Slaughter's hound hr-2

by Declan Burke

  ‘Want me to ring her?’ he said.

  ‘That’d be good, yeah.’

  We went back into the house, through to the kitchen. There was no black coffee, no buttery toast. Grainne was at the table hunched over the laptop, smoking and sullen. I made the introductions, asked where Maria was. She jerked a thumb in the direction of the living room.

  Maria was panned out on the couch, snoring gently.

  ‘Mi casa, su casa,’ Herb observed as he scrolled down through the contacts list on his mobile. He found Dee’s number, pressed call.

  He didn’t get to say a lot. There was much by way of sympathetic grunting, and then he asked Dee if there was anything he could do.

  ‘If I see you,’ he said after he hung up, ‘I’m to kick your balls into your throat and then suck them out and spit them into a blender. Then bring her the blender.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Better, she says. He squeezed her finger about an hour ago, although the doc says that could be just a reflex reaction, nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Think positive,’ he urged. ‘If he was really bad, they’d have transferred him to Dublin by now. What’re you looking for?’

  I was hunkered down beside the couch, rummaging through Maria’s suitcase. Came up with her passport. I flipped it open on the off-chance but it looked genuine, no five grand stashed inside. ‘You’ll need that to book her flight,’ I said. ‘Her purse must be around here somewhere, her credit card.’

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Couple of hours, tops.’

  ‘So I should book her flight for …’

  ‘This evening. Late as you can. Give me a chance to get back here, drive her down.’

  ‘We could always stick her in a taxi,’ he said, and for the briefest of moments something glittered in his bleak eyes, a faint hint of humour.

  Sometimes that’s enough. For the first time in I couldn’t remember how long I felt like everything might just work out okay.

  I fetched Grainne from the kitchen, hit the road. It wasn’t until we were pulling out of Herb’s drive that it hit me. That maybe Ben hadn’t been transferred because he was too fragile to be moved at all.

  31

  We drove in along the Strandhill Road and I thought I was smart directing Grainne down Orchard Road and through Rathedmond, cutting out the town’s traffic and coming out near the quays and Hughes’ Bridge. Except there were road works just beyond the Eircom building, temporary traffic lights. She sat stiffly, back straight and hands at ten-to-two on the steering wheel.

  ‘What Maria said about you pushing Finn,’ she said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Why would she ask that?’

  ‘She was drunk.’

  ‘I know, but-’

  ‘This is the last fucking time I’m saying this,’ I said. ‘I didn’t push Finn anywhere. Okay? I liked the guy. Now I’m not so sure I like him anymore, every time I turn around I’m tripping over another lie he told me. But I didn’t push him. Maria, she was drunk, she has plenty to worry about with your mother coming on all Cromwell at the gates of Drogheda. So she’s looking to push her crap onto someone else, and that someone is me. Right now I’m just counting my blessings that she didn’t try to rake my fucking eyes out.’

  She flushed. ‘All I’m trying to do is-’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re trying to do. What I’m saying is, find some other sap to practise on.’

  ‘Practise what?’

  ‘Being your mother.’

  She whipped around to face me. ‘You dirty fucking-’

  ‘Guilty as charged. The lights are gone green, by the way.’

  Face set in a bitter pout, she edged forward a couple of car lengths, knocked the car out of gear again. The temporary lights had an erratic sequence, which led to the first few cars jumping the red, snarling things up further. In the middle of it all a motorcycle cop in leather strides and fluorescent yellow jacket was waving his arms around like an arsonist on the apron at Heathrow.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said through clenched teeth, ‘I should tell him who you are.’

  ‘The cops aren’t morons, Grainne. If they seriously thought I’d pushed Finn off the PA I’d be banged up in a cell right now.’

  ‘What about the gun?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘If they find you with a gun,’ a triumphant note, ‘you’re screwed.’

  ‘Find me with a gun? Whose car are we in?’

  She frowned. ‘The gun’s on your side,’ she said, sounding nowhere as peppy.

  ‘I don’t have a side, Grainne, it’s not my car. And anyway, the gun’s your mother’s. Anyone wants to know, I’ll say she asked me to fetch a bag of stuff from Finn’s apartment. How was I supposed to know what was in it?’

  She edged the car forward, knocking it out of gear three lengths back from the junction. Close enough to see the whites of the cop’s eyes.

  ‘You’d expect them to believe you didn’t look in the bag,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a marvellous legal invention called reasonable doubt, you might want to look it up. Besides, if the cops find the gun, they’ll impound the laptop too. What’ll happen your little scheme then?’

  ‘What scheme?’

  ‘There’s more than one?’

  She’d got more than her blue eyes from her mother. The imperious tone could have cut glass. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re-’

  ‘No? Then you’re not trying to follow up on Finn’s changing the terms of the trust fund, see if you can’t play with that, maybe even tweak it some more so you buy yourself leverage with your mother. A little independence, so you can move out, get away from all the bullshit back home. Am I warm?’ If her flushing cheeks were any guide, I was two degrees off self-combusting. ‘Here’s the deal, Grainne. If I get nabbed, you get nabbed, everything gets fucked. Your call. Now, go.’

  The light was already red as she accelerated through the junction, waving airily at the irate cop. I twisted in the seat to see if he was noting her registration, but he only stood with his hands on his hips as a mustard Peugeot and a metallic-green Phaeton filtered in behind us.

  We trundled towards the bypass and another set of lights, more traffic backed up. She cut left towards the quays, the atmosphere in the car a kind of cold simmering. Right onto the docks, more traffic lights, less traffic. I dug out the makings and rolled a smoke.

  ‘What happens when you’re caught?’ she said. She was staring straight ahead.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So why don’t you run?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The lights turned green. ‘Anywhere,’ she said as we turned on to Hughes’ Bridge.

  ‘There’d be cops there too.’

  ‘Sure, but-’

  ‘If I run, I keep running. I don’t get to come back.’

  A grimace. ‘I think I’d cope.’

  ‘You don’t have a kid.’

  ‘You won’t see much of him in prison.’

  ‘I wouldn’t imagine, after the last couple of days, that I’ll be seeing a lot of him anyway. Jesus, this fucking traffic.’

  We were stuck in the middle lane on the bridge, aiming for the Bundoran Road, the main artery north out of town. The left lane, which filtered off at Cartron and headed for Rosses Point, was tipping along nicely. It was the long way round, but I was too tense for sitting still. Better to be moving. ‘Head for the Point,’ I said.

  Maybe she thought I was having second thoughts about delivering the swag, because for once she didn’t protest. She indicated, eased into the left lane, put the Cooper into third. We sailed up over Cartron Hill and down again, out along the breakwater parallel to the Bundoran Road, the Atlantic lapping at the low stone wall.

  ‘Does Saoirse know about the drugs?’ she said.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I mean, that Finn was buying some that night.’<
br />
  ‘She didn’t hear it from me, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘At least you managed to keep that much from her.’

  ‘The reason Saoirse knows so much,’ I said, ‘is because your sainted brother was a lying fuck. If he’d been straight with me, she’d know nothing. Alright?’ I turned in the seat to face her. ‘And before you start in with your but-fucking-buts, you should probably know that Finn wasn’t planning to smoke three bags of premium weed all on his lonesome. And I’m not talking about him handing it out for free at some surf-‘n’-bake, either.’

  It took her a moment or two to digest that. ‘Finn,’ she said. ‘Dealing drugs.’

  She said the word ‘dealing’ like she’d handle a moist turd.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘Finn was dealing, and I’d be shocked if you weren’t one of his best customers. You want me to tell Saoirse all that?’

  ‘But why would Finn need to sell drugs?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe people kept sponging off his own stash, he thought he’d try to break even.’

  She laughed at that. ‘One thing Finn was never worried about,’ she said, ‘was money.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe that was it.’

  ‘What was what?’

  ‘Weed isn’t as lethal as money, Grainne. Nowhere as addictive. An entirely more pleasant drug to deal in. You get into peddling dope it’s like playing the markets in reverse, illegal but not immoral.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Look, I could give a fuck about why Finn was dealing dope. Right now all that matters is the leverage it gives me.’

  She considered that. ‘You’ll tell the cops,’ she said.

  ‘If it comes to it.’

  ‘What good will that do when he’s already dead?’

  ‘I said, if it comes to it. Saoirse plays ball, sets me up with a good legal team that buys me the minimum time served, then it doesn’t have to wash out.’

  ‘Fuck, you’re cold.’

  ‘I wasn’t born this way. Oh, and one more thing.’ I took a drag off the cigarette and turned my face away to exhale into the rear of the car, came back to her. Then glanced into the rear again, where I’d caught a glimpse of metallic-green through the back window. ‘Fuck,’ I said, settling back into the seat again. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  We were coming up on Ballincar, the Radisson visible to our right. ‘Cut across at Cregg House,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just fucking do it.’

  Thirty seconds later, she did it. Just as we passed the gates of Cregg House, the metallic-green Phaeton swung around in our wake, the unmistakably boxy nose of the classic Volkswagen, and followed us up the leafy lane. I gave it a couple of seconds, on the off-chance the driver was headed for Cregg, but once it passed the gates I knew.

  ‘Where’s your phone?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your phone. I need to make a call, and fast.’

  She fumbled the phone from her pocket, and I rang directory enquiries, asked to be put through to the cop shop.

  ‘Sligo Garda Station.’

  ‘Detective Tohill, please. Criminal Assets, liaising with this station.’

  ‘And who shall I say is calling?’

  It took a Homeric effort not to say Leonard Cohen. ‘Harry Rigby.’

  ‘Hold the line.’

  We were out in the country by now, the road narrowing to a twisting lane between drystone walls and ditches of thorny hedge. Grainne tooling along in third gear, shifting down to second for some of the sharper bends. ‘Aim for the mountain,’ I told her, pointing at Benbulben. ‘You won’t go far wrong.’

  Tohill came on the line.

  ‘Smart fucking bastard. Where are you?’

  ‘Forget that. I’m on my way in.’

  A moment’s hiss. I wondered if the call was being recorded. ‘You’re coming in?’

  ‘Call off the dogs and give me an hour. I’ll be there.’

  ‘What dogs?’

  ‘The dogs in the Phaeton.’

  ‘What fucking Phaeton? Rigby, I’m only saying this-’

  I killed the call. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What is it?’ Grainne said.

  ‘That car behind us, I thought it was the cops. Jesus, watch the road.’

  She clipped a pothole, swerved onto the verge, got us back on track. ‘So who is it?’

  ‘Dunno.’ I dipped into the green cotton bag, came up with the.38 and the paper-wrapped shells. ‘But they’re not out here for the good of their health. Ever seen Rebel Without a Cause?’

  ‘Harry …’

  ‘Before your time. Jimmy Dean. Gets in a chicky-run and dives out of the car before it goes over a cliff.’

  ‘You’re diving out of the car?’

  ‘You just watch me go.’ I slotted home the fifth shell, clicked the cylinder closed. Checked the safety was on. Glanced over at her. She had one eye on the road, one on the green cotton bag.

  ‘Grainne,’ I said, ‘listen to me now. That fucking laptop’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m serious. Best thing you can do is take it home, hand it over. You’ll be better off in the long run.’

  ‘You mean, you’ll be better off. Twenty thousand euro’s worth.’

  Which was true, in theory at least. And she knew she had me. Diving out of a moving car is one thing. Doing it with a laptop in tow, and expecting us both to survive intact, was another thing entirely.

  ‘Make me an offer,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cut me in. Twenty grand from the trust fund. I’ll help you track down this guy in Cyprus, we’ll screw Saoirse.’

  We were on a straight section, the Phaeton a couple of hundred yards behind, coming up on a bend that cut a sharp left beyond a small copse. I tucked the.38 into my belt at the small of my back.

  ‘I should probably remind you,’ I said, ‘that yesterday I got rammed off the road, my kid ended up in a coma. So this would be a good time to-’

  ‘Deal, yeah, it’s a deal. Okay?’

  ‘Deadly. Whatever you do, don’t stop. Head back to Herb’s, she’ll never find you there. Right, this next bend’ll do it. Ready?’

  She nodded again. We hit the bend past the copse and she jammed on, tyres skidding. I threw open the door and tumbled out, turning my shoulder so the impact caught me high on my back and bounced me sprawling into the long grass on the verge. A blackthorn branch ripped into my right arm, tore a gash as I pulled away reaching for the gun.

  By the time the Phaeton rolled around the bend, I was up on one knee, shoulder burning from the road burn, both hands braced on the butt of the.38.

  The Phaeton jerked, then slowed, eased to a halt.

  A one-man job. I stood up, twitched the gun.

  Slowly, very slowly, he got out and stepped away from the car and stood in the middle of the road. Arms cocked like a gunfighter itching to draw.

  It wasn’t intentional. When you’re built like an upside-down cello, your arms just tend to hang that way.

  ‘You looking for me, Jimmy?’ I said.

  The eyes were bright, his features impassive. It wasn’t the first time he’d been at the business end of a gun barrel.

  ‘Just passing on a message,’ he said.

  ‘You couldn’t have rung?’

  ‘I rang. The cops answered.’

  ‘What’s the message?’

  ‘Is that even loaded?’

  ‘What’s the message, Jimmy?’

  ‘Gillick wants a chat.’

  ‘What about?’

  He up-jutted his chin in the direction of the long-gone Mini Cooper. ‘Her, mainly.’

  ‘Who, Grainne? What about her?’

  ‘She has the laptop, right?’

  ‘Why’s Gillick wanting to talk about Grainne?’

  ‘At a guess,’ he said, ‘I’d say it’s because she can make him money.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s just a guess.’

  32

  I
asked Jimmy if he’d mind wearing his peaked cap while he drove me back to Herb’s, and he asked me if I wanted to lose my other eye, and after that we motored along in a companionable silence until Jimmy got us off the country roads and headed back to town.

  ‘So where’d you pick us up?’ I said.

  ‘Finn’s place.’

  ‘You were there?’

  He jabbed a thumb at his eye. ‘A patch,’ he said, ‘can fuck with what you can see. You think you’re scoping everything but, y’know …’

  He was being generous. ‘How’d you know I’d be at Finn’s?’

  ‘Gillick reckoned you’d turn up there sooner or later.’

  ‘He knew about the laptop.’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you brace me there?’

  He tapped ash out the window. ‘Because I rang Gillick when you came out, told him the score.’

  ‘That Maria was with me.’ He inclined his head. ‘And he told you not to jump in, just see how it played.’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘Just so we’re clear,’ I said. ‘I was at Finn’s picking up the laptop for Saoirse Hamilton. Gillick knows this, right?’

  ‘He knows.’

  ‘Does he know she’s paying twenty grand for it?’

  He nodded. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Get him on the blower.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want to be sure, if he wants the laptop, he has twenty grand cash lying around.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘I’m a worrier, Jimmy. Get him on the phone.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it. He’s Saoirse Hamilton’s bagman. You think she has twenty gees stashed under the mattress?’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.’

  A flash of white teeth. ‘I wouldn’t mind a tumble in that mattress,’ he said, ‘just to find out.’

  We came over the hill at Cartron and down onto Hughes Bridge. The traffic a trickle, but steady. Across the bridge and up the bypass, cutting right at the train station and out along Strandhill Road. Jimmy cleared his throat. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘that’s hard lines about your kid. How’s he doing?’

  ‘Alright, yeah. Stable.’