‘Start thinking,’ I said.
‘’Bout what?’
‘Some game you’d like to play that hasn’t been invented yet.’
He frowned, lips pursing. Then it hit him. His jaw dropped, and the round eyes grew rounder. I laughed and reached and ruffled his hair and he was so shocked he didn’t even flinch.
I gave Ben five euro and pointed him at the amusement arcade beside Supermacs, told him I’d be back in half an hour. Then I cut down Shop Street, into Quay Street, making for the Crescent.
The phone rang when I was crossing the bridge. No caller ID.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Rigby?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Saoirse Hamilton, Mr Rigby.’
I gave the hold-all a little swing. Tucked inside, along with the ten grand in cash, was a cling-filmed envelope. ‘Yes?’ I said.
‘I have not changed my mind. I am hoping that you have changed yours.’
‘About finding Finn’s suicide note.’
‘Correct. I wish to retain your services.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hamilton, but I really can’t afford to take time off work to go chasing something that probably doesn’t exist.’
‘You will be well rewarded for your time.’
‘I appreciate that. But it isn’t just a matter of time, is it?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose it is.’
‘If I get in the cops’ way on this,’ I said, ‘they won’t be happy. I’ve already had one guy threaten to revoke my cab driver’s licence. And if things get really skewy I could be considered in breach of release conditions.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘How much?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s not really a case of-’
‘How much, Mr Rigby?’
‘Ten grand. Cash. Non-sequential notes.’
‘Ten thousand euro?’
‘It’s what they call danger money, Mrs Hamilton. I didn’t ask to get involved in this, but now I am, and you’re asking me to dig myself deeper. I think I’m entitled to get paid for my trouble.’
It was hard to tell with the breeze swirling around the river, but I got the impression she’d covered the receiver to confer.
‘Ten thousand euro is a substantial amount of money,’ she said.
‘Yeah, well, the cops’ll do it for free if you ask nice. But then, you get what you pay for these days. So maybe you’ll want to shop around, get the best price out there.’
‘I fail to see the-’
‘And listen, just to show there’s no hard feelings if you do decide to run with someone else, I’ll tell you now that if it was me I’d try the PA first. Pretend like you’re there to feed the dog, then run upstairs to Finn’s office, check the cistern in the bathroom. There’s a false bottom in there, perfect for hiding things under.’
Silence now. Nothing but the breeze and the phone’s hiss.
‘What did you find, Mr Rigby?’
‘I’ll put it this way. If the cops find out I have it and didn’t turn it over, it’ll cost me a hell of a lot more than ten grand.’
‘I understand. Be so good as to come and see me, Mr Rigby. I may have more work for you.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘When shall I expect you?’
‘I’m in Galway right now, so it’ll be a few hours. Why don’t I call you when I get back to town?’
‘Very well. My number is-’
‘That’s okay, it’s in my phone now.’
She hung up. Not a woman to waste words, Saoirse Hamilton.
Not a woman to waste money either, I’d have thought. Ten grand mightn’t sound a lot in the grand scheme of things, but it’d have made a pretty good price for one of Finn’s canvases, say, and Saoirse Hamilton was forking it over sight unseen, unframed.
Maybe I should have asked for fifteen. Hell, it was all NAMA money anyway, courtesy of the endlessly generous Irish taxpayer.
The Crescent is a short curving street of three-storey Georgian relics halfway to Salthill. Quiet, respectable, affluent. Galway’s Harley Street, doctors and nothing but. Franny Moore, aka Dr Robert, had a place that backed onto the narrow alley behind the Crescent and running parallel. He also rented the lock-up directly across from his back yard. With the garden’s high walls and the alleyway’s curve, you’d need to be hovering overhead in chopper to see what was happening. X-ray vision might have helped. I laid out the ten grand and Franny placed its equivalent in primo coke in the hold-all. Up at the top end, ten grand doesn’t buy you much by way of quantity.
It all took about ten minutes. By the time I made it back to Eyre Square, Ben was waiting, damp and huddled under an awning, his eyes dark hollows.
‘What happened?’ I said.
‘Mum rang.’
‘Shit. What’d you say?’
‘What you told me to say.’
‘So we’re in Knock, right? Waiting for a delayed flight to get in.’
He nodded. Sullen, withdrawn.
‘Good lad,’ I said, feeling a lot like something he’d scraped off his shoe.
‘She said to say she’s owed twenty euro for her taxi home.’
‘Christ, what’d she get, a stretch limo?’
No reaction bar a sudden shivering. I hustled him back to the car, got back on the road, the heater on full blast. Ticking things off my mental to-do list once we were back in Sligo: drop Ben off, swing by Herb’s, take a squint inside the cling-filmed envelope before heading out to The Grange, just to be sure I wasn’t selling myself short with the ten large.
We were halfway home, the sun a golden glare in the rear-view mirrors, when Ben finally roused himself, jolted from his torpor when we crossed the disused railway tracks outside Ballindine. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and said, ‘I’m starving.’
‘How could you be starving? You just ate two cheeseburgers.’
‘That was three hours ago.’
‘Seriously?’
I pulled in at the petrol station. Sent Ben on ahead with a fifty to pay for the petrol and rustle up some munchies from the change, watching him while I filled up, insouciant among the milling adults. It was hard to resist the sudden rush of ridiculous pride.
Okay, so Ben was Gonzo’s kid, and I favour Darwin, and what genes know about second chances you could stick in Gregor Mendel’s ear and still have room for a ball of wax. And Gonz died diving for that gun.
But if Ben’s resentment of his mother was any kind of guide, Dee was doing a fair job of raising a young boy on her own. Ben was smart and creatively inclined, sensitive to a fault. Sociable too, if his welcome at the school was anything to go by. His apathy towards his grades didn’t fit the pattern, but I was guessing the clipboard crew would find a parallel or two between his slipping grades and the sudden appearance of a father figure who’d been away for a long time, and who was still missing a lot more than he was around.
Whose big idea of a father-son day out was a coke-run to Galway in a stolen car.
Ben came back across the forecourt clutching a brown paper sack and stifling a smile. Slid into the passenger seat.
‘Change,’ I said, knowing what was coming.
He handed me seven cents, snickering, then opened the sack. Flakes, Mars Bars, Twix, Choc-Ices, Jammy Dodgers, cans of Pringles and Sprite. My throat was parched, so I guzzled half a can of Sprite and lucky-dipped a Mars Bar.
Got back on the road again, the low sun dazzling in the rear-view. I adjusted the mirror so it angled out over my left shoulder, dipped the driver’s side mirror, had Ben do the same. In a hurry now to get back home, run the necessary errands, draw a line under the day. Ben munching steadily through the can of Pringles.
‘How about some tunes?’ I said.
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Uh-oh what?’
‘Your music is rubbish, dad.’
I pointed at the stereo, a five-disc CD player. ‘This car,’ I said, ‘belongs to a guy who runs a pirate radio station.’ I didn’t want to get into the past tense, spoil the buzz. ‘I guarantee you you’ll find some good stuff in there. Press any button you like.’
He left a chocolatey smear pressing the third button. A hum and a whirring, then a hiss. ‘Swingboat Yawning’ kicked in, the scratchy guitars, the sing-song vocals, digging trenches in the stars again. My guts constricted, but at least it hadn’t come in on ‘Bell Jars Away’. Ben wobbled his head a little, considering.