Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery)

by Declan Burke

  He stared awhile, lower jaw moving like he was grinding corn. Then he left the room. He came back with a uniform who wasn’t old enough to shave. The clock on the wall read 5.23 AM.

  I stuck to the story. How Finn’d rang to say his Audi was giving him trouble, which was why he’d needed a cab. He’d been smoking a little dope, sure, but he’d been upbeat, making plans to get married and move to Cyprus. The last thing I’d expected was for him to jump, but he did. Sic transit gloria mundi.

  The uniform went away to type up the statement.

  ‘This dope he was smoking,’ Tohill said. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he got it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Smoke a little with him, hey?’

  ‘That’d violate the terms of my release.’

  ‘Still, maybe we should have you take a piss test.’

  I allowed that one fall pat, let him feel exactly how small was something so big. He tugged on his nose. ‘Just so you know,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t cost me a second thought to put you back in the bin.’

  ‘What it’d cost is about quarter of a million a year to keep me there,’ I said.

  ‘Scum like you, it’s worth it.’

  He looked worn down, shapeless and shabby. He’d have been better off investing his tax dollar in a decent suit.

  The uniform brought the statement back in to be signed. Tohill leaned against the door-jamb rolling his neck in clockwise circles while I gave it the once-over.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he sighed, ‘just sign the fucking thing.’

  ‘No problem. Once I’m sure it’s all my own work.’

  There was a knock at the door. Tohill stepped out. I rolled a cigarette, tucked it behind my ear. Tohill came back in, rolling his shoulders.

  I glanced up in the corner. The green light had stopped blinking.

  Shit.

  He picked the statement off the table, nodding as he read through. ‘Remind me,’ he said, ‘how there was no one else at the PA when you arrived. Although first,’ he crumpled the statement and tossed it in my face, ‘let me tell you how we just had a call. From someone you might know. The name Gillick ring any bells?’

  ‘Gillick?’

  ‘He’s what you might call a concerned citizen. Public-spirited. Heard on the radio about a suicide down at the PA building, thought he could help with our enquiries. Clarify a thing or two.’

  ‘Sounds like a real gent.’

  ‘Says he was down at the PA earlier on, consulting with his client, Finn Hamilton. Strange place and time for a consultation, I’d have said, but anyway, Gillick noticed this guy who came in, Rigby he called him. About five-eleven, dark hair, medium build running to skinny. Early forties. White shirt, black tie, had the look of the loser in a Travellers’ bare-knuckle brawl.’

  ‘Be some coincidence if it wasn’t me.’

  I wondered if he knew his right hand was balled, the knuckles gone creamy. ‘You just made a statement that could put you away for two years. And that’s before they open your old file, wondering if you’re not starting to get squirrelly again.’

  ‘I didn’t mention Gillick because you were asking if I’d seen anyone who’d push Finn out of a window. Gillick was long gone by then. And anyway, he’s Finn’s solicitor, or was. Why would he push Finn anywhere?’

  ‘Smart,’ he said. He was fast. Grabbed my tie while I was mid-blink, rammed the knot up under my Adam’s apple. Enough squeeze to cut off my air, not so hard he’d do permanent damage. ‘But you’ll need to smarten up, Rigby. Otherwise you’re looking at—’

  Another knock on the door. The uniform popped his head in. ‘Sir, that solicitor’s – shit. Sir?’ Tohill turned his head. ‘That solicitor’s arrived, sir. Wants to see his client.’

  The door closed. Tohill let go, shoving my head back, then leaned in so close I could tell he’d had Bolognese for dinner, heavy on the garlic. ‘I’ll fucking nail you both,’ he said.

  I loosened the knot, working it free with a forefinger. ‘You should floss,’ I croaked.

  He slammed the table with the flat of his hand but I didn’t jump any higher than a Mexican flea. A sour chuckle, then he hawked and spat.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ I said, wiping gluey spittle from my cheek with the tail of my shirt.

  ‘Sometimes you forget why you do the job. Scum like you, you’re a refresher course.’

  ‘They also serve who stand and wait.’

  He made a point of straightening his tie and then he was gone. I mopped up the last of the phlegm. The stench of garlic hung in the air but at least I wasn’t smelling burnt pork anymore.

  10

  While I waited for Gillick to pay for the coffees I thought about how I didn’t have a solicitor, couldn’t afford one, hadn’t asked for one and hadn’t needed one, not until a solicitor rang the cops.

  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 cover
ing 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.’

  11

  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 ima
gination.’ 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?’