Page 37 of Hang on St. Christopher

That was there. On that side of the sheugh. But not here. Things were different here on this side of the water. Here I had purpose. Here I had a case.

“A murder case,” I said aloud.

Arvo Part.

Whisky.

Nazi flag burning in fireplace.

Perfect.

And I couldn’t wipe the silly grin off my face as I drifted over into sleep.

CHAPTER7

THE ART FORGER

Chilly living room floor. Embers long dead in the fire. Whisky bottle mercifully still more than two-thirds full.

In the sleeping bag, I caterpillared my way to the stereo. You can’t really start a day with Arvo Part. Many have tried, and many a classical DJ has been fired. (At least, I hope they have.)

I flipped through the classical records, but nothing struck my fancy.

“Time for a classic,” I muttered to the cat, who, of course, was in Scotland.

I thumbed through my meager collection of twelve inches (the better part of which was also in Scotland) and stuck in “Blue Monday,” which would see me through the coffee- and toast-making processes and maybe a run out to the shed and back to roll a thin joint.

Coffee, toast, marmalade, raincoat, shed, Mrs. Campbell taking her washing in out of the rain.

“Hello, Mr. Duffy.”

“Morning, Mrs. C.”

“This is your fourth day in a row,” she observed.

“Yeah, I’ve been temporarily seconded back into CID for the duration of a particular investigation.”

“Aye the murder on the Belfast Road. Your man, the painter.”

“Yes,” I said. Mrs. C., as always, was very well informed.

“And no, uhm, Mrs. Duffy with you this time?” she asked, knowing very well that Beth and I were not married.

“No, Beth’s staying in Scotland with Emma and the cat.”

“I hope that there’s not trouble in paradise?” she asked.

She unconsciously fixed a loose strand of her still brilliant copper locks back behind an ear. She was a good-looking woman, was Mrs. C, aging well despite the seven kids and the bathtub-gin habit.

“Nothing like that. Everything’s fine. Just sorting out a wee joyriding case while Sergeant Lawson is on his holidays.”

“If you say so,” she said skeptically, carrying the washing in.

I went back inside and ate a slice of Veda bread with butter and lemon curd. If you’ve never eaten toasted Ormeau Veda bread with Dromona butter and homemade lemon curd, do not despair, because this is the breakfast food that you will be served in heaven.

The rain began, and I listened to it for a while and thought of dead kings.

I found a sheet of paper and wrote: