Page 87 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Oh, really? Which case?” I asked.

“The Carrick Castle murder,” Mitchell said.

“And what did you learn from that case?” Crabbie asked with a ghastly let’s-not-let-this-become-unpleasant fake grin on his face.

“It was an interesting one but, you know, ultimately, Carrick CID let the prime suspect escape,” Mitchell said.

“That’s what they’re bloody teaching you at CID school?” I said, seething. That was how they saw me? That was the sum total of my detective work in the RUC? That I’d bungled a case and let a suspect get away?

“Sean, please, maybe you should head on home,” Crabbie said, ushering me out the door before I could have a stroke.

BMW.

Rain.

Marine Highway.

Home.

Neil Young on the stereo. The one about the silver surfer and the aliens.

Vodka gimlet the Sean Duffy way: pint glass from the freezer, the crushed ice, this time three inches of vodka with the ice, soda, and lime juice.

I was thinking about dinner and wondering how Neil Young got his voice that high when there was a knock at the door.

Rachel, the new neighbor.

“Hi, there. What fresh hell have you come to tell me about now? I’m still reeling from the whole milk-delivery thing.”

“Well, it’s not exactly the last chapter of Gibbon’sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire,but my sink is flooding.”

“Your sink’s flooding?”

“Yup.”

“And you came to me because I’m a man and hence you think I know about blocked sinks and things like that?”

“Exactly.”

Her lovely gray eyes flashed, and a grin spread itself across her face. She vibed Andrea Corr from the Corrs, one of the few pleasant exports from Dundalk.

“I can’t let the side down, can I? Let me see this blocked sink of yours.”

Next door.

Water all over the kitchen floor.

Simple blockage in the U bend. Unscrew the plastic washers, remove the U bend, take out a whole pile of gunk, rescrew the U bend, run the water, hey presto, the sink drains.

“That was impressive,” she said. “The least I can do is invite you for dinner. Unless you have other plans?”

“No other plans tonight. I’d love dinner.”

Spag bol. Standard stuff. Decent red wine from the offy.

The dining room was wallpapered in flowers, and she’d hung a few impressionist posters on the wall. Other than that, she hadn’t done much to the house. Not that there was a whole lot you could do—all the houses on the terrace were identical.

“This is terrific food,” I said. “Do you make this garlic bread?”

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