Declan Hughes - The Price of Blood

"Well, let me put your minds at rest," I said. "I don't give a damn about what deals you have with F. X. Tyrrell or Jack Proby. I don't give a damn which horse wins or doesn't, although I am always in the market for a sure thing. All I care about is that since I started looking for Patrick Hutton, the bodies have been piling up. Far as I'm concerned, if F.X. is shy about who he sleeps with, that's his lookout. And allowing for the fact that I don't like blackmailing, extorting, scum-sucking sociopaths like yourselves on any level you care to mention, you're not my problem. My problem is finding out what happened to Patrick Hutton. Allied to that, I've inherited the problem of who killed Don Kennedy, Jackie Tyrrell and Terry Folan."

"Terry Folan?" Leo said, looking up at me. "Bomber Folan?"

"That's right," I said. "Who'd you think that body on the dump was? Patrick Hutton? Or did you not think anyone else'd find out?"

Leo began to say something, then stopped himself. George looked from his brother to me and back, a Cohiba chafing against his still-dark mustache.

"Anything here I should know about, lads?" he said. We both ignored him.

"It wasn't just you at breakfast with Vincent Tyrrell, was it Leo? Miranda Hart was there too."

Again Leo went to speak, but stopped himself.

"That's why I'm here, is it? In case the inconvenient deaths of three people get in the way of a fucking horse race?"

"And if you go blundering about down there, you could fuck up quite a few fucking horse races, Ed Loy: the last thing we need is the Tyrrell horses being withdrawn because their trainer is up on a charge, Bottle of Red in particular," George barked from a blue cloud of cigar smoke. A descant of coughing followed; Leo winced and flapped a hand in front of his face.

"Fair enough," I said. "Is that what you're telling me, that F. X. Tyrrell is the killer?"

"That's just a for instance," George spluttered.

"Well, here's another: the killer takes F. X. Tyrrell out. Maybe he already has. Same result to you: no Tyrrell horse at the races."

George sat still, his black eyes vanishing into his clenched fist of a face.

"I don't think it was Jack Proby you were talking to at all," I said. "I think it was either Miranda Hart, or Gerald Stenson."

George's face didn't flicker. Leo on the other hand, finally spoke.

"I thought I knew what was going on there, but I don't. Your woman's a lying cunt, every disrespect, she's a whore and a pig and she always will be, right?"

He knew I had to take that, and I did.

"I think her and Steno are into the fucking Tyrrells for some fucking score, I don't know what it is."

"How do you know?"

"Good question. Because she told me: which almost guarantees it isn't true. Steno always was a sly cunt, mind you."

"Did she know about the bodies?"

"She knew about Kennedy. And she said she thought the other body was Pa Hutton. She said it was nothing to do with her, but she couldn't stop it. Wouldn't explain that. Father Vincent said she needed to call the cops and tell them. She said there was no way she could get out of it. All this, and of course she's crying and wailing and looking up out of her big eyes like a fucking panda, oh poor her."

"What do you think?"

"That's what I'm telling you. I don't know."

"What about Steno? He's beginning to sound like an interesting character."

Leo drew his narrow lips farther into his mouth.

"Steno was a nasty piece of work. People talked about St. Jude's, you know, the abusers on the staff. The one I remember, going around, you had to watch your back, was one of the boys: Steno. And later, when he was dealing smack, he'd take his pick of the junkies. When Miranda Hart was at her worst, that was Steno she was running around with. Pair of them suited each other."

I thought of Hutton's dumb show of rape and abuse.

"Did Steno ever attack Hutton?"

Leo looked astonished at the question.

"How the fuck d'you know that? Did Father Vincent tell you? Fuck, I don't think even he knew."

"He raped him, didn't he?"

"I always blamed him. Pa never knew for sure, said he had a blindfold on. I don't think Pa ever really got over it. Seriously, how do you know? Is Pa Hutton alive? Have you seen him?"

George cleared his throat in aggressive distaste.

Leo flung a look at George, and I thought for a moment he was going to show him what aggressive meant; then he turned back to me, his dark eyes suddenly desperate for a word from beyond the grave.

"I think he may be, yes. The more you can tell me, the closer I'll get to him. What about back in the day, you and F. X. Tyrrell?" I said. "Was F.X. interested in Hutton too?"

"Pa was never into that."

"Vincent Tyrrell said the pair of you were about to be expelled from St. Jude's for indecent conduct. He said at first, F. X. Tyrrell had his eye on Patrick Hutton."

"Father Tyrrell is a devious cunt. Father Tyrrell wants you to find things out, but he doesn't want to help you. Father Tyrrell must think you're going to get divine inspiration."

"How could he have helped me?"

"He could have told you that I was the one F.X. wanted. Sure he had a notion of Pa as a jockey, but I was the one he wanted all along."

One of the construction workers drove me back to Quarry Fields, and Leo sat in the backseat beside me. For some reason, the physical threat seemed to have receded, or at least that was what my gut told me. My gut had been wrong before, but this late in a case, it was almost all I had. When we got to the house, he put a hand on my arm.

"As long as Bottle of Red loses tomorrow, George'll be happy. Don't fuck that up, all right?"

I said I wouldn't.

"It might all sound very seedy and fucked up at this distance, you know, industrial schools, abuse, all this. And then F. X. Tyrrell…as if he came in and said, I'll have him over there, that one. But it wasn't like that, you know?"

I looked at Leo, and by reflex at the driver.

"He's Ukrainian. Fuck-all English. Apart from beer, isn't that right man, beer, beer, voddy vodka and beer?"

The driver nodded dutifully, a grim smile on his wide mouth. Leo turned his dark eyes back to me.

"It was…he'd chosen me, but I was willing. He was a serious guy, F. X. Tyrrell, he was a fucking legend. I mean, say you were sixteen and I don't know who asked for you, some older one, Michelle Pfeiffer, or Ellen Barkin, or fuckin'…your one…who would you have liked?"

I shrugged.

"Your one," I said, and Leo giggled.

"I can't remember her name, the English one who's always in the nip. But I mean, you would have said, fucking sure, wouldn't you? And that's what it was like, he was a charismatic guy, a suave fucker, and we were always into the ponies so he was like a fucking hero: I said, which way do you want me? I'm not sayin' there was no shit at St. Jude's, there fucking was, and it was always the weaker kids that got fucked, in every way. But I wasn't one of them. I was older anyway. And I was looking out for Pa, too, I…I loved the guy, you know? Mates. Not that there was anything between us, I mean, he was never that way, though I gave it a decent go…but we were like brothers…only, not like my fucking brothers…no need to mention Podge, I should pay someone in Mountjoy to shank the fat fuck…and as for fucking George, since I got out, I don't know who the fuck he thinks he is, always shitein' on about fuckin' business lunches and helipads and fucking interest rates, I've a pain in me hole listening to the cunt, I'm not coddin' you…I knew Pa needed a helping hand, you know, but he was a class jockey…so anyway, we were both getting what we wanted, that's how it was."

Leo lit a Gauloise and exhaled and sat in wistful reverie for a while.