Page 147 of Hang on St. Christopher

He wasn’t even trying.

Either that or he was just having a laugh.

It was three p.m.

I picked Emma up from nursery school. “I have a new joke, Daddy.”

“Go on, then.”

“There are two cats: an English cat called One Two Three, and a French cat called Un Deux Trois. They are in a contest to swim the English Channel. Which cat won?

“I don’t now.”

“The English cat. Because the un deux trois quatre cinq.”

I laughed and she laughed, and it was a lovely moment.

Beth wasn’t stupid. She could tell I was heading out before I even broached it. I had laid out the leather jacket with the escape kit in the sleeve, and I had cleaned my .38.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Lead on a case. A tip-off.”

“You’re not a full-time detective anymore, Sean. Isn’t it Lawson’s?—”

“No, this was a tip-off for me personally. I have to go.”

“Where?

“Belfast Airport and then Knock in County Mayo. Do you want to know more?”

“Is it IRA? Is it dangerous?”

“No and no.”

“When do you leave?”

“I have to leave now. It’s a hot tip.”

Beth nodded.

She got it.

She knew me.

I wouldn’t let it go.

I’ll never it let it go.

Beemer to Glasgow Airport.

I flashed my warrant card so that I could take my weapon on the plane.

“Are you on an official investigation, or is this a?—”

“It’s an official RUC investigation.”

Glasgow to Belfast International.

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