Page 86 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I can’t. I’m on duty again—we’ve got those trainees in for the night.”

“What trainees?”

“They weren’t supposed to arrive until after Lawson got back, but they’ve come early.”

“Oh, bollocks. That’s all we need. And we have to look after them?”

“So the chief inspector says.”

I shook my head. “Fuck ’em. This isn’t our job. We’re the invisible men. The part-timers. The old geezers in the corner coming in a few days a month to get their pensions. Banquo and Banquo’s even more banjaxed ghosty friend.”

“The chief inspector had a wee chat with me and said I had to babysit them until Lawson got back.”

“Aye, he would come to you. He knows I’d tell him where to go.”

“Any ideas what to do with them?”

“They’re here right now in the building?” I asked, appalled.

“Aye. That’s them over there,” he said, pointing through the window to a brown-haired woman with glasses, green jeans, and a bright-red sweater. With her were two spotty youths in bad suits and pointy shoes. Both men had had their hair dyed blond and gelled into spikes. One had grown a soul patch.

Crabbie could see my immediate and visceral loathing for them.

“You go home, Sean,” he said quickly. “I’ll think of something to do with them.”

“They’ve got plenty of book learning,” I said. “Now give them some wisdom.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll never forget the last words my grandfather said to me.”

“What did he say?”

“Stop shaking the ladder, you wee shite!”

Crabbie sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t believe he had fallen for this obvious setup. Your guard goes down when you see your mates only seven days a month.

I put on my jacket and walked out to the car. An idea hit me, and I walked back into the incident room, where Crabbie had gathered the newbies for a lecture.

“Sean, what?—”

“How about you take our trainees back to the crime scene. I’ve never been completely satisfied that we found everything that could be found in Locke’s house or at his bloody secret caravan.”

“Fieldwork. Great idea, Sean,” Crabbie said with perhaps faked enthusiasm.

“I mean, just because forensics says they can’t find anything doesn’t meanwehave to stop looking, does it?”

“No,” Crabbie agreed.

“Are you Sean Duffy?” the kid with the soul patch asked.

“Yes, I’mDetective InspectorSean Duffy. You are?”

“William Mitchell.”

The other two felt compelled to tell me their names: Judy something and Patrick something.

“We studied one of your cases on our course,” Mitchell said.

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