Read The Cold, Cold Ground for Free Online Page B

procedure.”
    â€œDo me a favour, take some of the headshots down to Jimmy Prentice and see if he recognizes our boy. I already asked the Chief so I’m a bit sceptical that Jimmy will have an ID but you never know.”
    â€œHe mustn’t be local. If Brennan doesn’t know him he isn’t worth knowing,” Crabbie said.
    â€œIf Jimmy draws a blank, fax them up to the Lisburn Road and ask them to cross-reference with all the informers on theirbooks, especially ones that haven’t called in in the last day or two.”
    Crabbie shook his head. “They’ll never tell us about the MI5 boys.”
    â€œI appreciate that, Crabbie, but they’ll have the army list too, so let’s at least try and narrow the field down a wee bit,” I said with a slight edge in my voice.
    Crabbie grabbed a couple of the face pics and took them downstairs to Jim Prentice who ran all the informers in Carrick. Because of the sensitive nature of his work he was stationed in a locked little office by himself next to the armoury. Prentice was the paymaster for all the touts, informers and grasses in our district so if the victim had ever taken a government shilling for information Jimmy would know it. If not, the fax to Belfast would set the ball rolling on their lists. Crabbie was right about MI5 though. MI5 had its own network of informers, some in deep cover, and because MI5 fundamentally didn’t trust anyone in Northern Ireland the names of their agents were never shared with us even when the eejits got themselves shot.
    Matty appeared shortly before lunch and over coffee and sandwiches the three of us had our first case conference. Matty told us he had done the victim’s clothes but there were no liftable prints. He had fingerprinted the victim’s right hand and faxed the printout to Belfast, but so far nothing had showed up in the RUC database. Crabbie told us that no one had called in a missing person’s report in the last twenty-four hours and Jimmy Prentice had told him that our victim was not one of his lads.
    â€œDid you find any bullets in your search of the scene?” I asked Matty.
    Matty shook his head.
    â€œFootprints, hair samples, anything unusual about the victim’s clothing?”
    Matty shook his head. “The T-shirt was a black Marks and Spencer XL, the jeans were Wrangler, the shoes Adidas trainers.”
    â€œAny claims of responsibility yet?” I asked Crabbie.
    Crabbie shook his head. “No one’s said anything.”
    â€œSo we’ve got no prints, no physical evidence, no recovered slug, no claim of responsibility, no missing person’s filings, absolutely nowt,” I said.
    The other two nodded their heads.
    â€œRight fool I’ll look going to Brennan with this.”
    â€œWe could put his picture on TV,” Matty said. “Get an artist to fix up a sketch of his face pre-gunshot.”
    â€œBrennan won’t like it, asking the public for help. Hates that,” Crabbie said.
    â€œDoes he now?” I muttered. He seemed like a man with a yen for the bright lights of a BBC studio, but that was maybe just me projecting, and again it made me think that
Prods were different and Prods from East Antrim were even differenter
.
    â€œAye, he does. He doesn’t want a lot of focus from the powers that be on our wee set-up down here,” Crabbie explained.
    The three of us sat there for a minute looking at a filthy coal boat chugging down the lough. Matty lit a Rothmans. Crabbie began assembling his pipe. I played with a paper clip. I sighed and got to my feet. “Maybe the doc will help, who wants to come?”
    â€œWill they be cutting him open?” Matty asked.
    â€œI expect they will.”
    Matty coughed. “You know what? I’ll stay here and chase up on our boy’s prints,” he said.
    â€œI’ll pass too,” Crabbie muttered.
    â€œYou’re both a couple of yella bellies,”