Page 98 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Yes.”

“I do have a rough, er, working hypothesis,” I said.

“If you’d indulge me.”

“Locke was Brendan O’Roarke’s personal hit man lying low in Ulster, waiting for the word to unleash a coup against Brendan’s enemies on the IRA Army Council and take it over. Brendan being opposed to all these peace feelers we keep hearing about.”

Clare’s face went pale. “You seem remarkably well informed for a junior detective.”

“All deduction, mate,” I said, tapping my head. “That and the papers—you gotta read the papers.”

Clare was not fazed by my attempt at glib mateyness.

“So who do you think killed Locke?” he asked.

“Who indeed? The hit man got hit before he could get started. That’s thrown Brendan on his uppers, I’ll bet.”

Clare looked at a collection of notes on his lap. “Now, what’s this Sergeant McCrabban said about a phone bug in your?—”

I plonked it down onto the table in front of him. “There it is. No idea where it came from.”

“How did you find it?”

I took a deep breath and told him about how I had found the bug, and my attempt at entrapment. I expected him to be pissed, but he wasn’t.

Clare looked at me and at the device and smiled. “That’s really quite good police work. Well done, Sergeant Duffy.”

“Inspector Duffy.”

“Yes, well done indeed. It’s not every officer who acts on their own initiative like that. Some people are a bit stuck in the mud here at regular CID.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do say. It’s nice to see some creative thinking occasionally.”

Clare had bought the story, and the rest of his questions were pro forma. Nothing about drunk driving, nothing about drunkenly firing my Glock. Nothing about all the mistakes. He asked me detailed questions about the case files, and when he was satisfied, he excused Crabbie and me from his office. I was a bit stunned to have received praise and positive reinforcement from Special Branch, and if I hadn’t been so badly hungover, I might have been a bit suspicious.

An hour after our meeting, a youngish Inspector Gillian Bain and three more Special Branch goons showed up late in the morning and photocopied all our evidence for what was nowtheirinvestigation. Clare and Bain and the goons had a word with my gaffer, Chief Inspector McArthur, on their way out, and when they left with the boxes, the chief inspector came to see me.

We repaired to Lawson’s office.

“Drink, sir?”

“Yes. Why not?”

I poured myself a soda, and him a whisky and soda. I was feeling off the drink today.

“Clare was very impressed with you,” McArthur began.

“Was he?”

“Yes. He said that he’d like you to keep working the case from your angle if I didn’t mind. He’s left you all your files and just photocopied the ones he needed for the wider investigation.”

“I saw that.”

“I take a bit of a different view.”

“Oh?”

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