Dead of Winter

by Sam Millar

  Edward Phillips

  This letter – like the previous – had a signature scrawled over the typed name.

  Karl’s knees suddenly felt weak. The alcoholic euphoria he had been feeling from last night’s indulgence was quickly dissipating. In its place were the beginnings of a dull headache and a sense of emptiness and dread.

  He quickly sat down on the bed. Debated what to do next. Craved desperately for a cig. Scratched his upper arm at the annoying nicotine patch, hating its artificialness and lack of spontaneous kick.

  ‘What now…?’

  Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that the only sensible thing to do was either to put the gun back where he found it, or dump it in the River Lagan – now, not tomorrow, along with the letter. There was still time to shove the dangerous genie back in its bottle before it smashed into smithereens all over him. That was the only rational decision.

  Unfortunately for Karl, if rationality ever became a currency, he knew he would be a very poor man indeed.

  His mobile phone rang just as he began putting the items away.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘You bastard! You killed her,’ said the angry voice at the other end. ‘I’m going to kill you, and that’s a promise.’

  ‘Whoa a second, fella. I think you’ve got the wrong number. You’d be as well to stop–’

  ‘Murderer. The others were fools, but you didn’t fool me.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, or what the hell you’re talking–’

  The phone suddenly went silent. For a few seconds, Karl stared at his mobile as if it were a dead thing.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ Then, just as he asked the question, a thought grew so large in his mind that he could think of nothing else.

  Quickly he moved to the TV, turning on ‘BBC News 24’, before frantically scrolling down the regions finder. Hit the button on local news. The murder in the graveyard was still prominent. He stood watching a female reporter pointing at the scene, the camera panning the area. The reporter started talking.

  Sarah Cohen had more than her share of tragedies in her short life…

  While the reporter spoke, a family photo of the murdered woman appeared on the screen. Sarah was smiling, yet the eyes were full of sadness.

  The face in the photo kicked Karl in the stomach. It was the face of the woman who had called herself Jemma Doyle.

  Her three children were burnt to death in Ballymena…

  Karl continued staring at the photo. He couldn’t move. Shock rooted him. The voice on his mobile phone. It was slowly coming to him. Even though it had been muffled when he first heard it, there was no mistaking it now. The voice in the abattoir. Knifeman.

  PART TWO

  KANE’S ABLE

  ‘If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.’

  Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER

  ‘People of the same trade seldom meet together, even for merriment and diversion, but the conversation ends in a conspiracy against the public.’ Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations

  It was almost two in the morning when the small, stout figure of Nelson Roberton crept quietly down the carpeted staircase of his Victorian manor house, trying not to disturb his sleeping wife, Belinda. The house was situated in the affluent Malone Road area of Belfast, and had appeared in the prestigious Ireland’s Homes Interiors & Living magazine an unprecedented three times in the last five years.

  Snow was falling heavily outside as he eased open the door of the spacious drawing room, before padding towards an Edwardian drinks cabinet stationed beside an impressive library of unread books.

  Opening the drinks cabinet, Nelson reached for a decanter of his favourite liquor. Poured the Hennessy XO slowly into a Waterford crystal brandy glass, watching the glorious fluid easing upwards enticingly. Seconds later, he sipped it gently. Straight. No sacrilege. No bastardisation.

  ‘Lovely…’

  Walking to an enormous window, he looked out at the winter wonderland scene forming rapidly in the impressive front grounds.

  ‘Not bad for a kid from Newtownards Road.’

  It was a rare acknowledgment of his family’s lineage that hailed from the rustbelt of the shipyard; a lineage he would much rather forget about.

  As a teenager, the hardness of nuts and bolts in the shipyard appealed little to Nelson. He never wanted to be like his father, coming home exhausted each day, skin burnt from careless welders, and covered from head to toe in indelible rust. No. Not for him. Nelson much preferred the soft and pliable materials of drugs and prostitution, becoming master of both before he had killed his first rival at the tender age of seventeen. He didn’t just have balls, he had the brains to match – a lethal combination in the cutthroat, bullet-in-the-eye world of Belfast drug-dealing and racketeering. The fact that he was built like a wrestler became an added bonus. But then came the bad days of loyalist hard men with even less principles than Nelson and more reptilian in their ruthlessness. It was time to retire with the significant and ill-gotten fortune he had amassed. Time to come in from the cold of eastside Belfast; time to move south to the healthier and prosperous climate of Malone and the fur-coat-no-knickers-brigade. Time to go legit.

  Almost.

  He sipped once more on the brandy before resting the glass on an antique night desk. That was when he saw the figure paled on the window’s reflection, staring straight at him.

  Nelson’s shoulders immediately tensed crosshair. The figure was armed, ensconced in one of the chairs, his shadow blanketing much of the far wall.

  A sensation like dry ice brushed over Nelson’s skin, making him shiver.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in my house?’ Nelson said, stealthily running his hand along the ridge of the night desk.

  ‘Sit your arse down. There’s little point in pushing the silent alarm button stationed in the desk. I’ve already deactivated your entire system.’ The intruder’s voice was hushed and calm, as if he had no wish to wake the sleeping Belinda. Even the gun in his hand looked relaxed, if deadly.

  Nelson’s knees now felt like soggy sponges. A rush of dread began sizzling his brain. He sat down slowly at the desk, understanding now that the past always presents itself in the future when least expected in the present. A debt collector from the old days had finally caught up with him. Blood, not money, the balance demanded.

  ‘How…how’d you manage to get in here?’

  ‘A skill learned over the years. Don’t blame your bodyguard. He’s sleeping soundly in the boot of your Mercedes. Even if there had been two minders, they wouldn’t have been able to hinder my presence in your lovely home.’

  Nelson was doing his best to think, work out this conundrum of past enemies: Which one would have the balls? And why was there something strangely familiar about the intruder’s voice?

  ‘Who sent you?’ Nelson finally asked.

  ‘Lucky for you, no one sent me, Nigel. If they had, you’d be dead by now.’

  ‘Nigel? Look, you…you’ve got the wrong man. My name’s Nelson. Nelson Roberton. I’m…I’m a well-known business man and–’

  ‘Six years and you’ve forgotten me, Nigel?’ The intruder reached over and turned on a small lamp beside the chair.

  In the new light, Nelson stared at the man, the devastating scars mapping the face. He was emaciated, nothing but skin and bones. Yet, despite the thinness, there was a menacing aura about him. Then, like a hammer hitting his chest, Nelson recoiled, as if seeing a ghost.

  ‘Peter…? My god…’

  ‘Yes, I just might end up being your god, saving your worthless neck.’

  Nigel stood unsteadily, then walked towards Peter, before wrapping him in a hesitant hug. ‘I…I can’t believe it,
mate. You… you’re alive. The…last I heard…you were killed in an explosion in Iraq, a roadside bomb.’

  Peter stood, but remained stoic, easing out of Nigel’s hold. ‘Some people might say death would have been a better outcome.’

  ‘Those fucking Arab bastards,’ Nigel said, almost spitting out the words. ‘I wanted to kill a few of them, when I heard what they did. I…I’m sorry, mate. Truly I am. I wish I’d known you were still alive. I could’ve helped you get back on your–’

  ‘Cut the false compassion. It doesn’t wear well on you. You never cared about anyone, bar yourself. While I was serving Queen and Country, you were busy serving King Nigel. Besides, I’m not here for pity, I’m here for business.’

  ‘Business? Yes, of course! I can fit you in with –’

  ‘Unfinished business, Nigel, not some pathetic handout.’

  ‘Unfinished…?’ A frown appeared on Nigel’s forehead for a few seconds. ‘You mean Ballymena?’

  ‘That’s right. Ballymena. Your unmitigated disaster.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate I’m sorting that out. Big time.’

  ‘Yes, you were always good at sorting things out, weren’t you? That’s why you posted a big-time reward with your name plastered all over it.’

  Nigel laughed nervously. ‘No one knows that’s me. I used my pseudonym, Nelson Roberton.’

  ‘Pseudonym? After Harry’s and Billy’s hands being found, it took me all of five minutes to figure out it was you who posted the reward money. Despite your rich surroundings, you still have your working-class inferiority complex. You want everyone to know you’ve made it. Look at me, Ma, top o’ the world. And talking of your ma, you really shouldn’t have let her know where you live and how well you’re doing. Couldn’t stop blabbering when I visited her.’

  Nigel paled. ‘Shit! I…I’ve told her a hundred fucking times never to open her mouth about me to anyone.’

  ‘Makes you wonder just who else she’s been talking to about her son’s great achievements.’

  ‘What the hell’s that suppose to mean?’

  ‘It means you’ve left yourself vulnerable to attack. A trail of breadcrumbs to your door. Now that I’m involved, those very same crumbs could eventually lead to me.’

  ‘You know I’d never mention you in anything, don’t you?’

  Peter looked straight into Nigel’s eyes. ‘I know you know better than to even contemplate it. For your sake, I hope it stays that way.’

  ‘Look, mate, I had to do something after Harry and Billy disappeared. I even went as far as to contact some of my old mates in the paramilitaries from the old days, and they assured me they know nothing about it. I gave them some money, just to keep their ears to the ground. What? Why’re you shaking your head?’

  ‘You told the paramilitaries and you can’t figure out what’s wrong? They’re filled with touts. They’ll let their handlers in Special Branch know that you’ve been sniffing about, asking questions. The cops are under a lot of pressure to get this sorted, so it won’t be too long before the Branch come asking you the same questions you were asking your so-called mates.’

  ‘I…I never thought of that,’ Nigel said, walking to the table and retrieving the brandy. He sipped, no longer enjoying the taste.

  ‘You can add Blakey to the list of disappeared,’ Peter said, quite calmly.

  Nigel almost chocked on the liquid. Snot spluttered out his nostrils. He quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Disappeared? Fuck the night! You think they’ve got him?’

  ‘I went looking for him in his old haunts. Nothing. Not a trace. He was last seen about a week ago, then simply vanished. Now, a number of things could have happened. He could have fled the country, once he got wind of what was happening – except he hardly has the resources for an unexpected trip aboard. Unlike you, he was never good with money…’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘I’d’ve helped him. All he had to do was –’

  ‘Or, he could be hiding locally, somewhere I don’t know about. Or…well, you can fill in the dots.’

  Nigel quickly refilled the glass. Downed the contents even quicker. Refilled. His hand was shaking now. Badly. ‘What do you suggest, Peter? I’ll go along with anything you say.’

  ‘I suggest you stop drinking, for a start, and get your act together. I’ve sent them a message. Hopefully, they’ll listen to it. If not, then let it be on their own heads.’

  ‘What kind of message.’

  ‘I shot Sarah Cohen dead, in the graveyard, last night.’

  ‘Sarah Cohen…’ Nigel flinched as if he’d just been slapped. ‘That was her? The cops haven’t released any names yet. The media said it was a robbery gone sour.’

  ‘I wanted them to think that. Tev Steinway will think differently, though, once he’s informed about the origami I left behind.’

  ‘Origami? That weird thing Japs do with little bits of paper?’

  Peter nodded. ‘I took it up as a diversion from my injuries, while recuperating in hospital. Hopefully, Steinway’ll understand I mean business. If not, I intend to finish what we started.’

  Nigel looked worried. ‘Look, mate…we really have to be careful how we tread. It’s not…well, it’s not like the good old days, anymore. We can’t get away with things the way we did back then. Cops no longer turn blind eyes. The peace process bullshit changed all that.’

  A slit of a smile appeared on Peter’s face. The scars on his face deepened. ‘Nobody can stop me. Don’t you understand? I’m on a mission. When that bomb when off, it killed three of my squad, instantly. Good men, every one of them. The rescue team took hours to find us – what was left of us. That was the longest day of my life. The pain was horrendous. My face felt as if acid was being poured over it.’

  Nigel cringed. ‘Fuck, mate…’

  ‘Had my weapon not been blown to pieces, I would have shot myself.’

  ‘How the hell did you survive that?’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Christ indeed, mate.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Christ talked to me.’

  ‘Christ…talked…?’ Nigel didn’t know if he should burst out laughing at Peter’s joke. Then he remembered Peter didn’t do humour, at least not on purpose. Nigel forced his face to go serious. ‘What…what did…Christ say?’

  ‘He said I’d survive this nightmare, just like he did the Cross. Said I still had things to do. Great things. He was right. I did survive, confounding doctors and specialists who gave me days, a few weeks at the most, to live.’

  ‘That’s incredible, Peter.’ Nigel shook his head in wonder. ‘A bit like Saul on the road to Damascus, only in Iraq, instead of Syria, and a brighter light.’

  As soon as he said that, Nigel realised he shouldn’t have. It didn’t come out the way he had meant it, and he quickly went about trying to undo it with the safest, sanest words he could think of. ‘What can I do to help you on…this mission?’

  ‘How much money can you get your hands on?’

  ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Fifty thousand.’

  Nigel whistled. ‘Fifty big ones? That’s not pocket money, mate. I’ve already put up twenty for the reward money in the newspaper.’

  ‘That reward money will never be collected, so stop worrying. The money I need will be put to good use.’

  ‘Good use?’

  ‘I know a couple of ex-cops. Tight lipped, and with good contacts in the force. They helped me locate Sarah Cohen. They’ll help find the rest, if the price is right. Need to give them something to keep them sweet.’

  ‘Shit, expensive sweets for fifty thousand.’ Then seeing Peter’s eyes narrowing, he quickly added: ‘I’ve a few thousand scattered here and there. Give me a week and I’ll have the rest.’

  ‘I’ll come by in two days. Have it then.’ Peter walked to the door. ‘Oh, by the way, do you know a private investigator by the name of Karl Kane?’

  ‘Karl Kane?’ Nigel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Name
doesn’t ring a bell. Why?’

  ‘My contacts tell me he might be working for the Jews.’

  ‘Big deal. Some would-be cop trying to make a name for himself,’ said Nigel, smugly. ‘Wouldn’t worry one guy.’

  ‘Wouldn’t worry? My contact told me Mister Kane is not to be – how did he put it? – oh, “not to be fucked with, under any circumstances.” Quite a dangerous individual, when needs be, apparently.’

  Nigel no longer looked so smug.

  ‘No need to see me out, Nigel. I know my way. Stay safe.’

  As soon as he heard the front door closing, Nigel breathed out shakily…

  ‘Useless Arab scum. Why the hell couldn’t youse have killed the crazy bastard…’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IN A LONELY PLACE

  The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.’

  John Dryden, Palamon and Arcite

  Beside an enormous yielding tree, Karl watched the solemn procession making its way slowly into the cemetery. Thirty plus mourners followed behind the simple pine coffin containing the remains of Sarah Cohen. In a terrible twist of fate, she was to be buried in the spot where she was murdered, next to the graves of her three children and husband.

  A long black stream of screaming crows slid effortlessly across the sky, disrupting an otherwise perfect ceiling of rare icy blue. Their wings could be clearly heard, battering against the sky’s tightness.

  Karl, dressed appropriately in sombre attire, stood well back from the gathering mourners, both out of respect and not wishing to cause a scene with any family members who believed his involvement may have somehow contributed to Sarah’s death. Perhaps they were right. In all honesty, he wasn’t one hundred percent certain of anything at the moment.

  The only information he could obtain from Hicks, for now, was that a piece of origami, shaped into a black widow spider, was found in Sarah’s hand. The police had yet to determine if it was simply found by Sarah at the graveyard, or something more sinister.