by Sam Millar
‘Are you going to call the police, or should I?’
‘As Frank Sinatra didn’t say: I’ll handle it my way. Don’t worry. I have ways of dealing with Butler.’
‘Yes, I read about those ways in last week’s paper.’
‘He’s threatened Lipstick. You want me to turn my back on the wee girl?’
‘For God’s sake! Stop with the martyrdom complex! She’s not a wee girl, she’s a woman, fully in charge of her life. You can’t keep being her knight in shining armour each time she–’ Naomi stopped in mid-flow. Looked over Karl’s shoulder. ‘Lipstick? What are you doing dressed and out of bed?’
Lipstick smiled. ‘I’m fully recovered, Naomi, and raring to go.’
‘Go?’ Karl said, looking directly at Lipstick. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of leaving, especially the way things are at the moment?’
‘Look…I love you both to death, but I’m not staying to see you argue over me.’
‘No one’s arguing over you,’ Karl said.
‘That’s right, Lipstick,’ agreed Naomi. ‘This…has nothing to do with you. We were only–’
‘My face has practically healed, and anyway, I’ve got to get back to work eventually. It took me a long time to build up my clientele list, and I’m not ready to throw that list away – at least not for a couple more years.’
Karl spread out his arms in an appeal. ‘C’mon, kiddo. You don’t need to go to…work – at least not right now. Wait a couple more days. I promise it’ll be sorted.’
‘You don’t need to sort anything, Karl. As Naomi said, I’m a woman, not a wee girl.’
‘I…’ Naomi fumbled. ‘I only meant–’
‘I know what you meant.’ Lipstick walked over to Naomi, and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘And you’re right.’
‘You have Butler’s watch,’ Karl quickly interjected. ‘You could sell it. Surely the money from that could keep you free from working, at least for a couple of years?’
‘I’m keeping the watch as a future investment, or for someone very special whose birthday is coming up,’ Lipstick said, giving Karl a mischievous wink, and then a kiss on the cheek. ‘Now, I really must be going. I already have an appointment with a client, a nice one this time.’
Once Lipstick had left, Naomi looked over at Karl, her face filled with guilt. ‘That was all my fault, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t be silly. She was going to leave shortly anyway. If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s Butler. He started the whole mess.’
‘I just hope she’ll be okay. If anything should happen to her, I won’t forgive myself.’
Karl’s face lost its pleasantness. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to her. You have my word on that.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘One hundred percent.’ Karl kissed Naomi. ‘Have I ever let you down before?’
‘No.’
‘End of conversation.’
Naomi smiled, relieved. ‘Okay.’
Karl waited until Naomi had left the room before lifting his mobile from the table. Hit a few buttons. Placed it to his ear. Listened to the whispery tone. Once it stopped, a deep, sandpapery voice said: ‘Karl?’
‘Ciarán. How’s things?’
‘Couldn’t be better. Long time no hear. How’s everything?’
‘Not too bad. Listen, need to have a wee job done, ASAP.’
‘No problem. I still owe you big time for getting me out of that shit with the peelers last year.’
‘You won’t owe me anything after this.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I saw a rat in the office earlier. Need your skills to make sure it doesn’t come back.’
‘A large rat?’
‘Yes, quite large. Does the John Hewitt suit for a meet-up?’
‘Could do with a swallow, now that you’ve mentioned it.’
‘How does two o’clock sound? Most of the afternoon crowd will be drifting out by then.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ah! que la vie est quotidienne.
(Oh, what a day-to-day business life is.)
Jules Laforgue, Complainte sur certains ennuis
The John Hewitt had been packed with afternoon diners, barflies and the inevitable freeloaders looking for liquid freebies, but, as Karl had predicted, the crowd was now dispersing to greener pastures. The legendary wolf pack of booze-nosed journalists who monopolised the long wooden counter had all but disappeared, leaving only a small hard-core to protect the fort against marauding non-combatant civilians.
Karl sat in the back room, watching the front door, his back against the wall – a habit he had picked up in his card-playing career. He was drinking a glass of water – a sacrilege in the cosy pub and restaurant, but he wanted to keep his head clear.
Just as he glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, a familiar figure entered through the doors, glancing about.
Stocky, bearded, a well-worn face and wearing a cut-off sheepskin jacket, Ciarán Murphy looked every inch the fierce mountain man he was. Three years ago, Ciarán had been languishing in a prison cell, charged with the murder of a man found with his throat cut in a secluded forest section of the Cave Hill, just outside Belfast. The man, a notorious sex fiend, had raped Ciarán’s young daughter, Bronagh.
Fortunately for Ciarán, his wife Greta – a childhood girlfriend of Karl – contacted the PI, pleading for any help he could give. Within days, through his criminal and police contacts, Karl had the information he needed. The only witness against Ciarán, Jimmy Grason, had been a police informer, a fact not disclosed before or during the trial. Grason himself was suspected of having committed sex attacks over the years, but was seen as too valuable an informant for the police to put in jail. The case was quickly dropped.
Karl raised his hand, and Ciarán nodded before threading his way between tables to the back room.
‘How’s it hanging, Karl?’ said Ciarán, sitting down.
‘Like that lousy bastard, Albert Pierrepoint. What’re you having?’
‘I wouldn’t ignore a pint of Harp if someone was kind enough to place it in front of me.’ Ciarán smiled, showing more gaps than teeth, a testimony to the many legendary scraps he had been involved in as a bare-knuckle street fighter in the bloody and dirty streets of Belfast.
‘How’s the family doing?’
‘Doing great. Greta said hello. Your own?’
‘I haven’t heard any of them complaining lately, so I must be doing something right.’
More small-talk ensued until the waiter brought the pint of Harp. Ciarán made half of it disappear in a two-second gulp, while Karl paid.
‘Thirsty, were you, Ciarán?’
‘Just wetting a parched throat.’
Karl waited until the waiter left before getting down to business.
‘This rodent is not your typical run-of-the-mill type. It’s dangerous. Very dangerous. I’ve tried to persuade it to leave – verbally and forcefully – but it’s stubborn, to say the least. My way wasn’t too effective, I have to admit now.’
‘No problem. I’m probably a bit more persuasive than you. Do you want it exterminated, never to be seen again?’
‘No. Nothing like that. I don’t mind the never-to-be-seen-again bit, but not exterminated. Just that it goes back to where it belongs – and stays there, never to darken these lovely shores again with its greasy tail.’
‘I’m sure we can come to some sort of accommodation, Karl.’
From his pocket, Ciarán produced a packet of mints and offered the open roll to Karl.
Out of politeness, Karl availed himself of one. It was warm, the heat generated from the pocket nestling close to Ciarán’s ballbag. Karl gingerly placed the mint in his pocket, saying he would have it later. He removed an envelope from the same pocket, handing it to Ciarán.
‘All the details are in here, along with a few expenses.’
‘I don’t want any money. I owe you big time.’
‘Take it. Get yo
urself some sleeves for that coat.’
Ciarán grinned. Pocketed the envelope. Finished the remaining beer in one swallow. Stood. Shook Karl’s hand. Left the pub. No more words spoken.
Karl made himself scarce a minute later.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Listen, Dundy, it’s been a long time since I burst into tears because a policeman didn’t like me.
Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon
Two days later, Naomi was closing for lunch when Detective Chambers, accompanied by Detective Harry McCormack, appeared at the door. A one-time Special Branch member, McCormack was a six-three pillar of brick-shit-house-hard muscle, baptised in the fire of broken-bones, strap-your-balls-on street fights in Belfast. His non-smiling face was as welcome as the Pope on the Shankill Road.
‘We waited until everyone had gone, Naomi, so as not to cause a scene.’ Chambers sounded apologetic. ‘Mister Kane’s in, I take it?’
‘What’s this about?’ Naomi demanded, eyeing the duo suspiciously. ‘Karl’s had a hard day.’
McCormack, chomping at the bit, said, ‘My heart bleeds for him. Why don’t you just get Kane, and we’ll tell him what it’s all about, girlie?’
‘Girlie?’ Naomi’s face morphed into battle mode. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? What’s your name?’
‘Detective McCormack.’
Naomi nodded with recognition. ‘Oh, now I recall. Detective McPiggy. Isn’t that what the other officers call you?’
‘Huh…?’ McCormack looked as if he had just had a dick-caught-in-zip moment.
‘For your own good, Mister, don’t ever make the mistake of patronising me again, unless you want a good kick in the–’
A hand touched Naomi’s shoulder.
‘Grrrrrrrrr. Easy, tiger,’ Karl said, making a paw with his fingers before breaking into a wide smile. ‘We don’t want the big bad detective getting tough with you, Naomi, do we now?’
‘Just let him try it!’ Naomi glared at McCormack, before walking back in and heading up the stairs.
‘You really need to hone your people skills, McCormack,’ said Karl, as soon as Naomi had left. ‘Or buy a personality for yourself over in Smithfield.’
‘We need to ask you some questions, Kane,’ Chambers said.
‘I’d invite you over to the wee café across the street for coffee, Chambers, but you’d have to leave your guard dog outside, especially one with a face longer than the Lord of the Rings trilogy.’
‘Here will do fine. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘Go ahead then. Ask all the questions you want. You mightn’t get any answers, though, and you ask them here at the door, not inside.’
‘We’re inquiring about the disappearance of one Graham Butler. Any information you may–’
‘Whoa. Hold on a sec. Why’re you asking me about that scumbag?’
Chambers pulled out a small notepad. ‘According to our information, he was last seen leaving here, two days ago. He was to return to his hotel for a meeting, but he never made it.’
‘Another one added to your long list, Kane,’ McCormack snarled. ‘Seems people who cross you either end up murdered or disappear into thin air.’
‘If you believe that, shouldn’t you be frightened?’
‘Frightened, of you? God, what I’d give to have you alone for–’
‘Detective?’ Chambers said softly, but with authority. ‘Can you go back to the car, please? I’ll finish this report.’
McCormack seemed on the verge of ignoring Chambers’ request. Then, thinking better of it, he complied, turning and stalking out the door.
Chambers waited until McCormack had left.
‘You don’t make it easy for people to like you, do you, Kane?’
‘I don’t care if people like me or not. I’m not running for election. Now, what is it you want?’
‘Is there anything you can tell me, now that Detective McCormack has left?’
‘Have you checked out the drug dealers Butler was dealing with? They should be your prime suspects.’
‘They are the prime suspects. That’s why we want to be able to eliminate you from our inquiries, so that we can focus entirely on them, and not waste time elsewhere.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Okay,’ Chambers nodded. ‘Off the record.’
‘I detested Butler. He was a cowardly thug who enjoyed beating up young girls, and using them for all sorts of depraved things, as well as–’
‘Past tense.’
‘What?’
‘You keep talking of Butler in the past tense.’
‘Do I? Wishful thinking, I suppose. Look, to be frank with you, will I lose any sleep, if something appalling has happened to the scumbag? No. Do I know where he is? No.’
Chambers stared at Karl for a few seconds before answering. ‘I just hope, for your sake, that you’re telling the truth. If you remember anything of importance, will you contact me?’
‘My birthday’s next week. How’s that for importance?’
Without answering, Chambers turned and walked towards the waiting police car with a seething McCormack sitting at the wheel.
Karl watched the car drive away, before returning inside. Naomi was sitting in the middle of the stairs, a worried look on her face.
‘So, Butler has disappeared, eh?’
‘It would seem that way.’
‘Is there anything I should be aware of?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Cut the blarney. I’m not in the mood for it. Has this anything to do with me pressuring you about Lipstick’s safety?’
‘You pressure me? Get real.’
‘You were gone for over four hours on Monday night. Where were you?’
‘What did I tell you when you asked me that very same question, the next morning?’
‘Playing poker with your mates.’
Karl pulled his mobile from his pocket. Hit a button. Walked up the stairs to Naomi. Handed her the mobile.
‘That’s Henry McGovern’s number ringing. When he answers, ask him where I was on Monday night.’
Naomi placed the mobile to her ear. Gazing levelly at Karl, she listened to the tones beeping. Henry’s voice suddenly interrupted. ‘Karl?’
‘Oh, sorry, Henry, this is Naomi. I hit the wrong button on Karl’s mobile. Sorry for bothering you. No, everything’s fine. Thank you. Sorry again.’
Karl stared at Naomi. She stared back.
‘Seeing you didn’t ask him, I take it you believe me?’
‘Yes…sorry…’
‘Can I have my mobile back, please?’ Karl put on his hurt voice, and stuck out his hand. Naomi placed the mobile in it.
‘I’m sorry, Karl…it’s…it’s just–’
Karl kissed her full on the lips, smiled, and said, ‘Let’s make sure we put this matter to bed, once and for all.’
They walked up the remainder of the stairs, hand-in-hand.
Almost two hours later, Karl and Naomi sauntered back down the stairs, suited and booted in their gladdest of rags. Smiles plastered across their faces, they looked like two kids caught doing naughty things by teacher.
‘All that lovemaking has made me very famished, Naomi. I’m really looking forward to this meal.’
‘You’re becoming very bad, you know, the older you get,’ Naomi said, half giggling.
‘Bad in a good way, or bad in a bad way?’
Naomi purred against his neck. ‘Verrrrrry bad.’
‘Well, I want to thank you, Miss Fitzpatrick, for sharing the last couple of hours with me, and for allowing me to boldly go where no man had gone before – at least I hope they haven’t.’
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Mister Kane?’
They walked out into the cool air of an unusually tranquil Belfast evening. Karl was always suspicious of peace and quiet in Belfast. It felt as if all the inhabitants were huddling in their homes, plotting something dangerous and illicit. And it
always meant one thing coming sooner rather than later: trouble.
Big time trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Clear the air! Clean the sky! Wash the wind! Take the stone from stone, take the skin from arm…
TS Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral
The Northern Whig bar and restaurant stands at the corner of Bridge Street, in the heart of Belfast’s cathedral quarter. Dominating the opulent interior are three impressive granite statues. Rescued from the Communist Headquarters in Prague after the fall of communism, they depict the muscular socialist proletariat, steadfastly working for the glorious revolution.
While Karl and Naomi sat waiting patiently for their meal in the lavish surroundings, Graham Butler wasn’t too many miles away, also sitting.
However, Butler’s surroundings weren’t so friendly, or filled with ambient music and the mouth-watering aroma of good food. He was completely naked, strapped to a rough wooden chair, surrounded by walls adorned with a forest of photographs and newspaper clippings. He was somewhat unnerved to see his own face staring down at him from the wall, on pages from the Sunday Exposé and other newspapers.
It had been a long, brutal night for Butler. Or had it been night, at all? It was hard to discern between night and day right now. He was sliding in and out of hallucinations, his disorientation caused by fatigue and pain. At times, he thought he was home, in London, at his abode, eating the fine food and expensive wine that he was accustomed to. Then, just as quickly, he was transported to a castle’s keep, tormented by some sadistic guard, laughing in his face, forcing him to eat pigswill.
Despite the pain ravaging his body, however, he was still alive – at least for now – and that’s all that mattered.
He dearly wished that he had never come to this accursed shit-hole of a city, regardless of how lucrative the prospect had once looked. His photo peering down at him from the wall seemed to be berating him for such negative thoughts, and for the situation he had allowed himself to become entrapped in. Sitting here wallowing in self-pity isn’t going to get you out of this mess. Get off your fucking good-for-nothing ass, and do something – and quickly, before it’s too late!
