Dead of Winter

by Sam Millar

  A rabbi from the family’s synagogue on the Somerton Road began officiating while the coffin was being lowered into the grave’s orifice. The rabbi’s voice was strong. Karl could hear it clearly, even if he couldn’t understand the words at first.

  ‘Baruch atah Hashem Elokeinu melech haolam, dayan ha’emet,’ recited the rabbi, pausing a few seconds before translating into English. ‘Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, the true Judge…’

  A few minutes later, men began shovelling the mounds of freshly dug soil, filling up the grave. Karl recognised Tev Steinway. He seemed inconsolable, weeping while bending into the soil, releasing the dirt from hand, not shovel.

  ‘Mister Kane?’ asked a voice, close behind Karl’s neck.

  Karl turned to see Detective Malcolm Chambers, with a police photographer beside him. The photographer looked sleazy, unshaven, with hangover eyes. Karl remembered him from Ivana’s funeral.

  ‘Still taking sneaky pictures, I see,’ said Karl, glaring at the photographer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chambers.

  ‘None of your damn business,’ snarled Karl, angry that he hadn’t spotted Chambers lurking between the trees. ‘Just make sure your friend doesn’t take any more mug shots of me. I’m not in the mood for it.’

  Chambers nodded to the photographer. The man walked away, but not before smirking at Karl.

  ‘I don’t like doing this, taking photos at funerals,’ said Chamber. ‘But violence was involved. We’ve no other choice.’

  ‘Really? Then why the hell weren’t you and your sidekick at Edward Phillips’ funeral, taking photos?’

  ‘I…I was on desk duty, that day, and Richard the photographer was off. But I’m almost certain another police photographer was there. It’s procedure at all times.’

  ‘Not that time, it wasn’t.’ Karl’s upper lip curled with distaste. ‘You’d think the cops would want to find the murderer of one of their own, wouldn’t you? Take plenty of snaps?’

  ‘I think you’re mistaken, Mister Kane.’ Chambers was starting to look flustered.

  ‘Believe what you want. I’m telling you the photographer wasn’t there. Fact.’

  ‘I…I’ll check that out when I get back to headquarters. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’

  ‘Simple Simon seeks simple solutions, sonny.’

  ‘What’s that suppose to mean?’ Chambers’ face knotted.

  ‘Mean? Nothing. Then again it could mean everything.’ Karl’s eyes knifed into the detective’s. ‘Time will tell what kind of a cop you really are, by the washing you put out on the clothesline.’

  Chambers suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘I know what you’re hinting at. I’ve been told you’re obsessed with the idea that there’s police corruption under every stone.’

  ‘Not every. Most.’

  ‘Well, think of me as you wish, but if it’s not in the rulebook, I’ll question it.’

  ‘Just make sure the book doesn’t rule you.’

  ‘You can’t needle me, Mister Kane. I’ve been told how you work, deliberately winding people up, just to find their weakness.’

  ‘I just don’t like people sneaking up on me,’ said Karl, deliberately smoothing his voice to honey rather than vinegar. ‘What have you got on Sarah’s murder?’

  ‘Sarah? Oh, Mrs Cohen. I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss on-going investigations.’

  ‘Can’t you stop being “Dixon of Dock Green”, just for a bloody second?’

  ‘Dixon of what?’ Chambers looked mystified.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Karl, suddenly feeling old again in the presence of the young detective. ‘“Dixon” was a bit before your time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Any suspects?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, that we–’

  ‘Stick that bullshit right up your arse.’ The vinegar was back in Karl’s mouth. ‘Now, if you’ve nothing to contribute I’d advise you to stop wasting my time and get over there with your boyfriend and his camera.’

  ‘Why are you always so belligerent with me?’

  ‘Belligerent? And there’s me thinking I was being bloody benevolent. Let me tell you something, and I won’t even charge you for it. Cops – good cops – share information with people they know will one day share information with them. It’s called quid pro quo.’

  ‘I know what quid pro quo is.’

  ‘Well, know this, too. You want to remain a lowly and lonely detective for the rest of your arresting career? Then just keep operating they way you do. You’ll get your nice wee pension and fake gold watch. But that’ll be the total reward. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d much rather you moved on.’

  Chambers looked on the verge of saying something before turning and walking a small distance. Then he stopped. Glanced over towards the photographer. Walked slowly back to Karl.

  ‘I’ll tell you this much,’ said Chambers. ‘We’re treating it as robbery gone wrong.’

  ‘Or murder gone right.’

  ‘Why do you say murder?’

  ‘You really think this was a random robbery?’

  Chambers glanced wearily over at the photographer, before nervously answering through an almost clenched mouth.

  ‘There was an item found, clasped in Mrs Cohen’s hand.’

  ‘Item? What kind of item.’

  ‘A delicate piece of origami.’

  ‘Origami?’

  ‘It’s a traditional Japanese form of paper folding and–’

  ‘I bloody well know what origami is. What about the piece in Sarah’s hand?’

  Chambers glanced again at the photographer who was now taking photos of some of the mourners making their way back out of the cemetery.

  ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this, Mister Kane.’

  ‘That’s what the vicar said to the call girl.’

  ‘The item in her hand was shaped like a spider.’

  ‘A spider?’

  ‘A black widow.’ From his pocket, Chambers removed a notebook, flipped a few pages before saying, ‘It was made from a page in the New Testament, 2 Thessalonians, Chapter 1:8. In flaming vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Sick scumbag,’ Karl said, trying to control his anger. ‘I wish to hell all these religious nuts would just disappear, leave the rest of us to the daily grind of normal life.’

  ‘Talking of disappearing. Remember you told me about the suspect, Thomas Blake, how he might have been implicated in the torture and murder of Laura Fleming?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘It seems he’s fled the country. Not a trace of him anywhere. Almost as if he just vanished.’

  ‘Perhaps he was a practising magician, and one of his tricks went wrong.’

  ‘The other suspect, the actor look alike?’

  ‘Lee Marvin.’

  ‘He was taken in for questioning, a few days ago. His name is Stanley Williamson, a career criminal. Claims he never heard of Thomas Blake, and that he never fired a gun in his life.’

  ‘You expected him to tell the truth?’

  ‘In my business, Mister Kane, very few people tell the truth.’

  ‘I see,’ said Karl, not liking the tone in Chambers’ voice.

  ‘It’s good you see, Mister Kane.’ Chambers nodded.

  Karl wasn’t convinced of Chambers’ nod. Karl nodded back. Chambers didn’t look convinced of Karl’s nod, either.

  ‘What happened to Lee bloody Marvin?’ asked Karl.

  ‘Williamson was released pending further investigation. We’ve instructed the local police to keep a close eye on him.’

  ‘Really? And who’s going to keep a close eye on the local cops?’

  ‘I’ll leave you and your suspicions in peace, Mister Kane. You know how to contact me, if you think of anything helpful.’ Chambers stared at Karl for a few seconds, before finally walking away towards the gates of the cemetery.

  The brevity of the Jew
ish rite surprised Karl. He had hoped to have a word with Tev Steinway, offer his condolences, but now realised that would be impossible and probably inappropriate.

  He turned to leave, but for the second time, was caught off-guard by someone standing covertly behind him.

  The young man was willowy, dark-skinned, and his face had an angry handsomeness. He was adorned in the clothes of a mourner. He stared intensely at Karl.

  To Karl, there was an eerie familiarity about the young man, a bizarre feeling of déjà vu. He couldn’t quite place what it was, and it began annoying the hell out of him.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ asked Karl, tiring of the staring contest.

  The young man continued staring. Then spoke.

  ‘What are you doing here? You’re neither friend nor family.’

  ‘This place is open to the public, in case you didn’t know,’ said Karl, trying to dampen his annoyance at being interrogated for the second time this morning.

  The young man brought his face to Karl’s.

  ‘Scum like you are not wanted here,’ he hissed, his mouth splattering Karl’s face with spittle.

  Just as he planned to lay hands on the young man, the revelation hit Karl smack in the gut. Those eyes. Those terrible, murderous eyes. He could never – would never – forget them, or their owner. Knifeman.

  Putting aside for the moment thoughts of punching the young man in the face, knowing such action would serve no purpose other than to cause a scene, Karl immediately became aware of the police photographer, pointing the camera in his direction.

  ‘Smile sadly, arsehole, and then reach and shake my hand,’ said Karl, reaching out his hand.

  ‘I’d rather touch a snake’s skin, you murdering bastard,’ said the young man, the veins in his neck looking ready to explode.

  ‘The cops are taking your photo as we speak. If you really don’t want them investigating you and your angry face, then you better do as I say – now.’

  The young man suddenly looked hesitant, uncertain.

  ‘Now, arsehole,’ reiterated Karl. ‘He’s about to take that shot of the both of us.’

  The young man reached and unsteadily began shaking Karl’s hand.

  Karl gripped the hand in a vice-like hold and began tightening. He could see the pain registering in the other’s eyes. ‘That’s right, keep looking sad, and nod, arsehole.’

  The young man gritted his teeth, and began nodding.

  ‘Listen to me, you fuck dog. No-one – and I mean no-one – puts a knife to my neck and tortures me, then has the balls to phone my home, threatening to kill me. Understand?’

  There was no reply.

  Karl tightened the squeeze. ‘Understand?’

  Pain ballooned in the young man’s face. ‘Yes…’

  ‘Good. Now, I’m going to tell you something. I’m only going to say it once, and when I do, you are going to hug me, and then abruptly walk away. Understand?’

  No reply.

  Karl tightened down on the squeeze. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Arghhhhhhh! Yes!’

  ‘Good. Now pay attention. I didn’t murder Sarah, or have anything whatsoever to do with her murder. I am going to try and find out who did, and I don’t give a flying fuck if you believe that or not. Now hug as if you mean it, and walk away.’

  Unenthusiastically, the young man hugged Karl.

  ‘Good,’ whispered Karl, into the young man’s ear. ‘Now fuck off, and don’t ever let me see your face again.’

  While watching the young man walking away, Karl’s heart began beating like a bodhrán on steroids. No matter how he tried, he simply couldn’t erase the sneaking suspicion that he was being watched by Detective Chambers, or that the young detective wasn’t nearly as naive as he painted himself to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ODD MAN OUT

  ‘We sneered at each other across the desk for a moment. He sneered better than I did.’

  Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely

  The Europa Hotel was buzzing with madness when Karl entered through the revolving doors leading into the marble and cherry wood lobby. Bombed thirty-three times, the grand hotel had earned the unenviable sobriquet of the most bombed hotel in Europe. Or as Belfastians flippantly referred to it: that blasted hotel.

  The last time Karl had been in the hotel was in the mid-nineties, helping Brad Pitt hone his accent for his role in The Devil’s Own. The elocution lessons – or ‘spaking Balfast’ as Brad liked to call them – went well enough, but the promised part for Karl in the film never materialised. Still, he couldn’t complain. The pay-off financially had been sound, and seeing his name on the screen credits at the end of the film went a long way to soothing his wounded ego. Naomi, of course, was enthralled by the tale, though he grudgingly had to admit she seemed more interested in Brad Pitt than Karl Kane.

  Inside the hotel, Karl quickly took stock. Travel-weary guests were being shuttled to designated rooms by harried staff with sore-face smiles, while a foreign television crew – armed to the teeth with high-tech apparatus – aimed their weapon-like cameras at any moving target. A documentary seemed to be in the making, and everyone was a star, including Karl.

  ‘Are you a visitor?’ asked a bearded man, pushing a microphone into Karl’s face. The man’s accent was German. ‘What do you think of Belfast?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Karl, forging a polite smile, while expertly sidestepping the man and quickly making his way toward the Grand Ballroom on the first floor.

  Everywhere Karl looked, pictures of famous people lined the walls, but none more so than Bill Clinton whose portrait seemed slightly larger that the rest.

  Perhaps because Belfast loves nothing better than a rascally rogue or sinner, thought Karl, smiling back at the smiling ex-president. A sinner caught by the balls – or zipper, to be precise.

  Things didn’t look too promising as Karl approached the entrance to the Grand Ballroom. A slew of bear-like bouncers, faces aglow with menace and ball-crunching snarls, were prowling outside. They seemed to be feasting on vibes of danger.

  Here goes nothing, thought Karl, taking a deep breath before sauntering confidently forward with a bluff the size of his shoulders.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked one of the bouncers, blocking Karl expertly.

  ‘No, thanks. I know my way in. I’ve been here–’

  ‘This is a black-tie formal, sir. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look dressed for the occasion.’

  ‘I know. I just got off the plane. They lost my damn suitcase, would you believe?’

  The man obviously didn’t believe. ‘Do you have your invite, sir?’

  ‘Invite? Oh…’ Karl’s hands went from pocket to pocket. ‘Invite…? Oh, now I remember. I left it in my suitcase. Damn!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t allow you in. Ticket invite only.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. I’ve been asked to speak at–’

  ‘Karl?’ said a voice directly behind him.

  Karl turned. A bouncer was grinning. He resembled Steven Seagal, only taller, and no ponytail.

  ‘Pat? What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Karl, smiling, putting out his hand. ‘Thought you were touring Europe with a group of wrestlers from Russia?’

  ‘Broke three ribs and a toe, practising in the ring.’ Pat grinned. ‘Ended up back home, wet-nursing this bunch.’

  All the bouncers grinned in unison. Creepy. A family of jack-o’-lanterns at Halloween.

  ‘How’s things with you, Karl?’

  ‘Fine. Could be better; but then again could be a hell of a lot worse.’

  ‘I heard about Katie, when I was in away in France. Terrible. Thank God that scumbag got what was coming to him, blown to bits.’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t he just.’ Karl wanted to say that no god played a part in Katie’s rescue, and that it was all down to a mere but brave mortal named Brendan Burns. Instead, he stayed focused on getting into the ballroom. ‘Look, Pat, I really need
to get in there to see Mark Wilson. What’s the chances?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw him about an hour ago.’ Pat’s grin melted like summer ice cream. ‘Didn’t even acknowledge me. He’ll always be a stuck-up wanker.’

  ‘We’re in full agreement there, my friend.’

  Pat nodded to the bouncers. One of them turned, before opening the doors.

  ‘I owe you, Pat,’ said Karl, quickly entering the Grand Ballroom.

  Two steps in, Karl swept the entire scene with vigilant eyes. Delegates from all over the globe sat banqueting on top-notch nosh. The difference with these particular delegates was the dress code: all cop uniforms. A criminal’s worse nightmare. Chicago, New York, Sydney, London, Paris, et al – as well as the old divide of Belfast and Dublin.

  Plenty of wannabe hard men – and maybe even one or two of the genuine article, thought Karl.

  Local politicians – never shy about getting their eager snouts in the troughs – were dining joyously on the free nosh. Normally ‘sworn enemies’ for the benefit of watchful cameras and the mugs who vote them in, they were backslapping each other like long lost cousins. It never failed to baffle Karl how anyone in their right mind didn’t manage to see through the farcical charade, each polling day.

  ‘Can I get you a complimentary drink, sir?’ asked a smartly-dressed young waiter, interrupting Karl’s thoughts.

  ‘Complimentary?’ Karl was suspicious of anything free.

  The waiter nodded. ‘All drinks are free tonight, sir.’

  ‘Tell the tax payers that at the end of the year.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Hennessy, please. Large. I may as well get something back for my hard-earned taxes going to this bunch.’

  Karl waited until the waiter returned less than a minute later. The young man politely refused his offer of a tip.

  ‘We’re not permitted to take tips tonight, sir. Thank you, all the same.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised? Not much chance of getting money from cops or politicians, is there?’

  ‘Pardon, sir?’