Page 65 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I’m okay. I rode back here after the accident.”

“What did you do that for? You should have gone to the nearest farmhouse and called the police.”

“Didn’t think of that,” I said.

He shook his head. “You’re probably concussed. I’m taking you down to the hospital.”

“No, you’re not. We have an active crime scene here.”

“That’s enough, Sean. Forensics will report their results wherever we are. Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital. I had your car towed out of the mud.”

“Look, who’s in charge here? I’m not going anywhere,” I said, my head spinning.

“I’m in charge. I’m relieving you of operational control, Sean. On account of incapacity. Now, come with me to the car. I’m driving.”

BMW to the Shore Road.

Crabbie driving. Riding the clutch as if he owned shares in BMW replacement-clutch suppliers.

BMW to Whiteabbey Hospital.

Docs. Nurses. Crabbie doing the talking. “He’s a policeman. He was chasing someone on a motorbike. They shot at him, and he went into a hedge and a bit of wall too, I think.”

Wound cleaning.

Bandages.

Tetanus shot.

Head scan.

Head doc: “You took a nasty spill, but you were lucky. Nothing broken. Still, you should rest up for a few days. Avoid stress, and if you get any headaches you should come back and see me immediately.”

“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “I’ll rest up and I’ll avoid stress. And, um, what about the pain?”

“See the attending for a prescription. And remember what I said about the headaches.”

“I will, Doc, thanks.”

When he’d gone, I pulled Crabbie close. “Do me a favor, mate. Get a prescription for the good painkillers. And while you’re at it, check with the station on the case.”

“No stress, Sean. Leave the case for a bit.”

“This isn’t stress. I live for this.”

Crabbie came back with a script for boring old codeine, and a case update. The initial forensic report on the caravan was that the place had until recently been stuffed full of guns and ammo. And Mr. Locke’s fingerprints were everywhere.

Of course, despite Northern Ireland being chock-full of police and army checkpoints, the Range Rover had completely vanished. If it ever appeared again, it would be a burned-out hulk.

When the staff nurse said I was good to go, Crabbie wanted to take me home, but I insisted that we drive back up to the caravan site. We ripped away theRUC—Do Not Crosstape, turned on our flashlights, and peered inside the trailer.

Gun racks, all right, and the smell of grease, gun oil, and cordite was overwhelming. In a drawer, we found a dozen spent rifle casings and two paper targets that had the bull’s-eyes blown out of them. I passed them to Crabbie.

“Nice wee setup he has here. All his guns and ammo in his caravan. He can separate his two worlds nicely, can’t he? We would never have found out about it either except by bloody chance.”

“By old-fashioned police work, Sean,” Crabbie corrected.

“Indeed, yes. Old-fashioned police work.”

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