Page 92 of Hang on St. Christopher

I walked up the path.

When Crabbie had gone, I went over the fence and knocked on the door.

Rachel came downstairs in her nightgown.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”

“I am too.”

“Duty calls, all that, you know?”

“Yes, I know.”

She looked at me closely. “So do you want to?—”

“Nah, I should...”

“Yes, good night,” she said, and she kind of slammed the door too.

I went inside number 113.

I called home, but Emma was clearly having sleep issues and Beth had disconnected the phone. Fuck.

I called my parents in Donegal, but Da was in his bed and Mum was watching a “fascinating program on the Open University about the Chartists.”

Who else was there to call?

Crabbie was out of the question, and Lawson was in bloody Spain.

Who else was there?

Nobody.

That’s what happens when your friendship circle narrows and narrows.

I looked through my records, but I wasn’t in the mood for music.

I sat in the armchair by the fire and poured myself four inches of sixteen-year-old Bowmore.

No point thinking about stupid me. That was a deep well of foolishness to explore, available anytime.

The case, then...

Why would a deep-cover IRA hit man have only the names and addresses of other IRA men? What the fuck was going on within the IRA? Was it something to do with O’Roarke’s quest for a harder line within the Army Council?

Could he really be plotting a Night of the Long Knives?

Would Special Branch notice the nuance of all this?

Supposedly, Special Branch was the smartest and best of the RUC. But in practice, they had just as many time wasters and fuck-ups as the rest of the police force.

I was on to my third glass of Bowmore when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Duffy. Is that you?” the chief inspector asked.

“Yeah.”