Eightball Boogie (2 page)

“
Cut her own throat?” I whistled. “Brave girl.”

“
Another theory runs like this. She opens the door and he gores her. Drags her to the living room, heels first, she’s still kicking. So he works her own steak knife in the hole, over and back, sawing.”

“
Who’s telling you this?”

“
Regan. Anyway, he puts the knife in her hand, lets the arm drop natural. Wants it to look like suicide. Chops some lines out on the coffee table, leaves it messy, rubs some into her gums, drops the wrap.”

“
Any dabs?”

“
Millions, and you watch too many movies. So – Regan says he takes his time after, grinds a boot into the wedding photo, giving it motive. Sparks a smoke, leaves a butt in the ashtray, stays around to make sure everything’s kosher. Doesn’t touch her up. Maybe he’s a pro, Regan says, or maybe her pants are already piss and shit. Or maybe he gets his jollies clocking corpses draining out.”

“
Always nice to have options. How long is she there?”

“
No idea. They found her about two hours ago.”

“
Who’s on now? Regan?”

“
Kilfeather.”

“
Wanting his name in the paper?”

“
He fucking better.”

Kilfeather waited, watching as I waved a card at the uniformed garda standing by the gate pillars, waiting until I ducked under the yellow tape and started up the tarmacadam incline. Then he waved me back. I ignored him, it was what he expected and I hate to disappoint. He watched me come, a sour twist at the corner of his mouth, saying, tasting the word: “Rigby.”

“
In all his tarnished glory. Who found her, Tom?”

Kilfeather catching fresh air was almost news on its own, especially if I could nail down the brand of dynamite they’d used to get him out from behind his desk. He leered down at me, six-two of obtuse duty, ruddy cheeks and no neck.

“
No chance, Rigby.”

“
Did he find her?”

“
He who?”

“
Tony he. Come on, Tom.”

He put his huge hands up, palms showing, miming a push.

“
Back behind the line, Rigby. You know the drill.”

“
You can’t tell me who found her?”

“
It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t tell you anything.”

“
Not like you to be shy, Tom.”

He didn’t bite. I tried again.

“
So what kind of investigation is it?”

“
The strictly routine kind. And until it’s over, I can’t tell you anything.”

“
You don’t tell me what’s going on, Tom, I’m going to assume the worst. With my imagination, you don’t want to take that risk.”

His voice was flinty.

“
I told you, it’s routine.”

I kissed the dice.

“
Because it’s not suicide?”

“
Who says it’s not suicide?”

“
No one. It’s suicide?”

The ruddy cheeks flamed to life.

“
Don’t fuck with me, Rigby. Get to fuck out of my sight.”

I shook my head, patient.

“
You want me here, Tom, where you can keep an eye on me, keep an ear on what I’m saying. Make like it’s just the two of us, candles and wine, gypsies playing violins.”

He muttered something that didn’t have any vowels. I kept my tone reasonable.

“
It’s only a job, Tom. You’re doing yours, I’m doing mine. All I need’s a couple of answers and I’m off, job done.”

He didn’t answer, staring off across the racecourse to the far side of the lake, to somewhere above where the snow line might have been if it ever got around to snowing. I didn’t blame him. When the sun shone, the view added an extra twenty grand that the house needed like a second swimming pool.

“
How about this, Tom? I’ll tell you what you already know and if I leave anything out you put me straight.”

“
Why would I do that?”

“
I hear things. I might know something you don’t.”

“
That’s dangerous, Rigby. I could have you up for withholding information, obstructing the course of justice.”

“
Perverting, Tom, the way I do it.”

He shot a glance over his shoulder, at the unmarked blue Mondeo parked to one side of the house, rasped: “So what do I know?”

“
She was found – by who we don’t yet know – a couple of hours ago. Throat slit ear to ear, the wound so deep the spinal cord was almost severed. Her underwear was still intact. Coke on the coffee table, which may or may not be significant. Only fingerprints on the knife – steak knife, serrated edge – are hers. How’m I doing?”

He was back sucking lemons again.

“
You forgot the toaster and cuddly toy.”

“
No one commits suicide up at the racecourse, Tom. People go home from the racecourse and commit suicide, maybe. And who nearly severs their spinal cord cutting their throat?”

“
Imelda Sheridan.”

“
Bollocks. Who’s the prime suspect?”

“
You, now you know so much.”

“
Me and half the town, Tom. Word gets around. How’s the husband?”

He didn’t like the implication.

“
You’re a sick man, Rigby.”

“
It’s terminal, too. Has he been questioned?”

“
Why would we question him?”

“
For spite. Overtime. He’s a humpy cunt. Take your pick.”

“
Say we did question him. What would we ask?”

“
Where he was when it happened. Or would that be too personal?”

“
Suicide isn’t a spectator sport, Rigby.”

“
You know the stats, Tom. Men top themselves, young men. She’s what – early fifties? She has the big house, tennis courts out the back. Trotting around blinding us all with Prada and Louis Vuitton. Husband’s best buddies with the chief whip, and if he fucks that up he can always fall back on the ambulance-chasing. If she’s not in the social pages it means the NUJ’s out on strike and the kids are reared, one an intern, the daughter away saving the rain forests, bless her cotton socks.” I cut to the chase. “Why would Imelda Sheridan commit suicide?”

“
Money isn’t everything. She might have been depressed.”

I didn’t like it, Kilfeather being so reasonable. It meant I was on the wrong track.

“
And maybe she thought Santa wouldn’t come. Who found her, Tom?”

“
No can do, Rigby.”

“
Jesus, Tom –”

The voice came from over my shoulder, gruff, a cement mixer learning German.

“
Kilfeather?”

He didn’t look down at me. I looked up to where a wide face was crowned with thin blonde hair. The suit was a size too small but a Big Top would have been a size too small. He had a Desperate Dan chin and you could have landed a helicopter on his chest in a gale. The smell of stale whiskey wafted across, harsh as petrol. I hoped, for his sake, he was drunk when he bought the camelhair overcoat.

Kilfeather smartened up.

“
That’s right, yeah. Brady, isn’t it?”

“
When I’m off-duty. Right now it’s Detective Brady. Who’s this fucker?”

“
He’s a local hack. Rigby they call him.”

“
What’s he doing here?”

“
Sniffing around.”

“
No shit, Holmes. How come he’s here?”

Kilfeather shrugged, squared his shoulders, letting Brady know, he didn’t appreciate the third degree.

“
How come any of us are here? He heard about it, thought there might be something worth seeing.”

“
He get it downtown?”

“
Probably.”

“
Who?”

Kilfeather shrugged.

“
Who the fuck knows?”

“
Find the fuck out or I’ll cite you in the report. What’d you tell him?”

Kilfeather seethed, cheeks flaming. Dug the word out, rough. “Nothing.”

“
You took a while doing it.”

“
He thinks she didn’t top herself. I put him straight.”

“
Straight – what’s straight?”

“
That it’s an ongoing investigation but the signs point to suicide. That much he had already.”

Brady spat, pulled up his belt up.

“
Next time, send him to me. No – next time, bang him up.”

“
Yessir. What charge?”

He looked at me for the first time, top to bottom in a sideways glance.

“
Cheap shoes,” he sneered. “And hey, Kilfeather?”

“
What?”

“
Get snotty again and I’ll wipe your fucking nose.”

He went back to the Mondeo, lit a cigarette, caught Kilfeather throwing some juju eyeball. Rubbed his nose, slow and deliberate, so Kilfeather glared at me instead. I took the hint and left.

2

Herbie was still draped across his moped, shivering.

“
Well?”

“
It might not be suicide.”

“
You got something?”

“
Nothing you could quote in a family newspaper.”

“
Fuck.”

He straightened up, blew on his hands, remembered he was wearing gloves. Stared out over the lake to the town sprawled across the foot of the mountain, a verruca out of control. Out across the five miles to the Atlantic, chopping up grey and white.

“
Regan tell you who found her?”

“
No.”

“
Think he might?”

“
Squeeze the sponge, Harry, it dries up.”

“
Yeah, yeah.” I dug out the makings, bummed a skin, rolled a twist. “Alright, leave it with me, I’ll make some calls. It’s already too late for the evening editions anyway.”

“
Kilfeather’s a bastard.”

“
He’s Dibble, Herb. That’s his job. Anyway, Kilfeather isn’t the problem. There’s a big lad from out of town running the show.”

“
You didn’t get anything from him?”

“
He didn’t see me, I wasn’t up a ladder. And a word to the wise. If he finds out Regan leaked you the story, Regan’ll be springing a few leaks of his own.”

He swore, sparked up a ready-rolled from his grass-sprinkled pouch, eyeballing the garda leaning against the driveway pillar. Picked a flake of tobacco from his lower lip, flicked it in the garda’s direction, leaving the middle finger extended. The garda stared back, placid. Herbie said: “Think they’re in on it?”

“
Who – the Dibble?”

“
Who else? Fuckers’re into everything else.”

“
Herb – why would the Dibble want Imelda Sheridan dead?”

“
Maybe she was running a brothel, got the Inspector in a compromising position. Maybe she’s plotting a coup, Tony for president, the Dibble got wind of it.” He shrugged, matter of fact. “Could be anything.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“
Get off the weed, Herb. Seriously, man. Your head’s in a jam jar.”

He started winding up, getting excited, tone urgent.

“
This is front-page stuff, Harry. Banner headlines. Big fuck-off shots, see them a mile off, my name at the bottom. Mine, not those Fhotoprint fuckdogs.”

The agency took a cut of everything we cooked up, which bothered Herbie. It didn’t bother me, thirty per cent of fuck all being approximately fuck all.

“
Nail it down, Harry. I gave you this one on a plate. Coke, suicide, possible murder, the fucking lot. What more do you need?”

“
How about proof?”

“
What’re you talking about, proof?” He waggled his camera bag. “The shots’re ready to roll, beauts too, hole in her neck you could roll the black ball into. Only words these babies need are someone’s name on a cheque.”

“
What about some kind of idea of why? A detail or two?” I was stalling, watching the maroon Civic pulling up, the bodywork too fresh for it to be anything but a rental. “It needs to be done right, Herb. We do it right or we don’t do it at all.”

He heard the Civic, turned and looked. Shrugged, the anger evaporating too quick to be healthy.

“
It’ll be done alright, but not by us. Here’s the fucking cavalry now.”

She was petite, five-two at most, the kind of late twenties that takes years of practice. The hair a tangerine peek-a-boo bob, the lipstick apricot. The smile friendly, chasing freckles across the bridge of a snub nose. The eyes deep enough to give me vertigo, wide enough to make me want to jump.

“
Gentlemen.” Her accent had the faintest of northern drawls.

“
Around here that’s libel,” I said. I nodded towards the house. “And I’d say the pedicure’s been cancelled.”

“
I’ll take my chances.”

She ducked under the yellow tape, flashed a card at the garda, clicked away up the tarmacadam.

Herbie fired up the moped, the engine clattering, rattling, until the exhaust belched a tiny black cloud.

“
Want a lift?”

“
No, cheers. I’m in a hurry.”