his brain.
‘Being alive is the good times.’ McDevitt smiled. ‘What are you up to these days?’
‘Murder Squad.’ Davidson decided to keep his answers as short as possible.
‘Beats Vice. You guys have been busy lately. I hear Cummerford and McIver are up for trial soon.’
‘You said it.’ Davidson took a slug of his whiskey and chased it with a mouthful of lager. He was beginning to feel good.
‘Anything else of interest?’
‘As in?’
‘A little bird tells me that you’ve been a busy boy this afternoon,’ McDevitt said nodding at the barman and indicating the empty glasses.
‘What kind of little bird would that be?’ Davidson asked.
‘The kind that wears a studded leather bikini and likes to administer punishment to bad boys.’ McDevitt took a £20 note from his pocket and dropped it on the bar.
‘I didn’t know you moved in those kinds of circles.’ Davidson looked at the double Jameson that had arrived before him. He was entering dangerous territory. He recalled McElvaney’s threat. He had no doubt that she would carry it out.
‘I move in every kind of circle,’ McDevitt said. ‘You wanted to know whether David Grant was in the BDSM world.’
Davidson picked up his whiskey. ‘If you say so.’
McDevitt sipped his whiskey. ‘We’re being fed the line that he died while performing a particularly dangerous sex act. Something in my gut tells me that we’re being fed bullshit. I need to know whether my gut is still operating properly.’
‘Although Grant was only a City Councillor, he was a personality,’ Davidson said picking his words carefully. ‘We’re just stitching up some of the details. Like was he part of the BDSM scene, or was he simply someone who tried gasping and didn’t do it properly?’
‘I heard from another little bird that there are some pretty interesting photographs of the scene. The Chronicle would pay good money if they could get their hands on even one photo.’
Davidson downed his whiskey. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
‘I find out things, Pete. Just like the old days. If you share with me, I’ll share with you.’
‘I’ll pass the word along,’ Davidson said. ‘This time I don’t think that any of your little birds will be carrying warrant cards.’
Stephanie Reid was just about as tired as she had ever been and that was saying something. She had been on her feet since she had entered the Royal Victoria at eight in the morning, and it was now almost exactly twelve hours later. It appeared that there was an epidemic of unexplained deaths in Belfast. She had already dealt with six corpses most of whom had died suddenly, but the reasons had lurked deep within their bodies. Right now she was looking forward to a hot bath and a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc accompanied by the music of James Taylor. She sighed as she watched her assistant wheel in yet another body.
‘The last one,’ he said sheepishly.
She contemplated telling him to take the corpse back and she would autopsy it tomorrow, but who knew what tomorrow would bring. She walked to the trolley and picked up the tag attached to the corpse’s toe. ‘Brian Malone, age twenty-six, massive heart attack’ she read. Age twenty-six and massive heart attack didn’t usually go together. The assistant removed the cotton sheet from the body and displayed the corpse. It was immediately apparent to Reid that Brian Malone was not your typical heart-attack victim. In life he had been reasonably fit. The body was lithe, and he sported a six-pack that most men would have been proud of. It just showed that even the fit could harbour a small defect within their physiology that would be their undoing. ‘Get him on the table,’ she said heading for the sinks in the corner of the room. It was now her task to find the defect that had led to the death of an otherwise healthy man. This was the aspect of her job that she loved the most. In some ways it was similar to the job that Wilson
‘Being alive is the good times.’ McDevitt smiled. ‘What are you up to these days?’
‘Murder Squad.’ Davidson decided to keep his answers as short as possible.
‘Beats Vice. You guys have been busy lately. I hear Cummerford and McIver are up for trial soon.’
‘You said it.’ Davidson took a slug of his whiskey and chased it with a mouthful of lager. He was beginning to feel good.
‘Anything else of interest?’
‘As in?’
‘A little bird tells me that you’ve been a busy boy this afternoon,’ McDevitt said nodding at the barman and indicating the empty glasses.
‘What kind of little bird would that be?’ Davidson asked.
‘The kind that wears a studded leather bikini and likes to administer punishment to bad boys.’ McDevitt took a £20 note from his pocket and dropped it on the bar.
‘I didn’t know you moved in those kinds of circles.’ Davidson looked at the double Jameson that had arrived before him. He was entering dangerous territory. He recalled McElvaney’s threat. He had no doubt that she would carry it out.
‘I move in every kind of circle,’ McDevitt said. ‘You wanted to know whether David Grant was in the BDSM world.’
Davidson picked up his whiskey. ‘If you say so.’
McDevitt sipped his whiskey. ‘We’re being fed the line that he died while performing a particularly dangerous sex act. Something in my gut tells me that we’re being fed bullshit. I need to know whether my gut is still operating properly.’
‘Although Grant was only a City Councillor, he was a personality,’ Davidson said picking his words carefully. ‘We’re just stitching up some of the details. Like was he part of the BDSM scene, or was he simply someone who tried gasping and didn’t do it properly?’
‘I heard from another little bird that there are some pretty interesting photographs of the scene. The Chronicle would pay good money if they could get their hands on even one photo.’
Davidson downed his whiskey. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
‘I find out things, Pete. Just like the old days. If you share with me, I’ll share with you.’
‘I’ll pass the word along,’ Davidson said. ‘This time I don’t think that any of your little birds will be carrying warrant cards.’
Stephanie Reid was just about as tired as she had ever been and that was saying something. She had been on her feet since she had entered the Royal Victoria at eight in the morning, and it was now almost exactly twelve hours later. It appeared that there was an epidemic of unexplained deaths in Belfast. She had already dealt with six corpses most of whom had died suddenly, but the reasons had lurked deep within their bodies. Right now she was looking forward to a hot bath and a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc accompanied by the music of James Taylor. She sighed as she watched her assistant wheel in yet another body.
‘The last one,’ he said sheepishly.
She contemplated telling him to take the corpse back and she would autopsy it tomorrow, but who knew what tomorrow would bring. She walked to the trolley and picked up the tag attached to the corpse’s toe. ‘Brian Malone, age twenty-six, massive heart attack’ she read. Age twenty-six and massive heart attack didn’t usually go together. The assistant removed the cotton sheet from the body and displayed the corpse. It was immediately apparent to Reid that Brian Malone was not your typical heart-attack victim. In life he had been reasonably fit. The body was lithe, and he sported a six-pack that most men would have been proud of. It just showed that even the fit could harbour a small defect within their physiology that would be their undoing. ‘Get him on the table,’ she said heading for the sinks in the corner of the room. It was now her task to find the defect that had led to the death of an otherwise healthy man. This was the aspect of her job that she loved the most. In some ways it was similar to the job that Wilson
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