Page 12 of Hang on St. Christopher

“It’s only for a few days, and they’ll be paying us time and a half,” I explained. “Double time if we go over eight hours a day.”

The chief inspector grimaced, and Helen audibly brightened up.

“Well, we could do with a bit of extra cash,” she said.

I gave her the crime scene address and told her to tell Crabbie to meet me there when he could.

I called forensics to see who they had assigned to the case and was relieved to find that it was Frank Payne, who, despite his dyspeptic demeanor, was one of the better FOs in the biz.

I hung up and caught myself grinning in the hall mirror. A man was dead, and the dead man was crying out for justice, and Inspector Sean Duffy of Carrickfergus RUC was going to go and get that justice for him.DetectiveInspector Sean Duffy of Carrick RUC.

I slapped McArthur on the back. “Right, then, me old cock, let’s go see this crime scene, shall we?”

CHAPTER3

A STRAIGHTFORWARD LITTLE HOMICIDE

There are many ways to tell this story. I could talk about the redness of everything in this world. The red wind. The red clay. The red stain on the ground where Mr. Townes fell with shotgun pellets in his chest. I could talk about the blue smoke curling from the chimney tops, the icy-blue eyes of the forensic officer, the white and blue Police Land Rover Tangi on its side, wheels spinning, its blue guts spilling men under the withering fire of a machine gun. I could talk about the yellow sun setting over the swamp milkweed by the Chesapeake, or the yellow wings of the goldfinches in the nests along the Portpatrick road, or the little yellow dog of that man who threatened Beth with a closed fist that time. There are, of course, many ways to tell every story. But let’s do it chronologically, at least for now, to keep the facts straight in our heads, yeah? For this straightforward little homicide was, of course, to become something much more complicated...

I went into the station to set up the CID incident room and get a warrant card that said “detective” on it. Then I followed McArthur out the Belfast Road to find this murder scene. Him driving his Volvo station wagon, me behind in the Beemer. He was a hesitant, nervous driver who frequently rode the brakes, so I gave him a lot of space to mess up.

I didn’t actually need him. The murder scene wasn’t difficult to find at all, what with the flashing police strobes on the Land Rovers, assorted coppers milling around, and half a dozen forensic officers in white coveralls going about their meticulous work.

The victim’s house was a big old Edwardian mansion on the lough shore. Willow and chestnut trees and a well-manicured lawn. Similar houses to the left, right, and opposite.

This was where you lived if you had a bit of old money or were an up-and-coming doctor or lawyer. Maybe not the sort of place you saw a lot of violent crime, but if you were kids looking to nick a fancy motor, this was as good a place as any to nab one.

McArthur parked his car and got out. He was offering me his hand, so I shook it. “Well, I got you here. Can I leave all this in your capable hands, then, Duffy?”

“I suppose so.”

“You remember all the procedures?”

“I imagine it’s like riding a bike, sir.”

“Is it? Right, then, I’m off. I’ll put the kids to bed and come back in an hour or two to check up on things.”

“You can just go on to bed, sir,” I said. “I’ll close up the crime scene. I’m sure, as you said, it’s all straightforward enough.”

This was an example of my rustiness. You never said things like that, what with God, the jinx, and fate listening in. Never. What were you thinking, Duffy? You eejit.

“Nah, I’ll come back, Duffy,” he said. He lowered his voice. “My in-laws are over from Stirling. My father-in-law is... well...”

“Understand completely, sir.”

I waved goodbye and looked at the end of the driveway, and there was the stolid, pallid face and the long Raymond Massey–like physique of Sergeant John “Crabbie” McCrabban getting out of a Land Rover Defender. If you were looking to cast a local version ofThe Crucible, you wouldn’t cast Crabbie as the Reverend Hale, because he’d be a bit too forbidding and grave for the role. But once you got to know him, you realized that underneath that dour Presbyterian visage there was a dry—very dry—sense of humor that he occasionally trotted out, and a guy who would never let you down.

I hadn’t seen him for a while. A month or so. I waved at him. He nodded back. “How you doing, mate?” I called to him.

Crabbie came over. I wanted to hug the big galoot, but that would only embarrass him, so we shook hands.

“How do, Sean?”

“Not bad, and yourself?”

“Mustn’t grumble.”

“Do you ever grumble?”

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