Page 142 of Hang on St. Christopher

“What does that mean?”

“They give us five pence more per gallon.”

“Who does?”

“The EEC... the Europeans.”

“And what do they do with the milk?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s the Germans who are subsidizing this whole milk-buying business.”

“Aye.”

“They buy all the Irish milk and French butter and Italian grapes.”

“Aye.”

“To keep the farmers in jobs.”

“Aye.”

“And I buy a new BMW every couple of years to keep them in jobs, so in effect, it’s me that’s buying all that milk, isn’t it?”

Crabbie knew me well. Too well. “What’s on your mind, Sean? Is it the case?”

“No. I just wanted to chat.”

“You have to let it go, Sean. It’s Special Branch’s case now. The tiny bit of the investigation that’s left in Carrick is Lawson’s case now. They’re all Lawson’s cases now.”

“We have to let this one go?” I asked semirhetorically.

“Aye, Sean, we do,” Crabbie said firmly. “We’re the wee dog chasing the post van. Even if the post van stops for us, what can we do but bark at it? We’re not real peelers anymore.”

“That hurts.”

“Does it? It shouldn’t. It was the choice you and I both made. We make choices and we live with them.”

“Since when did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise; it’s just that you never listened to me before.”

“You’re hitting me with too many truth torpedoes too early in the day, mate. I’m going to have to go.”

“Take it easy, Sean. Buy a dog and then walk the dog. Play a round of golf. These are your golden years. And if you’re still bored, I could do with a hand bringing the yearlings in.”

“I think I’ll pass on that. Later, mate.”

“Later.”

Coffee. Digestive biscuits.Murder She Wrote. It was the one where Jessica visits Fiona, a friend of her late husband, in Cork, where the family runs a traditional wool garment business. Cousin Ambrose is about to take over management of the factory and move the site to Dublin—too far for the local villagers to keep their jobs. Ambrose is found murdered in the local church. Unfortunately, the local Garda copper DS Terence Boyle doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure out the murder, but Jessica is somehow able to put the whole story together. I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen it. (And if you’re unemployed and stuck at home most days, youwillsee it.) I got the murderer at the twenty-eight-minute mark, but then, I was a better copper than DS Terry Boyle, who was perhaps somewhat handicapped by the fact that he clearly had never been to Ireland in his life before this visit to the fake County Cork of the Hollywood back lot.

Phone ringing.

“Hi, sweetie, how are you?”

“Murder She Wrote. Jessica’s in Ireland. I got the murderer before she did. Intuition, really, rather than deduction.”