Declan Burke - Slaughter's hound

‘Sitting on the sidelines,’ I said, ‘cribbing and moaning, is a lost opportunity.’ I knew it by heart. ‘I don’t know how people who engage in that don’t commit suicide because frankly the only thing that motivates me is being able to actively change something.’

‘The fuck has that to do with-’

‘It’s a quote, Tohill. From our former Lord and Master, Bartholomew Ahern, you might know him better as Bertie, not necessarily of the Wooster variety. That was his measured response when asked about those critiquing an economic policy driven by an accountant and former Minister for Finance who never learned how to open a bank account. A persuasive guy, though. They’ve been topping themselves in fucking droves ever since.’

‘You’re saying this is why Finn Hamilton jumped.’

‘I’m saying, I’m with Bertie. About not sitting on the sidelines, whinging about how shit everything is.’ I leaned forward, tapped the folder. ‘Being what they call proactive about changing stuff.’

‘Go on.’

‘Gonz was the crazy, Tohill. Mad fucker. He’d killed once already, once I knew of. Was already diving for a gun when I pulled the trigger. Sanest thing I ever did was cut that fucker down. Him or me, yeah? Doesn’t get more logical than that. Except then they said I was the crazy, because I was waiting and ready. What they call malice aforethought. That judge, if he’d ever been in the Scouts, I’d have walked away a free man. Dib-dib-dib, be prepared, you know the drill. But here’s the kicker, Tohill — that mental hospital, man, if you’re not mad going in you’re hinky as fuck coming out.’

‘What’s that, a threat?’

‘Why would I threaten you? You’re not even in the game.’

‘Game?’

‘The game .’

‘I don’t get it. What fucking game are you-’

‘I’ll take a bet with you now, Tohill.’ I leaned in. ‘I’m betting you’ve never slotted anyone. I’m betting you don’t even know anyone who’s ever put a man away. Tell me I’m wrong.’

It was in his eyes.

‘I took Gonzo off the map,’ I said. ‘And yeah, it was me or him, but I did it. You think the world isn’t a better place without him in it? That was me.’ I touched a thumb to my chest. ‘Me. Not you, not any one of you. Me. So if you need to know why I did four years of what they call soft fucking time, go find yourself a guy called Brady, last I heard he was calling the shots in Harcourt Street. A cop, yeah, but a cop who knows how the game works. Tell him I sent you, he’ll give you anything you need to know. As for this bullshit, I’ve had a long fucking night and I’m legally entitled to make a statement,’ I glanced up at the lens, ‘which I’m now officially requesting. So either take my statement and let me go, or arrest me and let me get some sleep.’

He stared awhile, lower jaw moving like he was grinding corn. Then he left the room. He came back with a uniform who wasn’t old enough to shave. The clock on the wall read 5.23 AM.

I stuck to the story. How Finn’d rang to say his Audi was giving him trouble, which was why he’d needed a cab. He’d been smoking a little dope, sure, but he’d been upbeat, making plans to get married and move to Cyprus. The last thing I’d expected was for him to jump, but he did. Sic transit gloria mundi .

The uniform went away to type up the statement.

‘This dope he was smoking,’ Tohill said. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he got it?’

‘No idea.’

‘Smoke a little with him, hey?’

‘That’d violate the terms of my release.’

‘Still, maybe we should have you take a piss test.’

I allowed that one fall pat, let him feel exactly how small was something so big. He tugged on his nose. ‘Just so you know,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t cost me a second thought to put you back in the bin.’

‘What it’d cost is about quarter of a million a year to keep me there,’ I said.

‘Scum like you, it’s worth it.’

He looked worn down, shapeless and shabby. He’d have been better off investing his tax dollar in a decent suit.

The uniform brought the statement back in to be signed. Tohill leaned against the door-jamb rolling his neck in clockwise circles while I gave it the once-over.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he sighed, ‘just sign the fucking thing.’

‘No problem. Once I’m sure it’s all my own work.’

There was a knock at the door. Tohill stepped out. I rolled a cigarette, tucked it behind my ear. Tohill came back in, rolling his shoulders.

I glanced up in the corner. The green light had stopped blinking.

Shit.

He picked the statement off the table, nodding as he read through. ‘Remind me,’ he said, ‘how there was no one else at the PA when you arrived. Although first,’ he crumpled the statement and tossed it in my face, ‘let me tell you how we just had a call. From someone you might know. The name Gillick ring any bells?’

‘Gillick?’

‘He’s what you might call a concerned citizen. Public-spirited. Heard on the radio about a suicide down at the PA building, thought he could help with our enquiries. Clarify a thing or two.’

‘Sounds like a real gent.’

‘Says he was down at the PA earlier on, consulting with his client, Finn Hamilton. Strange place and time for a consultation, I’d have said, but anyway, Gillick noticed this guy who came in, Rigby he called him. About five-eleven, dark hair, medium build running to skinny. Early forties. White shirt, black tie, had the look of the loser in a Travellers’ bare-knuckle brawl.’

‘Be some coincidence if it wasn’t me.’

I wondered if he knew his right hand was balled, the knuckles gone creamy. ‘You just made a statement that could put you away for two years. And that’s before they open your old file, wondering if you’re not starting to get squirrelly again.’

‘I didn’t mention Gillick because you were asking if I’d seen anyone who’d push Finn out of a window. Gillick was long gone by then. And anyway, he’s Finn’s solicitor, or was. Why would he push Finn anywhere?’

‘Smart,’ he said. He was fast. Grabbed my tie while I was mid-blink, rammed the knot up under my Adam’s apple. Enough squeeze to cut off my air, not so hard he’d do permanent damage. ‘But you’ll need to smarten up, Rigby. Otherwise you’re looking at-’

Another knock on the door. The uniform popped his head in. ‘Sir, that solicitor’s — shit. Sir ?’ Tohill turned his head. ‘That solicitor’s arrived, sir. Wants to see his client.’

The door closed. Tohill let go, shoving my head back, then leaned in so close I could tell he’d had Bolognese for dinner, heavy on the garlic. ‘I’ll fucking nail you both,’ he said.

I loosened the knot, working it free with a forefinger. ‘You should floss,’ I croaked.

He slammed the table with the flat of his hand but I didn’t jump any higher than a Mexican flea. A sour chuckle, then he hawked and spat.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ I said, wiping gluey spittle from my cheek with the tail of my shirt.

‘Sometimes you forget why you do the job. Scum like you, you’re a refresher course.’

‘They also serve who stand and wait.’

He made a point of straightening his tie and then he was gone. I mopped up the last of the phlegm. The stench of garlic hung in the air but at least I wasn’t smelling burnt pork anymore.

While I waited for Gillick to pay for the coffees I thought about how I didn’t have a solicitor, couldn’t afford one, hadn’t asked for one and hadn’t needed one, not until a solicitor rang the cops.

He’d walked me out of the cop shop, asked me to join him for an early breakfast. I told him sure, so long as it featured grilled kidneys, at least one of them his, then walked on. Thirty seconds later the maroon Saab cruised by, Jimmy rolling down the window. He pulled in, double-parked. ‘I’m the one has to pick up the toys,’ he said, ‘when he throws them out of the pram.’