Page 152 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Good morning,” a pretty young jogger said.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” a fetching young couple pushing a pram said together.

“Morning.”

I was starting to hate this town.

I found myself at the Hotel Borg on Posthusstraeti.

I went inside.

“Good morning, sir, how can we help you?” a bright young thing asked at reception.

“Is the bar open?”

“No, I’m sorry, but the bar won’t be open until noon. Are you a guest at the hotel? We start serving breakfast at seven.”

My head hurt, and all this “good morning” shite was giving me dyspepsia.

“Can I get a coffee at least?”

The bright young thing smiled, shook her head, and repeated: “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t start serving breakfast until seven.”

I’d given up the smokes; otherwise, this would have been the perfect place for a consolation ciggie. My hand reached in my jacket pocket anyway and brushed not against my cigarette packet but against the envelope containing Mr. Smith’s photograph from Belfast International Airport.

I put my warrant card and the photograph on the reception desk.

“I’m a policeman from Ireland. You haven’t seen this man, by any chance, have you?”

The receptionist frowned. “Hmmm,” she said.

“Hmmm, what?”

“That looks a lot like Mr. Wilson. He comes here two or three times a year. He just checked out yesterday.”

Holy living fuck.

“Do you have a forwarding address for Mr. Wilson, by any chance?”

“Yes, I think so.”

She rummaged in her files for a moment.

“Emmet Wilson, Twenty-Two Ferry Street, Middle Bay, Virginia 22432, USA.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, writing the information down in my notebook.

“Would you like me to make you a breakfast reservation?”

I thought about what Michael Forsythe had told me. My name had come up in some weird circles in America.

Michael was trying to warn me off. His mate Killian was sending me the other way.

But America was where I needed to go. Now.

“Sorry, what?”

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