by Sam Millar
Pressing a small green button just below the windowpane, Karl listened as Wilson’s voice began filtering through a small pair of speakers recessed into the panelling.
“Mister Hannah. This is Detective Malcolm Chambers. He’ll be conducting the interview. I’ll be observing. Is that okay?”
Hannah nodded. “Certainly. I know you’re only doing your job, Inspector Wilson. As I stated before I came to –”
“Don’t say another word, Robert,” interrupted Johnson, handing a sheet of paper towards Chambers. “I would like to give you this sworn statement from my client stating that he is not going to make any statements to the police, other than this. Now, you can arrest him on some trumped-up charge, but I can guarantee he’ll be out on bail in less than an hour. I’m sure you know Mister Hannah’s importance in the business community and police benevolent funds?”
Chambers looked at Wilson’s blank face before answering. “Yes … of course we do, Mister Johnson, and we very much appreciate it. We certainly are not going to arrest Mister Hannah; simply ask him a few questions concerning his whereabouts on certain nights, last month.”
“My client will not be answering any questions with regards –”
“It’s okay, James,” cut in Hannah. “I don’t mind answering a few questions concerning my whereabouts, if it helps the police with their inquiries.”
“Please, Robert, as your solicitor, I am advising you not to make any statements, other than the one we agreed to before we –”
Hannah held up a hand, halting the verbal manure trafficking from Johnson’s mouth. “It really is okay, James. I have nothing to hide.”
Resigned, Johnson said to Chambers, “Okay, but no tape recordings. Agreed?”
Chambers looked at Wilson.
“Agreed,” said Wilson.
“Detective Chambers?” said Hannah, smiling. “Your questions, please.”
“Yes, thank you, Mister Hannah,” said Chambers, producing a notebook from his pocket. “Can you tell me where you were on the eleventh of last month?”
“Hmmm. That’s a toughie. Can you remember where you were, Detective?”
“Please just answer the questions put to you, Mister Hannah,” said Wilson.
“Yes, you’re correct. Sorry, Inspector. If you give me a minute to think … Oh! Of course! How could I have forgotten? I was at a fundraiser.”
“Is there a name you can give, to confirm that?” asked Chambers.
“Why, yes. There are quite a few. Ian Finnegan, for starters, not forgetting Judge –”
“Ian Finnegan?” Chambers’s face paled. “Chief Constable Finnegan?”
“Why, yes. Is there a problem?”
“What? No. No, of course not,” replied Chambers, flustered, looking quickly at Wilson.
Wilson’s face remained impassive – unlike Karl’s, whose own did a peculiar twitching at the mention of the chief constable’s name.
“Your next question, Detective Chambers?” asked Hannah.
“Er … yes, sir. Let me see …” mumbled Chambers, randomly flipping pages from the notebook.
Whatever questions Chambers had initially intended to ask, they sure as hell weren’t the mundane ones now being solicited, thought Karl, listening with disgust at the grovelling Chambers.
“Ask him where he got those scratch marks, dickhead,” whispered Karl.
As if by magic, Wilson suddenly cut in.
“Those scratches look pretty bad, Mister Hannah. Could you tell me what happened? How you obtained them?”
“What – oh! These?” Hannah smiled, touching the scratches. “Blue Boy gave them to me.”
“Blue Boy?”
“My cat. A Russian Blue. Normally, he’s of good disposition, but a couple of days ago he attacked me while I was resting in bed. I think it had to do with the fact that I had to have him neutered.”
“Neutered?” asked Chambers.
Slowly, deliberately, Hannah craned his neck. Staring intently at the two-way, he replied. “His balls removed.”
Chambers winced. Wilson remained impassive.
Behind the two-way, Hannah’s remarks flamed Karl’s face. You bastard.
For the next twenty minutes, Karl listened, barely able to control the rising anger burning in his chest at Chambers’s indolent questioning and Wilson’s seeming indifference.
“The only thing missing from this walk in the fucking park is the picnic basket,” said Karl, easing quickly from the room.
“Karl? What on earth kept you?” asked an anxious-looking Lynne, watching Karl re-enter Wilson’s office. “What’s wrong? You look sickish.”
“It’s nothing. Just something indigestible in my stomach.”
“There’s a bug doing the rounds. That’s probably what’s hit you.”
“You’re right. Something is bugging me,” replied Karl, walking to the open window for some air. “This bastarding heat can’t get any worse.”
Five minutes later, Wilson entered the room.
“Well?” asked Lynne, quickly. “What did you find out, Mark?”
Walking to his desk, Wilson filled a glass with water, sipping before answering.
“Not an awful lot. He’s given us names of people he was with on certain dates put to him by us. Of course, we’ll check everything out first before we –”
“Of course you will,” cut in Karl.
“What’s that snide remark supposed to mean?” snarled Wilson.
“You know exactly what it means!”
“Karl! Mark! For God’s sake, would you two stop this nonsense!” screamed Lynne. “What is wrong with you two?”
“Wrong?” snapped Karl. “Ask your brother why he pussy-footed around Hannah in the interrogation room.”
“How the hell would you know what way I …” Wilson’s voice suddenly trailed off. “You … you were in the observation room.”
“You really believe that bastard got those fucking scratches on his face because of some cat being pissed at him?”
“You fool! Do you know what you’ve done by listening in on an interview with a suspect? You’ve jeopardised all our work!”
“Bollocks! It wasn’t so long ago you were allowing me into the interrogation rooms to listen to suspects, so long as I came up with the goods for you!”
“You might be after a Pyrrhic victory, Kane, but we’re after something a lot more bloody tangible. Do you know the importance of the interrogation room? Of course you bloody well don’t! We have to carefully gather all the verbal details so later it can tie into the physical evidence of the crime. It’s critical that those details are clearly stated, accurate, and unmarred, allowing the court to establish motive, opportunity and a proper timeline.”
“Fuck, times really have changed from the give-the-fucker-a-good-kicking-in-the-balls days!”
“You really think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Smart enough to know when not to be smart.”
“Well, think about this, smart arse,” said Wilson, voice suddenly icy calm. “If I arrest Hannah, put him in prison, and it turns out he’s the abductor of Katie, and acting alone, who’s going to feed and give her water? Not him. He’ll be locked up, nice and secure. Is that what you really want?”
A bottled stillness suddenly came over Karl as he tried desperately to remember what he was thinking about just a moment ago. Nothing came. A panic attack? That was it, his brain refusing to function.
“I …” muttered Karl, unnaturally lost for words.
“I think you’ve done enough damage here, Kane. You know the way out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul
When hot for certainties in this our life!”
George Meredith, Modern Love
Karl stared out the window like a zombie, watching people flowing into work. They all seemed to have the same expressionless face stitched between their ears. He kept trying to refocus his mind, but it kept returning to yesterday’s di
sastrous results at the police station. Wilson was right. What good would it have done, arresting Hannah? A shiver ran up Karl’s spine at the thought of Katie starving to death in some darkened hole. What the hell was he thinking of? That was the problem. He wasn’t thinking, allowing his heart and emotions to run amok.
“Stop torturing yourself, Karl,” said Naomi, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Everything will work itself out. You’ll see.”
“I’m glad you didn’t leave,” stated Karl, placing a hand on Naomi’s. “I’d be a basket case if you had.”
“Let’s not talk about that, for now.”
The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up hurriedly.
“Hello?”
“I’ll make this quick,” said Wilson on the other end. “I’m not going to press charges against you. But I must warn you, Hannah’s not a happy man –”
“As if I give a fuck about his happiness!” snapped Karl, relief suddenly combining with anger.
“If you would just let me finish!” boomeranged Wilson’s tetchy voice. “He’s not a happy man because as we speak, all of his premises – including Crumlin Road Prison – are being searched.”
Relief suddenly flooded over Karl.
“I … thanks,” mumbled Karl. “I … appreciate this …”
“I don’t want your thanks. I didn’t do this for you – or my sister. I did it because Katie is my niece and I love her as if she were my daughter.”
“I owe you an apology for –”
“Stuff your apology! Don’t think this changes anything between us. I still hold you responsible for the deaths of my detectives. Your day will come, Kane,” snarled Wilson, hanging up.
No sooner had the phone stopped ringing when it started once again.
“Hello?” asked Karl.
“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” hissed the voice at the other end.
“Hannah?”
“I would have released her after a while. But you’ve changed the rules, dear Karl, and I don’t allow the rules to be changed. As we speak, barbarians are tearing my theatre apart, all because of you. I have no doubt about that. Do you know how that feels, to be violated?”
“Let Katie go. Please. I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Too late. Far too late to bargain, dear Karl.”
“What is it you want from me?”
“I’m going to kill you, dear Karl, and not in a very nice way. I’m going to kill you with the gun Cathy took from you.”
“It was you, that night, wasn’t it? It was you who murdered Cathy.”
“Cathy had outlived her usefulness. She had become a liability. The good thing is that the gun has your prints on it, not mine.”
Karl’s stomach suddenly heaved.
“Did you ever see your beautiful daughter naked, sweet Karl?”
The blood went straight to Karl’s head. Bang! Bang! Bang!
“You’ve gone all quiet, dear Karl,” continued Hannah. “Trying to trace this call? Won’t do you any good. I always use a throwaway phone. Where was I? Oh! Sweet Katie. Did you know she has her little boy nipples and clit pierced? Quite provocative, I can assure you. But you probably knew that already. Eh? I might send you a photo of –”
“Bastard! So help me, you bastard, if you’ve touched my daughter, I –”
“Just think of this: if I hadn’t been watching you, that day in Nick’s Warehouse, I would never have guessed Katie was your daughter. You looked right at me when I hit you up the face with the rhino-shaped sponge,” laughed Hannah.
“What?”
“The clown. That was me, dear Karl. I even winked at you as I walked by. I was on the lookout for other young … companions, when I suddenly realised the resemblance between father and daughter.”
“You fucking bastard …”
“You brought all this to your own door, Karl. Live with the consequences – for ever.”
The phone went dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Soldiering, my dear madam, is the coward’s art of attacking mercilessly when you are strong, and keeping out of harm’s way when you are weak. That is the whole secret of successful fighting. Get your enemy at a disadvantage; and never, on any account, fight him on equal terms.”
George Bernard Shaw, Arms and the Man
Karl sat in Wilson’s office, feigning calmness, all the while watching Lynne ripping shreds from her brother.
“How the hell can you sit there, Mark, claiming you can’t find anything!” screamed Lynne, leaning into Wilson’s haggard-looking face.
“Because we couldn’t find anything, damn it! Perhaps if someone hadn’t burglarised his premises, it wouldn’t have unnerved Hannah enough to move any incriminating evidence stored there!” retorted Wilson, glancing at Karl.
“Or someone in your office tipping him off,” said Karl, calmly.
“You would say that, wouldn’t you, Kane? All mouth, no brains. Always looking for police corruption, aren’t you?”
“I don’t think you looked hard enough, Mark,” accused Lynne.
“For God’s sake, Lynne! The search parties explored every inch of the prison, in a three-day extensive search. They even reopened all of the old covered-in escape tunnels, just to make sure. What else can I do?”
“You can find my daughter! That’s what you can do!” Without warning, Lynne suddenly burst into sobs. “Just … just find her.”
“Easy, Lynne,” soothed Karl, suddenly standing beside his ex-wife, holding her tightly in his arms. “Easy, girl … breathe easy. That’s it … easy …”
“Oh, Karl, what … what are we going to do?”
“Something. I’ve already made my mind up. Come on, I’m taking you home.”
“This something better not be breaking the law, Kane,” cut-in Wilson, blocking the doorway. “You won’t get any permission or support from me if you do. I warn you well in advance.”
Starting from his toes, a lit fuse of burning anger immediately ran up the entire length of Karl’s body, heading for the gunpowder in his brain. He stopped it, just in time, preventing the explosion.
“I don’t need your permission or support for anything, Mark,” replied Karl, calmly. “Perhaps not too far in the future, you’re the one going to need my support, though.”
“Your support? Ha! Don’t make me laugh, Kane. Why the hell would I need your support in the future or any other time, for that matter?”
Forcing a smile, Karl replied, “A wee birdie told me that Phillips got his pension reinstated. I wonder why? Perhaps I don’t need to wonder. Perhaps I already know the reason. Think about that, Mark, the next time you forget to look over your shoulder. Now move out of the way.”
Paling quickly, Wilson moved slowly from the door before easing down on to a chair.
Karl closed the door gently behind him and Lynne.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“A man’s mind will very generally refuse to make itself up until it be driven and compelled by emergency.”
Anthony Trollope, Ayala’s Angel
Karl was certain the bar – Ramblers – was somewhere in the vicinity. What he wasn’t certain of was its ownership; if it was still run by the man he desperately needed to speak to. Yesterday’s confrontation with Wilson had galvanised him. Sitting on his arse was a luxury he no longer could afford.
“Who’re you looking for, Mister?” asked a little girl no older than ten years of age, angelic face a landmass of freckles resembling rusted nails. Her left hand held a beat-up teddy bear with bizarre glass eyes and both ears missing. It resembled road kill.
“Don’t you know you shouldn’t be talking to a stranger, little girl?” said Karl.
“What about you? You’re talking to a stranger,” spit-fired the little girl in an automatic retort. “Well? Aren’t you?”
“Good point. But I’m a bit older than you.”
The little girl seemed to ponder this revelation for a few seconds before suddenly bringing the r
oad-kill bear towards Karl’s face. He could smell dog piss and dampness from its mangy fur.
“But you’re not as old as me,” said the bear, its bizarre toe-like lips unmoving.
“Oh, a go-between? You’ve got more tricks than Richard Nixon, little girl,” said Karl, feeling like a proper dick, standing in the middle of the street talking to a stuffed bear.
“I’m not Little Girl. My name is Bear,” said the bear, getting annoyingly closer to Karl’s wary face.
“I see … well, I’m looking for a certain type of place that wouldn’t be known by you, Bear.”
“Is it Brenda’s?” asked Bear.
“Pardon?”
“Brenda’s. You know, the place where all the strange men go to at night?”
“Homeless shelter, you mean?”
“Are you heebiefuckingjeebie out of your head, Mister? The strange men go there to have sex. It’s a whorehouse. Is that what you’re looking for?”
Karl’s tongue almost fell from his mouth. “No … no, but I’ll keep that in mind, the next time I’m feeling strange.” About to move on, he suddenly decided that perhaps Little-Not-So-Angelic could, after all, know the location of Ramblers.
“Ever hear of a bar called Ramblers?”
“Sure. Who hasn’t? Everybody knows Ramblers. It’s in Clifton Square.”
“Clifton Square? You wouldn’t happen to know the directions by any chance?”
“Sure.”
Karl waited, but other than sure, no other word emerged. He tried again. “Can you direct me to Clifton Square?”
Bear nodded. “It’ll cost.”
“What else is new?” said Karl, digging into his pocket, producing some coins, before handing them to an outstretched paw and hand.
“This is Clifton Square,” said Bear. “That’s Ramblers over there, beside the bakery.”
“Beside the …” Karl glanced across the street at the indicated building. Ramblers resembled an old church, badly converted into another old church. “No wonder I couldn’t find it.”
