Page 55 of Hang on St. Christopher

“In Spain?”

“He called my father, and my father gave him the number of the hotel where I’m staying.”

“Whydid he call you?”

“Well, he wanted to let me know about the murder and to see if you needed any help with the case.”

Lawson was head of Carrick CID, true, but the chief inspector should never have called him about this. I was Lawson’s superior in rank, and I had conducted at least a dozen murder investigations. Did he really have so little confidence in me?

I thought back over all my previous homicide cases. In fairness to McArthur, I didn’t have a single conviction, but I had found out who had done it in every single capital crime that I had investigated.

“There’s no need to come home from your holidays early, Lawson. Sergeant McCrabban and I have this one very much in hand.”

“Sergeant McCrabban? Uhm, aren’t you both in the, uhm?—”

“In the what, Lawson?”

“In the part-time reserve, sir. You’re both not?—”

“Real policemen anymore?”

“Oh, sir! I wouldn’t say that! I would never say that. I just wondered if you needed any help from someone who, you know, is, uhm,au faitwith the latest investigative and forensic tech?—”

“No, thank you, Lawson. We’ll be fine. Sergeant McCrabban and I were conducting murder inquiries when you were still in primary school, I believe.”

“Oh, of course, sir. I didn’t mean any offense. I, uh?—

“None taken, Lawson. Enjoy your holidays. Don’t worry, we old duffers won’t sully the good reputation of Carrick CID, I promise. Goodbye, Lawson.”

Silence.

“Lawson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I said goodbye.”

“I know, sir...”

“What is it, Lawson?”

“Well, it was only that when I spoke to the chief inspector, he seemed a bit concerned that you hadn’t even been able to positively ID the victim yet.”

“These things take time!”

“That’s what I told the chief inspector. And he said that if I wanted to cut my holiday short and come back, he would smooth it over with you, sir, but I thought that I should probably check with you first, sir.”

Wow, neither of them had any faith in me at all.

I checked my reflection in the hall mirror. Did I look so much older now? Did I project an incompetent vibe? Was it the booze? Was it my reputation?

Lawson, I knew, wasn’t a big drinker. Or maybe it was the relative clearance rates: under Lawson Carrick, CID’s clearance rates were among the highest of all the stations in Northern Ireland... whereas I had run a, ahem, looser ship, sometimes letting petty offenders off with a stern warning.

“Lawson, don’t worry, everything’s in hand. When are you supposed to come back?”

“Sunday.”

“Then come back Sunday. All is well here, okay?”