A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  Zoe nods. 'Mmm.'

  'Have you heard from Koop?' Mel knows Zoe has, but it's a way into the subject. She understands Zoe's formidable temper and has plans for this evening that don't require her girlfriend to be excited. Not in that way, anyway.

  Zoe grunts in the affirmative and points in the direction of the phone. 'He's phoned a couple of times and left messages. Nice ones, too. Clever bastard knows how to make me see things his way. Even if he is wrong.'

  'Does he know when he's coming back?'

  'Tomorrow,' murmurs Zoe. 'Now turn those bubbles off and let's get comfortable, shall we?'

  As the hum of the pump fades, Zoe shifts to face Mel, who settles against the wall of the tub, only her head above water. Zoe reaches underneath and cups Mel's buttocks in her hands, propping the back of her thighs along her own strong upper arms. She angles Mel higher in the water until her pussy mound rises clear, steam floating from it as the night air cools. With a teasing smile, Zoe bends forward and lightly licks her. Mel groans extravagantly. God, she feels in the mood tonight. All this upset has meant a break in action and Mel is a woman who needs regular sex.

  She arches forward, pushing her sex into Zoe's face. Zoe, taller and stronger than her lover, holds Mel firmly. Her mouth dances, flicking a tongue out to brush Mel again and again, each fresh touch eliciting a new groan of pleasure. Then, judging the moment precisely, she slides her tongue down and then up, pressing it deep between Mel's flaring labia. Zoe flicks Mel's clitoris and she bucks, water splashing noisily over the side as her breathing changes pitch and she clings to the edge of the hot tub as if it is a life raft.

  Twenty metres away, safe from sight in the shadow of Zoe's studio, and undisturbed by Ringo who is lying dead at his feet, Declan North adjusts the focus on his binoculars and tries to control his own breathing. The binoculars are held in place by a webbing headband, freeing the hands for whatever they want. North uses the freedom to undo his belt, take his cock out and begin to masturbate.

  63

  Ella doesn't know what's going on.

  Jimmy is dead, she knows that. It's been on the news. She keeps expecting the police to arrive and question her. But three days have gone and there's been no-one.

  It begins to dawn on her that no-one knows about her. That no-one knows – yet – about the unit in Q1. Only that horrible Tony and Stefan.

  And that makes her think something else: Meeks and Link are dead too. If either of those mongrels was alive she'd have heard something, even if it was just Meeks sniffing round Jimmy's leavings. There was something on the news this morning about two men found dead in a lock-up. They weren't named but Ella now reads between the lines. There was mention of a Lexus. Tony Link drives a Lexus.

  She knows it.

  Ella opens a bottle of wine. Ten in the morning but what does it matter? She pours out a big glass, sits in Jimmy's favourite chair and wonders what to do.

  Staying here is possible. The unit is bought and paid for. There'd be no reason for anyone to come here; Jimmy's wife knows nothing about the apartment. Down the line Ella would have to deal with details she hasn't had to cope with before: rates, body corporate fees and all that. But right now she's safe.

  And she is getting out of this shit. It's too much. That mpeg clip Jimmy was sent. He told her it was fake but she knew better. She knows the clip is real. She knows it has something to do with Jimmy's death.

  And she knows it's on his computer.

  Another thing she knows is that she definitely doesn't want to watch it ever again.

  But someone might.

  The day before, Ella found Warren Eckhardt's business card on Jimmy's desk. It's propped up against the monitor. Now she picks it up again and sees that Eckhardt has an email address.

  She puts down her wine, sits at the computer and logs on. As far as Jimmy knew, she was too stupid to operate the computer, unless it was for shopping. She never corrected this misunderstanding. Computers are as natural to her as hair-straighteners or mobile phones, but she found that appearing to be an idiot often paid dividends. She spends five minutes making a new email account using fake address details. It isn't much camouflage; a forensic computer specialist would be able to track her down soon enough, but what she plans to do isn't illegal. She contemplates not sending the clip, staying under the radar as long as possible, but there's something else she wants more. She wants to be on the right side for once. With Jimmy gone, she can be. It's time to become a real person again.

  Ella types Eckhardt's email address into the 'to' panel and adds the 'Stevie Wonder' mpeg. Without opening the clip, she sends it to Eckhardt with a brief message: 'received by Jimmy Gelagotis'.

  Then she sits by the window and finishes her wine, a rare smile on her gorgeous face.

  64

  The Halligans are beginning to shift the mountain of coke.

  With Eric Perch taking a few more risks to speed things along, they're able to move it out significantly faster than Kite was ever able to. Approximately one third goes in a straight shipment to Rotterdam, the cash being wired to accounts set up in advance. This shipment is the riskiest as it involves another cross-border transfer, but it's worth it for the money it brings in so quickly. The rest begins to be moved out onto the streets of Britain in the usual ways, being sold on to smaller distributors who then sell it on down the line.

  A series of holding companies has been put together by a kiddy fiddling accountant saved from prison by Perch's intervention. He owes the copper his life and repays it with the sort of service usually reserved for popes, conducted at arm's length from the accountant's cottage in the Scottish Highlands.

  Perch isn't stupid. He makes sure there is no more double-crossing, by the simple tactic of making the Halligans and him mutually dependent. The Halligans need his protection and his expertise; he needs the drugs they acquired by crossing Declan North. That was a masterstroke, double-crossing the double-crosser.

  Assuming North doesn't come back and kill them all.

  Perch and Matty Halligan discussed that at length in bed, Declan North not being the only one who shared Matty's predilection for violent sex.

  'It's taken care of,' said Eric Perch.

  'North's a fucking monster, Eric. You don't know what he can do.'

  'Actually, I do.'

  Perch has seen the autopsy report and photographs on both Stevie White and Keith Kite. And though he wouldn't have admitted as much to Matty Halligan, the thought of Declan North returning to England has caused him several sleepless nights.

  But the steps he has taken will ensure that North never leaves Australia. As much as he has form as a killer, Perch is convinced that North will be no match for the men he has paid to kill the Irishman. It has cost him and the Halligans plenty, almost twenty per cent of their entire haul, but it will be worth it.

  That's the thing with those East European villains.

  They are the nastiest fuckers on the face of the earth.

  65

  The NSW cops have been at the property almost an hour by the time Koop and Eckhardt turn up. Koop recognises Sullivan from his visit to tell them about Stevie's death. It seems like an eternity ago now.

  Eckhardt's Commodore brakes hard at the end of the driveway and Koop is out before it has completely stopped.

  'Hey, hey!' says Sullivan. He grabs Koop's arm. 'It's OK, Mr Koopman. There's no sign there's been any violence.'

  'Where's Zoe?' Koop tears his arm free and runs into the house.

  'There's no-one here,' says Sullivan to Koop's back. He looks at Eckhardt. 'To be honest, we only stayed out of courtesy. The place is clean. No sign of forced entry, nothing to suggest there's a problem. We had to break a small window around the back to get in. The doors were locked.'

  Koop comes outside, his face an unhealthy pallor. He can feel every mile of the past twenty-eight hours, first-class flight or not. He feels old, slow.

  'What do you think?' says Eckhardt.

  'I don't know,' says Ko
op. 'They may have left. I thought they might be in Tenterfield.'

  'They?' says Sullivan.

  'My wife and her friend. They like it out there. They went this year. They must have taken the dog.' Koop can hear himself gabbling and forces himself to slow down. Sullivan is right, there's no need to panic. Not yet. Zoe and Mel are probably at some lodge out west, letting him stew. Still, Koop knows he won't rest until he hears Zoe's voice again. There's something about the house that's nagging at him, but he can't put his finger on what it is.

  Sullivan and his partner move towards their car. It's clear they're not buying the worst-case scenario.

  'We'll keep an ear out for anything in the area,' says Sullivan. 'I'll let Central know about your concerns. I don't want you to think we're not taking this seriously.'

  Koop likes Sullivan but can hear the disbelief in his voice. He doesn't blame him. He'd feel the same. An ex-IRA hitman coming to Nashua on a revenge killing spree? Really?

  Koop shakes hands with the NSW cops. 'Call us if you hear anything,' says Sullivan. He exchanges a few words with Eckhardt and then Sullivan and his partner drive back down the track.

  When they're gone, Eckhardt and Koop go over the house again. There's nothing. The place is clean.

  Eckhardt sits at the kitchen table. He takes his cigarettes out and then thinks better of it. 'I could stay,' he says. 'If that's any easier.'

  'Thanks, Warren,' says Koop, 'but I've made a big enough fool of myself already. Thanks for getting me down here so fast.'

  Eckhardt shrugs.

  'Zoe will turn up tomorrow or the day after. She's . . . independent. I should have known better.'

  'I could use a beer if you've got one.' Eckhardt casts a hopeful look at the fridge.

  Koop gets two bottles and sits down. They drink.

  'Did you think you were going to find something in Liverpool?'

  'I don't know. I hoped I wouldn't. Obviously. But it all seemed to make a sort of sense.'

  'You think someone involved with a deal like this would break off to get revenge on you? For something you did to his ex-boss? The boss he probably diced up in your hotel room?'

  'Not put like that,' admits Koop, 'no.'

  'This North character. If he's got any sense he'll be long gone. Either out of the country or doing whatever he needs to do about this deal.'

  Koop suddenly feels very tired. He rubs his jowls and leans forward, resting his head in his hands.

  Eckhardt puts down his half-drunk beer and stands. 'Time for me to go,' he says. 'I was forgetting how tired you must be.'

  Koop nods. He feels like he could sleep for a thousand years.

  'It's the adrenaline,' says Eckhardt. 'Along with everything else. You get some rest and I'll call you in the morning. Your wife will probably have been in touch by then.'

  Eckhardt leaves and Koop is alone in the house.

  He sits for a few minutes nursing his beer and letting the silence grow. Suddenly he walks to the sink and pours out the remains of his drink.

  He knows exactly what he's going to do. He's going to search the place again.

  He goes through every room slowly, opening every cupboard and looking under all the beds. Thinking: like some scared kid at bedtime. Satisfied that the house contains nothing that doesn't belong there, he heads outside. It's mid-afternoon and the rain that's been threatening all day begins to fall. Koop watches a grey swathe drifting across the valley towards the property.

  The first place he checks after the house is Zoe's studio. He opens the door and looks around. The place is spotless. Zoe's presentation notes for the GOMA thing are on her desk. Koop twinges with embarrassment as he remembers Mel telling him they won the job. He flicks through the papers on the desk.

  Nothing.

  The computer reveals a little more. Zoe last used it yesterday which means that she has, most likely, been ignoring his calls and decided to take off to coincide with his return. It was classic Zoe and makes Koop feel a little more optimistic.

  He walks to his toolshed and checks it thoroughly as great fat drops begin to spatter against the tin roof. In the large tin shed they use as a garage, he checks the vehicles. He gets a jolt when he sees both cars there: his ute and Zoe's 4x4 side by side, before he remembers Mel's petrol-guzzling Prado.

  He looks under both vehicles and checks them for . . . for what, exactly? For blood? For a note? A fucking lipstick-stained cigarette?

  I'm too tired for this, he thinks. Zoe's in bed with Mel somewhere, laughing their arses off, while I'm out here playing Sherlock Holmes.

  Koop leaves the garage and walks the rest of the property in the rain which is now coming down heavily. He checks the copse of trees at the western edge and does what he can to check the creek. It's possible, he supposes, that something could be in there but since the water level is at the lowest he's seen it, he thinks it unlikely.

  Soaked, Koop returns to the house.

  He strips in the laundry room and puts his wet clothes in the wash basin to drain. He pads nude through the house and takes a long hot shower. A little refreshed, he dries off, dresses in some old clothes and makes himself a proper cup of coffee. As the scent of the roasted grounds wafts through the house, he begins to relax a little. He takes the coffee into the living room, sits on the couch and sinks back against the cushions.

  More than an hour later he wakes with a start. His coffee lies cold and untouched on the low table and his mouth is dry as dust. In the kitchen he makes a fresh pot. This time he drinks it sitting outside on the deck watching the fig tree through the hammering rain.

  Something is bothering him. Something he's seen that stubbornly refuses to rise to the surface.

  He sits for some time as the light fades around him. He goes inside and calls Zoe and Mel's mobiles again with the same frustrating result. He calls Mel's home number and leaves another message on her answerphone, his voice now getting an edge to it. Teaching him a lesson is one thing. This is beginning to verge on cruelty.

  Koop looks at his watch: 7.10 pm. His bed, their bed, is calling him but it's too early. Past experience has taught him that bed now will result in a sandy-eyed wake-up around two or three in the morning and a lousy day tomorrow. He wants to be as fresh as possible for Zoe's return.

  He heats some beans and eats them standing up watching the kitchen TV.

  Back on the couch he flicks through the stack of art books on the coffee table. It's one of Zoe's vices to buy more thick, glossy art books than any sane person could reasonably need. Koop can see that there's a point to this stack. All of them feature the British artists that Zoe's GOMA presentation is built around.

  He turns the glossy pages. Tracy Emin. The infamous 'Myra' image by Marcus Harvey. Damien Hirst's incredible shark.

  Zoe has Post-it notes in a number of places which show the shark image and Koop remembers she's used it as the centrepiece of their presentation to GOMA. He continues browsing and is brought up short at the photographs of the Gormley installation in Liverpool.

  He closes the book quickly and walks out onto the decking, his breathing a little laboured. He sits in a chair and closes his eyes. The image of Stevie leaps unbidden into his mind as he knew it would. Not a live Stevie. Instead, Koop sees the brittle, charred thing that Stevie had become.

  He opens his eyes. This is ridiculous. Bugger how early it is. He'll take a sleeping pill and crash out until the morning. As he turns back towards the house his eye catches a flicker of green light at the end of the deck and he remembers in an instant what it is that's been nagging away at him.

  The hot tub.

  In the dark of the evening a thin cast of green light has appeared along one edge of the hot tub cover that wasn't visible in the daylight.

  Koop approaches the tub, his guts churning. He hasn't looked there, and neither, he suspects, has Sullivan.

  Koop snaps the catches off the lid and lifts it.

  Time stands still.

  Mel lies in the green-lit water, f
ace down, her pale skin beyond white, her long black hair spread out like an ink blot. Koop's hand flies to his mouth.

  She's been sliced in two.

  66

  Eckhardt arrives back at the office from Menno Koopman's place around 3 pm. He sinks down gratefully behind his desk and pretends to do some work. In all honesty he just wants to go home and smoke and drink and then sleep.

  He clicks his computer on, checks his email and forgets about sleeping.

  There, in the middle of a long pile of junk and the usual internal crap, Eckhardt spots the phrase 'received by Jimmy Gelagotis'. He'd almost binned it along with the rest.

  He opens Ella's email and sees the attachment. There are departmental protocols about opening unsolicited email attachments but Warren doesn't hesitate. Two minutes later he sits back and rubs his face. Just like Jimmy and Ella, the 'Stevie Wonder' clip has rendered him momentarily speechless.

  That the footage is genuine he has no doubt whatsoever.

  After a couple of minutes he shakes himself into action and logs it in the evidence chain.

  Then he emails it to Chris Chakos and Frank Keane with an explanatory message.

  He picks up the phone and calls Liverpool.

  It takes Eckhardt twenty minutes to track Frank Keane down. MIT won't give out his mobile so Eckhardt has to wait until the man calls him back.

  'This better be worth it,' says Keane. Eckhardt can hear the clink of bottles in the background. He looks at his watch. It's almost 3 am in Liverpool.

  'You need to get to a computer,' says Eckhardt. 'I sent you a file.' He explains what's happened. 'It's nasty, Frank, but I thought you'd want to know about it right away.'

  Even from twelve thousand miles away, Eckhardt can hear the excitement in Keane's voice. 'Thanks, Warren. I'll call you about this.'

  Ten minutes later, Keane has sobered up faster than he's ever done in his life. He is alone in the darkened MIT office, the clip frozen on his desktop on the last frame.

  'Fuck.'

  Like his Australian counterpart, Keane sits motionless for a few moments. He watches the mpeg five or six times without gleaning any new information. Whoever shot the footage took care not to reveal anything that might help identify the killer or killers. It was put together as a warning to Jimmy Gelagotis. A warning he didn't heed.