Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [4]
“Imelda Sheridan.”
“Bollocks. Who’s the prime suspect?”
“You, now you know so much.”
“Me and half the town, Tom. Word gets around. How’s the husband?”
He didn’t like the implication.
“You’re a sick man, Rigby.”
“It’s terminal, too. Has he been questioned?”
“Why would we question him?”
“For spite. Overtime. He’s a humpy cunt. Take your pick.”
“Say we did question him. What would we ask?”
“Where he was when it happened. Or would that be too personal?”
“Suicide isn’t a spectator sport, Rigby.”
“You know the stats, Tom. Men top themselves, young men. She’s what – early fifties? She has the big house, tennis courts out the back. Trotting around blinding us all with Prada and Louis Vuitton. Husband’s best buddies with the chief whip, and if he fucks that up he can always fall back on the ambulance-chasing. If she’s not in the social pages it means the NUJ’s out on strike and the kids are reared, one an intern, the daughter away saving the rain forests, bless her cotton socks.” I cut to the chase. “Why would Imelda Sheridan commit suicide?”
“Money isn’t everything. She might have been depressed.”
I didn’t like it, Kilfeather being so reasonable. It meant I was on the wrong track.
“And maybe she thought Santa wouldn’t come. Who found her, Tom?”
“No can do, Rigby.”
“Jesus, Tom –”
The voice came from over my shoulder, gruff, a cement mixer learning German.
“Kilfeather?”
He didn’t look down at me. I looked up to where a wide face was crowned with thin blonde hair. The suit was a size too small but a Big Top would have been a size too small. He had a Desperate Dan chin and you could have landed a helicopter on his chest in a gale. The smell of stale whiskey wafted across, harsh as petrol. I hoped, for his sake, he was drunk when he bought the camelhair overcoat.
Kilfeather smartened up.
“That’s right, yeah. Brady, isn’t it?”
“When I’m off-duty. Right now it’s Detective Brady. Who’s this fucker?”
“He’s a local hack. Rigby they call him.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Sniffing around.”
“No shit, Holmes. How come he’s here?”
Kilfeather shrugged, squared his shoulders, letting Brady know, he didn’t appreciate the third degree.
“How come any of us are here? He heard about it, thought there might be something worth seeing.”
“He get it downtown?”
“Probably.”
“Who?”
Kilfeather shrugged.
“Who the fuck knows?”
“Find the fuck out or I’ll cite you in the report. What’d you tell him?”
Kilfeather seethed, cheeks flaming. Dug the word out, rough. “Nothing.”
“You took a while doing it.”
“He thinks she didn’t top herself. I put him straight.”
“Straight – what’s straight?”
“That it’s an ongoing investigation but the signs point to suicide. That much he had already.”
Brady spat, pulled up his belt up.
“Next time, send him to me. No – next time, bang him up.”
“Yessir. What charge?”
He looked at me for the first time, top to bottom in a sideways glance.
“Cheap shoes,” he sneered. “And hey, Kilfeather?”
“What?”
“Get snotty again and I’ll wipe your fucking nose.”
He went back to the Mondeo, lit a cigarette, caught Kilfeather throwing some juju eyeball. Rubbed his nose, slow and deliberate, so Kilfeather glared at me instead. I took the hint and left.
2
Herbie was still draped across his moped, shivering.
“Well?”
“It might not be suicide.”
“You got something?”
“Nothing you could quote in a family newspaper.”
“Fuck.”
He straightened up, blew on his hands, remembered he was wearing gloves. Stared out over the lake to the town sprawled across the foot of the mountain, a verruca out of control. Out across the five miles to the Atlantic, chopping up grey and white.
“Regan tell you who found her?”
“No.”
“Think he might?”
“Squeeze the sponge, Harry, it dries up.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I dug out the makings, bummed a skin, rolled a twist. “Alright, leave it with me, I’ll make some calls. It’s already too late for the evening editions anyway.”
“Kilfeather’s a bastard.”
“He’s Dibble, Herb. That’s his job. Anyway, Kilfeather isn’t the problem. There’s a big lad from out of town running