Page 53 of Hang on St. Christopher

“To do what?”

“I can think of a couple of things. If this is an attack on him, he can martial his forces before the news leaks out that one of his men has died, or maybe he’s going to use the time to tidy up any links between the victim and himself...”

“Or it could just be a fire in a tailor’s shop,” O’Neill said pragmatically. They were a commonsense lot down in the Garda.

“Or it could just be an ordinary fire, yes,” I agreed. “Well, thanks for traveling down to Dublin for me, brother. You’ve been a big help. Saves me another journey there tomorrow.”

“Sorry I couldn’t crack the case for you.”

“It’s okay, mate. Them’s the breaks.”

We said goodbye and I hung up.

My brain was in second gear. Booze would help. I made myself a vodka gimlet in a pint glass: three inches of vodka, lime juice, ice, pinch of soda water, stir, hold glass against your forehead for a bit, drink.

The vodka helped me think.

It was obvious to me, at least, what had happened. After we visited the tailor, the manager had called O’Roarke, and O’Roarke had instructed him to burn the ledger with John Doe’s name in it.

I called up Crabbie at the station. I told him about the alleged fire. Crabbie was not completely convinced that O’Roarke’s fingers were all over this. “Sean, O’Roarke has to know that we’ll find out who John Doe is eventually. Ireland is a small island.”

The rain outside grew heavier. Sheet lightning danced around the Knockagh.

“He’s playing for time. Time to do something. Time to wipe something out so there’s no link between John Doe and him. He’s doing it right now, as we speak.”

I took another gulp of the vodka gimlet. A ciggie would be great about now, but I was off the ciggies.

“Townes must have a house or an office or an offsite storage locker or a garage under another name. Something we missed,” I mused.

“I ran a thorough search in all the databases for Quentin Townes and came up with nothing.”

“I’m not surprised. It’ll be under a pseudonym, or even—” I slapped my forehead. “No, mate, it’ll be under his real name, won’t it? He’ll have a car and a bank balance and passports and getaway cash stored under his real name. A house or a flat here or maybe Dundalk or Dublin, under his real name.”

“Maybe that’s where he keeps his forged paintings too.”

“Maybe,” I said. “O’Roarke’s minions are probably stripping that flat as we speak, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. When we do find it, there will no be link to O’Roarke or anybody else.”

A long silence down the line.

“Perhaps tomorrow we’ll get a bit closer to a solution,” Crabbie said.

“Aye, mate, see you in the morning... first thing.”

“First thing,” he agreed.

I stretched out on the sofa. I had the peculiar feeling of being a domino in one of those televised record-breaking domino-toppling attempts. All around me, dominoes were falling, and the line was heading inexorably toward me.

I stared at the phone.

Something told me that it was about to?—

Briiiinnnggg, briiiinnnggg. Briiiinnnggg, briiiinnnggg.

I picked it up. “Duffy,” I muttered.

“This is Dan Harkness.”

Harkness was a Special Branch chief super in RUC intel. Highflier. He had come up with me, but his career had graphed from bottom left to top right in a pretty linear trajectory. Mine, of course, had had its ups and downs and, since John Strong’s untimely demise, was pretty much flatlining...

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