'Thanks, Tony. Very thoughtful.'
Link waves a hand. 'No problem. Anything, Declan. Absolutely anything you need.'
'There is one small thing,' says North. He pulls a sheet of hotel writing paper from his pocket and gives it to Link. 'I'd like an address for this guy. I think he's local.'
'Old friend?' Tony Link's smile fades as North's expression turns frosty. 'No problem at all, Declan. I'll get right on it.'
North smiles again. It's like switching on a light. 'Excellent, Tony. At your leisure. Don't think there's any rush.'
North turns and gets into the front passenger side of the car. As the Irishman and his gift pull away and turn left into the light traffic, Meeks lets out a sigh.
'Jesus,' he breathes. 'That is one horrible queer motherfucker.'
Tony Link pats Meeks on the side of his face. 'Look on the bright side, Stefan: he's our horrible queer motherfucker. And at least we don't have to get in that car with him. If we run out of pooftas you're gonna have to volunteer.'
'Get fucked. Christ on a bike, he gives me the creeps, man.'
Tony Link opens the door of the car and gets in. Meeks walks around to the other side and slips in beside him. He gives Chris the nod to drive.
'What's on the paper?' says Meeks as the car pulls away.
Link holds it up to the reading light and squints.
'Menno Koopman,' he reads. 'Who the fuck is Menno Koopman?'
53
'It's black and white, Eric. No question.'
Perch isn't having any of it.
'It's too early to be jumping to conclusions.' Perch is behind a desk three floors above the holding cell in which Menno Koopman sits drinking tea and chatting to a uniformed officer.
Reader rattles the paper in his hand again.
'There's no mistake, Eric. Time of death is between twelve and three. Koopman was in the A&E ward at Broadgreen until two, and then on the main ward until the morning.'
'He could have still made it.' Perch has the demeanour of a sulky adolescent. Ian Moresby sits back and folds his arms to stop himself reaching across the desk and slapping the stupid twat.
'We can't let your feelings about Koopman interfere. He didn't do it. I suppose, in some abstract universe, there are people who can leave a hospital ward, find a high-profile drug baron, take him from his minders, get him back to the hotel, kill him – slowly, mind – before trotting back to Broadgreen and getting into bed.'
Perch looks at Moresby. 'So you admit it's possible?'
Dave Reader laughs and then stops. This clown isn't joking. 'Get real, Eric. Apart from the logistics and the complete lack of forensics, why would Koopman take Kite back to his own hotel bedroom to kill him? I knew this was going to go south as soon as I heard Koopman was in the frame. The whole thing's garbage and you know it.'
'Can you imagine someone like Zentfeld getting a sniff of this?' Moresby's voice is incredulous.
'That's not a consideration,' says Perch. 'We don't worry about what some brief might do over at MIT.'
'Well, maybe you should,' says Reader. 'From what I hear, you get your arses smacked on a regular basis over there.'
Perch bristles.
'It doesn't matter, anyway,' says Moresby, before Perch can reply. 'The Kite case is OCS and we're kicking Menno Koopman out. He's muddied the waters enough without having you going off on some vendetta. Carl Koopman is still of interest but until we get some semblance of evidence against him we're keeping an open mind. Remember those?'
In the larger office outside, Emily Harris pretends to read the notice-board. She can't swear to it, but word must have spread about her defection. There's a certain something in the air. Not quite outright hostility. More the feeling of unease, as if a fox is loose in a field of sheep.
Perhaps they're all considering which way to jump. Follow her across to Perch, or stick with Frank Keane and hope he gets them through unscathed? It's a crossroads, the sort of crossroads that careers can depend on.
And, judging from the way the Koopman investigation looks like it's heading, she may have chosen the wrong road. At least in the short term. The next few months, she suspects, are not going to be easy.
Through the glass of the partition she sees the door to the small office open and Perch, Moresby and Reader step out. None of them stop at the door to MIT. Feeling herself flush and cursing herself for it, Harris darts after them. Behind her, Caddick, Wills and Corner exchange surreptitious loaded glances. Steve Rose studiously avoids her gaze and doesn't look up from his screen as she leaves.
In the corridor she feels foolish trotting after the suits.
'Sir?' Three heads turn her way. 'Is the interview over?'
'I'm going back to Canning Place, Harris,' Perch barks. 'Sit in on the rest of the Koopman interview. There have been . . . developments, which means other work now takes priority for me.' Perch speaks as though he is needed urgently at the UN.
Harris nods, an empty feeling coming to rest in her gut, and follows Moresby and Reader down the stairs. At the foot, Perch goes one way and the rest of them turn towards the interview room. On the threshold, Harris stops the two senior detectives.
'What's happened?'
Moresby looks at her, not unkindly. 'Koopman is out.' He holds up the path report. 'Kite was killed while he was in Broadgreen.'
Harris feels like she's taken a punch. Frank warned her this would happen.
'And the brother?' says Harris. 'Did Menno know Carl was out?'
Moresby shakes his head. 'We don't know. Yet. My feeling is that if Carl Koopman did have something to do with Kite's death – and that's a big if – then Menno Koopman didn't know. Either way, there's absolutely nothing apart from motive connecting Koopman with Keith Kite's sad demise. If we arrested everyone with a motive for killing that sack of shit, we'd have to pull in half of Liverpool. Koopman's out.'
'Listen,' says Dave Reader. 'Don't beat yourself up too much, Harris. Keane will come round.'
'If you do the right thing,' chips in Moresby. He shakes his head. 'Perch. Jesus, Harris, what were you thinking?'
Harris says nothing.
'We all fuck up now and again,' says Reader. 'Even coppers with your experience. Even me. Believe it or not. And you might have made the right decision, DI Harris. For all we know, Perch has got "future CC" written all over him.'
There's a short pause while they all contemplate the idea of Eric Perch as Chief Constable.
'Shall we?' says Harris. She indicates the door. Moresby pushes it open and they move inside.
54
'What do you mean "clean"? He must have got something!'
DC Rose writhes in an agony of uselessness. Like a faithful hound, there's nothing he'd rather have done than bring back the bird between his teeth and drop it at his master's feet. But there's no way round it. He's come up empty.
'Not so much as a parking ticket, boss. I ran it through everything but Declan North isn't there. Not with a record anyway.'
Keane runs his hand through his hair and leans against Rose's desk. 'Everyone has a fucking record these days. Tax evasion. Speeding. Something!'
Rose shakes his head. If he had a tail it would be well and truly tucked between his legs. 'Sorry, sir. He's clean.'
Keane walks across to the crime wall. His carefully constructed crime wall, now DI Harris's responsibility. He closes his mind at the thought of Harris. That's something that will have to be dealt with later. Right now, DCI Perch or no DCI Perch, he's fucked if he's going to stand there and let the White case – his case – stay across with OCS and that back-stabbing bitch.
'I've got his non-criminal data,' says DC Rose. His tone is conciliatory, as if it's his fault personally there's nothing meaty on North.
Keane turns back from the wall. He notices Caddick skulking around near the door pretending to be busy with some paperwork. Most likely seeing which way the wind is blowing before he declares his allegiance. Keane bites his lip. That kind of thinking will eat him
up if he doesn't tread carefully. For all he knows Caddick is working diligently and is a loyal and trustworthy officer. Maybe.
'What do you have, Steve?' he asks Rose. Rose's face brightens pathetically at Keane's warmer tone.
'The usual stuff, sir. Birth records, some employment stuff – although not very much there – no record of him ever claiming benefits.'
Keane looks up. 'What, never?'
Rose shakes his head.
Keane reaches over and picks up the file in front of Rose. He flicks through impatiently.
'Says he was born in Belfast, lived through the Troubles?'
Rose nods agreement.
'And no benefits? In Belfast, in the eighties?' Keane looks sceptical. He flicks a finger deeper into the file. 'No employment records either.'
'That we know of, sir.' Rose makes a face. 'I'm working with the databases we have. He could have worked off the radar. Cash in hand.'
'Which makes it all the stranger he never claimed. Standard practice in the black economy, right?'
Keane puts down the file and rubs his hands together briskly. The slim information on North is not as disappointing as he first imagined. In fact, the very lack of credible records is bringing Declan North right into focus. He was doing something in Ireland, record or no record.
'There was another thing,' says Rose. 'About North. He arrived here in eighty-three and went to college.'
That brings Keane up short. 'College? What, like technical college?' In his mind he sees a bomb-maker gaining his skills on an electronics course.
Rose shakes his head. 'No, sir. Art college. At Hope Street.'
'You're telling me that North was a fucking art student? In Liverpool?'
'Yes, sir.' Rose looks at the file on his desk. 'Eighty-three to eighty-six. Studied fine art and left with a two-one.'
'Two-one?'
'It's the grade. What they give 'em at the end of the course. A two-one's pretty good, according to Siobhan.' Rose looks across to Siobhan MacDonald. That's right, remembers Keane, Siobhan is a graduate copper.
He digests the news of North's art-school past. The image of the Gormley sculptures comes to mind. Kite's new-found status as an art lover.
'That's good work, Steve. Very good work.' Keane pats Rose on the shoulder. 'Dig around some more. Military records, passport office. You know the score.'
Leaving Rose to his task, Keane checks on the other members of his syndicate. Without going into details, he brings them up to speed on the changes Perch has made to the White case structure. DI Harris is now the lead and they are to report to her in so far as the case is still an MIT case. How long that situation will remain would be determined by the OCS involvement. Keane deliberately leaves vague the direction he feels the case will go. This is as much to cover his back, should Perch check he has left it alone, as to give him some wiggle room. Feeling much more chipper than when he arrived, Keane moves to a small office off the main room, sits at a bare desk and picks up the phone.
'Joanne? Frank.'
'Frank! Good to hear from you!' Her smoky voice is full of warmth.
He and Joanne Wright have history. Three years earlier Keane worked alongside her at MIT for a while. During that time Joanne divorced and Keane was the one who on more than one occasion was there to pick up the very messy pieces. There were two or three times when it was only Keane's involvement that prevented Joanne getting into some serious trouble involving a flirtation with coke. They dated briefly for a few months after her divorce was finalised, but it didn't work out for either of them and they parted without rancour. Keane figures that Joanne could prove useful right now.
Joanne works at OCS.
After a few pleasantries Keane gets down to it. 'Declan North. What can you tell me about him, Joanne? And I need it on the quiet. I'm not the most popular DI over here right now.'
There's a short pause during which Keane realises too late that Joanne might have been hoping for a little more than business from him. When she speaks again her tone is almost imperceptibly sharper.
'Give me a minute, Frank,' she says.
'I'll hold.' Keane presses the button and replaces the phone on its cradle. He looks out across the car park to the depressing vista of Liverpool in October. He checks his mobile for messages, but there's only one from a friend asking about tickets for the next Champions League game. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Emily Harris come into the office. She doesn't look happy, but Keane can't work out if that's simply from the situation or if something has happened downstairs while he's been out.
'Frank.'
Keane picks up the phone. 'Hi, Joanne.'
'Why do you need to know about North?'
'Why? Because I do.' Keane frowns. 'Is there a problem?'
She lowers her voice. 'Yes there's a problem, Frank. This one is hot. I could get into deep shit if Reader or Moresby find out.'
'Find out what? You've been giving information to a fellow officer? Come on, Joanne, I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that.'
'North's Irish.'
'I know that. What are you trying to say? He's IRA?'
'Something like that. We think. Or was. But that's not why he's hot, Frank. He's hot because he's heavily linked with Kite. He's been seen by us many times but is clean as can be.'
'Too clean.'
'That's right. Much too clean.'
Keane pauses. He lowers his voice.
'I'm liking him for the Kite murder. Is that the thinking at OCS?'
It's Joanne Wright's turn to pause. 'I don't know, Frank. I'm not in that loop. And I heard you were off the Kite thing.'
'Yeah. I am. But that doesn't mean I can't have a hobby, does it?'
'I can't give you any more, Frank. It's not right.'
'One thing, Joanne. I need a snap of North. Can you email me? You must have old surveillance shots, something like that?'
'I'll see what I can do. Good to hear from you, Frank.'
Joanne hangs up before Keane can reply. He looks blankly at the phone for a second before slowly replacing it.
Harris is tapping at her keyboard, her body hunched away from Keane. He walks past her desk and over to his own. Onscreen he sees that Joanne has come through straight away. He downloads the attachment and bins the email. He looks at Declan North's face closely. He doesn't seem like anyone's idea of a hitman. Which is, thinks Keane, damn useful if you happened to be one.
'Sir?' DC Rose leans over Keane's shoulder. He holds a printout looking like a kid on Christmas Eve. It's so endearing that Keane almost laughs out loud.
'OK, Rover,' he says. 'What have you brought me?'
Rose rests his backside on the edge of the desk. He taps the sheet of paper, beaming.
'It's your man, sir. North. He's in Australia.'
55
Koop gets his first-class flight back to Australia in the clothes he left Stanley Road in and carrying a bag of stuff bought in the airport shops.
OCS retains his belongings in case they turn out to be forensically pertinent to the Kite investigation. Even though Koop is pretty much out of the picture for Kite, OCS aren't happy. They quiz him endlessly for anything relevant, but there's nothing. There is some talk of charges relating to him running, or of interfering with an investigation, but Reader and Moresby smooth it out. It would be counter-productive to drag Koop in any deeper. Koop gets the idea that as far as Merseyside Police are concerned, the further away he is from their patch, the better. His name hasn't come up in the press yet and that's exactly how the locals will want it. They allow Koop to keep his wallet and passport and release him with clearance to return home.
Ian Moresby and Dave Reader wish him well and detail a uniform to take him back into the city. At the admissions desk, Koop is given his documents and shakes hands with the two OCS detectives.
A car draws up outside and the desk clerk nods towards it. The younger policeman clearly has no idea who Koop is. Koop pushes through the double doors and trots down the st
eps. He pulls open the passenger door and steps inside.
'Afternoon,' says Frank Keane. 'I heard you needed a lift?'
Koop puts his seatbelt on. 'Do they usually assign detective inspectors to taxi duty?'
Keane smiles. 'I sent the lad on his way. Took the liberty of driving you myself.' He manoeuvres the car out of the gate and into the traffic.
'The lovely DI Harris not joining us?' Koop's tone is teasing.
'I think those days are over, Koop. DI Harris . . . well, let's just leave it that we won't be exchanging Christmas cards any more, eh?'
Koop looks at Keane. 'So, what's happening with the investigation?'
'Kite?' says Keane.
Koop shakes his head. 'Stevie.'
Keane brakes at a red light.
'That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Koop. There've been some developments. Interesting ones.' They accelerate down towards the Pier Head and the tangle of glass high-rises. The Liver Building appears through a gap between two new office buildings that might have been hotels or apartment blocks; Koop doesn't know, and can't tell and doesn't care. The city is changing so fast it has left him behind and he can't wait to leave.
'I want you to help me,' says Keane. 'When you get home.'
Koop stares out of the window. 'You've changed your tune.'
'Yeah, well. Like I said, there've been developments.'
'What do you mean "help"? What can I do? I've been about as useful back here as a first-year PC.'
Keane pulls into the heavier traffic as they head east towards the 62. 'Harris shafted me,' he says. 'I'm out of the loop.'
Koop sucks his lower lip. 'She's a smart cookie,' says Koop. 'From the look of her.'
'Not as smart as she thinks, Koop. She had you for Kite and went over to Perch. Now she's got to decide if that was a good move. Perch is going to distance himself from bringing you in but she might be left in limbo.'
'Screw her.'
Keane nods. 'It wasn't personal.'
'It was for me.'
'True.'
When they get to the motorway, Keane kicks the car up to a hundred.
'In a hurry?' says Koop.
A Dark Place to Die Page 24
