Slaughter's hound

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 Gardai 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 covering 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.’