Page 18 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Why would joyriders do that?” I wondered out loud. “Murder, I mean. That’s a big step up from car theft.”

“I don’t know. Maybe they just panicked right enough?”

“And again, do panickers take the shell casings with them?”

Crabbie shook his head. “In general, no, they do not. But seeing a man die sobers you up quick, sometimes.”

The medical examiner’s crew turned up to take the body up to the Royal Victoria Hospital, and Crabbie and I talked strategy. The fact that neither of us had been lead on a major case in years was disturbing, but the procedure came back pretty easily: secure the crime scene; canvass for witnesses; ID the victim; search the house for anything incriminating; notify next of kin. Nothing to it. Oh, yeah, and find the killer. That too.

CHAPTER4

QUENTIN TOWNES

A constable told us that the stolen car was a gold 1989 Jaguar with a Dublin registration, so I put out an alert for the vehicle. The victim’s keys were gone with the car, but getting access to his house was easy with a lock pick kit and a minute to spare.

We did a quick shoofty around to make sure there were no starving kids or starving pets inside—there weren’t—and that the gas was off. It was. We’d do a thorough search later when the case warranted it. A note for the milkman on the front step said: “One Gold Top only—Q Townes,” and when we went door-to-door canvassing for witnesses, we learned that that indeed was his name: Quentin Townes.

The next door neighbors on either side had barely exchanged two words with the victim since he moved in about two months earlier, but the lady across the street, a Mrs. Franklin, was more helpful. She was in her late sixties but still worked part-time at Glenview Secure Mental Hospital as a staff nurse. Observant, friendly, and sharp as a tack, Mrs. F. would have been the ideal witness were it not for a tendency to become prolix.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen the actual murder, but she had heard the gunshots, and she told us a good deal about the victim. She invited us in for a cuppa, and although we were in a bit of a rush to make the notification, we could see that there was no way of dodging the tea.

Chintzy living room, china teapot, Ceylon tea, full-cream milk, Jaffa Cakes—bog standard fare.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Townes has been a very good neighbor since he moved in. Very nice gentleman. Well spoken. He was a painter; did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Interior decorator sort of painter?” Crabbie asked.

I shook my head, but before I could explain, Mrs. Franklin had leaped in. “Oh, no, nothing like that. Apainterpainter. He was a very classy gent, was Mr. Townes. He did wee portraits and landscapes. Watercolors and oils. Did one of me and my granddaughter. It’s very good. That’s it over the fireplace. Look at thon; isn’t it something?”

Out of politeness, Crabbie and I had to examine the picture, and truth be told, it wasn’t a bad representation, although maybe a little generous to Mrs. Franklin from a senescence point of view. But if an artist can’t flatter his subject a little, he’s probably not a very savvy artist—Graham Sutherland / the fireplace at Chartwell being a case in point.

“Is that how he made his living?” I asked, sitting back down on the sofa and scarfing a Jaffa Cake.

“I believe so. He had a studio in the conservatory at the back. He said he’d been painting for years.”

“He’s not from around here, is he?” I asked.

“No, no, no. He was from down south somewhere. Although he’s been up in Belfast for a while, I gathered. He’d only moved to this house a few months back, but he said he’d been giving classes on and off at the Tech for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Dublin accent?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. He was well spoken, though. Polite.”

“How old was he, exactly?” I asked. “We couldn’t really tell from the, ehm, body, and we haven’t been able to recover his driving license.”

“Oh, he was in his fifties. He looked younger than that, of course, but I think he was an older man. Very courteous. Always said ‘good morning, Mrs. Franklin!’ Always helped me with my bins. Getting the new wheelie bins in and out. Those awful, difficult new bins. Why we couldn’t have just stuck with the old ones, I’ll never know. The binmen used to come ’round the back of the house, have a wee chat with you, carry your bin to the bin lorry, carry it back. Now you have to do most of the work yourself with those new wheelie bins and forget about having a conversation with those young bucks! Let no new thing arise, my grandfather used to say.”

“Aye,” Crabbie agreed. “Now, what time did you hear those alleged gunshots, Mrs. Franklin?” he asked while I finished my Jaffa Cake.

“Four fifty-five. It was the last numbers game onCountdown,and I was looking at the TV when I heard the shots.”

“Are you sure? Was there a clock on your TV?”

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