Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery)

by Declan Burke

  SLAUGHTER’S HOUND

  A Harry Rigby Mystery

  Declan Burke

  For Vincent Banville

  ‘Crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavour.’

  – W. R. Burnett, The Asphalt Jungle

  Author’s Note:

  Originally bred to fight wolves and accompany their owners into battle, the Irish Wolfhound (Cú Faoil) is a breed old enough to feature in Irish mythology, with cú translating as ‘hound’, ‘war hound’ or ‘Irish hound’. According to legend, the young warrior Sétanta became Cú Chulainn by killing the hound of Culann and then offering to replace it. Cú Chulainn, also known as the Hound of Ulster, owned a number of árchú, war hounds feared for their love of slaughter.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Thursday

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Friday

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  Saturday

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Thursday

  1

  It was a rare fine night for a stroll down by the docks, the moon plump as a new pillow in an old-fashioned hotel and the undertow in the turning tide swushing its ripples silvery-green and a bird you’ve never heard before chirring its homesick tale of a place you might once have known and most likely now will never see, mid-June and almost midnight and balmy yet, the kind of evening built for a long walk with a woman who likes to take long walks and not say very much, and that little in a murmur you have to strain to catch, her laughter low and throaty, her humour dry and favouring lewd, eyes like smoky mirrors of the vast night sky and in them twinkles that might be stars reflecting or the first sparks of intentions that you’d better fan with soft words and a gentle touch in just the right place or spend the rest of your life and maybe forever wondering what might have been, all for the want of a soft word and a touch gentle and true.

  It was that kind of evening, alright. That kind of place.

  You ever find yourself there, say something soft, and be gentle, and true.

  Me, I found myself hunched over the charred dwarf that had once been Finn Hamilton, parts of him still sizzling in a marinade of oily flesh and melting tar, and all around the rank stench of singing hair and burnt petrol, seared pork.

  Midnight, and balmy yet.

  I’d seen him jump. Pacing the yard below, phone clamped to my ear. ‘Listen, Ben, she’s under pressure at work, okay? You need to take that on— What? Yeah, I know. But look, sometimes your mum says things she—’

  I heard him, first. Faint but clear from nine storeys high.

  ‘Bell jars away …’

  From instinct I glanced up with the next line already forming, let’s be fearless with our promises, but by then he’d jumped, a dark blur plummeting, wings folded against the drag like some starving hawk out of the noon sun, some angel betrayed.

  I guess he punched through the cab’s roof so hard he sent metal shearing into the petrol tank. All it took was one spark.

  Boom …

  The blast smashed me ten feet into a heap of scrap metal, left me deafened and half blind, limbs rubbery as I scrabbled around ripping my hands on rusty steel. Stunned and flopping in the aftermath of a quake that tore my insides apart

  lie down stay down

  lungs pounded by hammers O Jesus breathe, breathe and a roaring in the ears of blood tortured to a scream

  ‘Dad?’

  coming tinny and distant

  ‘Dad? Are you there?’

  the phone two feet and a million miles away, dirt thick in my teeth

  ‘I think you’re breaking up, Dad …’

  and the taste of roasting flesh and metal thick on my tongue.

  A hot knife pierced my ribs as I reached for the phone.

  ‘Ben?’ A harsh grating. ‘Ring you back, Ben.’

  I lurched to my feet on spongy knees and stumbled across the yard towards the blaze. The air all a-shimmer so that his feet looked submerged, some weirdly wavering polyps. One of his moccasins came away as I pulled him free and at first I thought I’d ripped him in half. Then I thought he’d dropped a dwarf on the cab. Strange the things you think when you’re trying not to think at all, dragging a man from a torched wreck and his flesh frying in lumps on the melting tar.

  As I twisted my head, guts already heaving, I realised why he seemed so short.

  He’d dived, come down arrow-straight, in the final instant pulling back his arms so that the impact drove his head and shoulders back up into his chest. There was still some remnant of what had once been his neck but the head had pulped like so much ripe melon.

  I puked until the heaves came dry and then rang it in. Globs of grey grease spitting on the cab’s skeletal frame.

  2

  How it began was a balmy night, twenty past ten, the caller ID flashing Finn-Finn-Finn. I put down the book and turned on the radio to check his mood. Tindersticks, tiny tears filling up a whole ocean.

  Not promising.

  Still, business is business. I picked up.

  ‘How goes it?’

  ‘Good, yeah. You busy?’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘How’s the weather?’

  ‘Balmy. You off on holidays?’

  ‘Hoping to.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Three weeks, if I can swing it.’

  ‘You deserve it, squire. See you later.’

  ‘Alright.’

  I knocked off the cab’s light and turned out of the rank, heading west on Wine Street, across the bypass and out along the Strandhill Road. Switched off the radio. Finn played good tunes but you had to be in the mood. Some nights he went off on a jag: Santa Claus with a straight razor in his mitt, black dogs howling down the moon. Spend long enough driving a cab listening to Finn and you’d wind up with a Mohawk cruising underage whores trying to think of a politician it’d be worth the bullet to plug.

  Five minutes later I was turning up Larkhill and into Herb’s driveway, zapping the security gates. A stately semi-D, two bay windows to the front, five bedrooms upstairs and a cellar that wasn’t on the plans. A double garage on the side. Herb’d had most of the front garden ripped out for tarmac, the better to allow the cabs come and go. Mature sycamore and horse-chestnut fringed the high red-brick walls of the perimeter.

  I drove around the back, opened the garage door, eased in beside a Golf I didn’t recognise, a three-year-old model that meant Herb had company. Tapped the four-digit code into the pad on the connecting door, waited for the high-pitched beep, pushed on through to the kitchen. Knocked on the kettle.

  ‘Herb?’ I called. ‘I’m making a brew. What d’you want?’

  ‘In here, Harry.’

  From his tone I was expecting trouble but even at that Ross M
cConnell, in person, was bad news. Standing up as I crossed the hall and went in through the arch into the living room, making it look like he was being polite, waiting to be introduced, not making a fuss about being on his feet, his eyes level with mine.

  Herb had a mop of curly red hair not generally seen outside of Stephen King books about killer clowns. He sat building a spliff on the coffee table, the plasma TV on with the sound muted, watching black-and-white grainy documentary footage of what might have been the Russian Front.

  ‘Ross,’ he said, ‘this is Harry. I don’t think you met him before.’

  ‘Don’t think I have,’ he said, sounding faintly adenoidal. He took his time putting out his hand, taking in my black shoes and black pants, the white shirt and loosely knotted black cotton tie. A respectable ensemble, from a distance at least.

  I guessed, from the way his lower lip twitched, that he approved more of my ambition than the actual style. ‘Ross McConnell,’ he said. We shook. A dry, solid handshake. Not limp and not a power-play, nothing you’d remember after except that he’d shaken your hand and met your eye doing it.

  He was nothing special, Ross McConnell. A little taller than average, wearing beige chinos, brown deck shoes and a crisp pale blue shirt over a V-neck white tee. A plain gold band on his ring finger but otherwise no jewellery or gewgaws. Ross McConnell, better known as Toto, a joke name he’d been stuck with as a skinny kid because he fancied himself as a prospect, a gimlet-eyed striker in the mould of Toto Schillaci, aka the Sicilian Assassin who’d ended Ireland’s hopes in the 1990 World Cup, Ross sixteen or seventeen at the time. Except Ross, aka Toto, had been nothing special. Pushing forty now and no longer skinny but not running to fat either, no sign of gym pumping or anywhere slack, the brown hair neat under a number four blade and all of it where it should and needed to be, but no more, no less. Nothing special. The eyes no harder than a bank manager’s on a Monday morning and no colder, really, than that last crawling yard to the Pole. But nothing special, no.

  Different, sure, because he was Ted McConnell’s younger brother and de facto consigliore. But not so remarkable that he might get picked out of a line-up by an eye-witness to a point-blank drive-by, even on his third or fourth parade, the cops getting desperate, surrounding him with dwarfs and one-legged jugglers.

  No, he was nothing special, not Ross McConnell. They never are.

  ‘Harry …?’ he enquired, one eyebrow cocked. He already knew, of course. I’d have been checked out long before I slid in behind the wheel of a McConnell cab. When you’re an ex-INLA blagger trying to go legit, like say for example one Ted McConnell, you need to be that bit squeakier clean than the competition.

  ‘Rigby,’ I said.

  ‘Harry Rigby,’ he said. ‘Rigby, Rigby, Rigby …’ He glanced down at Herb, who was roaching the jay, then back at me. ‘You’re never the Rigby who killed his brother,’ he said. I nodded. ‘Gonzo,’ he said. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I knew him. Years ago now, but yeah. Mad fucker.’

  It wasn’t a question so I let it go. From the kitchen came the sound of a thin whistle. ‘Kettle’s boiled,’ I said. ‘Anyone else for a brew?’

  ‘Ross was just leaving,’ Herb said.

  ‘I’ll take a quick espresso,’ Ross said. ‘If it’s not a bother.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He was still standing when I got back, head tilted, one whole wall given over to Herb’s books, most of them hardbacks and mostly non-fiction, travel and adventure, war histories, some popular science. A Patrick Leigh Fermor biography tucked under one arm. He toasted me with the espresso, had a sip, winced at its bitterness.

  ‘So what’s it like out there?’ he said. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Quiet enough so far,’ I said. ‘It’ll pick up later on.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  So there we all were, the two of us sipping coffee, Herb on a toke in the armchair, a quarter million Germans frozen solid in Stalingrad and still hoping Von Paulus’d tell Hitler to stick his Sieg Heil up his Austrian hole. The silence getting brittle, Toto glancing up again at the bookshelves. I rolled a smoke and wandered over to the far wall, Herb’s gallery, framed photographs from when he’d worked as a snapper, some of them standalone shots, portraits, a couple of full-length newspaper covers. The one I liked best was a Sligo Champion cover from a couple of election campaigns ago, Bertie Ahern touring the provinces, shocked, staring down at the egg that had just been smashed against his tie, and over it the headline, ‘Bertie Scrambling for Power’.

  Herb leaned forward to tap some ash, knocked a musical little tinkle out of the glass ashtray, loud enough to get Toto and I looking around. Herb cleared his throat. ‘Anything cooking?’ he said.

  Me he was asking. I glanced at Toto. He put his hand up in mock surrender. ‘I’m not even here,’ he said. ‘You have business to do, don’t let me stop you.’

  Herb nodded me on. ‘Finn rang,’ I told him. ‘Looking three bags.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘He got three last month, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘That’s a lot of personal use.’

  Herb didn’t do half-measures. Five-ounce bags of primo bud. Sweet as Bambi going down, a kick like Thumper dreaming snares. He could’ve cut it with oregano, packed the bags with branch, the way some of Toto’s dealers did, but Herb liked his customers happy, his trade steady and sure.

  ‘The surfers are in next week,’ I said, ‘out to Enniscrone. The wild water women, something like that.’

  ‘So he’s what, dealing now?’

  ‘I doubt it. Probably just sorting some people out.’

  Toto with another book in his hand, Schrödinger’s Kittens, one of John Gribbin’s. Taking a keen interest, it looked like, in radical quantum mechanics.

  ‘But sorting these people out,’ Herb persisted, ‘for money.’

  ‘What I’m saying is, Finn doesn’t need to deal.’

  ‘Hardly giving it away free though, is he?’

  ‘Want me to have a word?’

  ‘Suss him out, yeah. See what’s what. Last thing we want is some amateur pissing about. There’s cops in Bundoran running around with boogie boards now.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Toto put his espresso down on the coffee table, held up the Gribbin. ‘Herbie,’ he said, ‘d’you mind …?’

  ‘No worries, man. Work away.’

  The Gribbin went under his arm with the Leigh Fermor. ‘I’ll drop them back next time,’ he said. ‘Harry?’ He raised an eyebrow and nodded towards the hallway. ‘Mind if I have a word?’

  For some reason I took my coffee with me, following on as he ambled out through the kitchen, into the garage. He pressed the door-release button, said, ‘How’s your probation going?’

  ‘Alright, yeah. Five more months, thereabouts.’

  A wry smile. ‘Thereabouts?’

  ‘Five months, four days.’

  ‘And you’re clean, right?’

  He wasn’t just talking smack or coke. He meant anything that might cause him trouble if I was pulled over driving a cab in which Ted McConnell had a 40 percent stake. A daft question. I was hardly going to fess up to a sideline dealing kiddie porn from the cab’s trunk. Then again, it wasn’t really a question. Especially as Toto McConnell’s definition of clean didn’t include the bags of grass I trundled around town for Herb.

  He opened the door of his three-year-old nothing-special navy Golf and got in, put the books on the passenger seat. ‘This Finn guy,’ he said, ‘wants the three baggies. You vouch for him?’

  ‘He’s never let me down yet. Pays up front.’

  ‘But you know him, right?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s Finn Hamilton.’

  He cocked his head. ‘The property Hamiltons?’

  ‘That’s the family, yeah. Except Finn’s an art dealer.’

  ‘Bob Hamilton’s boy.’ Now he was nodding, filin
g it away. Might be useful to know somewhere down the line. ‘Has a gallery down the docks,’ he said, ‘the old PA building. Or am I mixing him up with someone else?’

  ‘No, that’s him.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it,’ he grinned. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘If you like art.’

  He shrugged. ‘I like it. What’s not to like?’ He turned the key in the ignition, the Golf giving a throaty roar before settling down to a purr. He closed the car door, then wound down the window. ‘Meant to ask you,’ he said, ‘if you knew Malky Gorevan.’

  Letting me know, he knew I’d done my time, or a good chunk of it, in Dundrum. And maybe letting me know he knew more, that I’d walked earlier than I should have all things considered, a six-year stretch erring on the liberal side when you go down for blowing away your brother, especially when that was enough, in the first place, to have you banged up with all the rest of the criminally insane. Tipping me off that people might be wondering why I’d skated out so soon, and if maybe some kind of deal hadn’t been done, Harry Rigby agreeing to payback, a juicy morsel in the right ear once in a while, for his early release.

  ‘Yeah, I knew Malky,’ I said. ‘Mad fucker.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be in Dundrum if he wasn’t,’ Toto said.

  ‘True enough. How’s he doing?’

  Malky Gorevan had the distinction of being one of the very few ex-paramilitaries not to walk on a Good Friday pardon, partly because no one really gave a shit if the INLA ever went back to war, but mainly because Malky, who was serving multiple concurrent sentences, would have been designated Ireland’s first bona fide serial killer had he not wrapped himself in the flag. If Malky ever got out of Dundrum it’d be for the short ride north to face a sheaf of outstanding warrants, Malky a hero in certain circles for being that rarest of gems, an INLA man who’d figured out the intricacies of the mercury tilt car bomb.

  ‘Malky’s Malky,’ Toto shrugged. ‘Last I heard he was still talking about sell-outs, Adams and McGuinness on his shit-list.’ He shrugged again, Malky old news, yesterday’s man. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘Herbie might have a bit of work for you, if you’re available. No problem if you’re not.’