Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [13]
“You need sleep,” I told him.
“What I need’s a gun.”
“Careful what you wish for, Chief. Any word on the pathologist’s prelim?”
“Lots of ‘em. Couple of pages worth.”
“Any of them worth repeating?”
“How the fuck –”
“Would you know? I was hoping you’d learnt to read since last time.”
He rubbed a hand across his buzz cut.
“Anyone finds out I let you in here –”
“I know, I’d have to tell them you plunder the cabinet and people are dying because you’ve got the whizz shakes. Dry your eyes.”
I headed for the door, looking back as he slid Imelda Sheridan’s slab home.
“You hear anything about the post-mortem, give me a bell.”
“How the fuck –”
I let the morgue door swish to.
I sipped at the coffee, thought some more about Katie. Wondering how her split ends were faring. A light bulb flared, fifteen watts. I dug out the Red Directory, thumbed through to Hairdressers and worked backwards alphabetically, on a whim.
“Hello, I’m ringing on behalf of Tony Sheridan. He’d like to cancel his wife’s styling appointment… I can, yes… No? Really? I’m sorry, I must have been given the wrong number… Pardon? Yes, of course I’ll pass that on… Sorry for taking up your time. Bye.”
Seven tries later, I hit pay dirt.
“Yes, well, I’m just making the arrangements, Mr Sheridan wouldn’t want to put anyone out… Sorry? Yes, that is just like him… I’ll certainly pass that on. You’re very kind. Who am I talking to? Sandra?”
Sandra was the kind of artist, she could overpaint a Botticelli with a Barbie cartoon and throw in highlights for free. She was a walking advertisement, snipped and buffed, bleached and tucked, her skin the colour of old toffee. Her face was sharp, plastic and angular, a shoulder-mounted credit card.
“That’s very kind, Sandra… Yes, she was. A lady, indeed… It was just a styling, wasn’t it? You’ll be compensated for the inconvenience, of course… Manicure too? A facial, of course… Yes, I understand, yes… Sorry? Yes, I’m sure Mr Sheridan realises that… Yes, of course I will. God bless. Bye.”
Tom Kilfeather wasn’t a bad cop but he’d forgotten the little he knew about women the day he got married. If Imelda Sheridan had been depressed, the way Kilfeather called it, the funk hadn’t been deep enough to stop her planning for the party season with a full makeover three days before Christmas. I rolled a smoke and treated myself to a stare at the far wall.
The big man came through the door like a rolling maul, planted his huge fists on the desk.
“If you don’t knock,” I pointed out, “it’s B&E. Technically speaking.”
He grinned, wide and evil.
“Technically speaking, I could give a fuck.” He stuck his face in mine, jabbed a thumb at his chest. His breath hadn’t freshened any since he ran me off Sheridan’s spread, and he was sweating like an old cheese. “Detective Brady. You, me, a little conversation.”
“By all means. It’s a dying art.”
He perched on the edge of the desk, stuck out his chin. A redundant gesture, the chin was already out the window and waiting for a break in traffic.
“Impersonating a garda will get you five to ten. The broken elbows are optional. Give me one reason why I don’t run you in right now.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Joan Hunter, Tony Sheridan’s ex-tart. You braced her this morning, said you were a cop.”
“Bullshit.”
“She’ll swear to it.”
“She’ll perjure herself.” I nodded at the sign on the door. “This is a research bureau. We do detective work. Not my fault if she jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
He grinned again, but not like he’d just remembered a punch line.
“Smart, eh? I like the smart ones, they don’t run so fast.” He scratched his stubble. “What’d she tell you?”
“Nothing you don’t already know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“No.”
He considered that and let it slide.
“You’re the hack was up at Tony Sheridan’s this morning.”
“Correct.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m also a freelance journalist.”
“First thing, Rigby – everything is my business. Second thing – smart off at me again and they’ll