Page 64 of Hang on St. Christopher

Five minutes later, I tried to flag down a passing car going the other direction, but it ignored me too. A big black motorbike slowed as it got close to me, but then sped up again and drove past.

Total bastard.

I retrieved the Kawasaki, which was covered with dirt and lying upside down in the sheugh. I righted it, cleaned mud out of the spark, and kicked it. It started first time without any complaints whatever. Just try doing that with the Triumph Bonneville I was still trying to rebuild out in my shed.

The front fork was bent and there was muck in the air intake, but it moved.

I rode the Kawasaki slowly back to the caravan site, where Crabbie had called in a police forensic team from Belfast to examine Locke’s trailer.

He ran over when he saw me pull up on the bike.

“I lost them,” I said.

“Are you all right? Did you take a spill?” he asked with concern.

I shook my head. “I’m fine. I found them and I was trailing them, but they fucking made me in the rearview mirror. I blew it.”

“What happened?”

“They fired off a burst with the AK; I lost control of the bike and went off the road. When I got my shit together, they were long gone.”

“They shot at you and you went off the bike?”

“Aye.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, mate. Bit shaken up if I’m honest, but okay.”

“Have a seat; I’ll get you some tea,” Crabbie said with real concern.

“Not necessary. What’s going on here?”

“I put the alert out for the Range Rover. Nothing yet.”

“Update it, will you? I think the vehicle is heading for Belfast. It was last spotted on the A8.”

Crabbie updated the report while I went over to the forensic tent and poured myself a cup of tea and had a couple of their biscuits. My hands were shaking, but the tea helped.

“Anything left inside the caravan?” I asked Crabbie when he returned.

“Nope. Clean as a whistle. I had a look myself while you were in pursuit. They didn’t have a key. The handle smashed off and the lock chiseled out.”

“What do you think was in there?”

“Guns. A lot of them. You can still smell the gun oil and the nitro, and there are half a dozen gun racks on the wall. No dust in any of the racks. So until recently, and by ‘recently’ I mean a few hours ago, they contained guns.”

I wanted to have a look myself, but the coveralled forensic officers were very territorial.

“What sort of guns?”

“Long racks, so I’m thinking rifles, shotguns maybe. Gun oil on some of the wood. I imagine those boys you tangled with had to come and take the weapons away because they were forensically linked to various crimes.”

“I expect you’re right,” I said.

Crabbie looked at my forehead and shook his head.

“You should get to a hospital, Sean. You’re badly scraped up. And look at this. You’ve hurt your hand,” he said with dismay.

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