Page 15 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Well, it was one of those.”

“What evidence have you gathered?”

“Shotgun pellets.”

“Anything else?”

“Not much.”

“Tell me about the pellets.”

“Twelve-gauge, both barrels, shot from less than four feet away. He had no chance.”

“Victim’s name, occupation—all that jazz?”

Frank sniffed. “That’s none of my business; that’s your job. Do you want to see the body?”

“Not really, but I suppose we have to.”

Frank led me along the pavement to where a white sheet was covering the body. Forensic men (and one forensic woman) had chalk-marked the shotgun pellets that were in the ground and were taking photographs of the tire treads of the stolen car, which had been driven off with some speed.

“You can tell by the tread that the vehicle was a Jaguar,” Frank said.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

For all his abilities, I doubted very much that he’d ascertained the make of the car from this tread. He must have canvassed the neighbors. And if he’d canvassed the neighbors, he probably did know the victim’s name, occupation, and so on, but he wanted me to do my own bloody legwork, the hateful big shite.

I lifted the sheet to look at the body. I hadn’t had to do this in a while, and I’d been glad of that. In a lot of ways, I hadn’t been cut out to be an RUC detective—my problems with the chain of command, my issues with the priorities of the organization itself, and my distaste for many aspects of detective work, not least among them looking at recently murdered people.

This particular scene was a mess. A mess that once had been a thinking, feeling human being. Sawn-off shotgun at very close range. Exactly the sort of thing a panicky joyrider would do. Half the victim’s face had been torn off, and the hole in his chest was enormous.

He was wearing a sport jacket, white shirt, and brown slacks with Nike gutties—bit of an unusual ensemble. I bent down to touch the jacket. It was a linen cotton blend, bespoke tailoring. I examined it more closely. The label said that it was from Thomas Browne and Company, an old-money tailoring firm out of Dublin.

I let the sheet fall and stood up to get some air. The sheet drooped over the hole in the victim’s skull and began to absorb some of the only partially dried blood. A macabre, bloody silhouette. It was a gruesome thing to see.

“Oh, crap,” I said, wincing.

Paperwork seldom gave you nightmares. This, however, might.

“Are you all right, Duffy? You’ve gone green,” Payne said with a grin.

“Aye, not used to this. The integrity of my sleep has probably been compromised.”

“Ach, this is nothing. I see shite worse than this every day. Some of the road accidents I have to go to... Decapitations. Partial decapitations. Fire. Kids, you name it. One time I was called to the scene of a fire in a van carrying handicapped kids?—”

I held up my hand. “Save it for another time, brother, will ya?”

“You’ve gotten soft, Duffy.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Frank. How long has he been out here like this?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“Who found the body?”

“Report of shots fired to the confidential telephone. Carrick police arrived and they called forensics.”

“The local cops didn’t call an ambulance?”

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