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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.”
    “Any claims of responsibility yet?” I asked Crabbie.
    Crabbie shook his head. “No one’s said anything.”
    “So 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.
    “Right fool I’ll look going to Brennan with this.”
    “We could put his picture on TV,” Matty said. “Get an artist to fix up a sketch of his face pre-gunshot.”
    “Brennan won’t like it, asking the public for help. Hates that,” Crabbie said.
    “Does 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 .
    “Aye, 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?”
    “Will they be cutting him open?” Matty asked.
    “I expect they will.”
    Matty coughed. “You know what? I’ll stay here and chase up on our boy’s prints,” he said.
    “I’ll pass too,” Crabbie muttered.
    “You’re both a couple of yella bellies,” I said and put my coat on.
    Crabbie cleared his throat. “If I could make an observation before you head off, Sean,” he said.
    “Go on.”
    “Very unusual this for these parts. No prints on anything? Believe me, I know these local hoods and no one in the CarrickUVF or the Carrick UDA is this careful. It gives ya pause for thought,” McCrabban said.
    “Aye, it does,” Matty agreed.
    “And no ‘thirty pieces of silver’ either,” I said. “They usually love that shit.”
    Brennan saw me on the way out and dragged me to the Royal Oak public house next door.
    He ordered two Guinnesses and two Bushmills.
    “That’s some lunch. I’ll have the same,” I told him. He smiled and we took the drinks to the snug.
    My pager was going like the clappers and under Brennan’s withering look I turned it off.
    “What news, kemosabe?” he asked when we’d drunk our chasers.
    “Drawing a blank so far, skipper, but I still have the patho to see and the victim’s prints are up in Belfast getting run through the database as we speak.”
    “Thought I told you last night to handle this ourselves,” Brennan muttered with a scowl.
    “Not the leg work too, surely? Besides, them boys in records have nothing better to do. If I sent Matty up there to do it manually it would take him two hours just to drive through the police road blocks.”
    Brennan nodded. He fixed me with his Viking peepers. “And I heard you authorised ‘additional photography’?”
    “Yes sir, but I’ll pay for that,” I replied.
    “See that you do. I have to account for every penny.”
    “There was some thought among the lads that we could go on the BBC and put our mystery man’s face on the telly, but Crabbie has crushed my show-business dreams by saying that’s not your policy? Sir?”
    Brennan pointed heavenwards. “No. Let’s keep this nice and discreet. Once they start breathing down your neck …”
    “Ok to authorise flyers and a poster of our poor unfortunateon the board outside the station?”
    “One poster and don’t make it grim, let’s not upset the natives.”
    Sergeants Burke and McCallister spotted us and joined us at the table, but I had things to do and couldn’t afford a lunch-time session with them boys. After I finished my Guinness, I went back in the cop shop and got my car. Carrick Hospital was a small Victorian building on the Barn Road,