The Dark Place

by Sam Millar

  “Huh?” mumbled Karl.

  “What are you doing staring out the window, newspaper in your hand? You haven’t even dressed!” There was accusation in Naomi’s tone.

  “Can’t we just have lunch here, save all the hassle, Naomi? We can head out later for a drink at Nick’s Warehouse. Don’t forget, we’ve still got unfinished bottles of Hennessy and Bacardi in the fridge, screaming to be emptied.”

  “No, we can’t stay here,” answered Naomi, quickly snatching the newspaper out of Karl’s hands. “Five days a week in this place is enough punishment for anyone to endure. Now, get your clothes on. I’ll be finished in a minute. And make sure that you bring your wallet with you this time. I’m not ending up paying the bill again. And remember: this is pure vegetarian. No meat, under any circumstances.”

  “No meat?” Karl made a face. “You’ve become very militant since becoming a vegetarian, all of six weeks ago.”

  “Stop being sarcastic. You know that I don’t like the taste of meat any more.”

  “I could answer that with a witty riposte …”

  “I was always a vegetarian; didn’t realise it until I saw that horrible documentary about the abattoir in the city. It isn’t right, eating living creatures.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Naomi, they’re usually dead by the time they reach the cold plate.”

  “Don’t start, Karl.”

  “Answer me this: if God didn’t want people to eat animals, then why the hell did He make them out of meat, and to taste so damn good roasted?”

  Naomi’s face was reddening by the second. “I’m really not in the mood for this. Just hurry and get ready before we miss our place in –”

  The doorbell to the office, down below, sounded.

  “I don’t believe I just heard what I just heard,” said Karl. “Can’t people read nowadays? Big sign on the door saying closed all day Saturday and Sunday, and if that –” The bell rang again, irritatingly longer. “Finger must be stuck. I’ve a good mind to go down there, and –”

  “You’re going nowhere in your underwear, except to get dressed,” stated Naomi. “If you go down, you’ll end up falling for a sob story. Could be the postman with a delivery.”

  “Probably my latest manuscript rejected by the publishers,” said Karl, a wry smile appearing on his face. “More than likely it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses, though. Tell them we’re Scientologists and that Tom and Katie are dropping by for tea and plenty of crumpet, later on. Do bailiffs work on a Saturday? Bet the bastards do.”

  While Naomi journeyed downstairs, Karl began dressing, finally shoehorning into a pair of nice Samuel Windsor leather loafers, all the while scanning the discarded newspaper, trying to pick more potential winners. Just as he eyed one, an irritating ache echoed from his arse.

  “For fuck sake … don’t you start.” Quickly opening a drawer, he removed a cap from a tube of haemorrhoid cream labelled Roid Rage. Dropping his pants, he quickly applied the cream to the offending area, sighing with relief as the cream’s coldness calmed the heat between his buttocks.

  “Karl!” Naomi’s voice sounded from downstairs.

  “For fuck sake …” he hissed, almost dropping the tube.

  “Karl! I need you down here.”

  “Give me a bloody minute!” shouted Karl, quickly pulling up his pants before dumping the tube back in the drawer.

  “Karl? Can you come down, right now?”

  Slipping into his jacket, mumbling, Karl quickly descended the stairs, tripping in his haste.

  “Almost broke my bloody neck, Naomi. I told you I was…”

  “Karl,” said Naomi, rather sheepishly, “this is Geraldine Ferris. She’s come all the way up from Dublin.”

  Geraldine Ferris, to Karl, looked about thirteen years of age. Pretty but unhealthily concentration-camp thin, with a face full of festering freckles and hair the colour of scrapyard rust. Large doe-like eyes complimented the rest of her face.

  “Yes,” said Karl, slightly puzzled. “What can we do for you … Geraldine?”

  “I’m searching for my younger sister, Mister Kane. The ones in charge of the hostel, where she normally stays, claim she ran away, almost a month ago. She didn’t run away. I get vibes from her. She’d have told me first. I know they’re all lying. You’ve got to believe –”

  “Easy. Easy. Come up for air, Geraldine,” smiled Karl. “Try and calm down a wee bit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “To be honest, we don’t usually operate on a Saturday, Geraldine, and normally we don’t cover alleged runaways. You’ve spoken to the police?”

  “Yes,” replied Geraldine, nodding half-heartedly.

  “What did they say?”

  Geraldine’s mouth suddenly tightened. The bones of her face looked like they would rip through the skin. “Lies.”

  “Whatever they told Geraldine, Karl, it obviously hasn’t alleviated her anxiety,” cut in Naomi. “Isn’t that right, Geraldine?”

  Geraldine nodded.

  “Why don’t we let Geraldine answer, Naomi?” said Karl, barely containing his irritation. “Geraldine?”

  Geraldine swallowed hard before answering.

  “They … they said she has a reputation for running away, and they can’t waste valuable resources on runaways. Said she’s probably down in Dublin.”

  “Has she? A reputation for running away?” asked Karl.

  “Sometimes,” conceded Geraldine, glancing at Naomi for some support. “But there’s no one in Dublin any more for her to run away to, except me.”

  “You know what cops are like, Karl,” interrupted Naomi. “They don’t have time for teenagers or their problems. They want newspaper-grabbers.”

  “Thank you for that, Oprah. That was very enlightening,” said Karl, before turning his attention back to Geraldine. “If you don’t mind me asking, Geraldine, why aren’t your parents here enquiring about your sister instead of you? You must be no older than what? Fourteen or fifteen?”

  “I’ll be seventeen next month – one year older than my sister – if you need to know,” stated Geraldine, irritably. “My da’s in Mountjoy Prison. He’s doing a stretch of twenty years.”

  “Twenty years?” said Karl, feeling his arse tingle in a bad way. His haemorrhoids were beginning to act up, again. “And your mother?”

  “My ma is dead, Mister Kane. She was a heroin addict – just like me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear –”

  “My first memory of a needle was my mother injecting herself while I watched. Often, she would break the needle off and let me play with the syringe when she was finished. I remember everyone telling her that heroin would kill her. They were wrong. A man killed her. My father.”

  Naomi stood closer to Geraldine, gently touching her elbow.

  “You’ve come to the right place for help, Geraldine. If anyone can help find your sister, Karl can. That’s why he’s Belfast’s greatest private investigator. Isn’t that right, Karl?”

  Karl’s eyebrows almost fell from his face. “Let’s not be too hasty, Naomi – or condescending.” He gave her a what-the-hell-are-you-playing- at look.

  “You sit down, over there, Geraldine,” encouraged Naomi, indicating a group of chairs. “Karl was about to order some food for us. Weren’t you, Karl?”

  “What? Oh … of course,” responded Karl, slipping off his jacket while easing out of his Samuel Windsors.

  “How did you hear about Karl, Geraldine?” asked Naomi.

  “This,” replied Geraldine, handing Naomi one of Karl’s business cards. “There were loads of them stuck in all the phone boxes in Royal Avenue. When I first saw them, I thought they were those other type of cards. You know, the ones with the phone lines to naked women?”

  Naomi glared at Karl. “Don’t tell me you’re sticking your business cards any old where?”

  “A brass neck sometimes leads to a silver lining,” replied Karl, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Besides, if I hadn’t placed them t
here, Geraldine wouldn’t be standing here now, seeking my help. Well? Would she?”

  “You always have an answer.”

  “Do you have any recent photos of your sister, Geraldine?” asked Karl, ignoring Naomi’s sarcasm.

  “I’ve one,” replied Geraldine, searching her tiny handbag before producing a photo. “This was taken last year. It’s a bit creased, but it was the best I could find of her.”

  A skeletal girl with a denim jacket too big stared out at Karl. Pointed hipbones jutted out over the waistline of her jeans. Her face was serious, as if all the fun in her life had been sucked out, her fingers seemingly playing nervously with the tines of a comb. But it was the left eye that Karl found himself focusing on.

  “She was stabbed in the eye with a pen, when she was ten,” said Geraldine, as if reading Karl’s mind. “She lost the eye, and they replaced it with a glass … with an artificial one. She hates it and has a terrible complex about it, thinking everyone’s staring at her. She doesn’t believe she is beautiful. But she is. That’s why people stare at her.”

  “I hate to have to ask this, Geraldine, but does your sister take drugs?” asked Karl.

  “She …” Geraldine seemed to be pondering the question. “Yes, but she’s been clean for almost six months – both of us have. Why? Does this mean you won’t search for her?”

  “At the minute, we’re up to our necks in work, Geraldine. I don’t honestly know if I could take more caseloads. It wouldn’t be fair to either you or your sister. And even if –”

  “None of our ongoing cases involve a missing person, Karl,” cut in Naomi.

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” replied Karl, sarcastically, giving Naomi a withering look.

  “I’ve got some money saved up. You won’t be working for free, Mister Kane. Tell me how much you charge and I’ll get it – one way or another.”

  Before Karl could reply, Naomi began smiling, saying, “I’d be willing to work on it, Karl, for free. I do have a few weeks’ holidays coming up, if I remember correctly.”

  “Holidays?” replied Karl, gritting his teeth. “Every day is a holiday for you here, Naomi. There’s a law against blackmail. You know that?”

  “Everything I know about the law, I’ve learned from you, you lovely man. Should I pack my holiday suitcase, or not?”

  “Okay, blackmailer. You win. But don’t start moaning about being paid.”

  “I’ve already told you, Mister Kane,” said Geraldine. “Somehow, I’ll get the fee you charge.”

  “We can discuss fees later, Geraldine. For now, I need you to relax a wee bit. Worrying solves nothing; only exaggerates the problem. Okay?”

  Geraldine slowly nodded.

  “Chinese or pizza, Geraldine?” asked Naomi.

  “I’m really not that hungry …”

  “Yes, I can see you’re a picture of health,” interjected Karl, searching the top drawer of his desk before finding a menu. “Here. Find something in this. Either you tell Naomi what you want or I’ll have to guess it. You really don’t want me to guess.”

  For the first time since entering the office, Geraldine smiled slightly, taking the menu before scanning its table of contents.

  Naomi smiled all luvvy-duvvy at Karl. He quickly returned the smile with a wait-until-I-get-you-alone withering look, mouthing, “And you have the cheek of accusing me of falling for a sob story?”

  Studying the photo more closely, Karl asked: “Your sister’s name, Geraldine? I don’t think you told us it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s Martina, Mister Kane. Martina …”

  CHAPTEr THREE

  “I think the greatest rogues are they who talk most of their honesty.”

  Anthony Trollope, The Three Clerks

  Karl parked his car – a Ford Cortina GT – inside the hostel’s car park, before walking to the front door of the Victorian building on Victoria Street.

  A CCTV camera began swivelling its metal neck as he pressed the buzzer cemented against the hostel’s crumbling wall. Seconds slipped away, but no answer from inside the building. He buzzed again, longer this time.

  “I heard you the first time, sir. You really only need to press the button once,” said a bored voice from the intercom. “I’m security. How can I be of help?”

  “I have an appointment with a Mrs Beverly Thompson, programme leader. Spoke to her on the phone about an hour ago.”

  “It’s Miss Thompson,” corrected the guard. “Your name, sir?”

  “Kane. Karl Kane,” replied Karl, detecting immediately the resentment in the sir.

  “One moment, sir …”

  Seconds turned to minutes. Karl was about to buzz again, when a loud click sounded, followed immediately by the front door sliding open.

  Smell of over-cooked food immediately attacked Karl’s nostrils as he entered the small foyer of the hostel. White noise was everywhere, reminding him of schools and hospitals.

  “The car park is for staff only, sir,” said the guard, housed securely inside an office shielded by wire-reinforced glass. “You really shouldn’t be parking that car there, at the front of the building – especially on a Monday morning.”

  “Car? That’s not just any car. Do you know where that came from?”

  No response from the guard.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you, then. The Sweeney. Remember that classic TV show? That’s the actual car they used in the show.”

  “I need to see some sort of identification, sir,” requested the unimpressed guard.

  “Certainly,” replied Karl, pushing a business card through a slot no bigger than a Mars Bar. “They don’t make shows like The Sweeney any more. Nothing but so-called talent shows to show people with no talent.”

  “I don’t watch TV, sir.”

  This is more like a prison than a bloody hostel, thought Karl, weighing the security guard up. The man was all glut and cheap cologne, and resembled Peter Lorre with a mouthful of teeth caramelised by too much nicotine and coffee.

  Seemingly unimpressed at Karl’s business card, Peter Lorre asked for a photo ID.

  Producing his driving licence, Karl slipped it through the Mars Bar, a wry smile appearing on his face. “If I were paranoid, I’d say you were trying to prevent me coming in.”

  “Simply doing my job, sir. Keeping the residents safe,” said Peter Lorre, glancing at the licence and then at Karl’s face. “Okay, sir. Take the lift over there. Get off at the fourth floor. Miss Thompson’s office is directly to your right, the moment you step out of the lift. She’s expecting you.”

  “Thanks,” said Karl, quickly pocketing the driving licence while heading for the lift.

  The door to Beverly Thompson’s office was opening as Karl stepped from the lift. A large, rotund woman with a face that could stop a raging grizzly bear in its tracks indicated with a wave of her meaty hand for Karl to enter.

  “A private investigator? My,” smiled Beverly Thompson, indicating for Karl to sit in the chair opposite, “how exciting is that?”

  “Not very,” replied Karl, making himself comfortable. “It’s not like you see in the movies, if that’s what you mean. More bills than thrills.”

  “A bit like Rockford, then?”

  “Well, Rockford was always in debt and trouble, so I guess you could say there is a similarity.”

  “I loved James Gardner. Ruggedly handsome. You’re not unlike him, Mister Kane.”

  “Yes, I get that a lot,” smiled Karl, quickly warming to Beverly’s bullshitting. “Though I’m more of a Columbo fan, myself.”

  “I could never warm to him. Always annoyed me with that one more thing thing that he always did. Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please, if it’s no bother.”

  “Why would it be a bother?” asked Beverly, smiling, picking up the phone. “Alison? A pot of coffee, please, and some shortbread. Thank you, dear.”

  The heady smell of flowers was overripe in Beverly Thompson’s office. Everything seemed covered in sce
nt. Karl could feel a sneeze coming on.

  “Now, Mister Kane,” said Beverly, returning the phone to the cradle, “you were asking on the phone about one of our ex-residents, Miss Martina Ferris.”

  Karl nodded. “Her sister got in contact with me two days ago, saying that she’s worried about her. She hasn’t seen her in almost a month.”

  “To be honest with you, Karl – I may call you Karl?”

  “By all means … Beverly.”

  “To be honest, Karl, we’re not permitted to disclose information about any of our clients – even ex-clients. Comes under confidentiality.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, Beverly, and I very much appreciate you giving me your time. I need to know if she had any problems, while she was here. Hopefully to give her sister peace of mind.”

  “Strictly off the record?”

  “Strictly.”

  “Well … Martina wasn’t an easy girl to accommodate. At times she was violent towards staff and other residents. Despite this, we did our utmost to ensure safe and habitable surroundings for her. You know she ran away from here, quite a few times?”

  “No,” lied Karl. “Really?”

  “Oh, yes; but of course her sister wouldn’t have told you that piece of information,” replied Beverly, rather stiffly. “Despite all that, we welcomed her back with open arms, each time she requested a return. Can’t be too bad of a place if she cried to come back. Can it, now?”

  “I hear what you’re saying.”

  A young woman knocked on the door, interrupting the conversation.

  “Ah, Alison,” said Beverly, smiling. “Would you be a dear, and pour for us?”

  Setting the tray down, Alison began pouring a stream of coffee into a large blue mug for Karl.

  “Sugar and milk, sir?” asked Alison.

  “Black, Alison. Thank you,” said Karl, reaching for the mug before sipping it slightly with a nod of approval. “This is great coffee. Must get the name of it before I leave.”