Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery) (20 page)

‘What stuff?’

‘The coke,’ he said, patiently. ‘About ten grand’s worth, although we’ll work it up to fifty. Plenty enough to put you back where you belong.’

He wasn’t kidding. Given my record, ten grand worth of coke was enough to see me deported to the dark side of Jupiter. I took a long hit off the Marlboro while the prickles of cold sweat dried cold into my back. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said.

‘Probably the bang on the head,’ he said. ‘Temporary amnesia. When you remember, be sure to let us know. Some of the boys are keen to know where it was going, who stumped up the ten grand. Unless it was all for personal use, hey?’ He winked, the grin that of a hyena with bad gas. Then he stubbed out his smoke in a kidney-shaped metal dish and took a pair of gloves from a side pocket. For one horrific moment I thought he was aiming for a cavity search, but instead he reached into his breast pocket, drew out a padded envelope. The cling-film had been unwrapped, hung loose. ‘Personally,’ he said, ‘I’m more interested in this.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You tell me. We found it on the back seat.’

‘Back seat?’

He stared, the bleak eyes tightening. Then he tossed the
envelope
onto the bed.

‘Try this,’ he said. ‘We have a one-car accident that looks like you lost control, probably as a result of your driving under the influence.’ He waved away my attempt at protest. ‘In the car we find a load of Class A, this in a car also containing your young son. Sordid, sure, but at least it’s open-and-shut. Except then we find this.’ He indicated the envelope. ‘So take a quick look inside before you start talking.’

‘First off, I know nothing about any Class A.’

‘So your prints won’t be all over the gear?’

‘Matter a fuck if they are, I was unconscious when it was found, or when you say it was. Who’s to say it wasn’t you had me fondle it? Reasonable doubt, Tohill. Especially when I’ve no
previous
for anything drug-related.’

‘You think that’ll stand up?’

‘You’re fishing, Tohill. And you’re gonna need a bigger boat.’

He shrugged that one off. ‘What about this?’ he said, nodding at the envelope.

‘I haven’t the faintest clue what’s in there. You can check with the cop at the PA, I went around there to feed Finn’s dog. I
needed
to piss, then the toilet wouldn’t flush, and when I looked inside the cistern I found that under a false bottom. I presumed it was his suicide note, so I brought it with me to give to his mother.’

‘A suicide note?’

‘I know, yeah. You wouldn’t be giving it to me now if it was a suicide note. But that’s what I thought it was at the time.’

‘Says you.’

‘Check with Saoirse Hamilton. She’ll confirm she asked me to find it.’

‘And you didn’t even take a sneaky peek inside?’

‘At a suicide note?’

He scratched his nose, then gestured at the envelope. My prints were already on the cling-film, so I opened the envelope. Inside was a passport that had been issued six months
previously
. Tucked inside its inner sleeve, folded neatly in half, were ten crisp, pink five-hundred euro notes. For a second I thought they were fakes. I’d never seen a five-hundred euro note before.

The passport bore Finn’s photograph, a signature that looked a lot like Finn’s writing and a date of birth that was Finn’s own. Oddly, the passport appeared to belong to one Philip Winston Byrne.

‘Tell me this,’ Tohill said. ‘What kind of suicide stashes a fake passport and five grand for a quick getaway? And while you’re at it, tell me some more about how you just so happened to be at the PA when he jumped.’

I stubbed my smoke and beckoned for another. The Marlboro tasted harsh and dry but I needed a little thinking time.

‘I’m presuming you had a warrant to search the car,’ I said. ‘Otherwise anything you found’ll be thrown out as inadmissible.’

‘Still with the legal shit.’ A lupine grin. ‘Your kid had to be cut out of the wreck and you’re worrying about procedure?’

‘The law’s the law.’

‘Not when it’s bent into knots by fuckers like you. And
anyway
, there was no search. The shit was just lying there.’

‘Says you.’

‘Says about ten cops and firemen, all of us with honest faces. So fuck your warrants and procedure. If you don’t play ball, right now, I’ll turn you out to the boys want you for the coke. And my best guess is, they’ll keep you just long enough to get whoever owns the gear wondering about what you’re telling them.’

‘I know nothing about any—’

‘Here’s how it is, Rigby.’ He ticked off on his fingers as he went. ‘We have you cold on trafficking Class A while transporting a minor in a vehicle you’re not insured to drive. And then,’ he
nodded
at the passport, the money, ‘there’s the incriminating
evidence
in what’s starting to look like a murder investigation.’

‘Circumstantial, and only because you want it to look that way. So you can screw Gillick and Hamilton Holdings.’

The heat was getting to him. He slipped out of his jacket, draped it on the bottom of the bed, leaned back against the wall. ‘Explain the fake passport,’ he said. ‘The five grand.’

‘You don’t know when Finn stashed them. Maybe he had plans and changed his mind.’

‘According to you, he had those kind of plans about twenty minutes before he went walkabout on the window ledge.’ He eased himself away from the wall, started pacing. Three strides to the window, a turn and three strides to the door. ‘See it my way,’ he said. ‘The first thing you do is bolt, leave the scene. Then you come in and make a false statement. Next thing we know you’re driving around with the guy’s fake passport and five grand in cash.’

‘I called it in,’ I said. ‘Gave the medic my number, went off to tell Finn’s mother. Then I came in, voluntarily, to make a
statement
. All the Good Samaritan shit. And that envelope was sealed. I didn’t open it because I thought it was Finn’s suicide note, I was giving it to his mother.’

He quit pacing, turned to face me. Open his arms wide, as if pleading. ‘That might even work,’ he said, ‘except for the kicker.’

‘What kicker?’

‘Your rep, Rigby. You’ve already put one guy away, your own brother.’

‘Try to use that in court and you’ll be laughed out of the
building
.’

‘It’s not what’s said, Rigby.’ The lupine grin now an incisor short of a howl. ‘It’s what’s known.’

I nodded. He folded his arms, triumphant.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Sorry what?’

‘For not playing along. I didn’t realise this was a
CSI
episode.’ I glanced up into the corners. ‘Where’s the cameras?’

‘Rigby,’ his teeth grinding, ‘what you don’t fucking realise is—’

‘Bullshit. Okay? Bullfuckingshit.’

‘You think? I say the word, you’re in a cell and—’

‘First off,’ I said, ‘you’re CAB. So any and all crap about
murder
or homicide or any of that shit, it won’t be your call. Two, if you had enough to put me in a cell I’d be there already. Three, it’s not what’s
known
, Tohill, it’s what you can prove. You take a case to the DPP on what’s
known
, you’ll be out on your arse so fast you won’t even bounce.’

‘You want to take that chance?’

‘I’m taking it. Because this is a game here, and you’re trying to push me into some corner where I have only one way out. Because it’s not me you want, it’s the Hamiltons and Gillick, or whoever they’re fronting for. And I’m fucked if I’ll be your boy.’

‘You’ll be fucked if you don’t.’

‘Then I’ll be fucked my way.’ That was the cue for a staring game, a little glowering. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what Finn told you about what he saw from the PA, but the man’s dead. That
angle
is dead. Close it down, start again.’

‘No problem, yeah. Hey, maybe we could even put that five grand there to the new budget.’

‘That’s what this is about? Budgets?’

‘We’re
close
is what this is about. And you need to pull your head out of your hole, have a look around. See how you can make this work for you.’

‘Make what work?’

‘Finn’s number is in your phone,’ he said patiently. ‘He rang you, you knew where he was, you knew he’d be alone. Then he goes out the window. You’re about to sign off on a false statement when Gillick arrives, walks you out. Then we find shit in your car makes it look like you’re trying to cover some tracks. Maybe your own, maybe Gillick’s, we don’t know.’

‘If you think I’m fronting for—’

‘We have your phone, Rigby. You want to tell me now who you were calling today or wait until we work it out ourselves?’

‘I’ll wait, thanks. Because you’ll need a warrant to go checking my phone records, and you’ll need a rock-solid reason to arrest me, besides what’s
known
, before you can get it. Meantime, I’ll have my phone back, cheers. Unless you’re looking to screw the investigation before it gets started.’

‘How about the coke, hey? You want that back too?’

‘For the last time, I know nothing about any coke.’ I held out my hand, palm down. ‘You want to go ahead and rap my
knuckles
right now, go ahead.’

From the way his fingers curled into his palm, it looked a lot like he was planning something a little more dramatic than a knuckle-rap or fist-bump. Except then he sat down heavily on the end of the bed, squeezed his eyes shut, dry-washed his face. He looked drained.

‘Okay,’ he said. He sounded almost normal. ‘Cards on the table. We think Gillick had Finn done. Maybe he did it, maybe he had you do it, and maybe you just happened to be there when it happened. Either way, it’s sweet for Gillick because you’re
standing
in the way and we can’t see around you. So here’s the
thinking
. Why not put you on the witness stand? Tell the world what we know, let it all fall out.’

‘I perjure myself or you frame me for Finn.’

‘You can go up there hostile if you want. But you might want to take a look at this first.’ He shifted his hip, took a small
tinfoiled
lump from his back pocket. Placed it on the sheet.

The old black hole opened up in my gut, started sucking. ‘What’s that supposed to be?’

‘It isn’t supposed to be anything. It’s hash. About two joints less than a ten-spot. Poxy slate, but still.’

‘So?’

‘We found it in the kid’s pocket, Rigby. Which means he was holding it for you or you were punting dope on to your kid.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Tell it to the tabloids.’ He laughed, sounding like a Ducati trapped between gears. ‘I’m thinking something along the lines of,’ he held up his hands, as if framing the headline, ‘“Coke Trafficking Killer Peddles Dope To Schoolboy Son”.’ He dropped the hands, wiped the grin, gave me the dead eye. ‘How d’you think that’ll read on his CV in ten years’ time?’

Tohill locked the door, mumbling something I couldn’t hear to the cop parked outside. I gave it half an hour to let everyone
settle
down, then availed of the phone on the bedside locker, one of the very few perks that go with being unofficially jailed in a
private
hospital room under a false name while the Guardians of the Peace wait to see if black ops will work the oracle.

Directory Enquiries put me through to the hospital’s
reception
desk, where I asked the receptionist to connect me with Pamela Devine. There followed a couple of minutes of clicks, brrrs and false starts, and then she picked up.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey. It’s Harry.’

A sigh not notable for its quality of unrequited longing, then: ‘Did you get to see him?’

‘Not exactly. But I just wanted to say thanks.’

‘My arse. What do you want?’

‘It’s my eye.’

‘Don’t worry about it. The trauma to the—’

‘Not that one. My good eye. It’s dazzled.’

‘Dazzled?’

‘By your radiance. I’m thinking martinis on the terrace at dusk.’

The old familiar dirty chuckle. ‘Let’s just get through to dawn first. We’ll see how we go after that.’

‘It’s a date. Meanwhile, I need an X-ray. I’m getting shooting pains in my eye.’

‘Which one?’

‘My Jap’s eye. Which one d’you think?’

‘Then that’s perfectly normal. Buzz the nurse, ask for some pain relief. No, wait – did you take the Dilaudids?’

‘One of them.’

‘Okay. Then you’ll just have to sweat it out.’

‘No kidding, Pam. It’s pretty intense. And I don’t want to go blind and have to sue you for negligence.’

‘If you’re blind, how’ll you find me?’

‘I’ll be like Homer, seeing all. C’mon, do the right thing here. Who’s one X-ray going to hurt at this time of night?’

‘It’d need to be an emergency. You’re seriously in pain?’

‘Is there any other way?’

I heard the tappity-tap of fingernails on plastic. ‘Okay, hold tight. I’ll see what I can do. I’m making no promises, though.’

‘You’re a star. Oh, and Pam? The cop in the corridor, he’ll try to keep you out.’

‘Good. He looks like he could use the exercise.’

Never tell a woman what she can’t do on her own turf.

She was wrong. The new cop they’d stationed outside was tall and trim. He was also keen on the idea of not looking a complete plum. So he did it all by the book, getting on the phone to inform his superior that I needed an X-ray and waiting until it was all confirmed in triplicate before he allowed Pam push me out into the corridor in a wheelchair, sticking so close all the way to the radiography department that I could count the hairs in his nose.

There was a patient already in situ, sitting in the row of bright yellow bucket seats, a thin bald man with big ears and tiny ragged clouds for eyebrows, dressed in a tatty brown bathrobe over maroon-blue striped pyjamas. He was barefoot and looking for company, so Pam pushed on by him, through the next set of
double
-doors. She parked me beside the bed and helped me up on board, got me as comfortable as anyone is likely to get on a
second
-hand anvil. Then she draped the protective covering over my groin, glanced across at the cop.