Eightball Boogie Read Free

you up for withholding information, obstructing the course of justice.”
    “ Perverting, Tom, the way I do it.”
    He shot a glance over his shoulder, at the unmarked blue Mondeo parked to one side of the house, rasped: “So what do I know?”
    “ She was found – by who we don’t yet know – a couple of hours ago. Throat slit ear to ear, the wound so deep the spinal cord was almost severed. Her underwear was still intact. Coke on the coffee table, which may or may not be significant. Only fingerprints on the knife – steak knife, serrated edge – are hers. How’m I doing?”
    He was back sucking lemons again.
    “ You forgot the toaster and cuddly toy.”
    “ No one commits suicide up at the racecourse, Tom. People go home from the racecourse and commit suicide, maybe. And who nearly severs their spinal cord cutting their throat?”
    “ Imelda Sheridan.”
    “ Bollocks. Who’s the prime suspect?”
    “ You, now you know so much.”
    “ Me and half the town, Tom. Word gets around. How’s the husband?”
    He didn’t like the implication.
    “ You’re a sick man, Rigby.”
    “ It’s terminal, too. Has he been questioned?”
    “ Why would we question him?”
    “ For spite. Overtime. He’s a humpy cunt. Take your pick.”
    “ Say we did question him. What would we ask?”
    “ Where he was when it happened. Or would that be too personal?”
    “ Suicide isn’t a spectator sport, Rigby.”
    “ You know the stats, Tom. Men top themselves, young men. She’s what – early fifties? She has the big house, tennis courts out the back. Trotting around blinding us all with Prada and Louis Vuitton. Husband’s best buddies with the chief whip, and if he fucks that up he can always fall back on the ambulance-chasing. If she’s not in the social pages it means the NUJ’s out on strike and the kids are reared, one an intern, the daughter away saving the rain forests, bless her cotton socks.” I cut to the chase. “Why would Imelda Sheridan commit suicide?”
    “ Money isn’t everything. She might have been depressed.”
    I didn’t like it, Kilfeather being so reasonable. It meant I was on the wrong track.
    “ And maybe she thought Santa wouldn’t come. Who found her, Tom?”
    “ No can do, Rigby.”
    “ Jesus, Tom –”
    The voice came from over my shoulder, gruff, a cement mixer learning German.
    “ Kilfeather?”
    He didn’t look down at me. I looked up to where a wide face was crowned with thin blonde hair. The suit was a size too small but a Big Top would have been a size too small. He had a Desperate Dan chin and you could have landed a helicopter on his chest in a gale. The smell of stale whiskey wafted across, harsh as petrol. I hoped, for his sake, he was drunk when he bought the camelhair overcoat.
    Kilfeather smartened up.
    “ That’s right, yeah. Brady, isn’t it?”
    “ When I’m off-duty. Right now it’s Detective Brady. Who’s this fucker?”
    “ He’s a local hack. Rigby they call him.”
    “ What’s he doing here?”
    “ Sniffing around.”
    “ No shit, Holmes. How come he’s here?”
    Kilfeather shrugged, squared his shoulders, letting Brady know, he didn’t appreciate the third degree.
    “ How come any of us are here? He heard about it, thought there might be something worth seeing.”
    “ He get it downtown?”
    “ Probably.”
    “ Who?”
    Kilfeather shrugged.
    “ Who the fuck knows?”
    “ Find the fuck out or I’ll cite you in the report. What’d you tell him?”
    Kilfeather seethed, cheeks flaming. Dug the word out, rough. “Nothing.”
    “ You took a while doing it.”
    “ He thinks she didn’t top herself. I put him straight.”
    “ Straight – what’s straight?”
    “ That it’s an ongoing investigation but the signs point to suicide. That much he had already.”
    Brady spat, pulled up his belt up.
    “ Next time, send him to me. No – next time, bang him up.”
    “ Yessir. What charge?”
    He looked at me for the first time, top to bottom in