Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [11]
4
I rang Herbie.
“Any joy with Sheridan?”
“Nothing yet, the server’s acting up again.”
Herbie’s main gig was shutterbug, although the grass he grew in his attic was a tidy nixer when things got quiet. The deal, when we hooked up, was I did the walking, asking the questions, and he handled the research, digging on the web, scanning ports, cracking passwords, finding back doors.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“Not much.” Herbie didn’t need to know about Frank Conway, that was a solo gig. “I was just wondering about Sheridan.”
“What about him?”
“Where is he? He wasn’t at the house this morning, right?”
“Regan said he was in Dublin. Some business meeting.”
“Nice alibi. You up for a giggle?”
“Like what?”
“Meet me here in half-an-hour. Wear an overcoat. And look dumb.”
The brunette opened the door, stepped back into the narrow hallway, still groggy from sleep, winding her dressing gown tight.
“Miss Hunter?”
She nodded.
“Miss Joan Hunter?”
She nodded again, blinking.
“French,” I said, flashing her the inside of my wallet. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at Herbie. “Naughton. Can we come in?”
I was moving forward before she had a chance to answer and she melted back into the hallway. We filed in. It was a penthouse, one wall all window, the room spacious and bright, the décor black and minimalist. The river trudged by below and I could see the bridge in the distance. It was too warm, the heat oppressive. Orchids, thick, white and ugly, grew out of an ornate vase against the far wall. She said, suppressing a half-cough, her knuckles touched to her lips: “Can I help you?”
I figured her for forty and looking it in the morning light. Her face was pale and drawn, dark rings under her eyes, up late last night, taking care of business in the nightclub. Herbie started in, aggressive.
“We know that every second girl in your place last night was underage,” he growled. “Give me six hours and I’ll have a statement from a minor claiming a bloke picked her up and didn’t put her down, a statch rape beef. You’ll beat the rap but we’ll get the place closed down for two weeks, Christmas and New Year, the rags’ll be all over it – kinky sex, they love it more than me. Do I have your attention?”
Her eyes blossomed and her mouth dropped open. It was her worst-case scenario realised, as delivered by a B-movie cop.
“I don’t –”
“Do I have your attention?”
“Yes, yes of course. But –”
I stepped in, slipping her a break.
“Naughton is upset, Miss Hunter. We all are. There’s been a particularly vicious murder and we’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on the circumstances.”
“Me? But – Who? Who’s been murdered?”
Herbie hurtled into the breach, harsh: “Imelda Sheridan. Butchered this morning. You’re going to need three alibis, all priests.”
Her face drained out, eyes glazed. My instinct was that she had no prior knowledge, clean as a whistle as far as Imelda Sheridan was concerned. But that wasn’t why we were there.
“Miss Hunter – it’s a delicate situation but you can depend on our discretion. I give you my word you will not be named in the investigation unless it is unavoidable.” I took a deep breath, for show. “We need to ask about your relationship with Tony Sheridan.”
“Tony?”
Herbie rattled her again.
“Big Tony, yeah. You’ve been dancing the fandango, his wife knew. Now she’s dead, stabbed to death. So – spill.”
“Tony and I… that’s over, that’s not… stabbed?”
I said: “What did Imelda Sheridan think of your affair?”
“I don’t know, Tony didn’t say. It wasn’t unusual for Tony...” Her eyes started filling up. “She was… I don’t know, she was…”
I pinched my nose, tipping Herbie the sign – back off.
“Miss Hunter – can I call you Joan?”
She nodded, staring at the carpet, choking back a sob.
“Joan, from what you know of Imelda Sheridan, would she have been likely to threaten anyone on