A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  Chris Reader winces at the mention of his name.

  'Speaking of lawyers,' says Moresby, 'this might be a good time to reiterate that you have declined one for yourself. Just for the record.'

  'I don't know,' says Koop. 'I may be giving Arthur a call myself. Seeing as how I'm so tight with Hunter and all.'

  He sits back and looks at the three detectives. Koop feels old. Too old for this shit.

  'We've got enough on you leaving the scene, Koop. Even if you had nothing to do with Kite's death, you know better than to do something like that.' Moresby holds Koop's gaze.

  Koop holds up his palm. 'Stupid, I know. I must have still been affected by the beating at the gallery. At least that's what any decent brief would suggest. It's certainly the only fucking reason I can think of.'

  'Let's take a break.' Moresby leans forward and speaks into the microphone. 'DI Ian Moresby suspending interview with Menno Koopman.'

  'That's it?' says Harris. 'That's the interview?'

  Moresby turns to Harris. 'That's our interview so far, DI Harris. We think we may need to discuss this in private. If that's OK with you and DCI Perch?'

  Reader gestures to the uniformed officer at the door.

  'Take Mr Koopman to the holding cells, Lucas. Get him a cup of tea and keep him away from the regular scum.'

  Lucas leads Koop from the room. As the door closes behind him he sees Reader and Moresby turn to face Emily Harris.

  He almost wishes he was staying.

  51

  The first thing Keane feels like doing is to head for the pub to get well and truly fucked up. It is, surely, the only sensible response to what's happened. Hit the bar for a couple of hours and blot out Emily Harris's backstabbing face for a while.

  Instead, he gets in the car and goes to see Gittings. There's more than one way to skin a rabbit.

  Keane heads back into the city and drives down the hill towards the tunnels. He takes the Birkenhead route and slips under the river to the Wirral shore. Once in the Birkenhead badlands he follows the road east to New Brighton, parking outside a tiny pub which huddles on the promenade close to the back of the old theatre. It's an unrepentant shithole, the sort of place that Keane would have usually only entered with a kitted-up riot team.

  Or when he needs information.

  Like Menno Koopman, Frank Keane worked with Sergeant Gittings as a raw recruit. Ten years after Koopman was following the big racist bastard around Liverpool, Keane found himself doing pretty much the same and with similarly mixed feelings. By Keane's time, Gittings was a decade older, six stone heavier and rapidly approaching the end of a long and massively undistinguished career in uniform. But the fact that he spent almost every day of his working life on the street gives Gittings a knowledge of the inner workings of the city that can't be matched by anyone. He knows every brick, every scrote, every deal and backhander, from Speke to Southport and all points in between. He is a sponge, soaking up street information and storing it. Keane, like many other ambitious DIs, uses Gittings from time to time as a sort of sounding board. With each passing year his reach fades as he grows further away from the contacts he made as a copper. The last time Keane saw him was three years before and Gittings didn't look good then. Frank is hoping things haven't got much worse.

  Keane pushes open the door of the pub. Despite the rain and wind driving in off the Mersey, the interior of the pub seems bleaker than outside. There are three people in the bar besides Keane and the terminally bored-looking barman. Two alcoholic pensioners, a man and woman, sit on a bench seat below the only window in the room. The window itself is entirely covered by grimy security screens. Whether these screens are there to keep people in, or vandals out, Keane isn't sure. Certainly the two fossilised drinkers nursing their greasy glasses look more like longterm inmates of some Siberian gulag than happy patrons in a place of entertainment. Tonight's karaoke, promised by the shrieking orange fluoro poster above their heads, seems as unlikely as a performance of avant-garde theatre.

  The other occupant of the room is, as Keane expected, sitting on the same seat he's been sitting on for the past five years. The first thing Keane notices about Gittings is that his face has taken a severe beating at some point. He was never a movie star before, but now he looks truly hideous. His boozer's nose has mutated like some fungal growth, sprouting raw red hillocks which have pushed his eyes even further back into the folds of blue-veined flesh that surround them. What little hair remains is still cut short against his scalp; a residual habit. His body is wrecked. Always fat, he now has the proportions of a bull walrus. His body bulges against the constraints of his bar chair. He wears, as always, clothes which owe more than a little to the uniform he wore all his police life. Black pants, black shoes, blue shirt and a black coat, all of them greasy and stained. He is sixty-six, but looks like Methuselah. Up close, he smells of stale food and incontinence. It's not unbearable, but it's close.

  Keane orders a pint of lager and a double whisky. Neither drink is for himself. He places the whisky in front of Gittings and takes the stool next to him. It's a few moments before Gittings realises a glass has appeared and, at first, he seems to think it may have arrived through divine intervention such is the expression of radiant joy that lights up his bloated face.

  'Don't encourage 'im, mate,' says the barman. 'He's a narky fucker when he's had too much.'

  Keane looks at the barman and jerks his head towards the other end of the bar. Shift. When that produces no effect, Keane takes out his warrant card and shows it. The card doesn't impress him either.

  'I know yer a bizzy,' says the barman, his accent as thick as a plate of ten-day-old scouse. 'So?'

  'So fuck off out of it, you little gobshite, while I talk to my friend here in private.' Keane doesn't smile.

  The barman wipes a dirty rag around some equally dirty glasses. He picks up the remote for the monstrous plasma TV which dominates the wall behind the bar and turns the channel to show a gardening program. He glares at Keane with a look on his face that Keane has seen on a thousand scallies. They must practise it at home in the mirror. Keane waits a few seconds and the barman dawdles long enough to satisfy his own code of honour before heading off to stock the cigarette machine.

  'DC fucking Keane, as I live and breathe,' mumbles Gittings. 'Which isn't somethin' I take fer granted these days, I can tell yer.' He raises the glass of whisky and takes a pull.

  'Detective Inspector,' says Keane. 'I'm a DI now.'

  Gittings raises his eyebrows. 'You are doing well, DI Keane. Been licking all the right arseholes, eh?'

  'Something like that.'

  The fat man shuffles around in his chair with some effort. He looks at Keane and Keane can detect the stirrings of the feral intelligence that served the man well.

  'You need somethin', Frank?'

  Keane waves the rat-faced barman back over. 'Another double,' he says, pointing to Gittings's glass.

  'Oh ho!' says Gittings. 'You must want the good stuff!' He drains the first glass greedily and takes a slurp of the lager. Keane notices that despite the shaking hands not a drop escapes Gittings's maw. 'Go ahead. I'm all ears,' he says.

  Keane waits until the fresh whisky is placed in front of Gittings and the barman has retreated safely out of earshot. Keane slips a twenty out of his wallet and slides it across the bartop.

  'The Halligans,' says Keane.

  Gittings takes a sip of his second glass and regards the twenty. He snakes out a fat fist and scoops it up. 'The Halligans,' he repeats, sounding out the name like a fine wine. 'Well, there's plenty to know, Frankie boy. But you must know most of it yourself.'

  Keane nods. 'Yes, but I want your take on them.'

  Gittings preens. 'They've been around forever. I brought in old man Halligan, Dessie, when I was just a lad meself. They've been good customers down the years. Old-style criminals, once upon a time. You could give 'em a good kicking and they'd never complain.'

  'It's not the old stuff I need, Sarge. W
hat I want to know is about the new crop.'

  'The brothers?'

  Keane nods.

  Gittings looks around the bar. The old couple haven't moved a muscle. Keane wonders if they're alive. For all he knows they croaked last week. Gittings lowers his voice even further.

  'Matty and Dean. Bad fuckers, Frank, as you know. Foot soldiers for Keith Kite. They came up after that gym shooting six or seven years ago. They run two or three of Kite's clubs and all the usual stuff. Steroids from the look of them. Rumour is that one of 'em's queer. Matty, I think. Likes the rough stuff too. That could be something.'

  'And this helps me . . . how?'

  'You never said what you're after.'

  Keane folds his arms. Gittings has a point. What is he looking for? He thinks about what Gittings has mentioned about Matty Halligan being queer. 'You said they were foot soldiers. You think they might have made a move on Kite?'

  Gittings stops his glass at his lips. 'Oh. I see.' He drinks and sets the glass down carefully. He closes his eyes and says nothing.

  'Are you asleep, or thinking, or what?'

  Gittings opens his barnacle eyes and looks scornfully at Keane. 'I'm not that far fuckin' gone, DI Keane. No, I don't see the brothers having the juice to step up on Kite. Not alone, anyway.'

  The two men sit quietly for a few minutes. On screen a floppy-haired upper-class Englishman wearing a cravat and velvet jacket is talking animatedly about the correct way to prepare gazpacho. The barman and the two zombie pensioners are gazing at him as if he's the Archangel Gabriel.

  'Well, if that's all you have . . .' Keane makes to stand. Gittings shoots out a surprisingly quick hand and grabs his sleeve. 'Not so fast, Geronimo. You have any more sisters to that twenty?'

  Keane takes another note out and holds it against the bar with the flat of his hand.

  'That very much depends on the quality of the information.'

  Gittings pulls Keane in close. Keane fights the urge to pull back. Gittings's odour is more pungent at this distance and Keane knows the old copper will be on the streets, or worse, before too long.

  'There is something. Just a tickle.' Gittings glances around the pub. 'One of my old pals on Vice got a load of DVDs from one of them queer clubs at the back of Bold Street. Operating without a licence or some such. Anyway, they had to check 'em for anything good, right? See if them pooftas was using donkeys, or kids. Something that would make a collar, y'know? But it was all just ordinary bum-bandit stuff. Hardcore; whips and chains and all that carry-on, right?'

  Keane nods.

  'Anyway, my mate had the job of fast-forwarding through the pile so you can imagine how pleased he was about that. But he did find something.'

  Gittings eyes the twenty meaningfully and Keane lifts his hand. Gittings reaches out and trousers it.

  'Nothing actual criminal, as such. My mate recognised someone watching Matty Halligan get bummed. An Irishman called North. Declan North. One of Kite's.'

  Keane pulls back from Gittings and breathes in the relatively clean air.

  'And from what I've been hearing, this one is proper nasty, Frank. I heard he was ex-Provo.'

  'You know this?'

  Gittings puts his hands to his lips and makes a zippering gesture. Frank Keane takes out another twenty but, to his surprise, Gittings pushes the note away.

  'No, Frank. That's my lot. I've given you enough there to be goin' on with.' Gittings flashes a shrewd eye at the barman, still intent on the gardening show. 'Loose lips sink ships and all that.'

  Frank Keane stands. Gittings grips his arm and speaks in an urgent whisper.

  'You never got this from me, right? Kite and the Halligans I can cope with but I don't want any old IRA nutters tracin' anything back this way. I lived through all that exploding leprechaun shite once. I can do without a bunch of mad Paddys using me kneecaps for target practice. They're fucked enough right now.'

  Keane finishes his pint and pushes away from the bar with a nod to Gittings.

  'Take care, Sarge,' he says. Gittings doesn't reply. He's drinking.

  Outside, Keane calls the office as he walks to the car. He looks across the Mersey towards Liverpool as he waits for the connection. The air smells fresh after the pub.

  'DC Rose? Keane. I'll be. back in twenty. I want you to run a name for me. Declan North. Let's see what comes up.'

  52

  The first thing North does when he arrives back at his hotel after killing Jimmy Gelagotis is pack the rifle carefully into the cricket bag Tony Link supplied it in and stow it in the wardrobe. Then he undresses, gets into the shower and masturbates. It's what he always does after a killing. The image of Gelagotis's head erupting over the glass merges with the images in North's diseased wank bank. He comes quickly, cleans himself up and towels off. He feels energised. He is an intelligent man. He knows what he is, or what he has become, and he has no problem with it. It's for others to have regrets, or guilt, or any of the feelings that humans are supposed to have. He has, quite simply, never felt that way. He suspects Gelagotis may have been the same. The man had that look about him. He just wasn't expecting Link and Meeks to sell him out quite so swiftly. That, like many before him, was his undoing. It was certainly Keith Kite's problem.

  And now the dust has settled, Declan North is the main man. Eight hundred kilos of coke and a big fecking place like Australia to play in.

  North looks out of his window and down the strip of lights. It's almost twelve and the town is thick with clubbers and drinkers. Earlier in the day Declan North took a walk down to the beach and watched the surfers. They were cute enough, but he isn't sure if any of them would like it the way he likes it. Tony Link offered him women on his arrival and seemed surprised when he turned them down, raising an eyebrow a fraction. North thought Link got the message and liked the way he dealt with it. Not like Kite. North remembers Kite finding out that he and Matty were playmates. He hit the roof, in case anyone thought he was queer too. Then his insecurities subsided into years of snide remarks and 'jokes' that only Keith Kite laughed at. North considered killing Kite many times during that period but held off, waiting for the big score and swallowing a great big steaming pile of shit along the way.

  He is glad, now, that he showed restraint. Kite out and now Gelagotis out. King of the hill.

  North picks up the throwaway mobile phone Link has given him. He dials and gets an answer on the second ring.

  'Declan.' The voice is hesitant, clipped. North realises the man has been waiting for the call and is trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Just how North likes things to be: get everyone thinking he's half a bubble off the true – an accurate assessment, all things considered – and they fall in line right enough.

  'Your mammy would be proud, Mr Link. You've been promoted,' says North. 'I'll be downstairs in five.' He presses the 'end' button, stands up and puts his wallet in his back pocket. As he does so, North feels a familiar tinny whining in his ears and the room tilts under his feet until he's canted at an angle of forty-five degrees. His mind registers the fact that there's no noise, and that none of the room's objects – the lamps, the TV, the vase of dried flowers – have moved an inch. This has happened before and North lets it wash over him. He breathes in deeply and the axis of the room starts to slowly come back to normality. North remains silent for three or four minutes, concentrating on his breathing. His head seems to fill with blood and he can hear the beating of his heart loud in his ears. When he's breathing regularly again, North goes through his routines with the precision of a penitent monk.

  He places his hands together at the wrists and looks up at a corner of the room, analysing the perfection of the angles and calibrating the trajectory of a series of imagined rubber balls bouncing from one to the other. After a series of ten, North switches his attention back to the opposing corner and repeats the performance. Next he turns off every electrical switch in the room and turns them back on. He checks under the bed and behind the furniture for stray outlets he mi
ght have missed. It's vital that all outlets be turned on and then off and then back on. Finally, North opens every door and closes it, paying attention to the level of engineering in each. The hotel is a five star and North finds that, in the main, the levels are of a high enough quality to satisfy his exacting standards.

  Routine complete, he picks up his hotel key and, with a last look round, leaves the room.

  By the time he gets to the lobby Tony Link and Stefan Meeks are there. Despite their snappy suits and relaxed bad-guy personas, North realises they've been in the lobby for some time, waiting for word on Jimmy. They were scared of Gelagotis, North thinks.

  He glances at Stefan Meeks.

  And now the feckers are scared of me. The thought adds to his feeling of invincibility. He is untouchable.

  'You ready for a good time?' Tony Link can't quite mask the tension in his voice. Pleasing Declan North has become even more important.

  North nods and smiles. 'Aye, Mr Link. But you may have a different idea of what's good to me,' he says. It would be interesting to see how Link handles that one.

  Tony Link gestures towards the door. Outside, a black car is parked under the hotel-entrance canopy, a lean, well-muscled young man dressed in black leather leaning against the wing.

  'I think I might have underestimated you, Mr Link,' says North. The three of them head out of the hotel. As they exit, the leather boy stands and opens the door for North.

  'Good evening, sir,' he says. 'My name is Mark and I'll be your driver for this evening.'

  'I bet you fucking will,' murmurs North.

  Behind the black car a second draws up.

  'This is us, Declan,' says Link. 'I don't think you'll be needing us again tonight, right?'

  North glances at the leather boy. 'Get in the fucking car.'

  'It's like that, is it?' says the boy. He smiles and saunters around to the driver's door.

  North walks the few paces to Link and Meeks.