Page 52 of Hang on St. Christopher

Victoria Hot Spot did the best cod and chips in Carrick, perhaps the best cod and chips in the Greater Belfast Urban Area. I got the unofficial policeman’s discount of 20 percent off.

“One fish supper,” Irene said, handing me the packet wrapped in greaseproof paper and theBelfast Telegraph.

“Ta,” I said, and went back outside into even heavier rain. I looked under the Beemer for bombs and drove up the hill to Coronation Road. I parked the car outside 113 and went inside.

There was a package for me in the hall that Mrs. Campbell had signed for and left inside. It was from Boosey and Hawks—the score for a new work by Alfred Schnittke that I’d inquired about.

I read it as I ate the cod and chips. It was similar to Ligeti’s Étude no. 8. Depressing and melancholy but strangely exhilarating too. Schnittke had recently had a series of strokes, and this seemed to be the music one composed when waiting in death’s antechamber. It was a nice piece, and I’d half a mind to take it to Bob McCawley in Victoria Gardens, who had a baby grand piano in his front room. Bob let me play his piano when the need arose, and it saved me the bother of keeping one here.

My Maoist barber also had a rather nice piano, but he never let you play in peace. Always giving you a bloody earful about Chomsky or China.

The phone rang in the hall. I swallowed a mouthful of cod and went to pick it up.

“Hello,” I said.

“Inspector Duffy?”

“That’s me.”

“This is O’Neill. From down south.”

“Oh, hello, how’s things down there in God’s own country?”

“Not too bad, Duffy. Listen, I tried you in your office, but they said you’d gone. I hope you don’t mind me calling you at home.”

“Nah, not at all. Have you got news?”

“I do, but it’s not good news, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh?”

“I got a warrant easy enough from old Judge Cleary, who owes me a favor for a traffic thing, and I took two of my trainee detective constables and we went down to Dublin. We found your tailor’s shop.”

“So what was the problem? Was it closed?”

“It was open for business. I presented my warrant to Mr. Dalgetty, the owner, and he took me to the back office and showed me the books, and unfortunately for us, the records from 1980–1984 were destroyed in a fire. He showed me the burned ledger, and it’s completely unreadable.”

“A fire? I don’t believe it! No one mentioned a fire to us when we were there.”

“Oh, there was a fire all right. The books were ruined. He says it happened about a year ago.”

“Then why didn’t he tell me that today?”

“I don’t know.”

This was completely bogus. “Did you get the sense that they were covering something up?”

“No.”

“Bloody hell, mate. Dalgetty must have been knobbled,” I thought out loud.

“By whom?”

“By O’Roarke.”

“But why? I mean, you’ll find out your John Doe’s identity eventually, won’t you? What’s he got to gain by intimidating a tailor?”

I considered that for a second. “Time. He’ll gain time. If it takes us a day or two to find out Mr. Townes’s real name, O’Roarke will gain valuable time.”