Page 26 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Glad tidings?”

“Middling tidings. Were you lads talking about art?” he asked, casting a mildly amazed glance McCrabban’s way.

“A little bit of art criticism. A little bit of conversation about jazz trombonists.”

“I heard the word ‘Picasso.’”

I showed him the etchings we’d been jawing about. McArthur leaned forward to touch one of them.

“Careful, sir, we think they might possibly be originals,” I said.

McArthur snatched his finger back like a scolded schoolboy.

“How much is this stuff worth?” he asked, gesturing at the pictures on the walls of the living room.

“We think it’s all largely worthless except for these two.”

“Who is the next of kin?”

“Unfortunately, we have no idea.”

“No idea?”

“We reckon the name Quentin Townes might be some sort of alias.”

“Really?”

“Yes sir. When we looked for him on the electoral role, he didn’t make an appearance; and when we ran his name and address through the driver’s-license system, it did not show up. No credit cards, no credit history, apparently no bank account. He appeared to have no National Insurance number, and there’s nothing on the Interpol computer.”

“How did he pay his bills? The lights work in here, don’t they?”

“Everything in cash. Got paid in cash, paid his bills in cash.”

“This is quite the mystery, isn’t it?” McArthur said.

“Yes. Mr. Townes doesn’t seem to exist.”

“Why would he do that, do you think? Pretend to be someone else?” McArthur asked.

“To avoid paying alimony to the ex-wife?” I suggested.

“Some kind of life insurance scam?” Crabbie suggested.

McArthur frowned.

“But you said you had news, sir?” I asked.

“Ah, Duffy, yes. I am indeed the bearer of tidings. They found Townes’s car burned out in the Glenfield Estate. Joyridden to death, say the forensic boys, and a Molotov tossed in the back seat.”

“Prints?”

“No prints. Thing was burned to an iron skeleton. They sprayed accelerant before throwing in the petrol bomb.”

“Very professional of these teenage hooligans,” I said with a trace of skepticism.

“The weans today are smarter than the kids of yesteryear, Sean,” Crabbie said. “And these ones know that they are compromised, not just in a carjacking but also in a murder, so it’s no wonder they took precautions.”

“Well, I suppose we should get over there, Sergeant McCrabban. Do you, er, want to come, sir?” I added reluctantly.

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