Page 117 of Hang on St. Christopher

It was hard to tell with Crabbie whether he was just trying to wind Brendan up. But it tipped Brendan over the edge into a kind of madness. Ateppichfresser-ing madness, if you want to continue the Hitler analogy. He was bug-eyed and almost literally foaming at the mouth. He banged the table so hard, the water pitcher jumped and fell on its side.

“Interview terminated,” one of the lawyers said, and, with some difficulty, escorted Brendan O’Roarke from the room.

After he and his flunkies had left, a still, uncomfortable silence descended on the conference room, punctuated only by the dripping of water from the table to the floor.

“I thought that went well,” I said.

“Better than I was expecting, sir,” Lawson said, catching my mood.

“Yes, definitely one of the scarier individuals I’ve met this year,” I admitted fifteen minutes later in the pub next door to the police station.

We all sipped our pints and nodded in agreement. In fact, “met this year” was only scholarly caution on my part. He was one of the scariest hardmen I’d ever met. There was nothing but animal hate behind those black eyes of his. The scariest eyes I’d seen in a long time, and I’d met Jimmy Savile and had to throw Roger Waters out of a bar once.

We got a few more beers in and swapped cop stories, and it was close to midnight when we left Dundalk, exhausted, defeated, frustrated.

Get used to those emotions, my little trainee detective chums; they’re going to become very familiar to you over the next twenty-five years of your career in the RUC.

CHAPTER19

THE FERRYHILL ROAD

The way back north again. DS Clare in the lead Land Rover with his team, me in Land Rover 2 with mine.

It was raining and there had been some sort of road accident outside Dromad, but it wasn’t a problem since the diversion signs were pointing to the Ferryhill Road, which would take us only fifteen minutes out of our way.

In the daytime, this was a lovely part of County Louth to get diverted through. Dozens of little lanes that led down to the River Newry and Carlingford Lough. This was the very place where the great Cuchulainn, Champion of Ulster, tied himself to the boulder and fought off the armies of Meath—if you believed in that sort of thing.

And why wouldn’t you?

“Duffy, do you happen to know this part of the world at all?” Clare’s voice came on over the radio.

I picked up the mic. “Are you lost?” I asked.

“No. I was just wondering where the border is on this road,” he replied irritably.

I grinned at McCrabban. “Only Special Branch could get us lost five hundred meters from the border.”

Crabbie nodded and started filling his pipe.

“Do you want me to take lead and see if I can find the border? Or should we go back to the main road?” I said into the radio.

“No! That’s not necessary,” Clare said. “DCI Preston has just produced a very good one-inch-to-one-mile map. We’ll be fine. He knows this part of the country. We have everything in hand now.”

“They have everything in hand,” I said to McCrabban. “That means we could be here all night.”

“Could be,” he agreed. “I’m no expert, Sean, but I’ve bought cows down here a few times. This diversion is very strange.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. This is a very narrow road to be on. If we ignore the official diversion and go back to Dromad, there are a couple of different roads that could get us?—”

Weightlessness.

Metal.

Light.

Dirt.

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