Page 27 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Oh, yes!” he said enthusiastically. “If I wouldn’t be in the way? I could do with a lift. I walked here from the house.”

The chief inspector was a gifted administrator who had gone to the police college in Hendon and finished at the top of his class. He was Scottish, better-looking and younger than both Crabbie and I, but he was bound to be disappointed to still be a chief inspector and to still be in Carrickfergus after all these years. Still, navigating failure is a useful skill to learn, especially if you live in Northern Ireland

If I had his job, I wouldn’t hang around damp crime scenes at midnight if I could help it. His in-laws must be worse than I thought.

“It’ll probably be quite boring, sir,” I added, but he only nodded glumly and followed us outside.

We left the house and were immediately intercepted by a young copper I didn’t know.

“Are you Inspector Duffy?” she asked me.

“Who’s asking?” I said cautiously.

“WPC Green. You asked for the BT call logs for this address,” she said, holding a piece of paper.

“This is very efficient, thank you, Constable Green,” I said.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you indeed?” I asked.

A bob of black curly hair was stuffed under her policewoman’s kepi, and her cheeks were pale and her eyes blue. Sensing danger, McCrabban took the piece of paper from her. “Thank you very much, Constable Green,” he said. “Make sure you check under your vehicle for mercury tilt switch bombs before driving back to the station.”

She nodded and walked back to her car. Crabbie handed me the phone logs. They immediately got my attention because they were very strange indeed.

I showed them to the Crabman. “That’s a bit odd,” he said.

“What is it?” the chief inspector asked. I handed him the piece of paper and then deciphered it for him in case he was slow on the uptake.

“The home phone has been activated for about two and a half months. He’s made about a hundred outgoing calls, and he’s gotten about the same number of incoming calls.”

“Okay.”

“The incoming calls have come from paint-supply places, the electric company, a newsstand, a plumber—the usual thing. And a few of the outgoing calls have gone to places like that too but look at this number here. Almost half the incoming and outgoing calls went to the same number. A phone box on Point Road in Dundalk.”

“Dundalk?”

“Dundalk,” I said again.

“Okay. Is that supposed to be significant or ominous, or something?” McArthur wondered.

“Yeah, I’d say it was a little bit ominous. What would you say, Sergeant McCrabban?”

“A bit ominous, aye,” he agreed.

“Why, for heaven’s sake?” McArthur asked.

“Well, Dundalk is in the Irish Republic?—”

“I knew that!” McArthur claimed.

“And it’s where the IRA Army Council has its HQ. A lot of the top guys in the IRA have left Belfast and moved to Dundalk. It allows them to be still pretty close to the action and they can get Northern Irish TV and radio, but they’re completely immune from police or army harassment.”

“The SAS have been over the border a few times,” McArthur protested.

“Always on lightning raids to little villages or farms contiguous to the border. Never to a big town like Dundalk,” I said.

“Even the local police won’t hassle them. Dundalk is an IRA stronghold. It’s basically their town,” Crabbie said.

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