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

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.’
    ‘Mention my son again and I’ll put you through that window.’
    ‘How dramatic.’ He tugged on his nose to disguise a wry smile, his Blofeld impression beginning to grate. ‘I am impressed.’
    ‘Stay that way, you’ll save on windows.’
    He sniffed at that. ‘Look, Rigby, this isn’t a moral issue. You did what you did, and your actions couldn’t be condoned by any civilised standards. But as far as I’m concerned, you’ve served your time, paid your debt to society.’
    ‘Society charges interest.’
    ‘Undoubtedly. Otherwise you wouldn’t be driving a taxi.’ I let that one bowl on through. ‘Understand that I’m not offering you a permanent position. But your reputation precedes you, and your actions tonight confirm that you’re a man who can be trusted to negotiate, shall we say, potentially treacherous situations without succumbing to the urge to unburden yourself unnecessarily.’
    ‘You want muscle. A reducer with a killer’s rep, who’ll keep his mouth shut if the cops start to squeeze. Someone like your friend Limerick Jim, say.’
    ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘For one thing, you lack his physique.’
    ‘And his way with a blade.’
    ‘Ancient history, Mr Rigby. And you of all people, surely, wouldn’t deny Jimmy his right to rehabilitation and reintegration .’
    We circled the fountain, passing the Merc and the Lexus, the Rav4 jeep. A red Mini Cooper tucked in behind that I hadn’t noticed earlier. Gillick parked beside the wide steps, turned off the engine. He was too bulky to turn all the way around, so he peered at me over a well-padded shoulder. ‘Can you honestly say you enjoy driving a taxi?’
    ‘More than life itself.’
    ‘There are more profitable ways of making a living.’
    ‘I’m my own boss. I work when I want to. The bills get paid.’
    ‘And that’s the sum total of your ambition in life?’
    ‘My lack of ambition breaks my heart. Every day I wake up weeping for the want of an urge to take a sledgehammer to some poor fucker’s front door. What’s so funny?’
    ‘This posturing,’ he said. ‘Your contrived antipathy towards money. And yet all it took was five hundred euro in cash to lure you here tonight.’
    I didn’t like the sound of that ‘lure’.
    ‘Money’s not the issue,’ I said. ‘Money’s fine. If the sun ever goes out, we’ll have something else to help the world go round.’
    ‘So it’s not the money per se, it’s who offers it.’
    ‘And the why.’
    ‘Undoubtedly.