A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  Koop walks back to the car. There's nothing for him here.

  31

  Warren Eckhardt has never met Jimmy Gelagotis in the flesh before today.

  He knows little about the man. Considering how well known Gelagotis is on the Goldie, Eckhardt is disappointed he's not better informed. Nor did he know much about Gelagotis's associates. Although, after a moment's reflection, perhaps he's being too hard on himself. Why should he know? Jimmy now circulates in the lofty circles patrolled by Organised Crime and seldom falls under Warren Eckhardt's radar.

  Warren does know a few things. As an associate of Kolomiets, it's natural that any investigation will want to talk to Gelagotis. Eckhardt also knows that if Jimmy Gelagotis has killed Max Kolomiets, then it's a royal flush to a low pair that Gelagotis will have a signed and sealed alibi for the time in question.

  But sometimes you just have to shake the tree.

  Things are happening on his patch that Warren doesn't like. That's OK. Things happen all the time that Warren doesn't like. Christ, if he got his undies in a knot over every damn thing he didn't like, he wouldn't get up most mornings.

  This time, though, Warren has the scent of something much bigger in the air. He spent a fruitful hour talking to DI Keane in England about the Stevie White case, during which he and Keane exchanged some highly useful information on some of the key players. At the end of the call Warren is pretty sure that Jimmy Gelagotis – if he's involved – may have bitten off more than he can chew.

  Which can only mean that there's a very good reason for him to take that risk. With Stevie dead, Jimmy is going to have to attack or defend; there are no other options, apart from surrender, which Warren discounts immediately. From the background Eckhardt has been given by Frank Keane, anyone who plays games with an outfit as connected as the Liverpool cartels is not someone who would consider surrender a suitable strategy.

  Besides, if Eckhardt didn't know it before, one glance at Jimmy Gelagotis tells him that. Not tall, not short, with the build of a middleweight and carrying himself like someone who knows what he is capable of but doesn't have to prove a damn thing.

  'What can I get you, chief?' says Jimmy from behind the counter where he is checking the till. He's standing in front of a pin-board containing photos of the restaurant staff. Jimmy Gelagotis is in many of them, smiling and laughing. His accent contains second-generation traces of his Greek origins.

  Warren Eckhardt absent-mindedly shakes out a smoke from his pack of cigarettes.

  'Sorry, chief, no smoking, remember?'

  Eckhardt holds up a hand in apology. Almost five years since the ban on smoking inside and he still keeps forgetting. He slides the pack back into his jacket.

  'Flat white. Large, thanks.' Eckhardt hands over four dollars and pauses.

  'Anything else, chief?' Gelagotis is filling a steel jug with hot water.

  'You know me, Jimmy, don't you?'

  Gelagotis shrugs. 'Lots of people come in here, chief. Maybe I seen you before. I don't know.'

  Eckhardt smiles, revealing an uneven row of nicotine-stained teeth. 'Have it your way. When the coffee's ready perhaps you'll sit down with me for a pow-wow? Up to you, Jimmy.'

  As Eckhardt picks up a handful of extra packets of sugar, his gaze is caught by one of the photographs on the café pin-board. It shows Jimmy with his arm around a taller, younger blond man. Both are smiling and holding beers.

  The blond man is Stevie White.

  Eckhardt turns from the photo to see Jimmy following his line of sight. Eckhardt gives him a sardonic smile, walks across to a window booth in the far corner and waits.

  A few minutes later Gelagotis appears, Eckhardt's coffee in hand. He places the cup on the table and regards Eckhardt for a moment before taking the seat opposite. Any warmth that had been there has gone from his face.

  'I'm sitting. What's this about?'

  'You know, Jimmy. And you've got me as police, right? You're not giving much away to admit that.'

  Gelagotis nods. 'Police. I see that. And I think you was pointed out one time to me. Something to do with drugs, right?'

  'Look, Jimmy, I appreciate that lying is so ingrained in you that it's hard for you to think or speak any other way, so I'll make it simple.' Eckhardt stops to sip. 'Oh, good coffee.'

  He puts down the cup and taps the table with a yellow finger. 'You already know I'm police. Warren Eckhardt from SE Queensland Homicide. I used to be with the Organised Crime Squad which is where you will have crossed my path – or maybe one of your tame cops knows me. I know you've got one in your pocket, at least, and I've a fair idea who that might be. But that's not all that important right now. What is is that you're Jimmy Gelagotis and I have a thick file on you. A great big thick juicy file.'

  Jimmy makes a dismissive sound.

  'Oh I know, Jimmy. Stale news. I'm not here about what's in the file. I'm here to just talk with you about what's happening. Before everything goes Wild West on us and I'm looking at you on a coroner's table. Just like I did with Max Kolomiets this morning. Yes, it didn't take very long, did it? For me to get in your face, I mean. You were expecting a little longer.'

  Jimmy Gelagotis makes a motion to stand but Warren Eckhardt shoots out a surprisingly strong hand and grabs his wrist.

  'Sit down, Jimmy. Really. This is going to help you.'

  Gelagotis waits a beat and glances down at Eckhardt's hand. Warren opens his fingers and gestures to the seat. Gelagotis sits.

  'I hardly knew Kolomiets,' he says eventually. 'If that's what this is about. Or are you after money?'

  Eckhardt pulls a disappointed face.

  'I know you did Kolomiets, Jimmy. I know it just as surely as I know the sun will rise, that this is good coffee, or that I will be having a cigarette the instant I'm back in my car. Given time I'll most likely prove it too. But see, here's the thing: I don't think I'll get the chance to prove a damn thing before someone gets to you, Jimmy. That could be one of Kolomiets's boys – no, wait – you'll already have considered that, right? They must have been ready for the switch too. So, let's assume it's not one of The Russian's old team.' Eckhardt pauses. He sips his coffee and looks past Gelagotis at the pin-board. He decides to take a calculated risk.

  'Does the name Stevie White mean anything to you?'

  Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't blink. 'I know Stevie, yeah. So what? The guy's a customer, man.' His face shows nothing but Jimmy's thinking: this is coming home too quickly.

  'He's dead, Jimmy.'

  Gelagotis shrugs. 'Like I said, I hardly knew him.'

  'Right,' says Eckhardt. The news of White's death is not a shock to Gelagotis, Eckhardt would bet his left nut on that.

  'Aren't you curious about how he died, Jimmy? Or where?'

  Gelagotis drums his fingers lightly on the surface of the table. 'Get on with it, Eckhardt.'

  'I'm assuming from your reaction that the news is not a surprise to you, Jimmy. Which means you must be very worried, my friend.'

  Gelagotis gives Eckhardt a level stare. 'Do I look worried?'

  'No. No you don't, I'll give you that – you've managed to put a lid on it, outwardly at least. But you are worried. I see it. Because you know what'll happen. They'll be sending someone from Liverpool. Or maybe one of their friends. The Colombians. The Irish. The East Europeans. Those boys play hardball, Jimmy.'

  'Do you practise this routine at home?' Gelagotis is shaking his head. 'It's fucking pathetic, man.'

  Warren Eckhardt holds up a hand. He's smiling. 'OK, maybe I'm laying it on a bit. I'm a bit of a ham at heart. Frankly, I don't care if someone does kill you, Jimmy. As far as I'm concerned it's one less cockroach I have to deal with. But this is out of your league, brother. Way out of your league. Did you hear what the Poms did to Stevie? Did you? The details, I mean?'

  Jimmy feels his neck flush. The image of the video clip flashes through his mind.

  'You did?' says Eckhardt, surprised at the reaction from Gelagotis. He wonders how much detail he
knows and how he's come by that information. 'And you still think you're going to make this thing work out? Christ, maybe you're tougher than you look.'

  Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't reply. He lets the silence build.

  Eckhardt drains his coffee.

  'OK,' he says, getting to his feet. 'I'm pretty sure the next time I see you, you won't be looking as fresh as you do now. Have a think about telling Uncle Warren all about it.'

  Jimmy Gelagotis shakes his head. 'Like I said, I'm just a businessman. I don't know what you're talking about.'

  Warren Eckhardt wipes the edge of his mouth with a paper napkin. He takes a business card and holds it out to Gelagotis. When he makes no move to take it, Eckhardt places it on the table and pushes it slightly towards the Greek.

  'Well, seeing as you're a businessman, Jimmy, here's my business card. Call me if you feel you want to get something off your chest. Think of me as your priest . . .'

  He walks out into the heat of the day. As he reaches his car he turns to see Gelagotis pick up his card.

  Tree shaken.

  32

  Kite is enjoying himself. Harris can see it written all over his face.

  She looks across the interview room at Frank Keane fiddling with the controls of the digital recorder. Once Perch gets hold of this, it might be time to start thinking about that transfer.

  Kite is their man, Emily Harris is sure of that. Just like she knows he's responsible for a large percentage of the crime on Merseyside, not to mention elsewhere. But knowing that, and proving it, are two entirely different things. As she sees the situation, hauling Kite in for questioning will accomplish nothing except give him the satisfaction of walking out with a smile on his face.

  She and the tree-shaking Warren Eckhardt would not see eye to eye.

  Keane, on the other hand, is at one with the Australian. He wouldn't have used the same phrase, but what he's doing with Keith Kite is precisely the same.

  '9.35 am. Wednesday the nineteenth of October, 2011. DI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris. Interview five four two, interview room three, Stanley Road Police HQ. Interview subject, Keith Andrew Kite. Also present Constable . . .'

  Keane breaks off with a quizzical glance at the PC standing next to the door.

  'Parkes, sir.' Keane remembers the young copper from the White murder site.

  'Constable Parkes.' Keane sits and looks at the file on the desk in front of him.

  'Do you have to practise that before they give you the shiny badge?' says Kite, his mouth smiling, his eyes dark.

  'We don't have badges, shiny or otherwise, Mr Kite.'

  Kite gives a shake of his head. 'Fucking amateur hour,' he mutters.

  'Mr Kite, we're investigating the death of one Steven White, at Crosby Beach on or around October the eleventh, 2011. We have reason to believe you may be able to shed some light on the matter.'

  'Does Beyoncé here ever say anything, Roy? Or does she just sit there looking beautiful?' Kite turns to Harris. 'Cappuccino, luv, there's a good girl.' He sits back in his chair, his eyes black holes.

  Keane wonders if Kite has already had a toot. It's early but the rumours are he's a user.

  'Does the name Steven White mean anything to you, Mr Kite?' says Harris.

  'One sugar, and don't forget the cinnamon sprinkles.'

  'Sean Bourke's one of your lads, isn't he, Keith?' Keane says.

  Kite shrugs. 'I've met him. Not sure what you mean by "one of my lads".'

  'We're in the process of matching Sean's DNA to a container in Seaforth. Seems that Sean found your business methods a little too much, even for someone like him. He puked. The DNA match will put Sean at the crime scene.'

  Keane waits. He and Harris both know the DNA evidence on Bourke won't be worth anything. DNA matches from vomit can be too easily contaminated for a court's liking. Frank's hoping Kite doesn't know that.

  'What do you want me to say? I've met this man Bourke. What he does with his time is up to him.'

  'You'd let him go just like that, Keith?' Keane's voice is hard.

  Kite looks at him sadly and shakes his head. 'Fucking pathetic. You have to have more than that.'

  Frank's voice is expressionless. 'You were seen, Mr Kite, dining with someone answering the description of White, the day before he was found. Sean Bourke was also there. Would you like to comment?'

  Kite smiles blandly at Keane. 'I'm a busy man. I see lots of people in my game. This Bourke might have been there. I don't know.'

  'What is your game exactly, Mr Kite?' Harris taps a finger on the file in front of her. 'Quite an impressive resume.'

  Kite looks at her, an expression of mock surprise on his face. 'What do you know? It can read. Well, I suppose even monkeys can be trained to recognise words, eh? No offence.' He glances at Keane and then swivels his head back to Harris. 'I'm a businessman, dear. A very successful one. As you know.'

  'Does your business involve a Macksym Kolomiets?' DI Harris stares directly at Kite, an icy smile in place. There is a flicker from Kite. His smile doesn't waver but he's heard the name before, Harris is sure. 'I see you recognise the name.'

  'Never heard of him,' says Kite. 'And what are you: clairvoyant? Is mind-reading now admissible in court?' Kite sits up straight in his chair. 'Now enough fucking about. I'm due at an opening tonight and I want to do a few things before it starts.'

  'An art opening?' Keane breaks in. 'That's right, Keith, you're something of a culture vulture, aren't you?' He taps his pen against his teeth. 'What do you think of the Gormleys by the way?'

  'Overrated. And some would say derivative.'

  Keane barks out a laugh. 'Big word for you, isn't it, Keith? Been reading, have you? Mind you, you had plenty of time for that inside, didn't you? A four stretch, I believe. Some of you nightcrawlers go that way: Open University, degrees. All that crap. You want to watch that some of those big words don't get stuck in your mouth. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'

  Kite's eyes hold Keane's. 'Yeah, you're right, it can be, Roy. Very dangerous.'

  'I hope that's not a threat, Mr Kite.' Keane's voice is even.

  Kite says nothing. He sits back and folds his arms.

  Christ, Keane is sick to the back teeth of these low-rent fuckwits. For all his expensive tailoring and money, Kite is still one of the crop-haired, tracksuited, unlovable and unloved bottom-feeders that Liverpool's sink estates produce in their thousands. Keane experiences an adrenaline spike as he imagines smashing Kite's nose out through the back of the nasty little scum-sucking bastard's skull. Instead, in a measured tone he asks another question.

  'The man you killed . . .'

  Kite snorts. 'Give me a break.'

  'The man you killed,' repeats Keane. He fixes Kite with a stare. 'You know whose son he is, don't you, Keith?'

  Harris nudges Keane's foot with her toe. She's not happy about Keane revealing this information but he doesn't respond. For the first time in the interview Kite looks ruffled. It's the reason Keane has brought Kite into the interview; the real reason, not the bullshit he fed Harris.

  'What the fuck are you talking about?' says Kite. He's recovered, but Keane can sense that this is unexpected for him. He presses forward.

  'You didn't know? That's priceless, Keith. Stevie White, the man you tortured and burnt, is connected in a way you didn't know about.'

  'Connected?' All pretence that Kite doesn't know about the dead man is forgotten. Keane has information Kite wants.

  'Detective Chief Inspector Koopman,' says Keane. 'You remember him, don't you, Keith?'

  Kite's brow furrows. 'Koopman? What's he got to do with this . . . this alleged murder?'

  Keane allows himself a smirk. Harris is fuming but remains silent.

  'White was Koopman's son, Keith.'

  Kite's face darkens.

  'Nothing to say?' Keane leans forward. He lowers his voice. 'You know what Koop is like, don't you? How do you think he'll take the news of your involvement?'

  'Are yo
u finished?' says Kite, all humour gone from his face. 'Because if you're not, then I'd like to speak to my lawyer. It was amusing, but time is pressing and all that.'

  He looks at his watch. Harris wants to do the same. It's all she can do to not sigh out loud. This is going nowhere fast. In her view, not only has Frank chosen the wrong option in bringing Kite in too soon, he's compounded that by mentioning Koopman.

  Keane perseveres for a few more minutes, but Kite's mouth remains closed. The arrival of his lawyer signals the end of questioning.

  As Kite leaves the interview room, Keane does his best to avoid meeting Emily Harris's eyes. It isn't until they get back to the office that they speak. He looks out of the window at the edifying spectacle of the dual carriageway and the car park. He rubs the bridge of his nose and feels old.

  'I told you so,' says Harris.

  Keane raises a hand in an 'I surrender' gesture. 'At least no-one could accuse you of not stating the obvious, Em.'

  Harris holds out a Post-it note. 'And Perch wants to see us. Kite's lawyer has been bending the ear of the gods.'

  Keane is about to speak when he sees Kite leaving the building and getting into the lawyer's BMW.

  'Shit,' says Keane.

  33

  Dry – or close enough after ten minutes in the car with the heater on full blast as to make no difference – and ten miles further north from the beach, Koop pulls onto the drive leading down to the new golf club complex which has risen up, seemingly overnight, in what looks like a riposte to the crusty grandees of Royal Birkdale and Hillside golf clubs a few miles further north in Southport.

  The club has been an instant success and has attracted a different breed of clientele to the course and hotel: businessmen, footballers, soap stars, visiting actors, sports teams. To Koopman, the place looks like a suburban mansion on steroids wrapped around an expensive-looking golf course.

  Koop walks along an impeccably groomed gravel path which meanders past a curve of unused golf carts. The weather is keeping all but the most dedicated of players at home. Beyond the carts is the pro-shop and booking centre.