Page 102 of Hang on St. Christopher

“Yup.”

“There’s no way.”

“I’ve seen it done.”

I took this as my cue and broke into the little circle. “What you’ve seen done, gentlemen, is a murder dressed up as a suicide. There’s no way someone could shoot themselves in the heart and then shoot themselves in the head,” I said.

“Who are you?” one of Brendan’s bodyguards asked me.

“You were talking about the worst way to go? A friend of my father’s told me a story once. He worked in the shipyards. He told me that before they launched a ship, they used to put a black cat down into the boiler furnaces to scare off any demons or gremlins that might have gotten on board. He said that one time the apprentice whose job it was to put the cat in there couldn’t get the cat to come out before they fired up the boiler. He went into the furnace to get the cat, they didn’t realize he was in there, they shut the furnace door and ignited the coal. Poor bastard.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Brendan asked me with cold hate in his eyes. It was evident that he knew exactly who I was. He’d seen my photograph. Probably read my file by now.

“Detective Inspector Sean Duffy, Carrick CID,” I said, offering him my hand.

He let the hand hang there, and all the other men in the circle looked on me with unconcealed horror and amazement. A policeman had comehere? To Brendan’s bowling club? To Alan Locke’s wake? Did I have a fucking death wish?

“Ah, yes, Inspector Duffy from Derry,” Brendan said.

“That’s right,” I said.

I offered my outstretched hand to any of the men in Brendan’s circle, but none of them wanted to shake it.

“A nice Catholic boy from Derry working for the Brits. In the RUC, no less,” Brendan said, spitting out the words.

“You got all that right except for the ‘nice’ bit.”

Brendan’s big bodyguard got between him and me. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“Pay my respects to Alan Locke’s friends and family. I’m the copper in charge of his murder investigation.”

“You’re not wanted here, pal.”

“No?” I said, shaking my head.

“This is a private affair, in a private club. You really should fuck off,” Brendan said.

“If you value your kneecaps,” someone else muttered.

“Or your bollocks,” another voice offered.

“I’ve been trying to have an interview with you, Mr. O’Roarke,” I said.

“I’m aware of that. Dundalk Garda have informed me about your request.”

“And?”

“I am considering it.”

“We all want the same thing here,” I said. “We all want to find out who killed Alan Locke.”

“Is that so?” Brendan said, his voice dropping to an ominous burr.

“It is so. So if we could talk to you about your friend Alan?—”

“I said I was considering it!” Brendan shouted, and suddenly the conversation in the immediate vicinity ceased. Even the music hesitated before picking up again.

Brendan whispered something to one of his bodyguards, who physically picked me up and began carrying me to the exit.