Page 8 of Hang on St. Christopher

I picked up a couple of letters from the hall floor and scanned them for anything interesting.

Nowt.

I walked into the living room and checked my albums. I’d left about a fifth of my collection here (four hundred or so records) so that I’d have something decent to listen to on my six nights a month back in Ulster.

I checked the clock in kitchen. It was 9:15.

Plenty of time for a can of soup and one side of an album before the drive to Larne.

The soup was tomato, the album was Brian Eno’sMusic for Airports, which was good lie-on-a-rug-on-the-floor-and-chill music.

I had the soup, and I was lying on the floor and chilling when there came a loud banging at the front door.

Instinctively I reached for my sidearm, a revolver, and from the coffee table I lifted the rather more effective Glock 17 9mm Safe Action pistol. I crunched to a sitting position and peered through the living room window, holding both weapons. I didn’t see anyone in the garden, and I could see only the very back of the person waiting on the porch. Usually, assassins came in pairs, but not always.

I crept down the hall and peered through the peephole.

The person standing there was Chief Inspector McArthur, my boss.

I took a step backward and began tiptoeing my way back up the hall again.

“I know you’re in there, Duffy. I see your car and I can hear your music!” McArthur said.

I hid in the living room, keeping perfectly still.

“Duffy, open up! I know you’re in there! No one but you would have put that record on!”

Back along the hall a third time.

I opened the door. “Yes?”

“There you are! I knew you’d be home, and I knew you wouldn’t answer the phone!” he exclaimed.

“You’re a regular Uri Geller. What playing card am I thinking of?” I said.

“Three of clubs.”

“No, the jack of fuck off. I have a ferry to catch.”

He was wearing jeans and an anorak and Wellington boots. He’d been in the middle of something outdoorsy when they called him to the crime scene. Which meant it had to be something serious. Had to be a homicide. And the reason he was here was to convince me to be lead on that homicide, what with Lawson being away.

No chance. I am not one of those men who pray for storms and believe that storms will bring them peace.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“You can come in, but there’s not much point. I’m heading out for the ferry.”

He ignored that and walked into the living room. I put the revolver back in the shoulder holster under my sport coat, and the Glock back down on the coffee table.

He sat down on the sofa while I stood, and we stared at one another for a very uncomfortable fifteen seconds. “Nice evening in Belfast?” he asked.

It was a poor opening gambit. I was tempted to paraphrase Groucho:I’ve had a very nice evening, but this wasn’t it, and you showing up like Banquo’s bloody ghost is the icing on the shitecake.

I said nothing and glared at him.

I didn’t even offer him a cup of tea—a hanging offense in most of Northern Ireland.

“I’ve helped you out many times, Duffy, when the higher-ups were gunning for you,” was his second salvo.

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