Eight Ball Boogie Part 5

"Leaving?"

"Divorce."

This time she was emphatic, shaking her head.

"Imelda would never agree to oh."

"She had a strong faith? She was religious?"

"No I don't know, maybe. But she was happy with what she had. She didn't need Tony to enjoy it."

"She married for the money?"

She threw me a disdainful one sure, why else?

"I'm sure I wouldn't know, detective."

Herbie, coming in hard: "What about drugs?"

"Drugs?"

"Imelda got an early white Christmas, a St. Bernard dug her out of the drift in her living room. That kind of thing usual for Imelda?"

"Jesus, I wouldn't think so. You're sure you have the right "

"We always have the right. You think Tony might have stabbed his wife?"

"No!" Bouncing back now. "And I don't think "

"That's our job," Herbie snapped, "the thinking. Could he have had it arranged?"

"How would I know?"

"Yes or no, here or in the station."

"No."

I pinched my nose again.

"Joan, we appreciate your co-operation and we realise that this must have come as a great shock." She nodded, head down, milking it. "Can we ask you not to leave the jurisdiction without notifying us in advance?"

She came up fast, her eyes wide.

"Am I ? Does that mean ?"

"No ma'am, but we would appreciate it if you would stay in touch." I paused. "Given the circ.u.mstances, we're just concerned for everyone's safety."

She gaped, swallowed hard, and the sobs started welling up again. I made some comforting noises, patted her shoulder. We left. When the lift doors closed, Herbie glanced across, catching my eye.

"That's our job," he drawled, "the thinking."

"You're a f.u.c.king ham."

We left the apartment building foyer separately, still buzzing on the mood.

5.

Back at the office I flipped through the post all bills binning the first-timers. Rolled a smoke, mulling over the newspaper clipping Katie had left behind, wondering again why she might have left it. Saw a face, back row, top right black piggy eyes in a sallow face that didn't need a shave.

I got the old familiar feeling, stomach churning up concrete, hairs p.r.i.c.kling on the back of my neck the sensation I was being watched. I didn't go for the .38 again. I sparked the smoke instead, popped another pill and rang the morgue, wondering if I should just book a slab and be done with it. I flipped a coin. It didn't come down.

She was a dumb blonde, pushing fifty and pushing downhill and still dumb enough to want to be blonde. Skin the colour of vellum paper, sagging under the chin. Lips thin and just about pink, the nose narrow, the hair on her upper lip also dyed blonde. I wanted to ask how come blondes never got around to dyeing their eyebrows but her eyes were closed and the gash in her throat ran six inches east to west.

The morgue was chilly, sterile and white. Six floors of hospital hummed through to the bas.e.m.e.nt but I could still hear the intern sweat. His eyes darted from Imelda Sheridan to the door, back again.

"They know who found her yet?"

He licked his lips, teeth protruding, a thin horsy face.

"How the f.u.c.k would I know?"

"You might have asked."

"Why the f.u.c.k would I ask?"

"I don't know job the f.u.c.k satisfaction, maybe."

He laughed a thin, high snort, a rat with sinus trouble. Dragged the sheet back across her face.

"Rack 'em, stack 'em, pack 'em. They want more, they pay more."

"More what whizz?"

His face whitened, mouth slack and hanging open, lights on and n.o.body home.

"You need sleep," I told him.

"What I need's a gun."

"Careful what you wish for, Chief. Any word on the pathologist's prelim?"

"Lots of 'em. Couple of pages worth."

"Any of them worth repeating?"

"How the f.u.c.k "

"Would you know? I was hoping you'd learnt to read since last time."

He rubbed a hand across his buzz cut.

"Anyone finds out I let you in here "

"I know, I'd have to tell them you plunder the cabinet and people are dying because you've got the whizz shakes. Dry your eyes."

I headed for the door, looking back as he slid Imelda Sheridan's slab home.

"You hear anything about the post-mortem, give me a bell."

"How the f.u.c.k "

I let the morgue door swish to.

I sipped at the coffee, thought some more about Katie. Wondering how her split ends were faring. A light bulb flared, fifteen watts. I dug out the Red Directory, thumbed through to Hairdressers and worked backwards alphabetically, on a whim.

"h.e.l.lo, I'm ringing on behalf of Tony Sheridan. He'd like to cancel his wife's styling appointment... I can, yes... No? Really? I'm sorry, I must have been given the wrong number... Pardon? Yes, of course I'll pa.s.s that on... Sorry for taking up your time. Bye."

Seven tries later, I hit pay dirt.

"Yes, well, I'm just making the arrangements, Mr Sheridan wouldn't want to put anyone out... Sorry? Yes, that is just like him... I'll certainly pa.s.s that on. You're very kind. Who am I talking to? Sandra?"

Sandra was the kind of artist, she could overpaint a Botticelli with a Barbie cartoon and throw in highlights for free. She was a walking advertis.e.m.e.nt, snipped and buffed, bleached and tucked, her skin the colour of old toffee. Her face was sharp, plastic and angular, a shoulder-mounted credit card.

"That's very kind, Sandra... Yes, she was. A lady, indeed... It was just a styling, wasn't it? You'll be compensated for the inconvenience, of course... Manicure too? A facial, of course... Yes, I understand, yes... Sorry? Yes, I'm sure Mr Sheridan realises that... Yes, of course I will. G.o.d bless. Bye."

Tom Kilfeather wasn't a bad cop but he'd forgotten the little he knew about women the day he got married. If Imelda Sheridan had been depressed, the way Kilfeather called it, the funk hadn't been deep enough to stop her planning for the party season with a full makeover three days before Christmas. I rolled a smoke and treated myself to a stare at the far wall.

The big man came through the door like a rolling maul, planted his huge fists on the desk.

"If you don't knock," I pointed out, "it's B&E. Technically speaking."

He grinned, wide and evil.

"Technically speaking, I could give a f.u.c.k." He stuck his face in mine, jabbed a thumb at his chest. His breath hadn't freshened any since he ran me off Sheridan's spread, and he was sweating like an old cheese. "Detective Brady. You, me, a little conversation."

"By all means. It's a dying art."

He perched on the edge of the desk, stuck out his chin. A redundant gesture, the chin was already out the window and waiting for a break in traffic.

"Impersonating a garda will get you five to ten. The broken elbows are optional. Give me one reason why I don't run you in right now."

"I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Joan Hunter, Tony Sheridan's ex-tart. You braced her this morning, said you were a cop."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"She'll swear to it."

"She'll perjure herself." I nodded at the sign on the door. "This is a research bureau. We do detective work. Not my fault if she jumped to the wrong conclusion."

He grinned again, but not like he'd just remembered a punch line.

"Smart, eh? I like the smart ones, they don't run so fast." He scratched his stubble. "What'd she tell you?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

"Tell me anyway."

"No."

He considered that and let it slide.

"You're the hack was up at Tony Sheridan's this morning."

"Correct."

"Who do you work for?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm also a freelance journalist."

"First thing, Rigby everything is my business. Second thing smart off at me again and they'll carry you out in three black bags. Third thing whatever you found out this morning is null and void. The information never existed. You've already forgotten everything you saw and heard."

"And when you click your fingers, I'll quack like a duck."

He flexed his fingers, grinned evil again, a fox spotting a snared rabbit. I tensed, ready to roll with it. He said: "Ever hear of the Official Secrets Act?"

"Of course. It's right there in the book, next to Freedom of Information."