by Sam Millar
‘Bit quick, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. Autopsy completed. His ex-wife won’t be attending. Says she’s not going to be a hypocrite.’
‘Ex-wives. Diplomats in the making.’
‘I’ll be at the graveside. If you’re there, I’ll see you.’
‘I’ll do my best to attend, provided something doesn’t come up. Take care,’ said Karl, clicking off.
‘What was that all about?’ asked Naomi. ‘I heard you mentioning Charles Bronson.’
‘Charles…? Oh, Hicks was just discussing his all-time favourite actor. He’s into all those rock-jawed macho guys.’
‘Karl, don’t laugh if I tell you something. Promise?’
‘So long as it isn’t funny.’
‘I want you to drop this case. Please. For me. I had a terrible nightmare last night. I kept seeing a strange girl, standing over you with a knife covered in blood.’
‘That was Lynne.’
‘Please, Karl, I’m serious.’
Naomi looked as if she were about to burst out crying. He reached and touched her.
‘Look, tell you what, my dearest. I get no more information in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll drop it. Okay.’
For the first time that morning, Naomi smiled.
‘Is that a promise, Karl?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ he said, kissing her on the lips, before grabbing his coat. ‘Now, I’ve really got to get a move on. See you in the afternoon.’
To Karl, the dazzling glass dome atop the impressive Victoria Square shopping complex looked like a giant magnifying glass, while he stood waiting patiently for Jemma Doyle at Costa Coffee. The winter sun was beaming through the dome, covering the inhabitants in a ghostly Tuesday afternoon shroud.
Almost to the second, at two o’clock Jemma appeared. She seemed breathless, as if she had been running.
Karl ordered two coffees, before finding a table at the busy coffee oasis.
‘What’s the information on my uncle?’ asked Jemma, gripping the steaming coffee with gloved hands.
‘I don’t know if it’s what you want to hear.’
Jemma’s face seemed to pale right before Karl’s eyes. ‘He’s… he’s not dead?’
‘No, nothing like that. Sorry for giving that impression. How well do you know him?’
‘Not very well, I suppose. I haven’t seen him in years. To be honest, Karl, if not for my father, I probably wouldn’t be searching for him. Why? What did you find out?’
Karl removed an envelope from his inside pocket, before handing it to Jemma.
‘Open it up. That’s what he looks like now.’
Jemma opened the envelope, removing the photos one at a time. Studying them, she seemed engrossed.
‘He’s aged a lot – at least from the photos I gave you.’
‘You weren’t being fully honest with me when you asked me to take this assignment, Jemma, were you?’
‘What…what do you mean?’ Jemma looked taken aback.
‘Uncle Thomas’s been in jail, and that’s the good news.’
‘Jail?’
‘Are you going to tell me the truth about him, or do I get up and walk away?’
‘I…I don’t know what you mean.’
Karl stood abruptly. ‘Have a nice day, and all that, Miss Doyle.’
‘No! Wait!’ Jemma grabbed Karl’s hand. ‘Okay…’
Karl sat down.
‘It’s…not easy for me to talk about this, Karl. My uncle stole most of our money – my father’s money, I mean. He swindled people. He was violent towards my grandmother.’
‘Nice uncle. So why track him down?’
‘My father…my father’s a proud man, Karl. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy. The money Uncle Thomas stole can help get my father out of the mess he’s in.’
Karl sighed. ‘And you thought Uncle Thomas would just hand it all over?’
‘I…’ Tears were forming in Jemma’s eyes. ‘We’re desperate. The shame of all this. My father’s health is deteriorating each day. I need to find a way to get that money back.’
‘The way you described your uncle beating up your grandmother is almost nostalgic, compared to the present-day Thomas.’
‘What…what do you mean?’
‘He runs a brothel in Ballymena, among other things. Probably involved in drugs, also.’
‘A brothel…’ Jemma looked as if Karl had just slapped her face. ‘Drugs? Are you certain?’
‘I wish I was as certain with the horse I’m betting on at three o’clock.’
‘This…this is shocking.’
‘Sorry for being so blunt, but he’s turned out to be an even bigger scumbag than what he was. One of his…associates thought he was on a duck-hunting trip last Saturday morning, and that I was a sitting duck.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Took a few pop shots at me with a gun that fired everything except pop.’
‘What? Oh my God. How dreadful. Are you okay? You weren’t hurt?’ Jemma seemed genuinely concerned.
‘Pride, plus a new pair of underwear.’ Karl forced a smile. ‘Let’s just say that I won’t be going back to the town of Ballymena any time soon.’
‘Did the police arrest your attacker? Is he in jail?’
Karl shook his head. ‘Private investigators are a bit like priests. We never divulge other people’s sins. That’s why we’re called private. Isn’t good for business spouting to the cops. Besides, the less the cops know, the more I get to manoeuvre.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous? Couldn’t the gunman come looking for you?’
‘I doubt very much an inbred from Ballymena will venture up to Belfast, just to come looking for me. Past experience has shown me that most thugs don’t like venturing out of the safety of their mucky ponds.’
‘I feel responsible for bringing all this to your door, Karl. I’m so sorry. Truly I am.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a big boy and can look after myself.’
‘Can I ask how you were able to locate Uncle Thomas? My family tried every known organisation, from The Salvation Army to the police, but with little success. The police in particular were of little help, and didn’t seem in the least bit interested.’
‘My contacts in the police are a bit more…helpful. Had your uncle not been in jail, years ago, I doubt very much if we would have ever found him.’
‘My family will be devastated when I tell them about the brothel and drugs.’ Jemma Doyle suddenly looked very tired. ‘My father will be ashamed. He comes from the old school of moral righteousness.’
‘Here’s your uncle’s address,’ said Karl, handing a note to Jemma. ‘At least you know where he is, if you or your family want to make contact with him. Someone gave me advice to forget him. I’m giving you the same advice I ignored, Jemma. You really should take it.’
‘Thank you for all you’ve done, Karl. I’ll think about what you’ve just said.’ Jemma scanned the note. ‘Can I have the photos I gave you of Uncle Thomas? They’re my father’s.’
‘Of course.’ Karl fished in his pockets and handed the photos to Jemma. ‘Sorry I had to be the bearer of such terrible news.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ Standing, Jemma pocketed the photos, before handing Karl an envelope. ‘The remainder of your fee. Thank you once again, Karl.’
‘Any more problems, you know where to find me, Jemma,’ replied Karl shaking her gloved hand. ‘Take care.’
‘You too, Karl. Good day.’
He watched her leave, taking the escalator to the ground floor. She seemed to have the weight of the world resting on her shoulders.
‘Poor girl…’
Karl was just about to head back to the office when his phone began buzzing in his pocket. He didn’t recognise the number on the screen.
‘Hello?’ he asked.
‘Mister Kane?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘Georgina Goodman.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Of course! What can I do for you, Mrs Goodman?’
‘I’ve a bit of information. Don’t know if it’s relevant to what we discussed last week, but if you want to drop by, you can decide for yourself.’
‘I could be there within the hour, if you’re not too busy?’
‘No, not today. I’m leaving on a business trip. I’ll be back on Thursday. Does that suit?’
‘Yes, that’s perfect. I’ll see you on Thursday,’ said Karl, turning off the phone, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly rise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE DEAD
‘The hour of departure has arrived and we go our ways – I to die and you to live. Which is the better, only God knows.’
Socrates, quoted in Plato’s Apology
If Edward Phillips’ life had been measured by the number of people attending his funeral, the measuring tape would not have stretched too far, thought Karl, watching the small pocket of mourners gathering in the mucky field of death.
Tired blades of mottled grass were shimmering in the early morning ice drop. On the horizon, thin black strands began unlacing, allowing small measures of deluded sunlight to knife through filthy grey clouds. Birds were noisy in the trees, gossiping, declassifying the lonely silence of death below.
‘Not a great turnout,’ said Hick, as if reading Karl’s thoughts.
‘I don’t think he’ll be overly concerned,’ said Karl. ‘Anything new on his murder?’
‘He was shot in the back of the head, at close range. The impact took off most of his face. Rats and feral cats devoured what remained. It wasn’t pretty.’
‘No, Phillips wasn’t the most handsome of people, admittedly, though I still find it hard to believe he’s gone – not like this. He wasn’t the worse of that scumbag crew.’
‘I always had time for Phillips, but he seemed more and more troubled, each time we spoke.’
‘Troubled? How?’
‘As if he were hiding something he was ashamed of. Now I know it was the drug dealing and dirty money, just like everyone is saying.’
‘You still think drug dealers had something to do with it?’
‘Particles of cocaine were discovered between his fingernails and in his nostrils.’
‘Cocaine,’ said Karl, shaking his head. ‘I never took Phillips for a coke head. What about the bloodstream? Any traces there?’
‘Nothing as such. Minuscule traces, but they could just as easily have come from the painkillers he was apparently addicted to.’
‘What’s Wilson’s take on it?’
‘Haven’t really spoken to him, but heard through the grapevine that he’s totally devastated. Vowed to find the person or persons responsible.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be shaking in their underwear, hearing that news.’ Karl began pulling the collar of his overcoat tighter to his throat, fending off the icy wind.
‘You’d think the Force would have at least sent a few lads just to make up the numbers.’
‘There were more attendees at the Last Supper, but I suppose you could argue that the free grub was an incentive to attend that particular august gathering.’
‘I know the Force doesn’t want to be associated with drug dealing, and all that jazz, but whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?’
‘At least that bastard Wilson has had the decency to show up,’ said Karl, spotting his ex brother-in-law speaking to a mourner. ‘I have to give him a wee bit of credit for that, I suppose.’
Detective Inspector Mark Wilson’s poker-straight frame stood like a deep-rooted tree at the edge of the newly dug grave. His cropped, marine-short haircut was shaped like a smoothing iron, and just like the man himself, totally unmoving in the brisk, icy wind. The extreme haircut accentuated a face badly pitted with pockmarks. Not caused by acne, but by a shotgun blast to his face, many years ago by a person now dead: Brendan Burns, a man who had recently sacrificed his own life for that of Karl’s daughter, Katie.
‘Wilson doesn’t look at all well,’ said Hicks. ‘All this is obviously playing hard on him.’
‘Anything on the gun used to shoot Phillips?’ asked Karl, not liking any sort of sympathy being delegated to Wilson.
Hicks nodded. ‘He was shot with a forty-five calibre. Ballistics have yet to match the fragments found in the brain with anything used before. Strangely, the forensic report stated that the warehouse where the body was discovered yielded nothing.’
‘Why strange?’
‘Locard’s theory, of course.’
‘Of course, the old Locard’s theory.’ Karl smirked. ‘I hate when you’re so smug. What the fuck is Locard’s theory, smart-arse?’
‘I really wish you would start reading some of the books I gave you. Edmond Locard was a prominent French forensic scientist who built the first crime laboratory in the twentieth century. Locard’s exchange principle states that with contact between two items, there will be an exchange.’
‘An exchange of what, to be precise?
‘Every contact leaves a trace. There has to be an exchange of something, be it sweat, hair, dust. Almost anything.’
‘DNA?’
‘Yes, and also other trace evidence like soil, cloth fibres etc …’
‘Why the hell didn’t you just say that instead of that long-winded spiel?’
‘All I’m saying is the killer was extremely careful. Either he – or she – stayed long enough to check that nothing was left behind.’
‘Not only has the killer got balls to kill an ex-cop, but takes his time departing. Obviously not your average dope-on-a-rope drug dealer or off-the-wall killer. It should be fun watching Wilson and McCormack becoming Holmes and Watson trying to solve this one.’
As if he could hear every word, Wilson turned and looked directly over at Karl and Hicks. The look was anything but cordial.
‘Wilson’s ears must be burning,’ said Karl, staring straight back. ‘He’s sighted us with his rifle-scope eyes.’
‘You’re not going to cause another commotion at a funeral, are you?’ said Hicks, looking slightly worried. ‘I had enough of that disgraceful nonsense the last time you and Wilson decided to roll in the muck at a funeral.’
‘I’m above that sort of behaviour now. As Doctor Jekyll said to Mister Hyde: I’ve changed.’
‘Why do I always find that so hard to believe?’
‘Anything more on the hand found at The Odyssey?’ said Karl, ignoring the accusation.
‘Mostly what I already told you. His name was Harold Taylor, a local businessman from the Glengormley area.’
‘You said he had a criminal record.’
‘Intimidation and racketeering. He also had done time for raping a young woman, about ten years ago. Left her covered in blood and with broken bones.’
‘Nice chap.’
‘He was last seen leaving a motel on the Antrim Road. It was the day of that terrible blizzard. He seems to have simply disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘And only a bloody hand to tell a tale. I have the feeling these hands are being deliberately left to be found.’
‘Like a calling card?’
‘More likely a warning to someone. A bit like sending a Jack Russell to sniff out rats. Make them all nervous.’
Karl’s phone buzzed.
‘Hello?’
‘Mister Kane? Geordie.’
‘Oh, Mrs Goodman. I thought it was tomorrow, our meeting?’
‘I just called to let you know I won’t be able to meet you – at least not this week. I’ve been delayed on my business trip. Sorry about that, but how about next Monday, in my office, early?’
‘Sound as a bell. Monday morning would suit me fine, if that’s okay with you?’
‘Monday morning it is. See you then, Mister Kane.’
Karl switched the phone off. His face looked uncertain.
‘A client?’ asked Hicks.
‘No, not exactly.
I really haven’t figured this little lady out, just yet. She has ice in her veins and no heartbeat. To be honest, she gives me the creeps. It appears she’s trying to avoid me, or perhaps it’s just my suspicious nature kicking in.’
‘You? Suspicious? No.’ Hicks smiled.
‘Very funny. Comedians. They’re everywhere. Even in graveyards.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DETECTIVE STORY
‘Stinking cops. Nobody socks me around like that.
Nobody. I get even. I always do.’
Gene Barry in Naked Alibi
Early Saturday morning found Karl parked in the seat of his local barber’s, Ben’s Hair, listening to owner Ben Causeway’s encyclopaedic ramblings on local politics and scandals.
‘Looks like it’s all coming back to bite her in the bum, all that holier-than-thou shit she’s been mouthing against the gay community,’ said Ben, clipping at the thickness of Karl’s greying hair.
Belfast was abuzz with a politician’s wife’s scandalous affair with a much younger man.
‘Why’re you so shocked, Ben? I keep telling you that politicians are all the same. A bunch of lousy thieving hypocrites,’ said Karl, nodding in the mirror. ‘I blame the mugs who vote for them, hail, rain, or snow.’
‘I don’t vote,’ said Ben, defensively, gliding the scissors expertly across Karl’s mane. ‘Anyway, she’s old enough to be the guy’s granny.’
‘Too much information. Let’s change the subject. And mind my bloody ear, Ben. You almost clipped it.’
Leaving the barber’s thirty minutes later, a neater-looking Karl began making his way in the direction of Chapel Lane to place a hotly tipped bet in Ladbrokes the bookies. There were closer bookmakers for him to lose his money to, but the fact that this particular establishment was sandwiched between a chapel and church always seemed to bring him closer to a god he didn’t believe in. In addition, Kelly’s Cellars and the Hercules pubs would help comfort the blow of defeat later in the day, if things didn’t go according to plan.
Just as he turned the corner to enter the bookmakers, Karl became aware of the dark and sinister-looking car cruising directly behind.
