Page 132 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I’ll type it for you,” he said.

“When? I’m leaving today.”

“Hold your horses. I’ll do it now if you want.”

“Please.”

I took the CID-headed paper and put it in the typewriter.

Transfer from CID Property Room Carrickfergus RUC to custody of Special Branch. Receipt for two Picasso etchings. Vollard Suite B.162. Signed by the artist.

Clare signed it, and I photocopied the receipt and made him sign the photocopy too.

We said our goodbyes.

When the Special Branch men were gone, Crabbie gave me a funny look.

“You’re up to something. I can always tell when you’re up to something.”

“I’m not up to anything. I just wanted to see those pictures safely taken out of our hands.”

I gave him a big hug, which he, of course, hated.

“I’ve a ferry to catch. I’ll see you next month, mate, okay?”

If Lawson didn’t need us, it would be back to traffic and admin for the pair of us. But that was okay. One month closer to a pension.

“If we’re in on the same days, you’ll come up to the house, won’t you? Helen always enjoys having you over, and the boys miss their Uncle Sean.”

“Dinner? I’ll do it.”

He stared at me and put his big, meaty paw on my shoulder.

“I know you, Sean.”

“I know you do.”

“I think I know you as good as anyone.”

“That might be right.”

He shook his head. “It’s over, Sean. It’s not our case anymore. It was never going to be our case. As soon as it got complicated, it was always going to get kicked upstairs.”

“So what?—”

“So you have to let it go. You have to promise that you won’t go back to Dundalk or do anything else stupid.”

“I’m on the ferry tonight, mate. Finito.”

“Good. I’ll see you next month.”

Touching, that.

Crabbie worried about me.

Crabbie worried that Sean Duffy was going to do a Sean Duffy. But what could I do, exactly?

I went in to say goodbye to Lawson.

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