Page 143 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Uhm, well done, Sean. Look, the sun’s supposed to come out later... And there’s the market on downtown.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t sit in the house all day, I promise. There’s nothing on tillCountdownnow, and you know that Gyles Brandreth rubs me the wrong way.”

“Well, that’s good. Remember what Dr. Havercamp said. A good brisk walk?—”

“I remember. I know, I’ll go for a walk. I’ll walk the cat on a leash.”

“I’d like to see you try. There’s the bell. Better go. Love you, Sean.”

“Love you too.”

Later.

The market was a very good place to pick up records. It seemed the whole country was switching to CDs and CD players, so entire record collections were being sold on the cheap.

The market was the big weekly event in Portpatrick, and people came in from all over Galloway and parts of Ayrshire too. Today was even crazier because it coincided with the quarterly horse fair, and when I got to the top of the hill, I saw that the little village was a teeming souk of Travellers, traders, and tourists.

I almost went back to the house, and that, of course, would have been the end of the case. No Iceland, no Knock, no Delaware, no answers. No dance with death, either. But Gyles Brandreth was on bloodyCountdown,so I didn’t go back. I walked down the hill into Portpatrick.

I waded through the people, horses, and school-ditching kids until I saw big Mike Moffatt at the record stall, looking pleased with himself. Mike was six feet six and nineteen stone. Bald and bearded, he was one of those characters who only ever wore a white T-shirt and stovepipe jeans, no matter the weather. A Geordie not afraid of the bloody cliché.

“New records?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“Well, maybe next week, then, Michael,” I said, trying to beat a hasty retreat.

“Not so fast, Duffy. Some Gypsy kid was looking for you. Says he’s got some information about a case. He knew you lived somewhere in Portpatrick and he knew you’d be down my record stall, so he left a note for ya. Smart kid.”

“Let’s have this note, then.”

Big Mike shook his head. “Nah, mate, quid pro quo. Buy a record and I’ll pass on the note.”

“Fuck that, I’ll find him. I’m sure he’s over by the horses.”

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Here, take this Cliff Richard Christmas album. Fifty pence to a good customer such as yourself.”

I forked over the fifty pence and got the record and the note.

The note was a sketch of a horse and the numeral “2.” Two o’clock at the horse fair. Killian was illiterate, then, but that didn’t mean much; a lot of tinker kids were illiterate.

I Oxfammed the Cliff Richard record and headed over to the beach. There wasn’t an Irishman born alive who could resist a Gypsy horse fair, so the note had been superfluous. And sure enough, I found Killian with various uncles and cousins racing field hunters and Shire horses along the strand.

Even though we were across the sheugh, it probably wouldn’t do his reputation any good to be seen with a peeler, so I just gave him a nod when he turned a big brown chestnut mare near me. Our eyes met, and I went over to the improvised shabeen tent, which always seemed to spring up at these things.

Killian met me as I was scoffing risible chips and a good poteen.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?”

“My house is just over the hill.”

“You lead, I’ll follow.”

There were some crims I wouldn’t want to know where I lived (especially if they knew I was going to be on vacation and the house would be empty except for an unreliable watchcat) but Killian had a weird honor code that would never allow him to exploit the knowledge of my address for personal gain.

I walked back up the hill and toward the cliffs. An election was coming up, and a sign near the house said, “Vote Tory to increase the dissonance.” It did my heart good to see the worddissonanceon an election poster. Over that little stretch of water, election posters were cruder and uglier, and if there was a big word it was a big word from the Book of Revelation.

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