by Declan Burke
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.’
My guts flipped over. I felt trapped, the room shrinking, a clammy claustrophobia sucking on my lungs. ‘If it’s all the same to you …’
‘It’s not.’ She softened her tone. ‘You knew him, Mr Rigby. Perhaps you can help me make sense of it all.’
‘You should probably talk to Maria.’
She fixed me with the pair of cobalt skewers. ‘You weren’t to know, Mr Rigby. But my orders are that that whore’s name is not to be spoken in this house.’
‘With all due respect, orders aren’t really my thing.’
I waited, tensed up, while the sedatives and martinis waged war in her eyes. I was guessing she’d be a lot more brutal than her daughter when she finally let—
Shit.
Like father, like son.
I cursed myself for not seeing it before. For not trying to understand how it might feel to be Saoirse Hamilton, so used to having her every whim indulged and command obeyed, now rocked to her core by the suicide of both husband and son. A bereft queen skulking behind her throne, terrified and uncomprehending as she ducked the chunks of masonry shaken loose by some blind and barbarous emissary of Fate.
I could sympathise, sure. If it was Ben who’d just topped himself, I’d be lashing out myself. But Maria deserved better than crude abuse, even from a woman who was for now little more than agony made flesh, an old wound ripped open to be salted all over again.
‘Does Maria know?’ I said. ‘Has she even been told?’
‘I’ll remind you,’ she said, ‘that you are under my roof.’
‘And I’ll remind you I’m here as a favour to Finn, not you.’
His name seemed to clarify something. She still glared, but her eyes were fully clear now, focused. She tapped the sheet of paper in a way that made me feel like a whole row of violins. ‘Hey Joe,’ she said, ‘where are you going with that gun in your hand?’
It was obscene. She read all the way through to the end in a husky monotone. When she was finished she raised her eyes to mine. ‘Can I ask you, Mr Rigby, what you make of that?’
‘It’s a song. They’re lyrics.’
‘That much I already know. What I am asking is, why do you think Finn would have left those lyrics in particular?’
‘He liked the song. It was one of his favourites.’
‘I understand. But you will appreciate what I mean when I say that they do not appear to be entirely relevant. This,’ she continued, glancing down contemptuously, ‘seems to be about shooting an unfaithful lover. Whereas most suicide notes, if I am not mistaken, will at least attempt to explain why its writer killed himself.’
‘Maybe it does.’
‘So you believe,’ a triumphant trembling, ‘he was distraught about her infidelity.’
‘Maria’s?’
Her mouth tightened in the corners. ‘Who else?’
‘That’s a hell of a leap. What I’m saying is, you’d need to have been inside Finn’s head to know what he meant.’
‘Can I ask you to try?’
‘He was suicidal,’ I said. ‘No one can—’
‘Mr Gillick tells me that you shared,’ and here the corner of her mouth turned down, ‘a room with Finn. For almost a year.’
‘A cell, yeah. That was a long time ago.’
‘Mr Gillick also tells me you were a private investigator.’
‘That was a different life. And anyway, I—’
‘Would you mind?’ She held out the note. ‘Perhaps, given your experience, you might spot a clue.’
A clue, of course. One brief scan of the note would reveal to master sleuth Rigby that Colonel Mustard had used the lead pipe to batter Finn off the roof of the library.
‘Please?’ she said, proffering the sheet of paper. ‘I would consider it a very great favour.’
First Jimmy, now Saoirse Hamilton. People I wanted nothing from kept offering me favours.
‘All I crave,’ she said, ‘is a tiny corner of my mind where I might find some measure of peace. If you refuse,’ she chuckled the coldest sound I’d ever heard, ‘I may be forced to request a priest.’
I took the note. A copy, obviously. The cops wouldn’t have released the genuine article yet. It was written in his familiar flowing script, and while it would take a handwriting expert to say for sure, the writing looked like his, normal and unstressed. Apart from the notations between the lines, which were basic chord progressions, there were no additions. It wasn’t even signed.
‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘Like I say, the song is one of Finn’s favourites. This is the Hendrix cover, Jimi Hendrix, which most people consider definitive. Finn preferred Love’s version, it has more of an energy, sounds more desperate.’
‘Go on.’
‘Finn knows the song by heart. There’d be no reason for him to scribble out the lyrics for himself, it’d be like the Pope doodling a Hail Mary.’
‘Your point, Mr Rigby?’
‘I’m not being flip. I’m just trying to eliminate possibilities. You told me that this is a suicide note, and I’m suggesting there are other options.’
‘Such as?’
‘The most probable, going by the notations, is that he was writing out the lyrics for someone who wanted to learn the song. A talented beginner, maybe. It’s not the easiest song in the world to play but the chords here are fairly straightforward.’
‘You don’t believe it’s his note?’
‘It’s his writing, sure, but Finn was his own man. If he had something to say, he’d have said it in his own words.’
She pressed a forefinger to her lips, then used a knuckle to snick a tear from the corner of her eye. She beckoned for the note. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘Confirming my sanity.’
‘What I believe and what’s true aren’t necessarily the same thing, Mrs Hamilton. And—’
‘Saoirse, please.’
‘Okay.’ She was fairly pouring it on now. First the tears, now the brazen familiarity with the lumpen prole. ‘What I’m saying is, just because – whoa.’
She’d balled the note and tossed it on top of the log fire. While she crossed to the bar I watched it shrivel into a petrol-blue flame. She came back with a fresh martini, a Jack. She handed me the glass and perched on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, one knee crossed on the other. Her tone was brisk.
‘Estranged or not, Mr Rigby, I know my son. He would have left a note. And if he did write a note, it shouldn’t be too hard to find, even for,’ she cleared her throat, ‘a retired investigator. It’s not the kind of thing you hide.’
I thought she was right, but then suicide is by definition out of character. And once a man finds himself out in the badlands, out beyond rule and law and custom, who knows what anyone might do?
‘Sorry, Mrs Hamilton, but I’m not the man for—’
‘I would like to retain your services, Mr Rigby. I want you to find for me, if it exists, Finn’s suicide note.�
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‘With all due respect, Mrs Hamilton—’
‘Saoirse.’
‘—I’d be wasting your time. I’ve been away from the game too long and I’ve no intention of ever going back. On top of that, the cops have already been over the studio. Like you say, if Finn did write a note, he wouldn’t have hidden it. He’d have left it to be found.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t leave it at the studio.’
‘So you go to his apartment. If he wrote one – and not all suicides leave a note – it’ll probably be there.’
‘That would be impossible.’
‘I’m sure, under the circumstances, Maria would—’
‘Mr Rigby, I have warned you once. I will not warn you again.’
I put the Jack on the low table, stood up. ‘You have my sympathies, Mrs Hamilton. Really. But looking for a suicide note that probably doesn’t—’
‘I’m begging you.’
You can tell when people use a phrase for the first time. The virgin words sound awkward, the tongue fumbling its way around syllables rough as broken teeth. Her face was turned up to mine, imploring. The fluffy robe had fallen away to reveal an expanse of décolletage, but it was the naked want in her eyes that made me avert my eyes. A raw and secret savagery.
‘Simon has my card,’ I said. ‘If you still feel this way tomorrow morning, then call me and we’ll talk about it again.’
I said it as gently as I knew how, but a dismissal is a dismissal and Saoirse Hamilton wasn’t practised at being gracious when denied.
‘Do you think it might be possible for a mother to ever stop wondering why her son would do such a thing, Mr Rigby?’ Each word was a scourge. ‘Can you honestly believe that one day will make any difference to how I feel?’
I considered that. ‘Gillick told you I did time,’ I said.
‘Yes, he did.’ A faint sneer. ‘And why.’
‘Then you’ll appreciate why I don’t want to be the one to raise false hopes. Goodnight, Mrs Hamilton.’
I felt like a toe-rag walking away. Still, a glass shattered against the frame as I opened the door, spraying me with Jack.
That helped.
14
You know you’ve arrived when a solicitor says you lack even a shred of human decency, by the shred being how lawyer types measure decency.
I was living that year on Castle Street, three floors up from a coffee shop, Early ’Til Latte, which was already open when Gillick finally dropped me off, the sky gunmetal grey, dawn cocking the hammer. On the second floor was the tiny landing where I’d once had an office. Back then I’d called myself a research consultant, but I was generally the only one who called. Now I lived on the floor above, under the eaves. One of Hamilton Holdings’ minions would have described it as a penthouse with potential, although less Joycean fabulists would call it disused attic storage. A single room of sloping ceilings with low wide windows facing east and west, the stairwell of the bare wooden stairs taking up most of the south wall. A one-ring gas stove in a corner, some books and CDs on the windowsills, a squat hurricane lamp on the floor beside the fold-down couch. No electricity, but I mostly worked nights, so that was okay too. The bathroom was in a closet off the landing below. The décor boasted flaking paint and patches of damp, the colour scheme canary yellow trimmed in blue. A family of mice nested in one corner and I did what I could to respect their privacy.
I was so tired unlocking the door that it took me three keys to realise it was already unlocked. I pushed on through.
‘Dutch?’
‘Out on the roof.’
Dutch ran The Cellars, the pub across the street. Sometimes after work he dropped by for a smoke to wind down before going home, a game of chess on my nights off. If I wasn’t there he’d let himself in, do the needful, head off again.
Unusual for him to stick around, though. He must have heard.
I ducked out through the east window onto the flat tar roof, where Dutch had unfolded the deckchair, got himself comfortable. From there the view was rooftops down as far as the river, then the bay opening up beyond Yeats’ Bridge. Benbulben a purple haze ten miles out. Dutch peered up at me, bleary-eyed.
‘Christ,’ he said, ‘what the fuck happened you?’
‘Finn Hamilton jumped off the PA.’
‘So I hear. Didn’t know he landed on you.’
‘Damn near did.’
I took a hit off the spliff he offered, ignoring the stale whiff of blood caking black under my nails. He nodded along while I filled him in, gloomy but unsurprised. He’d known Finn, had hosted his band once in The Cellars, the usual deal, the boys drinking free for as long as they played. Which didn’t exactly put a hole in Dutch’s pocket. Finn’s boys were a Rollerskate Skinny tribute band, or more accurately a tribute band playing the Horsedrawn Wishes album, a loose setup with his mate Paul on drums, a couple of the lads who jammed up in Dude McLynn’s on bass and rhythm, Johnny Burrows picking away, Finn taking the lead and vocals. That night they’d been bottled off after two songs, Dutch lobbing lemons from behind the bar. Spanners trapped in a spin-cycle, he reckoned, until I gave him the CD and he realised that was how they were supposed to sound, the Pistols trying on Beethoven’s Ninth. Dutch didn’t buy it. ‘So he’s put together this tribute band to play what you’re telling me is the greatest album of all time, except the real band went bust because they couldn’t play it live, couldn’t tour. Is that it?’
In a nutshell, pretty much.
That was Finn, though. Watching him up there that night on the non-existent stage, ducking bottles, putting all that effort into playing songs nobody knew or cared about, not giving a shit what the audience liked or thought it wanted – yeah, sure, he was a dilettante, self-indulgent. But you’d want to have a dead soul not to applaud the nobility of the gesture, the quixotic purity of it all.
And maybe that was the problem right there. That Finn had surrounded himself with people who’d encouraged his every extravagance, who’d clapped him up onto the stage knowing the whimsy could only end badly, or out onto those cliffs to watch him dive, cheering him all the way out onto that ledge nine storeys up.
‘And you’re feeling guilty enough to try,’ Dutch said when I told him Saoirse Hamilton wanted me to find Finn’s suicide note.
‘His sister says it’s traditional.’
‘Bullshit.’ He yawned and scratched at his skull stubble. ‘Say you were even psychic, you twigged to what he was planning. Okay, you could’ve stopped him. This one time.’
‘Once might have been enough.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Harry. There’s an epidemic out there, blokes jumping every day. And you know blokes, the first you’ll hear is the splat.’
‘They’re not fucking lemmings, Dutch. Every one of them has a good fucking reason to go.’
‘Reasons plural. It’s never just one thing.’
‘Sure, yeah. But I’d say if you went through every last one, money’d be an issue somewhere along the line. And whatever else Finn had going on, money wasn’t a problem.’
‘Harry,’ he said quietly, ‘the guy was a diagnosed schizo. I mean, that’s how you met him, right? All fucked up over his father, traumatised, he’s burning down everything that can’t run away.’
‘I told you that in confidence, Dutch.’
He looked pointedly over both shoulders. ‘Who else is here?’
‘Anyway, that was all a long time ago.’
‘So was the Big Bang, and we’re still dealing with that shit too. And the guy was smoking his head off, Harry. Not exactly what the doctor ordered, eh?’
‘You’re saying I enabled him.’
‘Fuck that. You didn’t sort him out, he’d have gone somewhere else.’
‘He didn’t, though, did he?’
‘Don’t do that, Harry. Seriously, can you hear yourself? You’re like a teenage girl.’ A mincing tone. ‘“Should I have known? Was I the reason he jumped?” You’ll be starting a fucking Facebook page for him next.�
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‘Yeah, well, something sent him out that window.’
He exhaled a long draw and held out the spliff. ‘And you’re sure,’ he said, serious now, ‘it was something and not someone.’
‘I was the only one around.’
‘Far as you know. How long were you up there?’
‘In the studio? Twenty minutes. Maybe more.’
‘Plenty of time for Gillick, this Jimmy guy, to get around the back. Up the fire escape. Or anyone else, for that matter.’
‘Possible, yeah, except the cops didn’t find any sign of a struggle. Jimmy’s a big man but Finn’s tall, he wouldn’t have gone out that window easy. And anyway, why would Gillick want him gone? He’s the family solicitor, he’s horse-trading with Finn for the PA.’
‘Except you’re saying, the mother reckons that couldn’t happen.’
‘That’s what she told me.’
‘Maybe Gillick found a way around it.’
‘That’s what I said. But Gillick’s in tight there, covers all the legal shit for Hamilton Holdings. Always has. I doubt he’d blow a sweet deal like that for a one-off on the PA, a piece of shit no one wants.’
‘So maybe it’s someone else.’
‘Who? Finn’s a good guy, Dutch, he’s in the Champion every second week with some charity or other. Runs the artist’s co-op, Christ, he’s out on a limb for—’
‘Sure, yeah. But a good-looking guy like that, plenty of cash to flash, he liked to put it about …’
‘Not since Maria. Not that I heard, anyway.’
‘He’d hardly go broadcasting it on the radio, would he?’
‘No, but he was making plans, getting married. Moving to Cyprus.’
‘Sure,’ Dutch said, ‘one step ahead of the posse, some father waving a shotgun. I mean, this Cyprus move, it’s all a bit sudden, right?’
‘Last night was the first I heard of it, yeah. But who knows how long he was planning it? And anyway, it was nothing he actually said, but …’
‘What?’
‘He mentioned kids, Dutch. How Cyprus was this great place for raising a family.’ I shrugged. ‘I got the feeling, just the way he was saying it, that Maria is pregnant.’
