Page 85 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Hmmm. I’ll have to think about all of this.”

I got to my feet. “You do that.”

She tapped my personnel file a third time. “You’re just a couple of years from your pension, Sean. Perhaps consider letting sleeping dogs lie, go back to Scotland and?—”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? Sleeping dogs. Don’t kick up a fuss. Read that personnel file again. Does that sound like me?”

CHAPTER12

THE KILL LIST

I drove back to Coronation Road with more questions than answers. Could the IRA or some other terrorist group really have stolen CIA equipment? Was the American government backing the IRA in some sort of secret arrangement? This seemed very unlikely. President Bush and the British government were tight, but maybe it was a rogue unit or a rogue individual within the CIA.

And would Brendan O’Roarke’s personal hit man really be hiding in a nondescript house in Carrickfergus? And who would have the balls to kill Brendan O’Roarke’s personal hit man, if not an ignorant and foolish teenage joyrider?

Thirty years ago, the Jesuits had explained the concept of Occam’s razor to me.Explainedhere being a synonym forbeat the concept into me with a leather strap:All things being equal, the simplest explanation is probably the correct one.

Locke was killed by a couple of hopped-up kids looking for a car. True, he was not a portrait painter but an IRA assassin working for Brendan O’Roarke, but even IRA assassins could have their share of bad luck.

But the motorbike...

And the bug...

I listened to classic FM (late Schubert Lieder, done by the London Symphony Orchestra—excellent) and drank Bass and thought about everything for far too long and then, exhausted, went off to bed.

I found Crabbie at the station early.

I motioned him into Lawson’s office, closed the door, and told him everything I knew.

“Are you sure they’re bugging you?”

“I’m sure. Jill was sure.”

“Could it be that UVF commander who lives on your street? He could have broken into your house and stuck that in your phone.”

“I suppose it could be, but Jill says this is a brand-new piece of tech. Unlikely that he could have got his hands on something like that.”

We mulled ideas and plans over a glass of Islay, but nothing jumped out at us.

“Until I formally call this in to Special Branch, don’t give out any case information over my home phone, okay?” I said.

“Okay. Good idea.”

“And here’s a wee thing I’ve been cooking up: maybe, we can use this to entrap our listeners somehow,” I said vaguely.

“How?”

“Thinking out loud here. You call me and say there’s been a major break in the case at some kind of prepared isolated location. I say great and we drive over there, and we wait for a Norton 750 to show up?”

Crabbie shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said dubiously.

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s shite. But let’s keep it in our back pocket, eh? There must be some way we can use this to our advantage. We’re smart and we’re old hands at this game.”

Another look from McCrabban that did not exactly inspire confidence.

The hour hand slunk around the dial until it pointed to the big “12” at the top. Lunch of shepherd’s pie at Ownies followed by just one pint of the black stuff each.

By four o’clock and with no new developments, I was for heading home. “Well, I guess I’m off, Crabman,” I said. “Coming?”

---