by Sam Millar
“Stop being flippant.”
“Me? You’re the one that just spluttered out some unpronounceable mumbo-jumbo from Mary Poppins on LSD. What was all that, in layman’s terms?”
“Para-phenylenediamine and tetrahydro-6-nitroquinoxaline are two of the many ingredients in dyes – hair dyes and wigs. A chemical analysis shows that particular blonde hair to have been part of a wig.”
“Nice.” Karl smiled.
“Nice is not a word I would use to describe murder.”
“No, of course not. I meant it gives me an angle. This wasn’t r andom. It was premeditated. She probably knew him – knew of him. Wilson believes it was a chance meeting – as does the barman.”
“Wilson? He’s a master of ineptitude. What the hell would he know? Or for that matter, any of his team?”
“A pacemaker – or what’s left of it.”
“What?” asked Tom, looking slightly puzzled. “What did you say?”
“Just figured out what that piece of metal is,” said Karl. “It’s a pacemaker.”
Using a thin rod, Tom flicked the metal over. Scrutinised it. Nodded. “You could be right. It does look like the remains of a pacemaker, now that you mention it. One of our victims must have had serious cardiovascular problems.”
“That’s if the pacemaker belongs to the same owner as one of the hands. If not, you could be talking three individuals – not two.”
Making a noise through his nose, Tom conceded the possibility of Karl’s theory. “Possible. Highly improbable, though.”
“Don’t pacemakers have an individual code number, a manufacturer’s name? Something that can be traced back to ownership? I read that in one of those medical journals, a few weeks ago.”
“Stop boasting. You still haven’t told me the reason for this visit.”
“You’re more of a suspicious bastard than me, Tom. Know that? I can’t come to watch my best friend show his genius at work?”
“Cut the crap. What are you after?”
Removing the piece of kitchen roll from his pocket, Karl handed it to Tom.
“There are a couple of blood samples in this. One of them – this thicker piece – is more than likely that of Chris Brown, if my guess is correct. It’s the smaller of the two I’m interested in. Could be Chris’s also – or someone else’s.”
“Please tell me you haven’t gone and entered the crime scene at Chris Brown’s house?”
“Okay, I won’t tell you that I’ve gone and entered the crime scene at Chris Brown’s house. There. Feel better? Now, can you do this for me or not? If you can’t, don’t worry about it because if I were in your shoes, I probably wouldn’t do it, either.”
“Do you know the penalty for entering a crime scene and removing evidence?”
“Evidence? The fucks ignored it, Tom. You want to see that place. It’s a disaster. Weren’t you just a little bit suspicious that you weren’t the one called out, instead of that wanker Nolan?”
“Nolan’s only doing his job. Chief Constable Finnegan assigned him the task, wanting quick results for the benefit of the media. When Finnegan says jump, you ask how high.”
“Fuck the media and all that bullshit. They knew you’d have done a thorough job of it. That’s fucking why.”
“Easy. Calm down. Your face is turning purple. You look as if you’re having a stroke. What the hell has gotten into you lately?”
“Into me? Try guilt. Buckets of it.”
“Brown’s death had nothing to do with you, if that’s what you’re blaming on yourself. That was the lifestyle he opted for. Think of all those people he murdered over the years. I bet he had little guilt over their deaths.”
“What can I say? You’re probably right, because everyone seems to be singing from the same hymn sheet, with regards to Chris’s murder and murderous days, but it’s something I need to get out of my system, Tom. Can you help me or not?”
“You’re digging yourself into a dangerous hole, one you may not be able to get out of. You understand that?”
“Just like the hole Chris Brown is in?”
“Okay. Have it your way. I’ll run the blood sample for you. Happy?”
“Thanks, old pal. I bet you hate having me as your best friend in times like this?”
“Just go and get a check-up, ASAP. I really think you’re on the verge of some major health catastrophe. You may not end up dead like Chris Brown, but I wouldn’t rule out the wheelchair …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, 1 March
‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’
Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
“HELLO?” SAID KARL, picking up his mobile, taking a break from his typewriter. Outside the bedroom window, a healthy rain was battering the glass.
“Karl? Tom. How are things?”
“As fine as wine. Why do you always call so late at night? Shouldn’t you be doing interesting things with your lovely wife Anne?”
“I should, but because I work all day, doing favours for ungrateful friends, I never get much of a chance.”
“Point taken, and very much appreciated. Did you get the results from the blood sample I asked you for two days ago?”
“Those things take time. Possibly tomorrow, if things go smoothly. Listen, I’ve another piece of news for you. Remember the amputated hands found inside the pig?”
“How could I forget? Bacon sandwiches will never be the same again.”
“One of them has been traced to a Mister Basil Donaldson. Police were able to locate his prints from their database.”
“I take it he has a record, then?”
“He was convicted of embezzling sixty thousand pounds from work, and was given a six-month suspended sentence.”
“Sixty thousand?” Karl whistled. “I wonder why he received such a light sentence? Usually that’s a few years inside. Easy to see he didn’t get Judge ‘Maximum’ Haughton. He’d have sentenced Donaldson to serve a month in prison for every pound stolen.”
“That’s the irony of it. Mister Donaldson stole from the prison where he worked as a prison officer. Guess which prison?”
“Woodbank?” suggested Karl, never missing a beat.
“You got it. That’s the third prison officer from that place murdered in less than a month.”
“I hope this isn’t the start of some loony trend. Next on the agenda could well be let’s kill private investigators month.” Karl reached for a nicotine patch. Sniffed it. Licked it. “Can I ask you a weird question, Tom?”
“No.”
“Can one get addicted to nicotine patches?”
“What?”
“I’ve suddenly realised that I’m going through these quicker than I ever went through packets of cigarettes.”
“I think it’s time for me to go.”
“What about the pacemaker? Any clues yet on the owner? Could it belong to Donaldson?”
“No. Donaldson was as healthy as an apple, according to his family. He never had any sort of heart problems. Listen, Karl, I’ve really got to go. I’m getting a call on my business phone. Talk to you tomorrow. If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know.”
“Yea, I’m getting a call on mine as well.”
The phone went dead.
“You’re only to use those patches intermittently, Karl,” said Naomi from the bed, a disapproving look on her face. To her side rested a few pages from Karl’s latest manuscript.
“Really? Then this must be one of those intermittent times. Be a love, and peel this damn thing off. It’s worse than a Chinese finger puzzle. By the time you separate it from its sticky back, your nerves are so frayed you need to have a bloody cigarette!”
“What did Tom want?” asked Naomi, slipping out of the bed before expertly negotiating the sticky back of the offending patch in a matter of seconds. “See how easy it is when you have a bit of patience?”
“That’s because your fingers have no wrinkles on them, and you’ve never smok
ed, being such a good girl and all.”
“I used to be good until I met you.”
Sticking the patch on his arm, Karl finally answered her question. “A man was found dead a week ago. And they’ve just discovered that he was a prison officer embezzling money from the prison funds.”
“Why do they always say embezzling? Why don’t they just say thieving?”
“Because, my dear, we don’t speak ill of the dead. Besides, the poor bastard had at least one of his hands cut off. I think he was punished enough. Don’t you?”
“His hands … oh …” replied Naomi, shuddering slightly. “Do you think someone in the prison was sending out a message? This is what happens when you dip into the funds?”
“You’re beginning to scare me, Naomi. You just read my mind. Now, to something far more important. How do you spell confidentiality? Is it i.t.y or e.t.y?”
“You’re a writer and you can’t spell? You should use the computer’s word processor in the office, instead of that old piece of beat-up metal.” Returning to bed, Naomi propped her back firmly against a family of pillows on the bed. Picked up the manuscript, once again.
“I can spell. Just not confidentiality. That’s my old nemesis, dyslexia, kicking me in the teeth.”
“You never told me you were dyslexic.”
“Well, I can be biased and sometimes careless with facts,” conceded Karl, fingers hovering restlessly over his typewriter’s keys. “And as for this so-called old piece of beat-up metal? I’ll have you know that this is a Royal Quiet DeLuxe portable.”
Naomi made a you-got-to-be-kidding face. “Nothing quiet about it. It sounds like a metallic woodpecker.”
“Do you know who wrote some of his greatest classics on a similar machine?”
“Benny Hill?”
“Hemingway. The master.”
Naomi smiled. “I hear he was the master at sex, also.”
“Is that all you think of?”
“Well, I can’t help it. You’re so sexy in those threading boxers with your willie peeping out behind the curtains.”
“I know. Such a turn on.”
“What if I said I love a man in threading boxers? Or maybe, I’d love to see a certain man out of them?”
“What if I told you I’m on the wrong side of forty, feeling like fifty?”
“You have the body of a thirty-year-old.”
“I wish.”
“Me too.”
Karl couldn’t help grinning. “You should be ashamed of yourself, distracting me. That foxy smile has given me writer’s block.”
“I hope that’s not all it’s given you?” replied Naomi, patting the bed, enticingly. “What about writer’s cock?”
“Naomi Kirkpatrick! I can’t believe the language you’ve been using lately,” grinned Karl.
“I know. Shocking. Now, get your arse over here before you really hear me swear.”
“Have mercy. The old bones are tired, Naomi. Really.”
“As long as one of them is working, you’ll do fine. C’mon. There’ll be no more typing tonight – or proofreading.”
Obediently, Karl pushed away from the lip of the table, stretched, and then walked towards the bed, hamming a John Wayne walk.
“You still haven’t told me what you think of the first couple of chapters,” said Karl, easing into the bed, loving the womanly warmth and smells rising up to greet him.
“I’m not just saying this, Karl, but I’m really getting into it. It’s not the normal stuff I would read, but I’m genuinely enjoying it. If none of those publishers are smart enough to publish your books, that’s their loss.”
“I love it when you lie so convincingly.”
“I’m not lying.”
Gently, he stroked her face, marvelling at the soft, smooth skin with its dusting of faint freckles. He was more attracted to her now than when they met, two years ago. He had always wondered what she had ever seen in him.
“Ever notice how you suddenly find how nice some people are after you’ve spent time around people who aren’t?” asked Karl.
A lopsided smile appeared on Naomi’s face. “Stop torturing yourself. She’s not worth it. Anyway, it was over three years ago. I’m beginning to think you still have the hots for her.”
Karl laughed out loud. It only took a second for the flashback to occur.
On that particular historical night – due to unforeseen circumstances – Karl had been forced to cut short a business deal in Dublin, and had returned home, unexpectedly. Tired and defeated and in no mood for Lynne’s biting sarcasm, he prayed she was in bed, sleeping, her notorious horsy tongue stabled for the night.
No sooner had he crept into the bedroom, when things suddenly went bizarre …
‘Fuck,’ said the stranger in Karl’s bed, making strange movements beneath the sheets.
It took a full second for Karl to realise that the stranger was tapping his wife’s hidden head, trying desperately to get her attention. It took another few seconds for Karl to realise that the stranger tapping his wife’s head was a woman.
Lynne’s head slowly emerged from beneath the sheets, the area around her large mouth slick from cunnilingus. “You’re not supposed to be here …” she whispered rather hoarsely, wiping her wet mouth.
‘And you’re not supposed to be there,’ answered Karl, calmly in shock. Then, turning to the unknown woman, he replied. ‘Good luck with her in the future. Moses would have a hard time parting her legs.’
‘You bastard!’ screamed Lynne, charging from the bed, a threateningly large, lance-like dildo strapped to her waist and groin area.
Karl shut the door, very gently, feeling rather pleased with his performance. Though later he had to admit it probably would never match Lynne’s.
“Karl?” said Naomi’s voice, breaking the flashback’s hold.
“Huh?”
“It can’t be good for your health, revisiting the past.”
“You’re right. It’s stupid, but I was just thinking of a little ditty from Groucho Marks: many years ago I chased a woman for almost two years, only to discover that her tastes were exactly like mine: we both were crazy about girls!”
Without prompting, Naomi did a little wiggling movement beneath the sheets. A few seconds later, panties were hooked on her index finger. “Try these on for size, Groucho.”
“They wouldn’t fit my nose.”
They both laughed.
Karl removed his boxers and vest, his nakedness exposing the vestige of a pale scar snaking from the hollow of his throat, all the way to his stomach. A family of other, smaller disfigurements did a sunburst from the main scar.
Caringly, Naomi traced her fingers over the tram-track of scars running parallel up his chest. He flinched, slightly, as if they were still raw. Her hand moved slowly downwards, brushing his thigh. He felt electricity. Anticipatory. She cupped his balls, gently but firmly. His cock hardened.
Tenderly, but eagerly, she straddled him, placing her hands against his sternum for leverage.
The pressure of her body was torturing his aching joints, but he didn’t want to move, loving the darkness of sexual pain, the warm pulse of her breath on his skin. She was one tight muscle, rippling down upon him like an exotic snake, devouring all in its slithering path.
Struggling to support her thrusting, Karl moaned slightly. “Easy, Naomi … oh fuck … I can’t control it …”
“Don’t,” she whispered leaning into his face, her hot breath filling the cave of his mouth. “I … haven’t … cum … take … it … easy … that’s right … nice and … slowwwwww …”
Unnervingly, Karl suddenly felt an oddness enter the room. Quite clearly, he could see Naomi’s head, but there were two more attached to her shoulders.
The two figures standing there were each clad in black clothes and matching balaclavas.
“Who the fuck are –!” Karl felt his dick die immediately inside Naomi. For one horrible moment, the sticky gears of his mind refused to shift.
“Not one word,” whispered a gruff voice, calmly but menacingly.
Naomi gave a soft shriek, while attempting to move. A gun was pushed tight against the back of her head.
“No, you just stay there, love, riding that old grey mare. Keep on top of things.”
Frantically finding his voice, Karl asked, “What … what is it you want? Money? I can get you money if that’s –”
“Don’t pretend to be a thick bastard. Do we look like burglars, Karl?”
Karl’s throat tightened. His name escaping from the gunman’s mouth formed a knot travelling up his stomach. “No …”
“Good. Remember that.”
The intruder’s gun was brought slowly, almost seductively down the tiny stepping-stones of Naomi’s spine, all the way to the gap in her buttocks. Naomi shuddered. Karl felt the coldness of the muzzle resting on his balls.
“I hope that’s not anal sex you’re having without a condom, Karl?” said the other gunman, snidely. “Your hairy balls are all pinkish, you dirty old bastard. You must’ve been ready to explode before we so rudely interrupted. Sorry about that.”
In the blink of an eye, the gunman placed the muzzle of the gun under Karl’s nose.
“Sniff,” instructed the gunman.
Reluctantly, Karl sniffed. In a flash, all the bad memories came ghosting back. He’d felt closer to death, but that did little to impede the feeling of terror in his stomach as he waited for the gunman’s voice.
“What can you smell, apart from your sweaty balls?” asked the gunman.
Stomach acid shot up to the back of Karl’s throat.
“Gun cleaning oil,” replied Karl.
“Very good. What else?”
“Cordite. It’s … the gun’s been fired.”
“Not bad. You left out the word recently, but we’ll put that down to pre-ejaculation nerves. More importantly, understand the meaning of that smell. Keep it stored in that nosey nose of yours. It just might help keep you alive. Now, where’s Brown’s manuscript? You say you don’t have it, and you both die here, right now, on the spot. No fucking about. Hand it over, and we’ll be gone, quicker than you can pull that old dick of yours out of her cunt. As an added bonus, you both survive. Nothing complicated. And, seeing that I’m in a generous mood, I’ll even give you ten seconds to think where you have it.”
