Dead of Winter

by Sam Millar

  ‘Okay,’ said Karl. ‘I get the hint. Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Come home soon. Keep safe. Love you.’

  He gave a loud kiss into the phone, and then clicked it shut, wishing now he had brought his Royal Quiet DeLuxe portable typewriter. He could have finished another chapter of his latest manuscript, hoping to have it completed before year’s end. Ironically, the dodgy motel and some of its even dodgier characters had given him some new ideas; ideas he hoped to convey onto paper when he got home.

  ‘Colin, barman by day, serial killer by night…’

  Before long, though, fatigue and Hennessy sent him hurtling into disturbed nightmares of a dead mother, dead cops, and a monster with a bloody knife and grin. His father was there, also, crying in the dark. Help, he kept pleading, over and over again. Please help me get out of the darkness.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ANGELS AND DEMONS

  ‘Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains.’

  Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

  Karl arrived in Princes Street early the next morning, parking the car a little down the way from the address given to him by Sandy. The brothel was squeezed between an antique shop seemingly selling everything but antiques, and a bookie’s selling more than it promised. A peeling poster outside the bookie’s stated: ‘Things to do in Ballymena.’ The remainder of the poster was blank, with the exception of a red pen scrawl from a local wit: Fuck all to do in Ballymena.

  In the car, Karl’s breath kept making a blush of cold vapour on the windshield, so he rubbed a clear streak at eye level with bare knuckles, while negotiating the car’s dodgy heater.

  Heater on, he began checking the digital camera loaned to him by Naomi, trying desperately to remember the arcane instructions she had given.

  ‘Whatever happened to the simple push-the-button days?’

  Frustrated but finally finished, he brought the camera to his face and zoomed it at the brothel. The clarity both startled and amazed him.

  ‘I can see the bloody splinters on the door…’ He shook his head with delight, instantly becoming a convert to modern-day ingenuity and technology.

  Making himself comfortable, he opened a McDonald’s bag, extracting a greasy hash brown and large coffee. Removing the lid, he sipped contentedly, while watching any activity in and around the brothel.

  By all accounts, it appeared to be quite popular with the male population of Ballymena – mostly balding, big-bellied bruisers – coming and going. Occasionally, young women would emerge from the doorway, kissing the dodgy clients before waving them on their merry way.

  ‘Home from bloody home. All they need is “Ernie the Milkman” to deliver some of his famous–’

  Someone tapped on the side window, startling him. Karl turned to see a pretty young woman with stringy fair hair staring in at him. She wasn’t dressed for the freezing weather, wearing skimpy summer clothing instead. Her face – like the rest of the amorphous body – was emaciated, like one of L.S. Lowry’s anorexic stick people.

  She was shaking terribly. Mostly from heroin withdrawal, Karl suspected. Hatchings of small scars covered her arms. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, yawning continuously while indicating for Karl to crank the window down.

  ‘Yes, love?’ he asked in his gentlest voice, complying with the window.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  She forced a smile. ‘I’m Rosie, and it’s what I can do for you, love. A blowjob or handjob for a fiver. Full fuck for ten. Cheapest and best in Ballymena – or Antrim, if you care to know.’

  Karl shook his head. ‘Not today, love.’

  ‘Please, mister. I need the money. Badly.’ Rosie began scratching madly at her arms and head, as if covered in invisible insects. ‘I’ll do anything. Look, see her, over at the wee shop?’

  Karl glanced over his shoulder. Another young girl stood in the shuttered doorway of a rundown shop, yawning and sneezing. Despite wearing a navy-blue Linkin Park hoodie, she was shaking, and held her stomach tightly, as if being attacked by cramps.

  ‘That’s my wee sister, Tina. Only fourteen,’ continued Rosie. ‘Smooth as Vaseline. No condoms, if you want bare back. She’s a dream. You can have both of us for fifteen quid. How’s that sweet taboo sound to you?’

  ‘Look, Rosie, I’m just visiting a friend over at–’

  ‘Friend, my fucking arse! You’re taking photos of Blake’s girls, aren’t you? I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes. Think we’re not good enough, me and my wee sister?’ Rosie suddenly became extremely agitated. ‘What are you? A peeping Tom perv? Can’t handle the real thing?’

  Karl thought about driving away. Come back in an hour’s time, hoping the young girls had moved on – or had been moved on. He doubted both.

  ‘Okay…call your sister over, and get in.’

  Rosie smiled and started waving frantically to her young sister.

  ‘Tina! Come on! Move your arse!’

  Tina began staggering across the street, holding her stomach tightly. A few seconds later, she accompanied Rosie into the back of the warm car.

  Prettier than her older sister, Karl doubted very much that Tina had reached teen years. A crop of pale ginger hair sprouted from beneath the Linkin Park.

  ‘You look like you need medical treatment,’ said Karl, concerned at the pain etched on Tina’s young face.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ cut in Rosie. ‘Just stomach cramps. She needs to be smacked.’

  ‘What?’ said Karl, immediately shocked and angry. ‘No-one’s smacking anyone. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Don’t be a fucking scally, mister. Not smacking. Smacked. A hit. Some smack. Heroin. She’ll be okay after that. Won’t you, Tina, wee love?’

  Tina nodded robotically, all the while sniffing snot back up her nose.

  ‘What if we go to McDonald’s, get something to eat? A Happy Meal, or something?’ suggested Karl, regretting it the minute he opened his mouth.

  ‘You really a fucking perv?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘Let’s forget the last suggestion,’ said Karl. ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘With an unhappy meal at Mickey Dick’s’? I don’t think so. Time is money, mister. Let’s get down to business. Who do you want? Me first, or Tina? Or can you handle both of us?’

  ‘I’m cold and hungry, Rosie,’ whispered Tina. ‘Can’t we get something to eat first?’

  ‘Stop being such a fucking ginger whinger, Tina. We’ll eat when I say so. Just shut up.’

  Karl sighed. ‘Look, what if I told you I’m willing to give you twenty quid to do nothing, other than go and get yourselves something to eat? What would you say?’

  Rosie’s eyes tightened. They looked hardened and a little frightened.

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  From his wallet, Karl removed the twenty.

  ‘No catch. I see you back in this area any time soon, I’ll have an old friend of mine take you to jail, let you stew there for a few days. Understand? He’ll make you go cold turkey.’

  ‘You’re a cop? I knew it.’ Rosie looked slightly worried. ‘Why give us money instead of nicking us?’

  ‘I’ve bigger fish to fry, at the moment. You’re a distraction I can do without. But don’t push it. I’ve been known to eat sardines, when hungry. I’m going to be driving over towards Hope Street shortly. I don’t see you both there, in that little cafe at the corner, stuffing your faces with grub, I’ll hunt you down. Trust me. You’ll not enjoy where you end up. Now scram.’

  ‘Come on, Tina! Didn’t you hear the man? Move it!’ said Rosie, grabbing the money, while moving for the door. She was quickly followed by Tina.

  ‘Don’t forget what I just…’ Karl stopped in mid-sentence. They were away, scampering down the street, Rosie leading, with Tina a very close second. He doubted they would be heading to the cafe. Probably the nearest drug den. ‘Don’t give money, they lose. Give money, they lose…’

  Karl stared at the almost-finished c
offee in his hand. The sisters’ plight made him think of his darling Katie, and the evil that men do to those most vulnerable and weak in society. Never a firm believer in any god, each passing day seemed to vindicate his atheistic principles.

  ‘A terribly depressing little town…’ He sipped at the coffee, but was no longer in the mood to finish it. He suddenly needed to pee, and regretted buying the greedy-pig sized cup. Cranking the window down halfway, he began dumping the lukewarm liquid out the window. That was when he saw the two men emerging from a flashy Audi that had just pulled up at the brothel entrance.

  Karl quickly glanced at the photos given to him by Jemma. Much older now, but there was no mistaking Blake’s towering structure or thick nest of unruly grey hair crowning his over-sized head. Two large Doberman Pinschers stood rigidly at Blake’s side, looking menacing. The other man accompanying Blake was of slim build, and had an uncanny resemblance to Lee Marvin. Both men seemed deep in conversation.

  Karl quickly brought the camera up. Click! Nice close-up of Blake. Click! Click!

  ‘Beautiful ugly mug…’ Click!

  Blake turned. Glanced up the street towards Karl’s car.

  ‘Fuck!’ Karl instinctively ducked down behind the steering wheel. Had Blake or Lee bloody Marvin spotted him? ‘You careless bastard…’

  Easing his head slowly up, he glanced out the window. Both men gone.

  ‘Shit! They’ve scampered back inside.’

  Deciding not to push Lady Luck too far, Karl began reversing the car slowly out of Princes Street. Just as he reached the middle of the street, a loud explosion shattered the wing mirror.

  ‘Fuckkkkkkkkkkk!’ He quickly glanced in the rear mirror. A figure aiming a brute of a pump-action shotgun was preparing to fire again. It was the Lee Marvin look-alike, his face knotted with anger.

  Karl ducked, but not before being confronted by one of the Doberman Pinschers forcing its mallet-shaped head through the half-opened driver’s window. Karl could smell the dog’s stinking breath as fangs snapped at his face.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he shouted, landing a wildly thrown punch on the creature’s nose. The dog yelped loudly, retracting its head quickly from the window.

  Just as Karl gathered his breath, the second dog went on the offensive, squeezing most of its body in through the window. Lunging for his arm, the dog secured it, biting down viciously with its vice-like jaws.

  ‘Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk!’ His arm felt like it was being put through a mangle. He punched at the brute’s face, but it was a feeble and awkward attempt. To add to his worries, Lee Marvin was aiming again.

  Instinctively, Karl pressed his weight on the accelerator. The car roared towards the end of the street, but not before a flash and simultaneous explosion rocked inside.

  The back window shattered, and a millisecond later – hardly time to cue his next thought – the windshield rained down on his head, covering him and the attacking dog in fragmented glass.

  His stressed bladder unloosed.

  ‘Bastard!’ The crushing explosion of glass triggered a primal reptilian response. He spun the steering wheel with one hand, taking a left in a ‘No Left Turn’ zone, narrowly missing two on-coming vehicles. The Doberman continued biting through his coat, then stopped abruptly as a speeding car took off the creature’s rear parts, scattering them across the motorway.

  Headlights flashed and angry horns blasted. Someone shouted an obscenity, but he was too shocked to hear it or care. Seconds later, the car hit a grassy embankment, slamming Karl against the dashboard, forcing a halt. By the time he managed to look back through the now gaping hole, his attacker was gone.

  For one full minute, Karl sat in the driver’s seat, stunned, shaking terribly, trying to get his brain’s gears back on track. The dead Doberman’s head and upper body clung ghoulishly to his arm.

  ‘Bastard…’ he said, prying its jaws open before shoving the bloody mess out the window.

  Cautiously, he looked in the rear-view mirror. An ashen face looked back, slightly bloodied. Thankfully, nothing in his body seemed broken – unlike the car. By the time he pulled to the side and looked back through the now-open space, his pursuer was gone.

  ‘Stinking bastard…’ he eventually said, no longer thinking of his narrow escape, but the bill to have the car restored and cleaned, plus the humiliation of having pissed his pants in broad daylight.

  Gingerly removing his coat, he began checking for any damage done to his arm by the dog’s fangs. Thankfully, the skin wasn’t punctured, but an ugly swelling was already forming.

  Cars continued speeding by, their drivers seemingly in too much of a hurry to investigate the accident.

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ said Karl, warily guiding the car back onto the motorway in the direction of Belfast, praying not to be stopped by the cops.

  No sooner was he on the motorway than his phone started ringing. He answered it.

  ‘Tom? What’s happening?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Hicks. ‘Your voice seems shaky.’

  ‘Ballymena’s bacteria has made my stomach queasy. Someone let the dogs out, and gave me a grand au revoir. Why’re you calling?’

  ‘This is a shocker. A body’s just been discovered in a disused warehouse in the dock. Been there for a few days before being discovered by some homeless man looking for shelter.’

  Karl didn’t like the edginess attached to Hicks’ voice. Ten seconds of silence slithered in between the two friends. Hicks seemed to have hung up.

  ‘Are you going to tell me whose body, Tom, or do I phone a friend or ask the audience?’ said Karl, almost dreading the answer.

  ‘Edward Phillips. Not official yet, so don’t be saying anything until it’s confirmed.’

  It took a couple of seconds for the information to sink in. When it did, it made Karl feel even queasier. Tiny bats began fluttering in his stomach. The skin on his face dampened.

  ‘Detective Phillips? One of Wilson’s old crew before he retired?’

  ‘Forced to retire. Remember? Something to do with getting money from drug dealers.’

  ‘Shit. What’s the speculation?’

  ‘Quite a bit, to be honest. Whispers from rank and file are saying it’s drug-related, that Phillips must have become too greedy, dipping his hands into some drug dealer’s dirty money.’

  ‘Hands? Not the most highly sought-after word at the moment, Tom.’

  ‘That’s all of Wilson’s original squad of detectives dead, and all by violent means. Someone must have placed a curse on that whole team, if you ask me.’

  Karl’s head began throbbing. Hicks’ voice was sounding like an annoying metallic echo. He wished Hicks would just shut the hell up, talking about Wilson’s squad.

  ‘Karl? You still there?’

  ‘What? Oh…yes…yes. Just pulling into a petrol station. Listen, I’ve got to go, Tom. You’ll keep me informed of any developments, of course?’

  ‘Of course. You know you don’t even need to ask that.’

  As Karl clicked the phone dead, the bats in his stomach went into a feeding frenzy. He had a bad feeling about Phillips’ murder. A very bad feeling, indeed. One that could very well find its way to his doorstep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE

  ‘He looked like a nice guy if you didn't crowd him. At that distance and in that light I couldn't tell much more, except that if you did crowd him, you had better be big, fast, tough and in top condition.’

  Raymond Chandler, Playback

  Tuesday morning in Belfast. Karl phoned Jemma Doyle to say he had some info on Uncle Thomas.

  ‘That’s fantastic, Karl,’ said Jemma, her voice filled with elation. ‘When can we meet?’

  ‘I’ve to see another client, over at Victoria Square, in about twenty minutes. How about if we meet, say between eleven and eleven-thirty?

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  ‘Do you know Costa Coffee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘
We’ll meet there. Okay?’

  ‘Costa Coffee it is. Thank you.’

  Just as he clicked off the phone, Naomi entered the room, her face full of concern.

  ‘I still think this is a case that you should drop, Karl. Now, rather than later.’

  ‘We went through that all over the weekend, love. I’d never have become a private investigator in the first place if I let myself be intimidated by thugs. Besides, you know I just can’t drop every case that suddenly turns sour.’

  ‘This didn’t just turn sour, Karl; it turned violent.’

  ‘I know, but believe me when I say–’

  The phone rang.

  It was Hicks.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Keep this under your hat for now, but another hand was found, in the early hours of this morning, over beside The Odyssey. Had the numbers eighty-eight etched into it, just like the last hand.’

  Karl gave a soft whistle. ‘There can be no question now of a serial killer. It’ll be interesting to hear how the cops put a spin on this for the public.’

  ‘There’s to be a press conference later today.’

  ‘I give you odds of ten to one that our great leader, Wilson, won’t be doing it. Not good for the image, looking like a dick in front of all those cameras.’

  ‘The owner’s name is a Harold Taylor, last seen coming from a motel on the Antrim Road. A bit of a thug with a criminal record. He was reported missing four days ago.’

  ‘Looks like we have a Charles Bronson running about, dishing out instant justice.’

  ‘The courts of law are justice, Karl. What we don’t need is more vigilantes or so-called street justice in Belfast. Those bad days are supposed to be behind us.’

  ‘They’ll never be behind us. Anything new on Phillips?’

  ‘It’s official. It was Phillips’ body in the warehouse.’

  ‘Shit. Poor bastard. I was sort of hoping it wasn’t him.’

  ‘His funeral’s on Wednesday, just in case you want to attend.’