Page 108 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I’m sorry, Superintendent, but I don’t think your hypothesis is the correct one,” I said cautiously.

“Oh?”

“If she heard someone breaking into her house, she would have reached for the gun that you might still find under her pillow or next to her bed, and she would have stayed in her room and shot the intruder as he was coming in through the bedroom door. She wouldn’t go to the kitchen to get a knife. The knife was placed in her hand postmortem.”

To calm my nerves, I stood up and looked out the window for a glimpse of the River Lagan beyond the garden. The old Lagan was brown and gray. This Lagan had stretches of blue in it. The elimination of Belfast’s entire manufacturing base was at least giving the river room to breathe.

“No, sir, this guy’s too good to be heard breaking into someone’s house. A house he has been staking out for a few days or even weeks. He broke in; he removed the gun from under her pillow; he woke her from her sleep with a gun in her face. He walked her to the kitchen, made her kneel on the floor, and smashed her head in with a skillet. Single blow. He’s very strong, and good at what he does. Then he hit the body a dozen more times to make it look like there was a struggle; then he put the knife in her hands and broke the back window.”

“Why?” Clare asked.

“Because he doesn’t know that we’re onto him.”

“Are we onto him?”

“Yes. The pattern is becoming obvious now. All his victims are trained IRA killers with ties to Brendan O’Roarke. He thinks he needs to establish false trails and red herrings in their deaths so Brendan won’t get spooked. The joyriders’ hijack gone wrong. The woman who confronts a burglar in her own home. But it’s too late for all that now. We know, and Brendan probably knows too. Someone is taking out Brendan’s operatives before they initiate their coup attempt. Our guy’s caution is redundant. He’s a pro, but he might as well just have killed her in her sleep.”

Clare shook his head skeptically, but I noticed young DI Preston nodding and whispering something to McGuinness, something that made her nod thoughtfully—so at least someone thought I wasn’t a crazy old man.

“Anyway, I’ll take a look through the rest of the house if that’s okay,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

I searched the house.

Nothing of interest except her record collection, which contained some rare twelve-inch Beatles singles that I very much would have liked to nick, and could possibly have nicked if this were my investigation.

But it wasn’t.

I went outside to the FO tea tent and had a cuppa with Frank.

“Gloomy in there, isn’t it?” Frank said, gesturing behind him. “Special Branch don’t so much as allow you to whistle. I’d rather be working in your manor.”

“I’m touched, Frank.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not saying you’re a good peeler. I just prefer the working conditions.”

“Well, you won’t be seeing me for a long time, Francis.”

“Why’s that?” he asked with some concern.

“Young Lochinvar is back tonight, I think, and he’ll be taking over Carrick CID again tomorrow, and I’ll be going back to Scotland. Clare only called me in today as a courtesy anyway.”

“Aye, I heard you trying to impress him in there.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress him. I thought his interpretation of the crime scene was wrong.”

“Save it for the judge, mate. You want the rest of this smoke?” he asked, passing me the ciggie.

“Nah, you’re okay.”

“That’s right. I forgot you’ve become a health nut. Oh, well, back at it. Best to Lawson, and I’ll see you when I see you, okay?”

“Okay, Francis.”

We shook hands and I lingered for a while, but no one seemed to want or need my services.

I checked underneath the Beemer for bombs and drove on home.

---