Page 129 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I didn’t abandon anyone,” he said.

He knew that I knew he had run. But he also knew that I wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. So who was the real coward here? The man who runs away from a gun fight to save his life, or the man who keeps quiet to save his bloody pension?

I looked down at the table. “No, sir, sorry, I misspoke.”

Clare nodded slowly.

“I’m glad we got that sorted out. There will be an inquiry, of course. A man died, but since you’re based in Scotland now, Inspector Duffy, I don’t think it’ll even be necessary to make you come over for a long and tedious set of hearings.”

I wasn’t even going to get to speak at the official inquiry? An inquiry into an ambush of two RUC Land Rovers across the border? Where a policeman had died?

“How will that work, exactly?”

“You’ll make a statement and it will be read into the official record. There won’t be any need to drag you away from your comfortable home over the water.”

So the fix was in already. Exonerations for everyone—hell, maybe even commendations for everyone.

“No, I suppose not,” I said.

“And now I probably should come to the real purpose of my visit here today. As you’re probably aware, Special Branch has assumed full responsibility for all aspects of this investigation.”

“I know.”

“We have all the physical evidence, but I’ll need those Picasso paintings as well. They’re evidence and they’re not in the property room.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Too valuable for the property room. They’ll get knocked about in there.”

“Where are they?”

“I’ve got them in storage.”

“Bring them over today or tomorrow at the latest while my men are packing up the last of the evidence boxes. We don’t want any hint of impropriety.”

“What sort of hint of impropriety?”

He could see I was still spoiling for a fight, so he didn’t press it. This son of a bitch implying that I would steal a dead man’s paintings? Who did he bloody think he was?

Although...

He had a few more words.

Boilerplate nonsense.

I listened, let him talk, let him go, watched through the incident room window as he drove away.

I went into the chief inspector’s office. “Is the case resolved to your satisfaction? Because if it is, I’m going back to Scotland,” I said.

“You removed it from our books, and that’s what counts.”

No convictions, no resolution, no answers, but it was removed from the books.

I went back to Coronation Road, took the Picassos off the wall of my living room, and drove up to Archie Simmons’s house.

He opened the door suspiciously. “What do you want now?”

“Can I come in?”

“I suppose so.”