Koop hangs his head and lets out a long slow breath.
He and Zoe had tried. God knows they'd tried and they'd had plenty of fun trying. But no baby had been forthcoming. At first it was almost a relief. Neither of them 'wanted' a baby in the way that they saw amongst their friends who, seemingly overnight, became mindless breeding machines, their world boundaries marked by prams and nappies and baby names and sleepless nights and stretch marks. They'd been glad not to take part in endless discussions on breast v bottle.
And then in 1995 Zoe had 'fallen' pregnant. A strange expression, 'fallen', but that described it very well. And, like clouds lifting, the two of them discovered for themselves the obsessive and claustrophobic world of expectant mothers. Zoe was welcomed back into the fold like an erring daughter who had seen the error of her ways. A nursery was painted. Hospital visits undertaken. Scans. Tests. Saturday visits to Mothercare.
On September 21st their daughter, Sarah, was born. Perfect in every detail save one. Sarah died in the birth canal.
It had almost finished them both. Koop can still recall with appalling clarity the terrible months that followed and the tests that confirmed what Zoe somehow knew in her bones: there would never be any more Sarahs.
'I'll stay,' says Koop. 'You're right. It's stupid.'
Zoe cries now. She holds her arm out straight, palm up to stop him coming close. She finishes crying and blows her nose on a sheet of kitchen roll. Then she looks at him and opens her arms. They embrace and Zoe whispers in his ear.
'If you have to go, Koop, then go. It's fucking pointless, but if you think you have to do it, then do it.'
'No, I'm being stupid, you're right.'
Zoe's words are hardly the ringing endorsement Koop might have hoped for and, like husbands down the ages, he now finds himself arguing against that which he'd been arguing for only a few minutes earlier. But Zoe wins out, as she usually does.
'Stevie was your only son. You didn't know him and he turned out bad, but you weren't to know that. Blood is blood, I guess.' She stops suddenly and looks at Koop, conscious she may have said too much.
Blood. People always say things like that. Blood is blood. Blood is thicker than water. Koop knows better than anyone that blood is nothing but blood. He's seen enough of it to last him a lifetime and he knows himself well enough to understand that it's not the full reason he's about to fly round the world on a wild goose chase.
Koop realises that the death is being investigated – perhaps even by someone good, someone like Keane – but it may not be given priority. Another drug argument, that would be the outcome. It's the intel value that the department would be interested in. Why was Stevie in Liverpool? Who did he see? What fresh advantage can MIT get from the new corpse?
Koop wants to find out all those things too, but it's not the only reason he's making the long trek home. He's not going to Liverpool just for closure, whatever that means.
He's going to Liverpool to see if this has anything to do with Carl.
18
Liverpool, December 1997.
It's snowing. Really snowing. A rare event in the city. The Pennines to the east, the Lakes to the north and Snow-donia across the bay to the south usually form a protective ring from the worst of the winter weather. But the snow currently bringing Britain to a grinding halt has made it into Liverpool this time and it's not helping DC Koopman's mood as the car slips and slides through the unlovely streets of Kirkby. The snow has at least helped drape the town in a sodium-tinted blanket, and driven most of the citizens inside, but it's hard going on the icy roads.
'Jesus,' Koop mutters as he slaloms perilously close to an oncoming pair of headlights. 'Where're the fucking gritters when you need them?'
There's no reply. Koop is alone in the car. The call that brought him out tonight is a personal one and he's driving his own vehicle. He turns a corner into the Hatton housing estate, the snow not managing to quite conceal the shabbiness of the area, and his car is pelted with snowballs by a group of youths who break off from building a gigantic snow penis to launch the attack. Koop almost smiles; the last time he came here, as a raw officer in a patrol car, when Kirkby was still a fresh wound, the locals used concrete and bottles. The snowballs feel like a warm welcome by comparison.
Koop leaves the youths in his rear view and drives deeper into the labyrinth of the Hatton estate. He turns right into a cul-de-sac. The road sign that should read 'Eaton Shire Place' has been doctored to read 'Eat Shit Place'. At its western end the terrace slouches against the fence of a rotting industrial complex. The homes here are little better than shacks. Built cheaply thirty years ago by backhanding builders using shoddy materials, they have not lasted well. On the side of the street that Koop is looking at, almost every one of the windows has been boarded up. There are lights burning behind some of the plywood barriers indicating life of sorts and Koop notes the serried ranks of satellite TV aerials mounted along the roofline. No money for glass but enough for pay-per-view, although Koop would bet that few of the TV watchers are paying the going rate for their soaps and football. Kirkby is the pitch-blackest part of the black economy. Most things can be bought more cheaply here, no questions asked, from clothing to electricity. Koop had once arrested a guy trying to sell a canister of nerve gas behind The Molyneux on a Sunday afternoon. He'd turned out to be a nutter, and the nerve gas to be the comparatively straightforward CS gas, but the fact that the maniac had a potential buyer was what stuck with Koop. Fucking nerve gas.
Koop arrives at a house at the very end of the terrace. It seems to lean against the steel fence of the industrial estate for support. There is a patrol car parked outside, engine running, smoke rising into the flat orange-black sky, and Koop pulls the rented Ford into line behind it. He steps out, his feet sliding on the snow and stiff legs it to the driver's window. It slides down and a plume of cigarette smoke is released into the night air.
'You took yer fucking time.' The face the words come out of belongs in another era. 'Battered' doesn't come close to describing the slab of meat that houses DC Tony Hannaway's eyes, nose and mouth. It's like looking at the survivor of a particularly violent bare-knuckle fight ten years after the worst of the damage has been badly repaired. Which is pretty much the story.
'And a lovely evening to you, too, Princess,' says Koop. 'It's snowing, you know.'
Tony Hannaway glances back along the road.
'Oh, aye, so it is. Thanks, Koop, I'd never have spotted it without one of you city plods pointing it out.'
Koop opens the rear door and slips in with a nod at Hannaway's partner, a young copper with a veteran's stare he must have been practising at home.
'PC Grimes,' says Hannaway, waving a paw in the direction of the passenger seat. Koop nods and gets a barely perceptible flicker in return. His blood flares at the not-so-gentle impertinence until he reminds himself that, senior officer or not, he's on Hannaway and Grimes's turf now. He checks the impulse to bring out the Koop temper and give Grimes a burst. Besides, this is personal, and he's in no position to pull rank.
Not tonight.
Koop looks at the house. Apart from a dull green glow around one of the upstairs windows, it looks dead.
'He's still in there, then?'
Tony Hannaway doesn't bother to reply.
'I know,' says Koop, holding up a placating hand. 'Stupid question.'
Grimes mutters something that Koop doesn't catch and he makes a mental note to cause the PC some small measure of trouble in the future. Personal or not, there's a line that Koop has and Grimes is skating too close to it to be forgotten.
But not yet.
There's still the matter of Carl to deal with.
'He's pushing it, Koop,' says Hannaway, as if Koop has spoken aloud. 'We can't keep phoning you to come running every time Carl's looking to score. Someone's going to get hurt one of these days.'
'That's if no-one's been hurt already,' adds Grimes. There's something in his voice that Koop can't quite pinpoint. Hannaway shoots Gri
mes a warning look but the copper ploughs on.
'We shouldn't be doing this,' adds Grimes, the emphasis on the 'this'. And Koop suddenly gets a flood of adrenaline down his spine.
'That's enough,' says Hannaway, looking at Grimes, but Koop interrupts.
'Wait.' He shifts forward in his seat and stares at Hannaway. 'Carl hasn't got anyone in there, has he?'
Koop knows before Hannaway answers that he's right.
'Jesus!' Koop can't get the door open quick enough.
'It's alright,' says Tony Hannaway. 'It was only some other druggie. And there hasn't been a peep out of them since they went in.'
Koop only half hears him. He's already at the front door. He can sense Hannaway and Grimes following but he doesn't wait. There's something about the house that has set his nerves screaming. He puts his shoulder to the door, ready to break it, but there's no need; it swings open easily and Koop is in.
'Carl?' he barks, his voice echoing around the ruined hallway and up the flimsy stairs. There's a stench of old food and urine etched deep into the fabric of the building. Hannaway and Grimes are behind him now and Koop pushes open the door into the living area. It too is a stinking mess. A back-broken couch sags against one wall and there is domestic debris strewn across every surface; old clothes, ashtrays, magazines, video cassettes. There was once a carpet on the floor but Koop can't tell where it ends and the rotting floorboards start.
The kitchen is the same except in here the smell is almost toxic. One look in the sink is enough to make Koop gag. He turns away and moves to the stairs.
'Carl!' shouts Koop.
'Maybe he went out the back?' says Hannaway.
'I thought you were watching the place?' says Koop.
'We aren't exactly doing an eight-man surveillance op, Koop. It's just me and Grimes keeping a friendly eye on the druggie cunt! He could be halfway to fucking Leeds by now, for all we know.'
As if in answer there's a dull thud from upstairs and all three coppers can hear music playing.
Koop takes the stairs two at a time then comes to a sliding halt on the tiny landing. The music is louder up here and it's coming from the bedroom. The Happy Mondays' '24 Hour Party People'. A thin strip of green light seeps out from under the door.
'Carl?' says Koop again, this time more quietly. He is conscious of Hannaway and Grimes at his shoulder and pushes open the bedroom door.
'Fuck,' says Grimes.
'Oh Jesus, Carl,' says Koop. 'What have you done?'
In the hallway, Grimes is sick.
19
It is Jimmy Gelagotis's habit to try and start each day in the same way. He rises early and makes breakfast for the family. Greek omelettes are his speciality, using only the freshest spinach and organic feta he buys from a deli in Southport. Usually it's only he and Chris who have the omelettes, and then just on Thursdays. Eva and Anna almost never eat anything, pleading diet as excuses, both of them having low-slung Mediterranean figures. Still, Jimmy always makes four, just in case. He enjoys cooking the meal; it's the only one he does cook and he likes to make it perfect every time.
Once breakfast is over, and if the timing is right, he'll take the Beemer and drop Anna at her swanky private school, all ivy-clad soft stone and rolling grounds; a surreal slice of England dropped into a sprawling Gold Coast strip of car dealerships and air-conditioned mini-malls. This morning, as usual, he chats to a few of the other parents on the school run, enjoying flirting with two or three of the hard-bodied mothers on their way to another workout. They like Jimmy – one in particular making it very plain that he'd be welcome to follow her Porsche home any time he chose to – although he also notices that a certain section of parents avoid him. That's OK, he knows exactly why they feel that way. It isn't because of what he does: few of them, if any, know that. It's because of his ethnicity.
A wog.
Most of them mistake him for Lebanese; a group that is, in these regressive, reductive times, becoming a byword for criminality. Far from feeling aggrieved at the racial slur, Jimmy is a wholehearted subscriber to this view: fucking Lebs are all fucking crims. If he was one of those parents hoping little Sophie, or young Miles, would become a lawyer or a doctor, he'd avoid contact with people like himself too. Even if he ain't a fucking Leb.
After school, the next stop for Jimmy is at the first of his businesses. In an echo of what's happening to Keith Kite twelve thousand miles away, Jimmy's empire is growing, almost all of it legitimate, and all of his businesses profitable in their own right.
At the first stop, a bustling waterfront café called Stone, he takes a cup of coffee and sits at a corner table to talk with the manager, Milo, about the month ahead. Jimmy notes problems in a small notebook and drinks his coffee which, he is gratified to note, is perfect. After the café he drives to a large car dealership which he has a controlling stake in. His partner is completely legit and welcomes Jimmy like the hard-working man he is. Inventory is checked and discussed and Jimmy moves on to look in on the taxi company and the three bottle shops he has scattered through Surfers. The only non-legitimate piece of business is to call Tony Link to check on the Jaguars. He tells Link to call Stefan Meeks and make doubly sure the cars haven't been touched. The last thing they need is some independent car thief screwing things up by nicking one of them.
By lunchtime Jimmy Gelagotis has taken care of business and makes his way to the Q1 building, towering above Surfers Paradise. He parks the Beemer in a reserved space in the underground car park and, using his access key, takes the resident lift to the 67th floor and lets himself into the oceanfront apartment. As always, he walks first to the windows which run from floor to ceiling and drinks in the view up and down the coast. It is staggering; well worth the cost.
Behind him, Ella, dressed as always in very little, puts aside her magazine and gets up from the sofa. She walks across to Jimmy and rubs against him like a cat.
'Hey, lover.'
Jimmy doesn't reply but she can tell that he's not being mean.
She's tall, taller than Jimmy anyway, and wears high heels which emphasise the difference. At first, when she'd become Jimmy's, she'd tried to compensate by wearing flats, but Jimmy told her to keep the heels. There's something about her being taller he likes. He enjoys hard sex with Ella, slamming into her from behind, her long thighs straining as Jimmy bends her over the bed.
Or table, or chair, or bathroom sink. He never quite knows when the urge will take him and Ella never questions. With every appearance of pleasure she comes loudly, Jimmy ripping her underwear (she has an account at La Perla in Pac Fair) before pushing his cock into her roughly. He wrongly imagines it's the roughness she likes; even going so far as to share her with one of his friends from time to time, the two of them taking her at either end, switching her round in a breathy, sweat-slicked haze of booze and cocaine.
In fact, Ella doesn't like it rough.
She doesn't actually like sex very much at all, truth be told. But she doesn't actively dislike it, and Jimmy only drops in every couple of days and she has the apartment, a nice car, money to spend and plenty of blow.
On this visit, Jimmy is distracted. She sinks dutifully to her knees and unzips his fly as he stands at the window. His cock is heavy and flaccid and she takes it whole in her mouth, before peeling back his foreskin and smoothly licking the underside of his tip, an expression of complete enjoyment on her face. She practises the faces she sees in porn films in the mirror, as well as some of the moves. She finds it works well enough and today is no different. Jimmy's initial distraction fades and his breathing grows heavy. She holds his balls with one hand and rotates her other hand around the base of his cock, her head bobbing back and forward as Jimmy's pleasure increases and his thrusting becomes urgent. Not long. Ella makes the noises Jimmy likes and he pulls out of her mouth just as he comes. Hot strings splash onto her chin and ear and land on her silk shift. Ella makes a mental note to get it into some cold water as soon as possible. Or should it be hot? She'll have
to Google it later. She rubs Jimmy's cock, her hand movements slowing in tandem with his breathing.
At a point she feels appropriate she gazes up at him adoringly. He pats her on the head like a pet dog and she makes her way to the bathroom.
As Ella showers, Jimmy zips himself, runs a hand through his hair and gets his breathing back under control. He takes out his mobile and checks for any calls that may have come in while he's been busy. There have been two, both legitimate business calls he'll respond to later. There's also a forwarded notification that he has emails in his web email box. He hitches his black pants and sits down in front of the laptop on a desk facing the ocean. As far as he knows, Ella seldom uses the laptop for anything other than shopping, but he likes her to keep it charged and operational every time he visits.
Jimmy clicks onto his Hotmail account. Eight messages, three of them junk. Two are details of properties he's looking at in a development in Noosa. One is from a mid-level Melbourne dealer he's hooked into his network, although the content has nothing to do with drugs, being instead concerned with Jimmy helping out financially with a music festival the dealer has become embroiled in. Jimmy makes a note to remind the dealer not to use this email and stick to messaging one of the mobiles he constantly changes.
The last email is from an unfamiliar address and Jimmy would have thrown it into the trash as spam except that the subject of the email reads 'Stevie Wonder'. The phrase/name is so close to Jimmy's thoughts about Stevie that he takes the risk and clicks 'open'. Inside, Jimmy can see no message. Instead there is an mpeg movie attachment, entitled 'Another Place'. He ponders for a moment before downloading the file. It's a big one, and takes a couple of minutes to come through. The laptop system has been set up to open any downloads automatically.
The movie software flickers onscreen and a small white arrow appears in the centre of the black rectangle. Jimmy clicks play and immediately wishes he hadn't.
Stevie White's face appears in the small frame, harshly lit, his eyes wide, fear twisting his features so much that at first Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't recognise him. Stevie is speaking frantically to someone off to one side of the camera but there's no sound on the clip. Then Stevie begins to cry and Jimmy flinches. The sense of something beyond terrible about to happen is palpable. Onscreen a man dressed from head to toe in protective coveralls, his face masked by a hood, goggles and a surgical mask, appears in front of Stevie. He produces a scalpel and moves forward.
A Dark Place to Die Page 10
