A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  Link glances at Meeks. 'Stef's the mover.'

  Meeks scratches the side of his face. 'It was going all over. Sydney, Melbourne, Brissy. You name it.'

  'The biggest single buyer?' says North.

  'Perth,' says Meeks. 'The bikies.'

  North raises his eyebrows.

  'They can handle eighty over there?'

  'Shit, yeah,' says Meeks. 'Lazarus can shift that amount, no sweat. They were expecting fifty before . . . before, this.'

  'That's the contact's name, Lazarus?'

  Meeks nods. As he does so, North whips the knife he's unfolded in his pocket and jams the blade up through the underside of Meeks's jaw. It travels through his soft palate and cuts deep into his brain.

  Tony Link reacts, but not quickly enough. At North's sudden movement he recoils instinctively and reaches into his jacket. North glimpses the black butt of a gun sticking up from a shoulder holster. He pulls the knife out of Meeks and slashes down across Link's arm. The blade slices into him above the elbow and Link grunts. Link swings an ineffectual left at North and staggers against one of the Jags. Blood splashes on the tarp. North moves closer as Link manages to get his left hand on his gun. But he's coming at it wrong, from the other side, and he fumbles. North headbutts him, breaking his nose, stabbing him almost simultaneously in the belly. Backed up against the car, Link drops the gun and North rams his blade into Link's ear. Link screams and North stabs him again, this time driving the knife down into the man's exposed neck. Link drops to one knee and flaps ineffectually at North's wrist. North steps back as blood arcs from Link's neck and splashes against the side of the nearest car. The man falls twitching to the floor of the lock-up, his eyes wide and bubbling sounds coming from his blood-streaked mouth.

  North moves out of range and waits for Link to die. Then, like a man negotiating rock pools, he steps closer and pulls the corpse away from the Jags using his collar, the man's blood leaving a fat red smear across the concrete.

  Lying slumped against the rear wall of the lock-up, Stefan Meeks is still alive. Just. Taking care not to get any more blood on his clothing or shoes, North walks across to him and stabs him in the heart. Meeks clutches the air spastically and then lies still, his head against the wall, pushing his chin down onto his scarlet chest.

  The lock-up is silent.

  North takes a moment to control his breathing.

  The instant North found out about the missing cocaine, Link and Meeks were dead men. He knows it's unlikely either of them had anything to do with the double-cross. If that was the case, they'd have little to gain from bringing him to the lock-up. His reasoning runs like this: if Meeks or Link, or both, took the cocaine, the next logical step was to kill North. He was the connection back to Liverpool, and North knows they would never have brought him in here if they weren't completely confident the cocaine was in its rightful place. And once North knew the best destination for the coke – Perth – and had a name – Lazarus – Meeks and Link simply became witnesses or, if you wanted to be mercenary, men who would need paying. And with ninety per cent of his shipment missing, Declan North is in no mood to cut two miserable Aussies in. With eight hundred kilos to distribute, their contribution was vital and their cut bearable. With eighty, they were expendable.

  Now all that's left is to clean up.

  North rolls Link onto his back and finds the keys to the Lexus. He checks his own clothing for obvious signs of blood and moves to the door. He lifts the metal roller and looks outside. The lot is empty, baking in the heat of a Gold Coast morning. He walks quickly to Link's Lexus and drives it into the lock-up, closing the door behind him.

  Next he strips the tarps from the Jags and balls them into a corner. Then he strips nude and places his clothes on the car furthest from the blood. He carefully lifts out the cocaine and checks every brick. Whoever replaced the coke used chalk, making the fakes easy to spot. The authentic bricks are shifted to one side of the lock-up, the fakes crumbled into the back seat of the middle Jag. Eventually, North has found all the cocaine in the first Jag. He wipes his brow and repeats the process with the other two cars. The whole thing takes him well over an hour.

  Satisfied he has all the cocaine, he loads the genuine bricks into the unmarked Jag.

  Then comes the awkward bit.

  He walks across to Link and heaves him into a sitting position. He lifts Link's gun from his holster and places it in the Jag containing the cocaine. North returns to Link and lifts him from behind. With his arms under his armpits, North levers him into the middle of the three Jags. He puts Meeks in the back and breathes deeply. His body is coated in sweat and blood, chalk and cocaine residue; a nightmare vision. He finds a litre bottle of mineral water in the Lexus. Using a section of untouched tarp, he cleans his face and hands. The rest can be covered until he has a chance to properly clean up back at the hotel.

  Now North gets dressed. He replaces his clothes and checks himself in the wing mirror of the Lexus. He will pass.

  North rips three long strips from another section of tarp. He opens the petrol tank of the Lexus and forces the strips inside. Once soaked, he puts a strip into the tank of two of the Jags and leaves one in Link's car. He opens the lock-up door and reverses the Jag containing the cocaine out into the sun. He goes back into the lock-up and closes the door one more time.

  He produces a lighter and lights each of the rags. When they're flaming he opens the lock-up door and quickly closes it behind him. Unhurried, he gets into the Jag and pulls out of the lot and onto the road, pointing the car back towards Surfers. He waits patiently at a set of lights about fifty metres from the perimeter of the lock-up.

  The first car explodes as the lights turn green. North presses the accelerator and his rear-view mirror fills with fire.

  It takes him twenty minutes to get back to his hotel, the one organised by Tony Link. North checked in under a false name and, naturally, Link paid the tab. North parks the Jag on a side street, his mind rearing up at the unpalatable thought of leaving eighty kilos of coke parked in the middle of Surfers Paradise. But there's nothing else for it. He doesn't want the Jag caught on hotel CCTV.

  North crosses the lobby and goes to his room. He showers thoroughly and changes into fresh clothes; board shorts and t-shirt. He puts sunglasses on his forehead and thongs on his feet, turning himself from businessman to pale-skinned tourist.

  He cleans the room, taking particular care to wipe surfaces he may have touched. Then he takes his suitcase to the lift down to the basement car park, avoiding the hotel lobby. He exits, walking, less than half an hour after coming back. He puts his suitcase in the thankfully unmolested Jag and drives to the back-up hotel, where he parks in the secure underground garage.

  Job completed, North sits on the bed and looks at the slip of paper Link has given him, the vein pulsing in his temple.

  Koopman is up to his neck in this.

  57

  It's over.

  It stands to reason. With Kite dead, it's obvious to Koop that whoever killed him has moved a few rungs up the food chain and taken over whatever deal Stevie was involved with. It sounds very much like the same thing has happened in Australia, if what Keane told him about Gelagotis is accurate.

  A feeding frenzy. Blood in the water.

  Koop's seen it before in Liverpool at first hand. The money getting bigger, the temptations greater, and the young sharks circle, looking for their bite out of the carcass.

  There are always younger sharks. Kite was one once, back when Koop was putting together The Untouchables. A nasty, vicious scally who clambered his way out of the slime and up the ladder until it happened to him.

  It must have been a hell of a shock, reflects Koop. Kite was so cocksure, so certain of his own invincibility, that he forgot Rule One: watch your back. If Keane was right it was this North who did it. North must have been the guy at The Granary. He has a vague recollection of an unsmiling and unremarkable face, of a hand reaching inside a jacket . . .

  Koo
p steps from the shower and reaches for a towel from the stack. He dries himself and shaves, careful not to cut himself as the A380 bobbles through some minor turbulence.

  Flying at thirty-eight thousand feet, the Emirates flight is two hours out of Dubai with another twelve to go before Sydney, and Koop plans to have at least one more shower on board before landing. He seriously doubts he'll ever get the chance to do it again. The first-class flight is Koop's reward to himself after what has happened. He could have changed his ticket, but he simply didn't want to.

  He sips his bourbon and looks at himself in the mirror. The events of the past days have not left any visible signs on Menno Koopman. He's a little tired, and his ribs still ache from the beating he took at the gallery, but the decadent surroundings of the flight are beginning to work on him. He feels rejuvenated, filled with desire for Zoe. Not to mention Melumi. Zoe is mad at him, he knows that – he's already tried calling her twice from the airport and once from the plane on the leg to Dubai – but he also knows it'll be fine when he gets back. That there'll be retribution coming his way somewhere down the track, he has no doubt, but nothing too terrible. He expects that she'll probably simply take off for a time, perhaps with Mel in tow. Punishment by denial of privileges. The age-old female prerogative.

  Koop dresses and returns to his seat. A gorgeous, smiling hostess has made it up into a full bed while he's been showering. Koop lies back and thinks about what Keane said. With every passing mile he draws nearer to home, the thought of getting back into harness with this Eckhardt character is becoming less and less attractive.

  He'll see him, Koop decides, out of politeness, but that will be as far as it goes. This North can do whatever he wants so long as he stays out of Koop's life. And he can't think of a single reason why North wouldn't do exactly that. Koop has failed. Kite was dead, but that was nothing to do with him. From what Koop could put together, North is now the main player in whatever deal Stevie was mixed up with. The idea of pursuing North in Australia seems as deranged as chasing a great white into the surf.

  No, Koop thinks, it's over. He lies back and drifts effortlessly into sleep.

  North can keep the drugs.

  58

  'More chips, love?'

  Dot Halligan fusses over her boys as she has done every Sunday of their lives; those that they have spent outside prison, that is. She ladles fried chips onto their plates without waiting for an answer. Dean wades in, spearing his fork into the fresh stack, his eyes not leaving the football showing on the vast plasma TV set. By contrast, Matty only nibbles the end of a chip as onscreen a flamboyant Suarez flashes a volley over the bar.

  Dot, who watches her boys like a lioness, is beginning to worry about Matty. Well-dressed and immaculate as ever, he looks too thin. Dot prefers a man to have some padding. Like Dean, who resembles his father – God rot his eternal frigging soul, the lazy fat fucking bastard – more and more with every passing day.

  Dot takes her place on her favoured armchair after a final check that the boys have everything they could possibly need. Beans, chicken, carrots, peas, chips, bread and butter on their plates, and sauce bottles – tomato for Matty, HP for Dean – standing like sentries on the opposing arms of the sofa.

  What conversation there is centres around the hopes for Liverpool's season, and exactly how useless each and every player in red is, with the exception of the sainted Stevie G. Dot doesn't listen. She enjoys the sound of the male voices in her living room. She doesn't like football. After spending all of her sixty-five years living within walking distance of Anfield, she doesn't know the rules of the game, although, like all Liverpool women, she knows the names of those players who feature heavily in almost all discussions in every house or social function she has ever attended.

  As she eats, Dot notices that it's Dean who is more animated, Matty doing just enough to keep the talk flowing. Matty's eyes are dark and she notices lines beginning to appear at the corners of his mouth.

  'Everything OK, son?'

  At his mother's question, Dean looks up from his plate and across at Matty, a sly smile on his face. 'Yeah, you alright, la?'

  'Yeah, course, why?' Matty says, avoiding Dean's grinning face.

  'You havin' too many late nights? Chasing girls again?'

  Dean turns back to the TV, unwilling to trust himself not to laugh. He shakes his head a fraction, a gesture noticed by Matty who throws a chip at him. Unseen by his mother, Dean mouths the words 'you big poof' at him.

  'I've been working too hard, Ma,' says Matty. 'We both 'ave.'

  'Well, eat up, son,' says Dot. 'You're fadin' away. I've seen more friggin' meat on a butcher's apron.'

  'OK,' says Matty. 'I'll do that.'

  As the three finish their meal, Liverpool pull a goal ahead while Dot is clearing the plates, temporarily blocking Dean's view of the screen.

  'Fuckin' 'ell, Ma!' says Dean, pushing his mother to one side and leaning to catch the replay. 'Out the fuckin' way!'

  'Language, Dean! What would Father Flaherty say?'

  'He'd say, "Out the fuckin' way, please,"' whispers Matty as Dot retreats to the kitchen. Dean creases up and takes out a cigarette.

  'Not in the house, Dean!' His mother's voice cuts through the excited chatter of the commentary.

  'Come on, dick 'ead,' says Dean, getting to his feet. He looks at Matty. 'Ready, you big shirt-lifter?'

  Matty stands and fakes a punch to Dean's balls.

  'In yer dreams,' says Dean. He walks into the kitchen and kisses his mother.

  'You goin' already? You've only just got 'ere!'

  Dean jerks a thumb in the direction of the street. 'We're meetin' up with some of the lads,' he says. 'Watch the second 'alf in the pub.'

  Matty takes a length of kitchen roll and wraps a leg of chicken in it. He places it into a plastic zip-lock bag and drops it into his jacket pocket.

  Dot washes her hands and dries them on a tea towel. She kisses both her boys and walks them to the door. Both were born in this house and if Dot Halligan had her way, both would stay there for the rest of their lives.

  Matty opens the front door which exits directly onto the terraced street. 'See you, Ma,' he says and presses a thick wad of banknotes into her hand. As always, she pretends not to want it and, as always, Matty insists she take it. It's a ritual that has been going on for two or three years, the amounts rising markedly over the past eight months in line with the Halligans' business interests expanding healthily under the Keith Kite umbrella.

  Dean's Porsche Cayenne is parked directly in front of the house. Dean's sister's boy, Darren, is standing next to it on his BMX bike, along with three or four other boys, all dressed in identical fashion: light-coloured tracksuits, brand new white trainers, baseball caps.

  'Alright, Dean, la,' says Darren.

  Dean grabs Darren in a headlock and rubs his gelled hair wildly.

  'Fuck off, nob 'ead!' Darren struggles. His high-pitched adolescent voice making Dean laugh more.

  'Come on, stop dickin' about.' Matty is standing by the passenger door, his fingers drumming impatiently against the roof of the car.

  Dean releases the boy and presses a fifty into his hand. 'Get some more gel, Daz. You look like a fuckin' spaz.'

  Darren runs a hand through his hair as Matty and Dean get into the Porsche.

  Dean notices a man across the street, one of his mother's neighbours, standing in his open doorway, glancing momentarily in his direction.

  'What do you want, Simpson, you nosy fucking dick?' shouts Dean from the driver's seat, his head out of the window. Simpson does not meet Dean's stare. Instead, he drops his chin and closes the door.

  'That's right, dickhead. Bye bye.'

  Dean gives Darren a meaningful glance and the boy nods. Simpson's window will be smashed tonight and he will do nothing about it. Dean seldom punishes any of his mother's neighbours for perceived slights – Dot has to live here, after all – but Simpson rubs him up the wrong way. It never hurts to remind th
e natives that the Halligans' bark is backed up with bite. Besides, it will give Darren something to do.

  Dean pulls away and passes the corner pub. He navigates the familiar labyrinth of red-brick and concrete until they're out of Kirkdale and heading south along the Dock Road. On their right, monolithic warehouses between them and the river; on their left, a ragged string of used-car dealerships, greasy spoon cafés, wood yards, scabby looking council houses, dilapidated gyms and taxi firms. At Vulcan Street, Dean turns the car into the fenced-in yard of a builder's merchant. He parks the Porsche out of sight between two empty skips and he and Matty move inside the office.

  Two middle-aged men in overalls are laughing at something on a computer screen. The laughter stops abruptly as the Halligans come in.

  'Porn?' says Dean, with a nod to the screen. 'You two should know better at your age.'

  'Sorry, Dean,' says the taller of the two. He sits back at the desk.

  'No need to sit down, Terry,' Matty says. He gestures towards the window with a thumb. 'You and Noel do one. We'll lock up.'

  The men stand and move to the door.

  'Any visitors?' says Dean.

  'No-one. Sunday, like.'

  'OK, good. Right, like Matty said, fuck off.'

  When both men have driven off, Matty takes a key from his pocket and the Halligans leave the office and walk across to the large warehouse which serves as a store for the building company they own: a legitimate and profitable concern that comes in very handy for cleaning their money.

  At the door they greet Tyson, the yard's rottweiler, who has been barking maniacally at their approach. Matty lifts the chicken leg from his pocket and holds it out. Tyson snuffles it up greedily and sits down heavily on the concrete.

  Leaving Tyson outside, Matty and Dean unlock the warehouse and climb a set of steel stairs to a mezzanine floor which occupies the back half of the building's upper level. Planks and lengths of timber are stacked neatly against the back wall, the remaining space being taken up with an assortment of builders' equipment.