Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [12]
She shook her head, snuffled something.
“I’m sorry – Joan? Could you repeat that?”
Then it all tumbled out in gulping sobs. We waited. When she ran out of steam, she dabbed at her eyes and said, hiccupping gently: “She was the gentle type, placid… I don’t know, mousey. She didn’t seem too worried about Tony. I thought she was glad, it kept him out of her bed. She seemed… not interested.”
“Not interested?”
“Some people aren’t.”
“And Tony?”
“Tony?” A hysterical giggle that snapped halfway through. “Very interested.”
Herbie: “Did he ever give you a dig?”
Her voice was low, husky.
“No.”
Yes. I said: “Did he ever talk about leaving Imelda, Joan?”
“Leaving?”
“Divorce.”
This time she was emphatic, shaking her head.
“Imelda would never agree to – oh.”
“She had a strong faith? She was religious?”
“No – I don’t know, maybe. But she was happy with what she had. She didn’t need Tony to enjoy it.”
“She married for the money?”
She threw me a disdainful one – sure, why else?
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, detective.”
Herbie, coming in hard: “What about drugs?”
“Drugs?”
“Imelda got an early white Christmas, a St. Bernard dug her out of the drift in her living room. That kind of thing usual for Imelda?”
“Jesus, I wouldn’t think so. You’re sure you have the right –”
“We always have the right. You think Tony might have stabbed his wife?”
“No!” Bouncing back now. “And I don’t think –”
“That’s our job,” Herbie snapped, “the thinking. Could he have had it arranged?”
“How would I know?”
“Yes or no, here or in the station.”
“No.”
I pinched my nose again.
“Joan, we appreciate your co-operation and we realise that this must have come as a great shock.” She nodded, head down, milking it. “Can we ask you not to leave the jurisdiction without notifying us in advance?”
She came up fast, her eyes wide.
“Am I –? Does that mean –?”
“No ma’am, but we would appreciate it if you would stay in touch.” I paused. “Given the circumstances, we’re just concerned for everyone’s safety.”
She gaped, swallowed hard, and the sobs started welling up again. I made some comforting noises, patted her shoulder. We left. When the lift doors closed, Herbie glanced across, catching my eye.
“That’s our job,” he drawled, “the thinking.”
“You’re a fucking ham.”
We left the apartment building foyer separately, still buzzing on the mood.
5
Back at the office I flipped through the post – all bills – binning the first-timers. Rolled a smoke, mulling over the newspaper clipping Katie had left behind, wondering again why she might have left it. Saw a face, back row, top right – black piggy eyes in a sallow face that didn’t need a shave.
I got the old familiar feeling, stomach churning up concrete, hairs prickling on the back of my neck – the sensation I was being watched. I didn’t go for the .38 again. I sparked the smoke instead, popped another pill and rang the morgue, wondering if I should just book a slab and be done with it. I flipped a coin. It didn’t come down.
She was a dumb blonde, pushing fifty and pushing downhill and still dumb enough to want to be blonde. Skin the colour of vellum paper, sagging under the chin. Lips thin and just about pink, the nose narrow, the hair on her upper lip also dyed blonde. I wanted to ask how come blondes never got around to dyeing their eyebrows but her eyes were closed and the gash in her throat ran six inches east to west.
The morgue was chilly, sterile and white. Six floors of hospital hummed through to the basement but I could still hear the intern sweat. His eyes darted from Imelda Sheridan to the door, back again.
“They know who found her yet?”
He licked his lips, teeth protruding, a thin horsy face.
“How the fuck would I know?”
“You might have asked.”
“Why the fuck would I ask?”
“I don’t know – job the fuck satisfaction, maybe.”
He laughed a thin, high snort, a rat with sinus trouble. Dragged the sheet back across her face.
“Rack ‘em, stack ‘em, pack ‘em. They want more, they pay more.”
“More what – whizz?”
His face whitened, mouth slack