Page 146 of Hang on St. Christopher

“So instead of legging it, I kind of join the crowd around the cops and Luke and Kate. And they’re doing the right thing. Protesting that it’s all a mistake and they’re innocent, but the airport peelers aren’t listening. And I’m watching the guy and his face is unusual. He’s just caught someone lifting his wallet and he’s not triumphant like you would expect. He’s annoyed; he’s annoyed at himself. He’s made this big fuss and everybody’s looking at him and he’s pissed off.”

“What happened next?”

“You might well ask. So the lead peeler comes out, plainclothes guy, and he opens his notebook and the uniforms are cuffing Luke and Kate, and then suddenly Motorcycle Man gets all apologetic and picks his wallet off the ground and he says, ‘I’m so sorry, I dropped my wallet. These two had nothing to do with it.’ All this in an American accent. And he looks at Kate, and Kate knows he’s letting her go, so she doesn’t kick up a stink. But the peeler’s not buying it. The peeler’s going on about Gypsy pickpockets and how he’s seen Luke before around here and all that shite. But the guy is insistent. They had nothing to do with it; there’s no crime been committed here; you have to let them go. And the peeler finally can see that there’s no percentage in arguing it out, and if the guy’s not going to press charges there ain’t gonna be no case, so he lets them go. And the guy—this is the good bit—he apologizes to Luke and Kate for their trouble and gives them twenty quid each to get a cup of tea.”

“Are you sure about the American accent?”

“Quite sure.”

“So what happened next?”

“Luke and Kate scarper before there’s any other trouble.”

“But you don’t.”

“No, course I don’t.”

“What do you do?”

“I wait until all the fuss has died down, and I follow him first to the coffee shop and then to the departure lounge and finally to his gate.”

“So where’s he going?”

“He’s flying to Knock.”

“Knock.”

“He takes Aer Lingus Two-Twenty-Two to Knock.”

“That’s what you’ve got for me?”

“That’s what I’ve got. How much is that worth to you?”

At some imperceptible point in the story, the language of our conversation had switched from English to Irish, and a request for money in Irish doesn’t quite have the brutal ring to it that it has in English.

“I’m not sure I can do much of anything with this. Aer Lingus flights to the Republic only require boarding passes with a name on them. You don’t need to present an ID or passport to fly to the Irish Republic,” I said.

“So you check the names.”

“It’s going to be a fake name, isn’t it? Give any old name when you book the ticket, and if you’re as cautious as Mr. X...”

Killian smiled “But you’re going to check it anyway, aren’t you?”

Yup, he knew me, this kid. “How many other passengers? What type of plane?”

“Dash Seven, I think. No more than ten passengers.”

“I’ll get my wallet.”

CHAPTER24

BELFAST-KNOCK-SHANNON-INVERNESS-REYKJAVIK-JFK

You know me. Always keen to explore a lead, especially if it’s in an out-of-the-way locale with almost no chance of bearing any fruit, and especially if I’m picking up the tab from my own pocket. What is that? Dedication to the job? An unquenchable thirst for justice? Or an eejit semiretired copper with too much bloody time on his hands?

All of the above, probably.

I called the airport and got the manifest. Eight passengers for the Belfast International Aer Lingus flight to Knock. Five male passengers. No ID required for this flight, but four of those passengers had a name that showed up in UK or Irish records. One passenger’s name on the manifest was John Smith.

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