Page 74 of Hang on St. Christopher

“They don’t know shit. Look, will you ask him if he’ll talk to me?”

“He’s got a whole gang of high-powered Dublin, Dundalk, and Drogheda lawyers that look out for him wherever he goes.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to arrange an interview with him whenever it’s convenient.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Sean.”

“Thanks, mate.”

I hung up and stared at Crabbie’s long face until the big hand got its arse in gear and eventually got around to pointing at the “5.”

When I went to gather my stuff in the incident room, I discovered one of the Picassos lying on the floor, where it had been knocked down by a cleaner or a clumsy copper. If I left them here, some ganch would knock a hole in them. Same story in the property room with its rising damp. I decided to take them back to 113 Coronation Road for the interim.

BMW home. Radio 3, where I hit paydirt. Arvo again,Tabula Rasa. Nice.

Carried the paintings inside. It could only be a temporary solution until the next of kin showed up, but a nice temporary solution. As I understood it, theRepos du Sculpteurseries was basically a bunch of etchings of a naked bearded guy lying around his studio with a young woman. The two that Mr. Locke had were the sculptor in his bed, and another where he was sitting on a sofa. Presumably, this was an idealized Picasso with his then mistress. I hung them on the living room wall where, with the light coming in from the back garden, they looked fantastic.

Dog barking across the way.

Dog doesn’t bark like that unless there’s trouble.

Look out the window to see that big bloody skinhead from the other night leaving a bag of burning dog shit on my new next door neighbor’s front doorstep. Obviously, this dog-shit bonfire had been aimed at me, but the skinhead was so bloody dense, he’d gotten the wrong house. His mate was waiting for him in a green Reliant Robin, which was maybe the crappiest getaway car ever devised by a human mind.

I marched out the front door and hopped the fence.

“Oi, you! Put that out!” I yelled at the guy, whose name, I remembered, was Pete something.

Pete was surprised to see me coming at him from the side. He hadn’t prepared for that.

“Son, you don’t have to go through life being this stupid,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Pete asked, standing up to his full height.

“This isn’t my house. This is my neighbor’s house.”

“Isn’t this number one-thirteen?”

“No.That’snumber one-thirteen. Now, pick up that bag and take it away with you.”

“Or you’ll—” he began, and I kicked him in the nuts.

He sank to his knees, and I two-handed clubbed him on the side of the head. I marched across the garden to the Reliant Robin and pushed the three wheeled monstrosity over onto one side.

I went back to Pete.

“Grab the shite and go. And don’t come back if you don’t want to deal with Bobby Cameron, who lives in that house there and who is a friend of mine.”

“You know Bobby?” Pete winced.

“Aye, I do. Now, grab the shite, right your bloody wee car, and fuck off.”

Pete slowly got to his feet and went to pick up the flaming bag of dog excrement, which was now a crispy disgusting mess.

“All of it,” I insisted.

He cradled it in both hands and walked to his getaway car.

I helped him right the Robin and shoved him inside. “Be gone and don’t come back, eejit.”

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