Page 17 of Hang on St. Christopher

He went over to one of his junior officers, who found the bag and gave it to me. I put on latex gloves before taking out the wallet and the cash. The wallet wasn’t interesting in itself, but this was a lot of money. And there wasn’t just sterling; there was also two hundred quid in Irish pounds: ten crisp twenty-punt W. B. Yeats notes. Also three French five-hundred-franc notes with a hideous facsimile of Blaise Pascal on them.

I showed the foreign currency to Crabbie. “He got around, did our mystery man,” Crabbie said.

“I think he’s originally from Dublin which is interesting,” I said. “That jacket is a Thomas Browne, just off Connolly Street. Fancy place. If we can’t ID him any other way, they’ll have a list of their clients.”

“You know, joyriders almost never kill anyone,” Crabbie mused.

“But it does happen,” Payne insisted.

“It does happen,” Crabbie agreed. “Strange that they left that big wallet full of cash.”

“They panicked and fled,” Payne said.

“What happened to the shotgun-shell casings?” I asked.

“Gone,” Payne admitted.

“Our panicky joyrider took the trouble to leave the money but pick up the shell casings?” I asked.

“And if they shot him twice at chest height, it’s odd that none of the pellets hit the car,” Crabbie said.

“How do you know none of the pellets hit the car? The bloody car’s gone!” Payne said.

“Well, there are no paint chips and no broken glass that I can see,” Crabbie said.

“And look at those pellets in the asphalt,” I said.

Frank Payne crossed his arms. “All right, smart guys, what do youse think happened?”

“I’m not ruling out your joyrider theory, but to me it looks like an execution. They shot him in the gut with the first barrel, and while he was on the ground they blew half his head off with the second. Look at all the pellets embedded in the pavement. The gun was pointing down.”

Crabbie nodded. “No broken glass from the car windows around the body. The first shot was low in the stomach; the second shot came when he was prone. If he’d been standing against the car for both barrels, the side windows would likely have been taken out.”

Frank looked at the pair of us and then slowly nodded. “Well, you’re the experts. I just gather the evidence,” he said with fake humility. “If it was an execution, there’d be no possibility of pleading manslaughter, then, would there?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s good. Them wee bastards, if they top someone and they’re underage, they let him out after two years. It’s a disgrace if you ask me. Bring back the rope, eh?”

“It might not be kids,” I said.

“It’s always kids. Whole country’s going to the dogs! Bloody kids. There’s no respect anymore. ’Course, the problem is with the parents; they?—”

“Me and the Crabman will find them,” I said to stave off the full juror-number-three-in–12 Angry Menrant.

“Make sure that you do. I drive a Mercedes. I don’t want it nicked,” Frank said.

“We’ll do our best,” I said, offering him my hand to show that the conversation was at its terminus.

He shook the hand and nodded. “All right, I’ll collect the lads and head out. We’ll be on until the wee hours tonight.”

“No rest for the wicked, Francis,” I said.

“Whom the Lord loveth he chastiseth,” Crabbie added.

Payne gave us a weary look, opened his mouth to do some more moaning, changed his mind, and departed.

“I think that’s it, you know, Sean,” said Crabbie, sensing my thoughts. “The first shot put him on the ground, and while he was down there, they finished him off.”

---