Page 16 of Hang on St. Christopher

“He was dead, Duffy; there was no point. I mean, look at him.”

“Twelve-bore, close range—is that what you said?”

“Twelve-bore,veryclose range. Side-by-side double-barreled shotgun. Fired together or almost simultaneously.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“’Course. Panicky kid stealing a car. Guy resists, wee shite gives him both barrels. Death would have been very quick if not immediate.”

I shook my head and gave Crabbie a look. He had a skeptical expression on his dour face too.

“All right, Duffy. You’ve got your sergeant. The band’s all here. Do you mind if I piss off? I’ve got half a dozen cases like this in Belfast,” Frank said.

“Murders?”

“No. Joyriding stuff. There was some kind of big riot this afternoon after a Loyalist march up the Ormeau Road. We tried to stop them marching up the Falls Road, and the whole thing kicked off. They hijacked dozens of cars and burned them all out. Top brass is hoping there might be some forensic evidence in the wrecked cars. No chance, but it’s going to be a busy night for us looking for fingerprints in all that lot.”

“There won’t be fingerprints. They were all wearing gloves,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I was there,” I said. “They tried to hijack my car.”

“Why didn’t you arrest them?”

“Me against twenty thugs with baseball bats?”

“I would have gone for it,” Payne boasted.

“Sure you would, mate.”

“Look, do you have any more questions, or can I go? Some of us are busy,” Payne said.

“Forensic evidence around the car, Frank?”

“Nothing that we found.”

“No cigarettes, matches, beer cans—anything our crims might have left?”

“Nope.”

“Victim’s wallet?”

“Bagged for you.”

“ID in there?”

“No, just money.”

“No credit cards or driver’s license?”

“No.”

“How much money?”

“Five hundred quid or so. Like I say, I’ve bagged it for you.”

“Let’s see it.”

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