Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [3]
“Who’s telling you this?”
“Regan. Anyway, he puts the knife in her hand, lets the arm drop natural. Wants it to look like suicide. Chops some lines out on the coffee table, leaves it messy, rubs some into her gums, drops the wrap.”
“Any dabs?”
“Millions, and you watch too many movies. So – Regan says he takes his time after, grinds a boot into the wedding photo, giving it motive. Sparks a smoke, leaves a butt in the ashtray, stays around to make sure everything’s kosher. Doesn’t touch her up. Maybe he’s a pro, Regan says, or maybe her pants are already piss and shit. Or maybe he gets his jollies clocking corpses draining out.”
“Always nice to have options. How long is she there?”
“No idea. They found her about two hours ago.”
“Who’s on now? Regan?”
“Kilfeather.”
“Wanting his name in the paper?”
“He fucking better.”
Kilfeather waited, watching as I waved a card at the uniformed garda standing by the gate pillars, waiting until I ducked under the yellow tape and started up the tarmacadam incline. Then he waved me back. I ignored him, it was what he expected and I hate to disappoint. He watched me come, a sour twist at the corner of his mouth, saying, tasting the word: “Rigby.”
“In all his tarnished glory. Who found her, Tom?”
Kilfeather catching fresh air was almost news on its own, especially if I could nail down the brand of dynamite they’d used to get him out from behind his desk. He leered down at me, six-two of obtuse duty, ruddy cheeks and no neck.
“No chance, Rigby.”
“Did he find her?”
“He who?”
“Tony he. Come on, Tom.”
He put his huge hands up, palms showing, miming a push.
“Back behind the line, Rigby. You know the drill.”
“You can’t tell me who found her?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t tell you anything.”
“Not like you to be shy, Tom.”
He didn’t bite. I tried again.
“So what kind of investigation is it?”
“The strictly routine kind. And until it’s over, I can’t tell you anything.”
“You don’t tell me what’s going on, Tom, I’m going to assume the worst. With my imagination, you don’t want to take that risk.”
His voice was flinty.
“I told you, it’s routine.”
I kissed the dice.
“Because it’s not suicide?”
“Who says it’s not suicide?”
“No one. It’s suicide?”
The ruddy cheeks flamed to life.
“Don’t fuck with me, Rigby. Get to fuck out of my sight.”
I shook my head, patient.
“You want me here, Tom, where you can keep an eye on me, keep an ear on what I’m saying. Make like it’s just the two of us, candles and wine, gypsies playing violins.”
He muttered something that didn’t have any vowels. I kept my tone reasonable.
“It’s only a job, Tom. You’re doing yours, I’m doing mine. All I need’s a couple of answers and I’m off, job done.”
He didn’t answer, staring off across the racecourse to the far side of the lake, to somewhere above where the snow line might have been if it ever got around to snowing. I didn’t blame him. When the sun shone, the view added an extra twenty grand that the house needed like a second swimming pool.
“How about this, Tom? I’ll tell you what you already know and if I leave anything out you put me straight.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I hear things. I might know something you don’t.”
“That’s dangerous, Rigby. I could have you up for withholding information, obstructing the course of justice.”
“Perverting, Tom, the way I do it.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder, at the unmarked blue Mondeo parked to one side of the house, rasped: “So what do I know?”
“She was found – by who we don’t yet know – a couple of hours ago. Throat slit ear to ear, the wound so deep the spinal cord was almost severed. Her underwear was still intact. Coke on the coffee table, which may or may not be significant. Only fingerprints on the knife – steak knife, serrated edge – are hers. How’m I doing?”
He was back sucking lemons again.
“You forgot the toaster and cuddly toy.”
“No one commits suicide up at the racecourse, Tom. People go home from the racecourse and commit suicide, maybe. And who nearly severs their spinal