‘Maria’s?’
Her mouth tightened in the corners. ‘Who else?’
‘That’s a hell of a leap. What I’m saying is, you’d need to have been inside Finn’s head to know what he meant.’
‘Can I ask you to try?’
‘He was suicidal,’ I said. ‘No one can-’
‘Mr Gillick tells me that you shared,’ and here the corner of her mouth turned down, ‘a room with Finn. For almost a year.’
‘A cell, yeah. That was a long time ago.’
‘Mr Gillick also tells me you were a private investigator.’
‘That was a different life. And anyway, I-’
‘Would you mind?’ She held out the note. ‘Perhaps, given your experience, you might spot a clue.’
A clue, of course. One brief scan of the note would reveal to master sleuth Rigby that Colonel Mustard had used the lead pipe to batter Finn off the roof of the library.
‘Please?’ she said, proffering the sheet of paper. ‘I would consider it a very great favour.’
First Jimmy, now Saoirse Hamilton. People I wanted nothing from kept offering me favours.
‘All I crave,’ she said, ‘is a tiny corner of my mind where I might find some measure of peace. If you refuse,’ she chuckled the coldest sound I’d ever heard, ‘I may be forced to request a priest.’
I took the note. A copy, obviously. The cops wouldn’t have released the genuine article yet. It was written in his familiar flowing script, and while it would take a handwriting expert to say for sure, the writing looked like his, normal and unstressed. Apart from the notations between the lines, which were basic chord progressions, there were no additions. It wasn’t even signed.
‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘Like I say, the song is one of Finn’s favourites. This is the Hendrix cover, Jimi Hendrix, which most people consider definitive. Finn preferred Love’s version, it has more of an energy, sounds more desperate.’
‘Go on.’
‘Finn knows the song by heart. There’d be no reason for him to scribble out the lyrics for himself, it’d be like the Pope doodling a Hail Mary.’
‘Your point, Mr Rigby?’
‘I’m not being flip. I’m just trying to eliminate possibilities. You told me that this is a suicide note, and I’m suggesting there are other options.’
‘Such as?’
‘The most probable, going by the notations, is that he was writing out the lyrics for someone who wanted to learn the song. A talented beginner, maybe. It’s not the easiest song in the world to play but the chords here are fairly straightforward.’
‘You don’t believe it’s his note?’
‘It’s his writing, sure, but Finn was his own man. If he had something to say, he’d have said it in his own words.’
She pressed a forefinger to her lips, then used a knuckle to snick a tear from the corner of her eye. She beckoned for the note. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘Confirming my sanity.’
‘What I believe and what’s true aren’t necessarily the same thing, Mrs Hamilton. And-’
‘Saoirse, please.’
‘Okay.’ She was fairly pouring it on now. First the tears, now the brazen familiarity with the lumpen prole. ‘What I’m saying is, just because — whoa.’
She’d balled the note and tossed it on top of the log fire. While she crossed to the bar I watched it shrivel into a petrol-blue flame. She came back with a fresh martini, a Jack. She handed me the glass and perched on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, one knee crossed on the other. Her tone was brisk.
‘Estranged or not, Mr Rigby, I know my son. He would have left a note. And if he did write a note, it shouldn’t be too hard to find, even for,’ she cleared her throat, ‘a retired investigator. It’s not the kind of thing you hide.’
I thought she was right, but then suicide is by definition out of character. And once a man finds himself out in the badlands, out beyond rule and law and custom, who knows what anyone might do?
‘Sorry, Mrs Hamilton, but I’m not the man for-’
‘I would like to retain your services, Mr Rigby. I want you to find for me, if it exists, Finn’s suicide note.’
‘With all due respect, Mrs Hamilton-’
‘Saoirse.’
‘-I’d be wasting your time. I’ve been away from the game too long and I’ve no intention of ever going back. On top of that, the cops have already been over the studio. Like you say, if Finn did write a note, he wouldn’t have hidden it. He’d have left it to be found.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t leave it at the studio.’
‘So you go to his apartment. If he wrote one — and not all suicides leave a note — it’ll probably be there.’
‘That would be impossible.’
‘I’m sure, under the circumstances, Maria would-’
‘Mr Rigby, I have warned you once. I will not warn you again.’
I put the Jack on the low table, stood up. ‘You have my sympathies, Mrs Hamilton. Really. But looking for a suicide note that probably doesn’t-’
‘I’m begging you.’
You can tell when people use a phrase for the first time. The virgin words sound awkward, the tongue fumbling its way around syllables rough as broken teeth. Her face was turned up to mine, imploring. The fluffy robe had fallen away to reveal an expanse of decolletage, but it was the naked want in her eyes that made me avert my eyes. A raw and secret savagery.
‘Simon has my card,’ I said. ‘If you still feel this way tomorrow morning, then call me and we’ll talk about it again.’
I said it as gently as I knew how, but a dismissal is a dismissal and Saoirse Hamilton wasn’t practised at being gracious when denied.
‘Do you think it might be possible for a mother to ever stop wondering why her son would do such a thing, Mr Rigby?’ Each word was a scourge. ‘Can you honestly believe that one day will make any difference to how I feel?’
I considered that. ‘Gillick told you I did time,’ I said.
‘Yes, he did.’ A faint sneer. ‘And why.’
‘Then you’ll appreciate why I don’t want to be the one to raise false hopes. Goodnight, Mrs Hamilton.’
I felt like a toe-rag walking away. Still, a glass shattered against the frame as I opened the door, spraying me with Jack.
That helped.
14
You know you’ve arrived when a solicitor says you lack even a shred of human decency, by the shred being how lawyer types measure decency.
I was living that year on Castle Street, three floors up from a coffee shop, Early ’Til Latte, which was already open when Gillick finally dropped me off, the sky gunmetal grey, dawn cocking the hammer. On the second floor was the tiny landing where I’d once had an office. Back then I’d called myself a research consultant, but I was generally the only one who called. Now I lived on the floor above, under the eaves. One of Hamilton Holdings’ minions would have described it as a penthouse with potential, although less Joycean fabulists would call it disused attic storage. A single room of sloping ceilings with low wide windows facing east and west, the stairwell of the bare wooden stairs taking up most of the south wall. A one-ring gas stove in a corner, some books and CDs on the windowsills, a squat hurricane lamp on the floor beside the fold-down couch. No electricity, but I mostly worked nights, so that was okay too. The bathroom was in a closet off the landing below. The decor boasted flaking paint and patches of damp, the colour scheme canary yellow trimmed in blue. A family of mice nested in one corner and I did what I could to respect their privacy.
I was so tired unlocking the door that it took me three keys to realise it was already unlocked. I pushed on through.
‘Dutch?’
‘Out on the roof.’
Dutch ran The Cellars, the pub across the street. Sometimes after work he dropped by for a smoke to wind down before going home, a game of chess on my nights off. If I wasn’t there he’d let himself in, do the needful, head off again.
Unusual for him to stick around, though. He must have heard.
I ducked out through the east window onto the flat tar roof, where Dutch had unfolded the deckchair, got himself comfortable. From there the view was rooftops down as far as the river, then the bay opening up beyond Yeats’ Bridge. Benbulben a purple haze ten miles out. Dutch peered up at me, bleary-eyed.