did you?”
“Larne? Why would I go to Larne?”
“To lead the trail away from you. To close the book forever on Tommy Little. He was a queer mixed up in some filthy queer business. Let’s forget him and move on.”
Freddie shook his head. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m—”
I took a step a closer to him. “It’s a good move, but he’s layered the cake too thick, our murderer. He was too clever by half. He’s too smart for his own good. Like you, Freddie.”
Freddie shook his head. “Excuse me, Sergeant, I have to go,” he said and brushed past me.
“Don’t think this is over, mate. You know something and by God I’ll find out what it is!”
A crowd of bidders, assistants and ringmen were looking at us now.
Freddie gave his shaggy head an embarrassed little shake. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective, but you’re not going to intimidate me. We’ve put up with eight hundred years of intimidation by the English and we’re not to stand for it any more. That, I promise.”
“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I said.
“If you don’t stop bullying me, you’ll certainly be hearing from my lawyer,” he said, closed the van door and drove off with his purchases.
“Bloody peelers,” somebody muttered but when I looked to see who it was everyone hid their faces.
The crowd dispersed and I stood there watching Freddie’s car drive along the Marine Highway. I walked back to Laura’s. My tea was still warm. She asked me
what I’d been doing but I was too embarrassed to tell her. If Crabbie had heard me spout all that he wouldn’t have been able to look me in the eye. That wasn’t police work. That was frustration. That was a man clutching at straws.
Dusty Springfield was singing an early version of that weird Legrand-Bergman song “Windmills of Your Mind”:
The circle it is closing, like a compass on the page,
A curve that’s always ending, a silvered metal cage,
No ending or beginning, like an ever turning wheel,
No escape or exit from the way that you must feel …
I sipped the tea and nodded in agreement.
18: LIFTED
Days. As Philip Larkin says: days, they come, they wake us, where can we live but days? Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Monday.
This particular day was a Tuesday. The mood was black. A policeman in Lurgan had been killed by a mercury tilt bomb under his Mini Cooper. That’s what happens when you skip the routine.
“The Chief wants to see you,” Carol said as I came in.
I wonder what I’ve fucked up now, I thought.
I sat down opposite him. “What have I fucked up now?” I said.
He handed me a letter. Scavanni had followed through on his threat. The eejit. It was a boilerplate lawyer’s letter. Words like “intimidation” and “harassment”.
I read it and handed it back.
“You know that you’re off this case, don’t you, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure you realize that? Am I going to have to explain how the fucking chain of command works around here?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell me you’re not a maverick, Duffy.”
“I’m not, sir.”
“Then why were you hassling a senior Sinn Fein press officer, on a Saturday, outside an auction?”
“I ran into him by accident. It was a coincidence. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“You know what you have, Duffy?”
“What sir?”
“A lean and hungry look, that’s what.”
He glared at me, shook his head, opened a drawer, took out a packet of cigarettes.
“Only child, aren’t you, Duffy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s been my experience that only children never learn when to keep their fucking traps shut. An older brother would have beat that out of you.”
The Cold, Cold Ground Page 24