Page 107 of Hang on St. Christopher

“It’s very unpleasant?”

“Oh, yes,” Shaw said, impressed.

I took a deep breath. “Better go inside, then,” I said.

Up the steps, past more FO men, portable lights and equipment. I saw Frank Payne, my other FO mate, but when I tried to say hello, Frank gave me the fingers-over-lips gesture.

“Superintendent Clare runs a tight ship,” he whispered. “No chitchat, all business.”

I found Clare in the living room giving orders to his subordinates. He introduced me to three of his colleagues: a DI Siobhan McGuinness, a DI Michael O’Leary, and a DCI Stan Preston. Both men were younger than I. Both in their twenties or early thirties, by the look of it. Career Special Branch. Going places. Treadmill bodies. No drinking. Sharp suits. Clever. They were the new breed. Analytics men. My type: slovenly seventies-style lazy intuitive coppers were on their way out. Siobhan McGuinness was even younger, twenty-two maybe. Highflier right out of university. Bloody hell.

I watched them go about their work: efficient, organized, professional.

“Nothing yet on your bug, Duffy,” Clare said.

“No?”

“My guess is that it’s unrelated.”

“I doubt that very?—”

“You’ve ticked off some of the local players, and they’re tapping your phones to see if they can blackmail you with your gay affair, or something, you think, yeah?”

“Wouldn’t they just shoot me, sir?”

“No. Better to blackmail you. Have a man on the inside.”

“The bug’s pretty sophisticated for local paramilitaries,” I said dubiously.

“You can get anything on the international arms market these days... Listen, when you’ve got a moment, I’d like you to have a wee look at the crime scene and give me your impressions.”

“I’ve got a moment now, sir.”

“Excellent. This way. Hope you haven’t had a greasy breakfast.”

“Just whisky.”

I followed him into the kitchen.

The body was still there. Eileen Cavanagh’s head had been smashed in so hard that her brains and bits of skull were all over the floor and walls. Her face was hanging off.

I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t do that in front of all these Special Branch goons and the FO men.

“Thoughts, Inspector Duffy?”

I bent down, seemingly to examine the body, but in reality to conceal the fact that my eyes were closed.

“We think she heard him coming in the back door and got out of bed and confronted him; the fight progressed to the kitchen, where she managed to grab a knife. Unfortunately, he got the skillet, and in the struggle he was able to beat her to death,” Clare said.

I opened my eyes again. There was a kitchen knife in her hand, sure enough. But the handle was gripped for stabbing downward, not slashing or threatening a burglar. The knife had been put there after she was dead. A good coroner might even find livor mortis blood pooling in her palms that proved that.

“I called you in, Duffy, because this is the second IRA assassin to get hit in three days, but I think you’ll agree this has more the marks of a burglary gone wrong, yes? Burglar high as a kite, it seems. No professional would leave a scene like this one, would he? I mean, there’s brains hanging off the ceiling.”

I looked up above my head, and sure enough, there was gore on the bulb and the ceiling. Jesus.

“Well?” Clare said.

I stood and took a deep breath.