Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery)

by Declan Burke

  Saoirse had panicked, even though Gillick had reassured her that Bob had confirmed the truth would stay hidden.

  ‘What truth?’

  ‘That truth.’ Again he meant the birth cert.

  ‘What fucking truth?’

  For a moment he found himself, the old Gillick, supercilious and smug, although the effect when he smiled was rather ruined by the fact that his teeth were pink. ‘No wonder,’ he whispered, ‘you failed as a private detective.’

  That did it. I reached behind myself, scrabbling on the desk for the cigar, and came up instead holding the ornate paper-knife.

  ‘We could’ve done this the easy way,’ I said. I plonked myself down on the broad saddle of his chest, a knee either side. He gasped a fine spray of blood. ‘But this way we’ll have ourselves some fun.’

  I gripped him under the throat to hold his head steady. His good eye bulged. He tried to say something but it came out a strangled squawk.

  ‘Day late,’ I said, ‘dollar short.’ Then dug in.

  When I’d finished carving the ‘T’ into his forehead, and eased off on his throat, it all fell out like some third-rate Jacobean farce, Gillick squealing like a one-man chorus about murder and incest, blood and gore. How Saoirse Hamilton had seduced her teenage son, maybe even convincing herself it was somehow okay given that he was adopted, not flesh and blood. Then falling pregnant, Grainne arriving, Big Bob not knowing shit from shinola, but suspecting shinola. Blazing rows, threats of violence, the inevitable mooting of divorce. Saoirse taunting Bob about being half the man Finn was.

  All this Gillick knew from Finn, who’d gone to Gillick as some perverse kind of priest. A scared and very confused young man, no more than a boy, with nowhere else to go and confusing the idea of client confidentiality with the sacred oath of the confessional.

  Telling Gillick, putting the gun on his desk, that he’d shot his father down at the docks, tumbled him into the water, then reversed the Beamer into the quays.

  ‘With that gun,’ Gillick gasped.

  ‘So I’ve heard. Paranoid bullshit.’

  Not so, apparently. And Gillick being Gillick, he’d sniffed leverage, juice. Started grooming Finn as some kind of dauphin, this with one eye on the Hamilton Holdings fortune Finn would some day inherit. Never guessing for a second that he might be the one being groomed, manipulated into a false position of power, as they schemed their way towards isolating and undermining Saoirse Hamilton’s position.

  It made a lot of sense. At least, it went a long way towards explaining Finn’s bipolar mood-swings, the arson, the constant need to reinvent himself, to lose himself in his art or in diving off cliffs. And why, just when he believed that he was getting out from under it all, squirreling away enough nuts to get him a new start in Cyprus, he might take a stroll off the ninth floor when he discovered that Maria was pregnant, only not with his kid. Going down in style and up in flames, taking everyone with him, yours truly included.

  What didn’t make sense was the big finale. The sick punch line, so ludicrous I actually laughed out loud.

  I got the dull point of the paper knife under Gillick’s chin, pushing up so that his head strained back, leaving his throat exposed.

  ‘This is true?’ I said.

  ‘On my fucking life,’ he rasped at the ceiling.

  He had nothing left. No reason to lie. Besides, if what he said was true, it would take only a short journey to prove it beyond doubt.

  ‘Okay, that’s us. We’re done.’

  I slipped sideways off his chest as his entire body sagged with relief. The good eye closed again, although it snapped open when I wrenched off his shoe, tugged his sock free.

  ‘What’re you—’ he began but then I dropped an elbow into his groin. He oooofed and gagged, his mouth dropping open. I jammed the sock in his mouth, saddled up on his chest again. Picked up the paper-knife.

  A muffled croak came from behind the sock as he strained his head away. I seized him by the throat, held his head steady, my knuckle throbbing all the way up into my shoulder. Then I dug in again.

  It took some time. He gurgled and squawked and squealed behind the sock all the while, a Philip Glass overture, Agony in C Minor. Blood seeping down to pool in the empty socket and blind his good eye. But the naked eyeball, singed as it was, saw all.

  I found a bathroom down the hall, washed off the blood as best I could. Then I went to retrieve my latest swag. The birth cert, the pale blue envelope addressed in Finn’s hand, the twenty large in loose notes. Gillick had toppled over onto his side, lying snuffling like a beached elephant seal, badly gored and dying slow. Low moans coming muffled from behind the sock.

  I still was picking up hundred-euro notes, leaving behind the ones spattered with blood, when he developed the power of ventriloquism. Amazing stuff. Projecting his voice behind me, and not so much as a wobble from the sock, when he said, ‘Put the tool down, Rigby.’

  38

  He stood in the double doorway with a hand on Maria’s shoulder, the Beretta nuzzling her ribs. Blood drying on the side of his neck.

  Maria looked to be on the point of vomiting, a faint bulge to her eyes.

  ‘Arthur,’ Toto said without taking his eyes off mine. ‘Arthur?’

  Gillick gave a sock-muffled groan, turned his head towards the sound like some light-dazzled mole dug out of a burrow.

  ‘First you lose my coke,’ Toto said, ‘and then you batter my brother-in-law. Now you’re hammering my solicitor.’ A bleak smile. ‘I was the paranoid type, I might start thinking you’ve some kind of vendetta going on.’

  He was generous enough not to mention my assault on his dignity with a crutch. Or maybe he was trying to pretend it had never happened.

  ‘Nothing personal,’ I said.

  He made a clicking sound, regretful. ‘Put the gun down on the ground,’ he said, ‘slide it over here.’

  I shook my head.

  He raised his right hand, tapped the Beretta against Maria’s stomach. She closed her eyes. ‘Don’t think I won’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘You’re going to blow her away, you don’t even know who she is, for this piece of shit?’ This last being directed in Gillick’s direction. ‘Think about it,’ I said, lifting the .38, pointing it at his face. ‘Because it’ll be the last fucking thing you’ll ever do.’

  Toto took it all under consideration. ‘So where are we now?’ he said.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I said. ‘Taking her with me.’

  His grin was a cold slash. ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Something like it, anyway.’

  ‘You know that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘That’ll be Ted’s call.’

  ‘Ted?’

  ‘There’s something he should probably know. About Gillick here, what he just told me.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ll tell Ted.’

  He thought about that, his eyes on mine, not the gun. ‘You want us all to arrive at Ted’s,’ he said, ‘a three-ring fucking circus.’

  ‘Ring him.’

  That put him in a bind. To ring Ted he’d have to let Maria go or put the Beretta away.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. He released Maria, put a hand in the small of her back, urging her towards the nearest seat. So she was still in his theoretical field of fire. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘No harm meant.’

  Still looking at me, waiting for the quid pro quo. I gave it a beat, lowered the .38.

  ‘So go ahead and ring Ted,’ Toto said, nodding at the phone on the floor beside the desk.

  Which would have been hilarious, me hunkering down to dial some number Toto was calling out, getting a kick in the side of the head for my troubles.

  ‘Gillick’s phone,’ I said, ‘is on the table.’

  He thought it through, then backed away to the table. Still facing me. Scrabbled through the detritus of Gillick’s meal.

  Once he found the phone, though, it was relatively straightforward. Co
ming forward again, stabbing a couple of buttons. Gillick with Ted McConnell, former INLA killer turned post-Peace Process Robin Hood, on speed-dial. The boys back at Blackhall would surely have been proud.

  Toto’s eyes never left mine.

  The call connected. ‘Ted?’ he said. ‘It’s me.’

  He was sharp, was Toto. It took him about thirty seconds to sketch it all out, this including a number of his own yeahs and uh-huhs. Then he pressed the speaker button, held out the phone. ‘You’re up,’ he said.

  ‘Ted?’ I said.

  ‘This Rigby?’ A faint metallic hum charged with feedback.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘Your boy Gillick just mentioned that my kid’s in hospital.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My kid was in a coma.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Now he’s dead.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the only person who knew my kid was in hospital, in a coma, was a guy called Tohill.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘This Tohill being Detective Sergeant Tohill.’

  Silence. Then, ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘You mightn’t have heard of him yet. He’s been seconded here from CAB.’

  ‘CAB?’

  ‘The Criminal Assets—’

  ‘I fucking know what CAB is, Rigby.’

  ‘Right.’

  A metallic click, a faint echo of feedback, and the phone went dead. Toto and I made eyes at one another some more to a soundtrack of a sandpaper symphony of Gillick choking something back behind the sock.

  Maria sitting rigid on the chair, hands clasped between her knees.

  The phone rang again.

  Toto took the call. ‘Ted?’

  More yeahs and uh-huhs, the cold grey eyes drifting away down to Gillick. A final, definitive nod. He tossed me the phone.

  ‘What do you know about Gillick and this Tohill?’ Without the tinny effect of the speaker-phone, Ted McConnell had a surprisingly mellow baritone.

  ‘Someone told Gillick about my kid. Tohill’s the only one who knew.’

  ‘They’re in bed?’

  ‘I’m telling you what I know.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Silence. Then, ‘I’m thinking I should probably have a chat with Gillick.’

  ‘He’s all yours.’

  ‘Then I’ll be wanting to talk to you.’

  ‘That’s doable, yeah. Just not right now.’

  ‘You don’t tell me when—’

  ‘Ted,’ I said, ‘I’ve given you Gillick.’ Toto wincing at my interrupting Ted. ‘And let’s be crystal fucking clear on this. I’m walking out of here now. Anyone gets in my way, I’m putting him down. End of story.’

  A long silence this time. ‘Can’t say I like your attitude, Rigby,’ he said finally. ‘Can’t say I like what was done to Jimmy, either. Gillick’s one thing. Jimmy’s family.’

  ‘Fuck you and what you think about my attitude,’ I said. ‘Jimmy, okay, I can say there’s ten grand in it for him.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘I’ve twenty grand cash here right now. Ten’s owed to Toto. The other ten’s Jimmy’s. Final offer.’

  ‘Put Toto back on.’

  I tossed the phone across. Toto went through another round of yeahs and uh-huhs. Then he hung up, untucked his shirt, gave the phone a good wiping down. Dropped it.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘The deal is this. Jimmy gets his ten grand, I get mine, we take Gillick for a spin. You and me, we were never here.’

  ‘Only one can say we were,’ I said, ‘is Gillick.’

  ‘And her,’ Toto said.

  ‘She’s leaving the country,’ I said, ‘in a couple of hours.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay. Give me a hand getting Gillick to the car.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He went and hunkered down beside Gillick, slapped his cheek. ‘Let’s go, fat-chops,’ he said. ‘Time’s money.’

  I told Maria to go ahead, wait for me outside. She stalked out, her face pale, although whether that was because she was holding down a puke or repressing her fury I couldn’t tell.

  I left the blood-spattered notes where they lay, put the wad in my hand on the desk.

  Toto had Gillick propped against the wall by then, Gillick emitting some gravelly groans. Toto’s hands smeared with blood.

  ‘Ted’ll try to square it with Jimmy,’ Toto said. ‘But I’m making no promises. Jimmy’s his own man. Might be no harm to go missing for a while once he’s back in business.’

  ‘Run once,’ I said, ‘and you never stop.’

  Toto rubbed his bloody hands together, cracked a bleak grin. ‘And wouldn’t that be just fucking grand?’ he said.

  ‘You and me,’ I said. ‘Where are we now?’

  He sat back on his haunches, considering. ‘Let’s get the business sorted first Rigby. Then we’ll talk personal.’

  ‘You’ll want to confirm this with him,’ I nodded at Gillick, ‘but he just told me Jimmy was working a little freelance Thursday night, down at the PA.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Keeping himself busy while I was upstairs talking with Finn and Gillick.’

  ‘Busy how?’

  ‘Finn came down on top of the cab when he jumped,’ I said, ‘blew it to shit. The cab sitting directly under the window because Jimmy directed me into that exact spot.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So cabs, or any kind of motors, don’t tend to blow up just because someone lands on top of them. Unless it’s a movie you’re watching.’

  ‘What’re you saying, Rigby?’

  ‘Our boy Gillick,’ I toed his foot, ‘reckons Jimmy’s a dab hand at improvising petrol bombs from the good old days. A wee magnet to clamp it to the petrol tank, a mercury-tilt switch, Finn hits hard enough to rattle the lot …’ I shrugged. ‘I’m telling you what Gillick said. Maybe you’ll get more out of him.’

  ‘But why the fuck would they want to blow the cab?’

  The sixty-four thousand dollar question. Actually, the one-point-eight million question.

  ‘Point I’m making,’ I said, ‘it’s Gillick and Jimmy on the hook for what I owe.’ I nodded at the desk. ‘And Jimmy’s ten grand is just sitting there.’

  He pursed his lower lip. ‘It’s tidy,’ he said. ‘This providing Gillick backs it up.’

  ‘Tell him if he doesn’t,’ I said, ‘I’ll be coming for his other eye.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. Nodding to himself, slow. He touched the tips of his fingers to the gash above his ear, had a look at the blood. ‘So now, you and me, all we’re left with is personal.’

  39

  The evening was closing in, the sky a rotten peach. I told Maria to get her stuff from the Phaeton and went and had a look at Gillick’s Saab in the garage. Unlocked, no keys. A minute later I was easing in beside the Phaeton.

  I put her bags on the back seat, debating whether to leave Bear where he was. Maria wouldn’t hear of it. So he got transferred to the Saab too.

  I drove up the steep track and into the pines, flicking on the lights against the thickening gloom. The Saab so quiet, even in first gear, that I heard an owl whoo-hoo over the engine’s hum. Up across the razor-back ridge, down into the valley again.

  ‘How’d he get out?’ I said.

  A hardy joker, Toto McConnell. Had squirmed across Jimmy and kicked in the back panel, come scrambling through from the boot, Bear trapped in the well behind the front seats. Maria’d bailed out and made for the trees, squeezing the Beretta’s trigger. Its safety on.

  The rest I knew.

  The dash lights gave her pallor a ghastly blue sheen. Hands trembling, the adrenaline rush sending her into delayed shock, how close a gun had been to her belly and what was in it.

  ‘Stop the car,’ she said.

  ‘We don’t have time to—’

  She gagged, put a hand to her mouth. There was no hard shoulder, nowhere to go.

  ‘Harry!’

  I jammed on,
skidding. She was pushing out the door even before we’d stopped, and vomited quietly onto the verge.

  It was a one-puke deal. She sat back into the seat, eyes closed. Pale as raw vellum now, a diamanté gleam to the sweat prickling her forehead.

  With her eyes still closed she found her bag, fumbled inside. Came up with a bottle of water, some tissues.

  ‘You alright?’

  She took a swig, gargled, spat onto the verge.

  ‘Just get me to the airport,’ she whispered.

  It was that horrible time to drive, dusk sifting into night, when the lights of the oncoming cars are harsh, dazzling. My skull a damp sandbag, grit drifting in at the back of my eyes. Trees flooding by on both sides. Tremors in my hands that had nothing to do with the swollen knuckle, the adrenaline effort of carving ‘TOUT’ into a man’s forehead.

  I was fritzing, the synapses shorting out even as they fired and flared, trying to process what Gillick had said.

  It made no sense.

  It made perfect sense.

  Exhausted now, long past the brink.

  Maria didn’t speak until we hit the roundabout at Carraroe and I turned off, heading back towards Sligo.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ she said.

  ‘One last pit stop.’ I heard myself sound hollow, as if on the other end of a long-distance call. ‘Then we’re good.’

  ‘I’m going to miss that flight, Harry.’

  ‘If you do I’ll drive you to Dublin.’ I looked across at her. ‘Maybe get on the plane with you.’

  ‘The fuck you will.’

  ‘And what if it’s mine?’

  ‘All the more fucking reason,’ she said, placing her hands on her stomach, ‘to keep it a million miles away from you.’

  Maybe she had a point.

  I shifted in the seat, pulled the pair of pale blue envelopes from my back pocket. The one with a cheque for seventy-five grand inside, and addressed in Finn’s handwriting to Andrea Toner, 18 O’Neill Crescent, Carton – I tucked that under my thigh. Handed Maria the other.

  ‘You might want to see that,’ I said.

  She was only mildly curious opening the envelope, and had to peer at it closely in the bluey light. Then she realised it was a birth certificate.