Page 43 of Hang on St. Christopher

“I put the prelim report on Lawson’s desk for you. I assume you’ll be using Lawson’s office until he gets back?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I will.”

As a part-time reservist, I no longer had an office, just a desk in the main room. But I was lead detective on this investigation now. I couldn’t really run a murder case from a cubicle.

“He’s still using my chair. That’s a Finn Juhl chair the old CI gave me.”

“I know. It’s a lovely chair. Don’t be afeard, Sean. You’re entitled to use the office since he’s not here,” Crabbie said with some measure of satisfaction. Was he feeling it as well? That old hunger for the chase?

I went to the office, sat down in the Finn Juhl chair, and read the tox report, which revealed nothing. No illegal drugs, and only a moderate amount of whisky in Mr. Townes’s system.

I confirmed with forensics that the tire tread was almost certainly from a Norton Commando. They were impressed that we already knew that, but they tried not to sound that way on the telephone call.

The additional info forensics had was that the tire was commonly used on Nortons from 1972 to 1977.

I checked with traffic to see if any black Norton Commandos had been stopped speeding at a checkpoint overnight—nope. Alas, you don’t get that lucky.

I called up the Northern Ireland motorcycle owners’ clubs and asked how many Norton Commandos there were in Northern Ireland, and a guy called Jimmy Wallace told me there were fifteen hundred Norton owners registered with the club in Ulster, and maybe another five or six hundred who weren’t registered.

“How many in Ireland?” I asked.

“On all the island of Ireland, there might seven or eight thousand Nortons. It’s a very popular make over here. More than in Britain, even.”

“How many of them painted black?”

“The majority. In fact, it would be the unusual one that was painted any other color.”

“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

I put the phone down and shook my head at the Crabman. “The bloke there says there might be eight thousand Norton Commandos in Ireland. Most of them black.”

He shook his head. “That’s worse than I was expecting... It’s always worse than you were expecting.”

I filled the chief inspector in on our progress, playing down the information-void stuff and playing up our more promising lines of inquiry.

After our morning coffee break, Crabbie and I drove over to Mr. Townes’s house again. I had him wait in the Beemer while I said hello to the constable protecting the crime scene and went inside.

I went upstairs to the master bedroom and found Townes’s clothes closet. I grabbed the other bespoke linen jacket from the rack, went downstairs, took the two Picasso etchings off the wall, and took jacket and art works out to the Beemer.

I put them all carefully in the boot.

“What are you doing with those paintings?” Crabbie asked.

“Can’t leave them in the house. They’re worth a few bob. I’ll put them in safekeeping.”

“Okay. So where to now, then?”

“Dundalk, I think, unless you have any objections.”

“Not I.”

“I’ll stop in Newry and we can get a bite to eat if you want.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

Carrick. Belfast. Newry. A roadside café where we got Ulster fries (potato bread, soda bread, fried bacon, sausage, and egg) and strong brown tea.

“How were the cows this morning?” I asked the Crabman as he lit his pipe.