Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery) (8 page)

He’d walked me out of the cop shop, asked me to join him for an early breakfast. I told him sure, so long as it featured grilled kidneys, at least one of them his, then walked on. Thirty seconds later the maroon Saab cruised by, Jimmy rolling down the
window
. He pulled in, double-parked. ‘I’m the one has to pick up the toys,’ he said, ‘when he throws them out of the pram.’

‘It’s been a long night, Jimmy. Last thing I need now is coffee and bullshit.’

‘Let the man buy you breakfast. He’s happy, I’m happy, you’re fed.’

‘I’m too tired to eat, man.’

‘I’d take it as a favour. Never any harm in having a favour out there, is there?’

A fair point, especially when knocking it back meant Jimmy believing he owed me something different. I shrugged.

‘So eat breakfast,’ he said, ‘smile and nod. Then we all go home.’

I thought about breakfast, felt my guts constrict. I thought about home. Same result. I went around to the Saab, got in.

Jimmy drove us to the all-night truck stop north of town. Took our orders and went inside while Gillick and I strolled around the back to the enclosed smoking area. Wooden picnic tables, overhead heating.

Gillick looked sharp for six in the morning. An open-necked shirt in pale blue, tan Chinos with a sharp crease. Tasselled loafers, a sports jacket with corduroy elbow-patches, a faint whiff of cigarette and jasmine. Or maybe, given the hour and Finn’s verdict on his reputation, Jasmine. He eased his bulk onto the picnic table seat and placed a slim crocodile-skin briefcase on the table. Got his elbows set on the briefcase so he wouldn’t soil the elbow-patches, then lowered his middle chin onto the point of his steepled fingers.

‘What exactly did you tell them?’ he purred.

‘It’s all in the statement.’

‘Surely you didn’t sign anything.’

‘What’s it to you?’

He dipped into his hip pocket and put down a card. ‘I’m the Hamiltons’ family solicitor.’

‘So?’

‘The bulletin said someone was helping the Gardaí with their enquiries. That had to be you.’

‘So?’

‘I wanted to be sure you weren’t unnecessarily detained.’

‘I was doing just fine until you showed up.’

‘Possibly.’ Jimmy arrived with a tray, black coffee for Gillick, a sausage sandwich for me, some orange juice. Gillick waited until Jimmy had ambled off before continuing. ‘But it’s unlikely you’d have gone to see Mrs Hamilton after you left, would you?’

‘I was already out there,’ I said through a mouthful of sausage and bread. Crumbs rained down.

‘So I understand.’ He pulled his beaker of coffee back out of mortar range. ‘I’m also given to understand you didn’t speak with Mrs Hamilton.’

‘She was asleep.’

‘She’s awake now.’ He heaved a sigh that set his lowest chin
a-wobble
. ‘Her only son has just died. You were the last person to see him alive.’

‘I can’t tell her any more than I told the butler.’

He coughed delicately, the hand not quite covering a wry smile. ‘I believe Simon’s official title is Household Manager.’

‘That doesn’t change what I told him.’ I put aside the
sandwich
, which had been made from genetically modified plastic pork, drank off the orange juice and dug out the makings. ‘Although, thinking back, I left out the bit about you being there. Maybe the lady needs to talk to you.’

‘Mrs Hamilton is fully aware that I was speaking with Finn this evening. And why.’

‘So you’re saying she wants to ask me if you pressured him into jumping.’

He flushed. ‘I don’t anticipate my clients’ needs, Mr Rigby. I simply act as directed, when directed.’

‘The organ-grinder’s monkey.’

The prim little beak took on a wet-lipped pout. ‘As I
understand
it,’ he said, ‘you were very close to spending a night in the cells for obstruction, failure to cooperate and wasting police time. That wouldn’t go down very well with your probation
officer
, would it?’

‘What goes down well with my probation officer is a naggin of Scotch between high tea and cocktails. You think she gives a fuck where I spend the night?’

‘Maybe she could be persuaded to take an interest.’

I was exhausted, sure, the adrenaline buzz long gone, the shock of Finn’s death a sponge sucking me dry. But some days, Jesus, it’s like everyone, everywhere, its putting the squeeze on.

‘What exactly is it Mrs Hamilton is hoping I’ll say?’ I said.

‘As I said, I never try to second-guess my—’

‘Hold on,’ I said, putting the roll-up between my lips, patting my pockets for the Zippo. He reached into his breast pocket and held out a gold Ronson. I dipped my head towards the flame and came back with an arm around the crocodile-skin briefcase. He grabbed for it, but his reflexes were those of a man who spent half his life drinking lunch and the other half filling out expense claims. I set the briefcase on my lap, flicked the clasps. The
dictaphone
was a neat affair, digital, matt silver, not much bigger than the Ronson, and had been recording for almost twenty
minutes
. I turned it off, put it in my breast pocket, slid the briefcase back across the table.

‘Give me a clue,’ I said. ‘What were
you
hoping I’d say?’

‘That’s purely for my own protection. In case a dissatisfied client tries to misrepresent my advice at a later stage. It’s standard procedure.’

‘For one, I’m not your client. Even if I was, it’s illegal unless you tell me you’re taping the conversation.’

An oily grin slid away to disappear between the first and second chins. ‘Few things in life are entirely legal, Mr Rigby.’

‘Like you playing both sides with Finn, say.’

Maybe the click-click of the briefcase clasps drowned me out. ‘Despite his popularity,’ he said, opening the case and extracting a cheque book, ‘Finn didn’t have many close friends.’ He closed the case again, laid the cheque book on top, located the fountain pen in his breast pocket. ‘I believe Mrs Hamilton is now reaching out to one of those friends in an attempt to distract her from her grief. Is it too much to ask that you would play that role on what is probably the worst night of her life?’

‘Yes.’

He uncapped the pen. ‘You’ll be paid for your time, of course. I’d imagine it’ll take two hours, including the journey out and back. Would three hundred euro be acceptable?’

I thought about Finn’s broken, torched body. I thought about a grieving mother’s agony. I thought about the three baggies Finn had ordered before he jumped, Toto McConnell’s weed gone up in smoke.

‘Make it five,’ I said, ‘cash.’

It might have been Marx. Or Engels, maybe. Anyway, someone once said man would never be free until the last priest was
hanging
from the entrails of the last banker. Or words to that effect.

Funny he didn’t mention lawyers. Maybe he thought they’d be impossible to exterminate, like roaches and hope. I wasn’t so sure. A garlic-tipped silver bullet, a stake through the heart – it’s worth a try, at least.

I was spared Jimmy. Gillick drove, the Saab sounding like a horny angel, smooth and silent but for a smug little hum. Up front the interior was polished leather and walnut. The dash panel, luminous with blues and reds, had been lifted from a Lear’s cockpit. We were passing Drumcliffe Church when he finally spoke. Working for casual, coming off strained. ‘So what did Finn have to say?’

‘About what?’

‘Please, Mr Rigby. I thought we were beyond games.’

‘No, you thought you’d bought me.’

‘That’s not—’

‘And what you really want to know is what he said about you.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

‘Like fuck you don’t. It’s why you’re whizzing around town at five in the morning, springing desperadoes from the cells. So Mrs Hamilton talks to me, not you, and forgets to ask why you were at the PA hassling Finn.’

‘I was there,’ he said, ‘at Mrs Hamilton’s request. And I object to the—’

‘You’re up this early for the good of your health? What’s next, a sitz bath?’

A sigh. ‘Mrs Hamilton,’ he said, ‘is not just a client of long and good standing. She is a friend, as was her husband. If she calls on me at an inconvenient time, that simply confirms how badly she needs me.’

‘Thou good and faithful servant.’

We were coming up on Monaneen Cross. He indicated left, shifted down and turned off towards the sea. The horizon turning grey, the Donegal mountains a faint purple haze on the horizon. ‘A touch of inferiority complex can be a healthy thing, Rigby. Just don’t let it cripple you.’

‘What happened to the “Mister” bit?’

He liked that. ‘You’d rather I called you Mr Rigby?’

‘You’re getting well paid to do it. And I’d say you’re on triple time for anti-social hours.’

He slowed into a crossroads, eased across. ‘May ask as to why you didn’t tell our friend Tohill I was at the PA tonight?’

‘He never asked.’

A soft chuckle. ‘Jimmy will appreciate the sentiment.’ He waited. ‘And is that, definitively, all it was?’

He should have brought Jimmy. The more he talked, the more I was wondering why he was worried I had something on him.

He indicated left, turned up through the iron-wrought gates, crunching gravel as we rolled on into the small forest of oak and sycamore. Up ahead I saw a badger waddle off the road into the ditch, its eyes gleaming greenly in the halogen glare. ‘I
understand
you used to be a private detective,’ he said.

‘Research consultant.’

‘Of course.’ Another chuckle. ‘You know, I might require the services of a research consultant one day.’

‘I’d say your kind of operation needs that kind of service every day. What’s wrong with the ones you use now?’

‘Nothing, they’re all perfectly fine. But I am blessed in having a large number of clients. Sometimes I need to outsource.’

‘Squeamish about the debt collecting, are they?’

‘In the current climate, Mr Rigby, you diversify or die.’ The faintest of sneers. ‘I’d imagine you appreciate that better than most.’

‘And you think I’m onside because I don’t squeak to the shades.’

‘If by that you’re asking if confidentiality is important to my clients, then yes.’

‘I’m retired.’

‘I heard.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Harry J. Rigby, former research consultant and freelance journalist. Tried in 2004 for the murder of one Edward aka Gonzo Rigby, but not convicted, this on the basis that you claimed temporary insanity and were
subsequently
referred to the Central Mental Hospital for assessment, which for one reason or another took the best part of four years.’ He glanced across. ‘I’m no expert, but I’d imagine killing your own brother is as good a way as any to become the least private eye in town.’ He waited. I let it hang. ‘So why come back?’ he mused. ‘It’s either the boy or a lack of imagination.’ Again he waited. ‘I’m betting it’s the boy.’

‘Mention my son again and I’ll put you through that window.’

‘How dramatic.’ He tugged on his nose to disguise a wry smile, his Blofeld impression beginning to grate. ‘I am impressed.’

‘Stay that way, you’ll save on windows.’

He sniffed at that. ‘Look, Rigby, this isn’t a moral issue. You did what you did, and your actions couldn’t be condoned by any civilised standards. But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve served your time, paid your debt to society.’

‘Society charges interest.’

‘Undoubtedly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be driving a taxi.’ I let that one bowl on through. ‘Understand that I’m not offering you a permanent position. But your reputation precedes you, and your actions tonight confirm that you’re a man who can be trusted to negotiate, shall we say, potentially treacherous situations without succumbing to the urge to unburden yourself unnecessarily.’

‘You want muscle. A reducer with a killer’s rep, who’ll keep his mouth shut if the cops start to squeeze. Someone like your friend Limerick Jim, say.’

‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘For one thing, you lack his physique.’

‘And his way with a blade.’

‘Ancient history, Mr Rigby. And you of all people, surely, wouldn’t deny Jimmy his right to rehabilitation and
reintegration
.’

We circled the fountain, passing the Merc and the Lexus, the Rav4 jeep. A red Mini Cooper tucked in behind that I hadn’t noticed earlier. Gillick parked beside the wide steps, turned off the engine. He was too bulky to turn all the way around, so he peered at me over a well-padded shoulder. ‘Can you honestly say you enjoy driving a taxi?’

‘More than life itself.’

‘There are more profitable ways of making a living.’

‘I’m my own boss. I work when I want to. The bills get paid.’

‘And that’s the sum total of your ambition in life?’

‘My lack of ambition breaks my heart. Every day I wake up weeping for the want of an urge to take a sledgehammer to some poor fucker’s front door. What’s so funny?’

‘This posturing,’ he said. ‘Your contrived antipathy towards money. And yet all it took was five hundred euro in cash to lure you here tonight.’

I didn’t like the sound of that ‘lure’.

‘Money’s not the issue,’ I said. ‘Money’s fine. If the sun ever goes out, we’ll have something else to help the world go round.’

‘So it’s not the money per se, it’s who offers it.’

‘And the why.’

‘Undoubtedly. But money is a wonderfully democratic
concept
, Mr Rigby. It cares not a whit for the history or social
position
of the person who spends it.’

‘Money’s a gun. Harmless until it winds up loaded in the wrong hands.’

‘Loaded?’

‘With influence, access, self-interest. For such a democratic concept, money seems awfully dependent on wearing the right tie in the right place.’

‘You need to attend a polling booth to vote,’ he purred. ‘And they’d hardly be inclined to let you in if you arrived naked, would they?’

‘I don’t know. Depends on how badly the Germans need the latest referendum passed.’

He nodded, smiling indulgently. ‘I’m not asking you to come to work for me, Mr Rigby. I’m simply suggesting that, should the opportunity arise, you might—’