Page 29 of Hang on St. Christopher

Crabbie concurred, and I ordered one of the remaining FOs to take a photograph.

The chief inspector looked at the asphalt. He didn’t see what we were seeing.

“It’s a motorbike,” I explained.

Crabbie nodded. “A big one,” he added.

The chief inspector examined the skid mark. “How can you tell that?” he asked, apparently amazed by this most obvious of forensic truths.

I cleared my throat. “Well, sir, there’s only one tire tread, so, er, that makes it a motorbike. And if you look at it, it’s clear that he took off from here in a hurry.”

Crabbie knelt to examine the tire mark more closely. When the FO professionals looked at the photos, they should be able to tell us the make, model, and maybe even year from their book of tire treads. That ability was beyond me but not, apparently, the Crabman.

“British bike,” Crabbie said.

“You can tell?” I said, impressed.

“I may be wrong, but that looks like a Roadrunner Universal Grand Prix tire. Nineteen-inch wheel, of course. Four-inch width.”

“For a Norton?” I asked.

Crabbie nodded. “Norton Commando, I think. FO experts will tell us for sure, of course.”

“Do car thieves often ditch their burned-out vehicles and then go off on a motorbike?” McArthur asked.

“No, they don’t, sir. They usually ditch the car not too far from home and then leg it.”

A bunch of wee muckers had gathered to look at us now.

“Anybody get a look at the motorbike that drove away from here?” I asked.

But again: zilch.

“There’s a tenner in it for anyone who can tell me what make of motorbike it was. Or maybe you lot don’t know your bikes.”

My clumsy attempt at bribery and reverse psychology also met with complete silence.

It began to rain a little more heavily now, and the crowd began to drift away one by one until they almost all had slipped indoors. It was probably nearly one in the bloody morning now too.

“We’re done,” the final FO said, and off they went in their white FO Land Rover.

The three of us were alone now in the street. The proudly flying Nazi flag and the complete lack of cooperation from the general public had greatly deflated Chief Inspector McArthur. “These people—don’t they know we’re here to help them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you supposed to solve a case without a single bloody eyewitness willing to tell us anything?”

“Welcome to my world, sir.”

“And look at that horrible flag.”

I walked to the Beemer, unhooked the radio mic, and ordered a tow truck for the remains of the Jag. They’d bring it to the depot and keep it there for a few weeks and then take it to the wrecking yard. We’d get nothing more out of it.

“Shall we head on, then?” Crabbie asked, looking at his watch.

“What time is it?”

“It’s midnight plus forty-five.”