Free Slaughter's Hound (Harry Rigby Mystery) by Declan Burke

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