The Cold, Cold Ground Read Online Free PDF Page A

from the road?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Matty said wearily.
    â€œIt was to display him, Matty. They wanted him found quickly.”
    Matty grunted, unwilling to buy into the pedagogical nature of our relationship.
    â€œHave you done the hair samples, prints?” I asked.
    â€œNah, I’ll do all that once I’m done with the photos.”
    â€œWho’s our patho?”
    â€œDr Cathcart.”
    â€œIs he good?”
    â€œShe. Cathcart’s a she.”
    I raised my eyebrows. I hadn’t heard of a female patho before.
    â€œShe’s not bad,” Matty added.
    We stood there looking into the burnt-out car listening to the rain pitter-patter on the rusted roof.
    â€œI suppose I better get back to it,” Matty said.
    â€œAye,” I agreed.
    â€œIs the cavalry coming down from Belfast at all?” Matty asked as he took more pictures.
    I shook my head. “Nah, just you and me, mate. Cosier that way.”
    â€œJesus, I have to do this all by myself?” Matty protested.
    â€œGet plod and sod over there to help you,” I said.
    Matty seemed sceptical. “Them boys aren’t too brilliant at the best of times. Question for ya: skipper says to go easy on the old snaps. Do you need close-ups? If not I’ll skip them.”
    â€œGo easy on the snaps? Why?”
    â€œThe expense, like, you know? Two pound for every roll we process. And it’s just a topped informer, isn’t it?”
    I was annoyed by this. It was typical of the RUC to waste millions on pointless new equipment that would rot in warehouses but pinch pennies in a homicide investigation.
    â€œTake as many rolls of film as you like. I’ll bloody pay for it. A man has been murdered here!” I said.
    â€œAll right, all right! No need to shout,” Matty protested.
    â€œAnd get that evidence lifted before the rain washes it all away. Get those empty suits to help you.”
    I buttoned my coat and turned up the collar. The rain was heavier now and it was getting cold.
    â€œYou could stay and help if you want, I’ll give you some latex gloves,” Matty said.
    I tapped the side of my head.
    â€œI’d love to help, mate, but I’m an ideas man, I’d be no use to you.”
    Matty bit his tongue and said nothing.
    â€œYou’re in charge of the scene now, Constable McBride,” I said in a loud, official voice.
    â€œOk.”
    â€œNo shortcuts,” I added in a lower tone and turned and walked back to Taylor’s Avenue where the police Land Rover was parked with its back doors open. There was a driver inside: another reserve constable that I didn’t know, sitting on his fat arse reading a newspaper. I rapped the glass and the startled constable looked up. “Oi, you, Night of the Living Dead! Close them rear doors, and look alive, pal, you’re a sitting duck here for an ambush.”
    â€œYes, sergeant,” the unknown constable said.
    An idea occurred to me. “Shine your headlights onto the field, will ya?”
    He put the headlights on full beam giving Matty even more light. I looked for a blood trail from the road to the corpse and sure enough I found a few drops.
    â€œThere’s a blood trail!” I yelled to Matty and he nodded with a lot less excitement than I would have liked. I shrugged, did up my last coat button and went back along Coronation Road. It was well after midnight now and everyone was abed. The rain had turned to sleet and the smell of peat smoke was heady. No people, no cars, not even a stray cat. Dozens of identical, beige Proddy curtains neatly shut.
    So all these Jaffa bastards know I’m a Catholic? I thought unhappily. That was the kind of quality information the IRA would pay good money for, if anybody around here was imaginative enough to sell it to them.
    I walked up the garden path, went inside, pulled my vermillion curtains, turned on the electric fire, stripped off my clothes in the