‘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.’
11
It might have been Marx. Or Engels, maybe. Anyway, someone once said man would never be free until the last priest was hanging from the entrails of the last banker. Or words to that effect.
Funny he didn’t mention lawyers. Maybe he thought they’d be impossible to exterminate, like roaches and hope. I wasn’t so sure. A garlic-tipped silver bullet, a stake through the heart — it’s worth a try, at least.
I was spared Jimmy. Gillick drove, the Saab sounding like a horny angel, smooth and silent but for a smug little hum. Up front the interior was polished leather and walnut. The dash panel, luminous with blues and reds, had been lifted from a Lear’s cockpit. We were passing Drumcliffe Church when he finally spoke. Working for casual, coming off strained. ‘So what did Finn have to say?’
‘About what?’
‘Please, Mr Rigby. I thought we were beyond games.’
‘No, you thought you’d bought me.’
‘That’s not-’
‘And what you really want to know is what he said about you.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’
‘Like fuck you don’t. It’s why you’re whizzing around town at five in the morning, springing desperadoes from the cells. So Mrs Hamilton talks to me, not you, and forgets to ask why you were at the PA hassling Finn.’
‘I was there,’ he said, ‘at Mrs Hamilton’s request. And I object to the-’
‘You’re up this early for the good of your health? What’s next, a sitz bath?’
A sigh. ‘Mrs Hamilton,’ he said, ‘is not just a client of long and good standing. She is a friend, as was her husband. If she calls on me at an inconvenient time, that simply confirms how badly she needs me.’
‘Thou good and faithful servant.’
We were coming up on Monaneen Cross. He indicated left, shifted down and turned off towards the sea. The horizon turning grey, the Donegal mountains a faint purple haze on the horizon. ‘A touch of inferiority complex can be a healthy thing, Rigby. Just don’t let it cripple you.’
‘What happened to the “Mister” bit?’
He liked that. ‘You’d rather I called you Mr Rigby?’
‘You’re getting well paid to do it. And I’d say you’re on triple time for anti-social hours.’
He slowed into a crossroads, eased across. ‘May ask as to why you didn’t tell our friend Tohill I was at the PA tonight?’
‘He never asked.’
A soft chuckle. ‘Jimmy will appreciate the sentiment.’ He waited. ‘And is that, definitively, all it was?’
He should have brought Jimmy. The more he talked, the more I was wondering why he was worried I had something on him.
He indicated left, turned up through the iron-wrought gates, crunching gravel as we rolled on into the small forest of oak and sycamore. Up ahead I saw a badger waddle off the road into the ditch, its eyes gleaming greenly in the halogen glare. ‘I understand you used to be a private detective,’ he said.
‘Research consultant.’
‘Of course.’ Another chuckle. ‘You know, I might require the services of a research consultant one day.’
‘I’d say your kind of operation needs that kind of service every day. What’s wrong with the ones you use now?’
‘Nothing, they’re all perfectly fine. But I am blessed in having a large number of clients. Sometimes I need to outsource.’
‘Squeamish about the debt collecting, are they?’
‘In the current climate, Mr Rigby, you diversify or die.’ The faintest of sneers. ‘I’d imagine you appreciate that better than most.’
‘And you think I’m onside because I don’t squeak to the shades.’
‘If by that you’re asking if confidentiality is important to my clients, then yes.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘I heard.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Harry J. Rigby, former research consultant and freelance journalist. Tried in 2004 for the murder of one Edward aka Gonzo Rigby, but not convicted, this on the basis that you claimed temporary insanity and were subsequently referred to the Central Mental Hospital for assessment, which for one reason or another took the best part of four years.’ He glanced across. ‘I’m no expert, but I’d imagine killing your own brother is as good a way as any to become the least private eye in town.’ He waited. I let it hang. ‘So why come back?’ he mused. ‘It’s either the boy or a lack of imagination.’ Again he waited. ‘I’m betting it’s the boy.’