Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery) (4 page)

‘Not tonight, Bear. Sorry.’

I kicked the crutch he’d been mauling back into the pile in the corner and found the box on the top shelf, scattering a handful of bone-shaped biscuits into his metal bowl, topping up his water. Finn loved that hound, had rescued him as a terrified pup from a shelter, but he had a theory that a hungry watchdog made for an alert watchdog. Put that with Finn’s prodigious appetite for psychotropic grass and a general attitude to life that if charted on a graph of ambition and endeavour would resemble a hammock, and you had a dog that was on occasion leaner and meaner than his doggie god creator intended.

While I was at it I ducked my head into his kennel to check on the bedding. It seemed fresh and clean, and by the time I backed out Bear had settled himself in a corner to gnaw at a biscuit,
toying
with it, three or four others still in the bowl. Which meant Finn was on the case and Bear was well fed, which was a pity of sorts. I’d been entertaining the idea of taking him out for a stroll in the yard, just to see how efficient Jimmy might be with 160 pounds of war hound bearing down at full throttle.

There was no lift in the PA building. What you got was nine stories of rusted metal stairs bolted to the inside walls. Once upon a time a set of four stairs would have taken you up to a new floor, but the insides had long ago been ripped out. Now, once you cleared the gallery space, the building was a silo all the way to the top floor. A stiff climb, but nothing a reasonably fit man couldn’t manage without breaking a sweat. By the time I reached the top I could have done with an oxygen mask and a brace of Sherpas.

I rapped a tattoo on the studio door.

‘Yeah, Harry?’ Finn’s voice came muffled. ‘C’mon in.’

The studio took up most of the ninth floor, with a
mixing-desk
tucked into the far corner. Egg-boxes covered the ceiling and most of the walls. Finn was behind the desk, headphones around his neck. Tall and lean even sitting down, shoulders bony under the white crew-neck tee. He almost always wore the same
ensemble
: white T-shirt, faded Levis, brown suede moccasins, coarse blond stubble. No socks. The flaxen hair cut into the shaggy bowl favoured by post-smack Brian Jones. In behind the fringe he had a wide-awake face, an engaging grin, bright blue eyes.

Behind him were amps, processors, serried ranks of vinyl LPs. The muted rattle was The Wedding Present turned down low. It sounded like ‘Brassneck’, but then one Weddoes sounds a lot like the rest when it’s turned down low.

The near half of the studio was dominated by a rough
wooden
table covered with tubes of paint, brushes in jars, palette knives. A pair of easels stood side-by-side, both covered with paint-spattered tarps. Canvases stood stacked four and five deep against the wall, some framed, some not. In the corner a Stratocaster in the classic yin-yang black-and-white stood propped on a stand, two strings missing, a third hanging by a thread.

The far wall was the reason Finn had picked the PA for his studio: a full-length window, looking out across the docks and the deepwater to the sea and Benbulben beyond. A pane had been slid aside to allow a faint breeze waft through and create a draught with the fire escape door, which was wedged open on the opposite side. On a summer evening, with the equipment
humming
, the day’s heat rising and Finn huffing weed, the studio could get stifling, the air thick enough to chew.

The guy in the tailored suit swamping the couch under the window put me in mind of William Conrad without the
moustache
. Finn waved in his direction. ‘You meet Gillick before?’

‘I’d have remembered,’ Gillick purred.

Arthur Gillick’s rep was choice. Put a bullet in a cop’s face at the passing out parade in Templemore, Gillick’s was the number you dialled when they finally gave you your call. He’d made a name for himself starting out, this in the late ’70s, all through the ’80s, as the Provos’ go-to silk, although it’d be pushing it to say he was politically motivated. Unless, of course, his politics stretched to some kind of convoluted anarchist theory that involved
keeping
every last smack-dealing lowlife, recidivist wife-beater and sticky-fingered Traveller on the streets. Last I’d heard he’d been diversifying, feeding off the economic downturn by moving into debt collecting and facilitating evictions, although his crowning glory had come a couple of years back, when he’d defended the upstanding citizen who’d strangled his daughter and dumped her body in the lake when the girl finally decided that, at the grand old age of thirteen, she was old enough to decide who took her pants down.

Now he hauled his huge frame forward, rising with the
ponderous
grace of a bishop who understands that without dignity a bishop is just another fat man. A large head under a flat swirl of sleek grey hair, the face full rather than fat, jowled but healthy. The tan helped. Big round eyes gave him an owlish aspect, the mouth prim and beaky under a prominent nose. He held out his hand. It was small and pudgy, not unduly encrusted with
precious
gems. The handshake was surprisingly dry and firm.

‘Arthur Gillick,’ he said.

‘Harry Rigby.’

He took a beat longer to look away than he should have. Then he let go my hand. ‘Harry,’ he said. ‘A fine, princely name.’

I slid him a leer, trying to work out if it was more odd that he was trying to needle me off the bat or that he was doing it by
suggesting
I was second-in-line to the English throne. Not that Arthur Gillick was in any position to start tossing rocks around the glasshouse.

‘It’s short for Harrison,’ Finn said. ‘His mother loved
My Fair Lady
, named him for Rex Harrison.’

‘Really?’ Gillick was amused.

‘Could’ve been worse,’ I said. ‘She might have called me Pygmalion.’

‘Because then,’ Finn put in, ‘we’d be calling him Pyggy. And that might get confusing.’

Gillick’s smile didn’t dim by so much as a quark but
something
went out in his porcine eyes.

It wasn’t me he was trying to needle. It was Finn, adopted in England and raised there, given an Irish name to offset what his mother believed was a taint akin to the mark of Cain.

‘I see you appreciate the classics, Mr Rigby,’ Gillick said. A smooth voice, warm chocolate oozing. He gestured towards the stack of canvases. ‘Are you a patron of the arts too?’

‘Not since my portfolio crashed, no.’

‘Ah, but Mr Rigby.’ I was getting diabetic just listening to him. ‘Great art is priceless, surely. Its worth resides in its power to evoke the fragility of life when juxtaposed against the, ah …’ He glanced across at Finn.

‘Against a universe almost entirely composed of dead matter,’ Finn finished.

‘Indeed. Particularly when art itself is generated of dead matter.’

Finn gave him a slow handclap.

‘A pity,’ Gillick observed, ‘that this priceless wonder costs so much to hang on a wall. On those rare occasions when it sells at all.’

Finn gave him a sloppy grin and sat back in his swivel chair, hands behind his head. ‘You’re confusing cost and worth again, Arthur.’

A dainty bow from Gillick. ‘Precisely my point to you.’ A wristy little wave that finished with the forefinger pointing at Finn, thumb cocked. ‘Call me,’ he said. ‘Let me do you this one favour.’

He took his time leaving because he’d have waddled if he hadn’t. I stepped up onto the couch to where the window was open and straddled the sill, my back against the frame, foot
resting
on the narrow ledge outside. The rising heat carried the acrid odour of tar cut with the ocean’s salty tang. I rolled a smoke and waited for the clanging to die away down the metal stairs, then reached Finn’s night-sight binoculars off the hook where they lived, leaning out to train them on the cars directly below. Jimmy was still sitting half-out of the Saab.

From across the water in Cartron came the faint drone of traffic. Even fainter, from the direction of town, the tinny
whirr-whirru
of a siren, cop or ambulance I couldn’t say. Someone’s alarm was a waspy whine.

‘He just get a call?’ I said.

‘Gillick? No. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

He propped his moccasined feet on the desk. ‘No joy with the weed?’ he said.

‘I left it in the cab when I saw the bruiser outside.’

‘Limerick Jimmy.’

‘Jimmy, yeah, but he sounded more Derry.’

Finn made an elaborate flourish, then thrust forward. ‘Tasty with a blade. Or so they say.’

‘Ah.’

He clamped a headphone to one ear, eased some knobs up and down the mixing desk. The headphones slid down onto his neck again as he slumped back in the leather chair, hands folded on his midriff.

‘Here,’ I said, ‘I never knew Gillick was a fruit.’

‘Gillick a fruit?’ Finn grinned. ‘Try again. Man’s the worst minge-hound in Christendom.’

‘So why’s he giving me the juju eye?’

‘It’s just his thing, how he remembers people. Says it’s like
taking
a photo.’ He double-tapped his temple. ‘Clickety-click.’

A dull roar rumbled up from the yard. I trained the infrareds, caught the Saab pulling out through the gates. It disappeared behind the wall, then emerged onto the quay heading back towards town. I hung up the infrareds, climbed down from the couch. ‘Coffee?’

‘Got one here,’ he said. ‘You work away.’

I went through to the kitchenette and put the kettle on, stepped into the shoebox bathroom to make room for the fresh brew. Washed and flushed, then winced. The way the old cistern clanked and growled, you were only supposed to flush when Finn was playing Tom Waits, and preferably something from
Rain Dogs
.

The Stones were playing by the time I got back, ‘Get Off My Cloud’ cranked all the way up. Finn with a stubby jay on the go. I perched on the windowsill, sipped some coffee and nodded along. That high up, looking down the docks out over the
deepwater
, you could see an awful lot of nothing much at all: gaunt buildings, forty shades of shadow, the silvery-green sheen of moon on oily water.

Finn did his thing sliding knobs. Billy Bragg came on, ‘A New England’. Finn lowered the volume, and I nodded towards the bathroom. ‘Sorry about the flushing.’

‘Just one more fucking thing, man.’ He shrugged it off, had himself another toke. Which reminded me.

‘Listen, these three baggies,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’

‘Herb’s wondering, it was three last month too. Says that’s a lot of personal use.’

The sloppy grin. ‘Depends on the person, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but he’s worried you’re punting on. That it’ll come back to bite him.’

‘Tell him relax.’

‘I’ll need a bit more than that.’

‘What’ll he do, cut me off?’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger, man.’

He thought about that, then came to a decision, shrugged again. ‘Fuck it,’ he said, ‘I’ll be telling you soon enough anyway.’

‘Go on.’

‘The weed,’ he said, ‘I’m putting it away.’

‘You’re telling me? Three bags a month, man, that’s—’

‘I’m stashing it,’ he said. ‘Like, squirreling it away.’

‘Oh?’

‘We’re going, Harry. Taking off in a couple of weeks, it’s
supposed
to be a holiday. But that’s us, gone.’

‘Shit. Seriously?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s shit, seriously,’ he said. ‘Raising a kid in this fucking hole any time in the next twenty years. That’s shit. Seriously.’

Not the first time I’d heard that. The government kept telling us we’d dig our way out of recession with an export-led recovery. The main export, naturally, being people, and especially those still young enough to be ambitious and bright enough to read the runes.

‘So where to?’ I said.

‘Where d’you think?’

Everyone has their get-out, the place they’ll be when the
planets
eventually align, and as long as I’d known him Finn had been angling to get away. In the beginning it hadn’t really mattered where, it was all about getting out. Which made perfect sense at the time, or as much sense as anything ever made in Dundrum: when you weren’t talking about getting a proper feed for once, you were plotting your escape, digging tunnels in your mind.

Except Finn never shook it off, even after he got out. And once he met Maria it was all about Cyprus, and specifically that enclave known and unbeloved by the world at large as the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. A place, according to Finn, where they were building temples while Europe was
wallowing
in the filth of its caves, but was still real, still raw. Especially up in the mountains, where the light was,
pace
Durrell, God’s eyeball.

He slid a record out of its sleeve, got it up on the turntable. Tim Buckley, ‘Song to the Siren’.

‘A big move,’ I said.

‘It’s jump or be shoved is what it is.’ He took a hefty hit off the jay, held it down. Exhaled it slow. ‘It’s all fucked, Harry. NAMA’s on board and they’re playing for keeps.’

‘That bad?’

‘We can hang on here,’ he said, ‘all huddling around a fucking candle and eating nettle salads. Or we can cash in now, cut our losses, start again. Somewhere,’ he jabbed the stub of the jay in my direction, making his point, ‘where family still means
something
.’

That was twice now. Kids, family. I felt something dislodge and shift sideways inside and it was only then I realised how much I’d miss him. His crazy schemes, the manic energy. The way he could call at any hour, or I’d call him, and we we’d shoot some pool and talk music or surfing or movies or books. Or say nothing at all. The thing unsaid, the black pool, dammed between us. Until the next time it started to seep through the cracks.

‘So what’s the plan? Anything lined up?’

He bob-bobbed his head, considering. ‘Maria’s been talking about doing something real,’ he said. ‘Something that matters, y’know?’

‘A beauty salon that matters?’

He ignored the cheap crack. ‘That’ll pay its way, sure. But she wants to set up a school too, a kind of training college. Give these girls skills they can take anywhere in the world. You ever see Cypriot women? Man, they know how to look after themselves.’