Page 95 of Hang on St. Christopher

I watched him look anxiously down the lane and then check his watch.

Yeah, this was definitely my guy. Too many coincidences for it not to be him. He was not only the guy who had bugged my phone, but he was the goddamn murderer as well.

I could just imagine Lawson’s sweet, innocent sunburned face on Sunday evening.

You met me at the airport? Oh, sir, you shouldn’t have. Well, you can go back to Scotland now, sir; I’ll take over the case. Nah, you’re too late, Lawson. I caught him. He confessed to everything. Ha, ha. Old dog, new tricks, eh, son?

I found that I had been talking to myself during this not-so-internal monologue. Shit, was I tipsier than I thought?

Time for action.

I drew the Glock from the shoulder holster and walked carefully toward him.

“Carrick Police! Put your hands in the air!”

He spun around to look at me.

“Don’t move, arsehole! You’re nicked, mate. You’re bloody nicked. Put your fucking hands in the air. Now! Put your hands in the air or I’m going to bloody shoot you!”

In my experience, criminals generally surrendered when they were confronted by a cop with a drawn gun. It was better to risk your day in court than get shot dead in the here and now, wasn’t it? But this guy was cut from the same cloth as the guys in the caravan park, and I should have foreseen that. Instead of putting his hands in the air, he immediately pulled two semiautomatic pistols from his waistband and shot at me. He was fast and I was momentarily bewitched, but then I hit the bloody deck. And he kept shooting at me. Bullets whizzing all around me in the darkness.

“Jesus!”

The shooting stopped and I looked up. He was running for his motorbike.

“Halt or I will shoot!” I screamed at him.

He kept running.

I returned fire, aiming in his general direction, but I didn’t clip the bastard.

And he’d somehow acquired the only Norton 750 on the planet that kick-started first time.

He sped off down the Knockagh Lane while I scrambled to my feet and fumbled for the keys to the car.

The BMW also started first time, but I had to turn it around to get out of the car park.

I drove down the Knockagh Lane at 50 mph, and when I got to the junction I stopped and listened. No bloody motorbike. Left or right, and whichever one I picked on this cursed night would be the wrong one, wouldn’t it? Left toward Belfast. Right toward the countryside.

Belfast.

I turned left and drove for half an hour, and of course I didn’t find the bike.

Back to Knockagh car park to pick up the shell casings.

How was I going to play this?

Fuck, I was wasted. Shouldn’t be driving. Shouldn’t be handling a gun. I could get dismissed from the force for this.

How to play it?

No choice. Local cops for this little scene, and Special Branch for the phone bug.

I carefully drove home, made a coffee, and drove to the station.

Crabbie was still there.

Still angry with me.

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