Declan Burke - Slaughter's hound

Bob Hamilton, I presumed, larger than life, although he’d been plenty large in life. A swarthy cove to begin with, the artist had given him a piratical mien, placing Big Bob on the deck of a yacht where the breeze could amuse itself for all eternity in ruffling his dark curls, or at least until someone decided a Knuttel molls-and-gangsters pastiche was more in keeping with the ambience. Gillick’s presence suggested that that day wouldn’t be long coming. The brandy balloon in his chubby fingers gave the gathering an incongruous air of celebration.

That room could have fit a small helicopter, although the pilot would need to be the barnstorming type to avoid mangling the by now obligatory squiggles and scrawls that defaced three walls. The fourth, the rear wall, was composed entirely of glass. The crushed-velvet drapes were drawn back, affording a view of a dawn-drained North Atlantic that stretched most of the way to Iceland and a sky like Carrera marble, hard and cold behind the faint pink blush.

Gillick looked pretty comfortable standing beside the fireplace. The nonchalant stance made me wonder if his relationship with Mrs Hamilton was one that required him to stand by that fire on a regular basis, lapping brandy out of a balloon big enough to breed guppies.

I couldn’t fault his taste. In among the high-backed Victorian armchairs, French-polished mahogany and a foot-high brass Cupid pinging his arrow from the distressed-oak coffee table, Mrs Saoirse Hamilton was by some distance the best preserved antique in the room. She reclined on a couch angled towards the log fire, the flames taking their cue from her auburn mane. The ripe side of fifty, luscious as fresh mango, she wore a knee-length nightgown in lavender silk that most women would have happily worn to a wedding, this providing they had a grudge against the bride. A peignoir trimmed with lacy frills would have completed the look, but she’d accessorised, using the word loosely, with a fluffy pink bathrobe, Dennis the Menace-striped leggings and knee-length riding boots. None of which disguised the fact that she had more curves than the Monaco Grand Prix. The drawl suggested she gargled Sweet Afton.

‘Mr Rigby. So good of you to come.’

‘I’m sorry for your troubles, Mrs Hamilton.’

‘You are too kind.’ She inclined her head towards the facing armchair. ‘Please, won’t you sit?’

I sat. She held up her glass. ‘Will you join us in a toast?’

It wouldn’t be her first and they’d have drank on without me, so Simon built me a Jack and ice. We toasted Finn in silence. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘could you leave us for a moment?’

Being no gentleman, I was expected to stay. She watched Simon and Gillick leave, then turned dreamy eyes on mine. Grainne had been sold short with the cobalt blue. Her mother’s eyes were the Aegean on a hazy June dawn. ‘What can you tell me, Mr Rigby?’

‘Not much more than I told Simon, I’m afraid. Sorry.’

‘Yes. Simon told me you were here earlier. Very thoughtful of you, Mr Rigby.’

‘Anyone else would’ve done the same.’

‘I wish that were true. But I am inclined to believe that most people would have washed their hands of the whole sorry mess.’

‘I knew Finn, Mrs Hamilton. I thought it’d be better coming from me than the cops.’

‘So I understand. Unfortunately, Simon was rather vague on the details. Apparently Finn jumped off the PA building shortly after speaking with you.’

‘That’s right.’

She flicked some wayward silk back up onto her ankle. ‘And how was Finn when you spoke with him?’

‘Good form, yeah. He was, y’know, Finn.’

‘And you noticed nothing that might …’ She hesitated, then steeled herself. ‘That might explain why Finn would want to take his life?’

‘Nothing. Really.’

‘May I enquire as to what it was you spoke about?’

‘It was Finn who did most of the talking. He was pretty excited about this new development.’

Her forehead shimmered, which I took to be a Botox frown. ‘Development?’

Gillick, already under some strain hoisting the brandy balloon, had obviously left the heavy lifting to me.

‘It was supposed to be a surprise,’ I said, ‘a wedding present. Luxury apartments, with a salon for Maria.’

‘And where exactly,’ she drawled, glancing away to rearrange some more silk, ‘did he propose to establish this development?’

‘Cyprus.’

‘ Cyp rus?’

‘That’s right. Northern Cyprus.’

‘They were going to live there?’

‘So he said, yeah.’

‘For how long?’

‘All going well, for good.’

She considered that. ‘And did he say when this was likely to happen?’

‘He wasn’t sure. Red tape was holding them up at the Cyprus end. And he was funding it from the sale of the PA building, so …’

Her forehead glistened. ‘The PA?’

‘The Port Authority building.’

‘I know what it is , Mr Rigby.’ She sat up straight, sloshing some martini onto the cuff of the fluffy bathrobe. ‘What is it exactly,’ she said, a cold storm brewing in the Aegean dawn, ‘you are trying to achieve?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The question is straightforward. What is it you hope to achieve by telling me lies?’

‘What lies? I don’t-’

‘That property wasn’t Finn’s to sell, Mr Rigby. It belongs to Hamilton Holdings. And no one knew that better than Finn.’ A mocking smile. This much, at least, she was sure of. ‘So how could he have been planning to sell it?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. You wanted to know what Finn was talking about tonight, and I’m telling you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘That’s your choice, but Finn told me he was selling the PA. If you’re saying he couldn’t, then I don’t know, maybe you should be having this conversation with Gillick. Maybe there’s some loophole in the setup that allowed Finn to sell.’

She stared imperiously, and I guessed I was supposed to find a hole to crawl into, or just whimper a little. I sipped some Jack.

‘You do appreciate,’ she said, ‘that what you’ve just told me is entirely ridiculous.’

I wondered how ridiculous she’d find it if I mentioned Finn’s sudden desire to settle in a place where family still meant something. I set the Jack on the coffee table, being careful to avoid the glazed tile coasters. ‘Here’s what I don’t appreciate, Mrs Hamilton. Getting called a liar. Spending half the night in the cop shop for trying to do the right thing. Having my taxi wrecked.’ I fingered my grazed cheek. ‘Let me know when you’ve heard enough. There’s more.’

‘If it’s compensation you’re-’

‘I’ve been paid, Mrs Hamilton, not bought. The Queen’s shilling doesn’t go as far as it used to these days.’

If looks could kill I’d have been cremated on the spot. ‘How dare-’

I stood up. ‘You want my advice, buy mittens for your daughter. Some day she’ll attack someone who matters.’ I made for the door.

‘Mr Rigby.’

I kept going.

‘Please?’

I faltered, then stopped and turned. ‘Allow me to apologise,’ she said huskily. ‘As you can imagine, this is a fraught time.’ She gestured towards the armchair. ‘Please?’

I figured Gillick had had his five hundred euro worth, but there was a catch in her throat when she said the word ‘please’ that suggested she’d licked it off a leper’s tongue. I sat down again, retrieved the Jack. She settled back into the couch and composed herself. ‘I presume you know that Finn and I have been estranged for some time?’

‘Mrs Hamilton,’ I said, ‘what exactly do you want?’

She compressed her lips, then drained the martini and sat up rearranging more silk. From under a cushion she drew a beige manila envelope and from that she slid an A4 sheet of paper. ‘I’d like you to read his suicide note, Mr Rigby.’