Page 13 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Not much occasion to, no. The Lord has been kind.”

“Not to this geezer,” I said, pointing at the corpse.

“This is my first case of any kind in about six months,” Crabbie admitted in low tones. He too had moved to the part-time reserve, so he could spend more time on his dairy farm. “An assist to Sergeant Lawson on an armed robbery.”

“And how did that turn out?” I asked.

“We got them.”

“How? Forensic stuff?”

“Easier than that. Lawson went ’round the car dealerships to see who had just bought themselves a flashy new car. It was like a trail of breadcrumbs to the gang’s door.”

“Well, mate, you’ve gotten more practice than I have. This is my first actual case in over a year. Wee bit nervous about it, actually.”

“How are Beth and Emma?”

“Good. Your brood and your better half?”

“Good.”

We stood in silence for a beat or two.

“I hope we know what we’re doing here, Sean,” Crabbie said at last.

“I hope so too. Apparently, it’s a car theft gone wrong, so not exactly something that will tax our limited mental capacities.”

“If you say so, Sean.”

“Let’s say hello to Frank, eh?”

Frank Payne, the chief forensics officer, had evidently finished his job, because he was drinking tea and taking a cigarette break under a little canopy his team had rigged up.

As I said, Frank was a big, splenetic, heading-for-a-violent-heart-attack kind of man. He had no hair now, and his pale cheeks had taken on a purple cast. The tiny ciggie in his big paw looked somehow comic.

I shook his free hand.

“Well, if isn’t the late, great Sean Duffy,” he said.

“Nice to see you, Francis.”

“I wondered what happened to you. I haven’t clocked you or Crabbie at a crime scene in years! Sergeant Lawson I’ve seen, but not your shining, skinny, backwoods, inbred goblin face. What happened to you, brother? Did you fuck the deputy chief constable’s wife or something? You were caught and they sent you to some scary suicide post on the border?”

“It’s a little more prosaic than?—”

“Well, what have you been doing with yourself? Tell me!”

“I’m in the part-time reserve now.”

He looked amazed. “Part-time reserve?You?Seriously, mate, what happened?”

“Nothing happened. I’m only serving out my time until I can get my pension.”

Comprehension dawned, and Frank nodded. There was nothing untoward about it. Half the coppers he knew were marking time until they got their pension. “And they let you stay as a detective?” he asked.

“No, they didn’t. I only come in six days a month. You can’t do case work with that schedule.”

“So what do you do?”

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