Dead of Winter

by Sam Millar

  ‘Police property?’ Karl almost laughed. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’

  ‘You can believe all you want that I somehow set up Harry. I don’t really care any longer, but I won’t have the good name of the Force dragged through the courts and media.’

  ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘No. Not by a long stretch. I also want all the letters Phillips wrote while depressed and unbalanced, making unsubstantiated and wild allegations about members of the Force,’ said Wilson, using the eye contact he had employed in countless successful interrogations. ‘I want the originals, plus all copies made.’

  ‘I see.’ Karl glanced up the street, and then back at Wilson. ‘And for doing this?’

  ‘The papers in my pocket mysteriously disappear forever. Miss McKeever stays in hospital until she is fit to plead guilty to a non-custodial misdemeanour, you get to keep your licence, but more importantly, Naomi isn’t brought into this sorry mess you created.’

  ‘All nice and neat, wrapped up in a bow, eh?’ Karl’s lip curled with distaste. ‘What about your detectives? Aren’t they going to be a tiny bit suspicious about your dirty dealings?’

  ‘I’ll worry about that.’

  ‘How do I know you’ll keep your side of the bargain?’

  ‘You have my word on it.’

  ‘Your word?’ Karl’s face measured out into a small grin. ‘Please forgive me for not feeling totally convinced. There’s a lot of dead men rotting in lonely graves on someone’s word. I’d hate to be joining them.’

  ‘Take it or leave it, Kane. I have to trust you, too, and I’m not totally convinced of that, either.’

  For a few seconds Karl said nothing, weighing up his ex brother-in-law’s words.

  ‘Okay, Wilson, it looks like I have no other choice. I accept your deal – reluctantly, it should be added.’

  ‘At long last you’re starting to show some common sense,’ said Wilson, looking visibly relieved. ‘Justice always prevails, provided you trust in it.’

  ‘Justice? A pity you and the other cops didn’t put in the same effort to bring the scumbags who murdered the Cohen children in Ballymena to justice. Think of the lives that would have been saved.’

  ‘Just make sure the originals, along with the gun, are handed to me by this time tomorrow. Oh, one last thing.’ Wilson eased closer to Karl, hard-eyeing him. ‘You know of my abhorrence of swearing, of course, but for you I’m going to make an exception. Fuck with me ever again, and it’ll be the last time you fuck with anyone. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Can you repeat all that?’

  ‘You better have been listening, you fucking snail. I meant every word of it.’

  ‘Using the fuck word really doesn’t work for you, Mark, coming over all hard as rusty nails. Someone might just call your bluff.’

  ‘No bluff. One-upmanship, it’s called, and I always win at one-upmanship, Kane. Never ever forget that.’ Wilson’s face was turning sour. ‘At the end of the day, I’ll do what’s necessary.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat on my life, Mark.’

  ‘Take whatever you want from it. Just have everything in my office by tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp. Do not be tardy.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mark. You’ll get Phillips’ posthumous letter, along with the gun he claimed you doctored in Harry’s death. Just make sure you keep your side of this dirty blackmailing bargain by not arresting people whom you know to be innocent, just to get at me.’

  ‘I decide who’s innocent in this town, Kane, not you. Now get the hell out of my sight.’

  A small distance away, a female reporter was saying something into a microphone, all the while advancing towards Karl and Wilson.

  ‘Looks like you have company, Mark. Better start swallowing all that bullshit filling your mouth. One thing you should always remember: truth is a bit like shite. Pretty ugly when it starts, but in the end it always comes out.’

  Before Wilson could respond, the reporter came rushing up to him.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’ said the reporter. ‘What can you tell us about this terrible event?’

  Wilson’s face suddenly became a politician’s.

  ‘It’s too early to speculate, and I can’t comment on an on-going investigation.’

  ‘We have it from a very good source that the man killed was actually the Red Hand serial killer. Can you confirm that for our viewers?’

  Wilson bristled. ‘That’s pure speculation. Unconfirmed rumours like that only help impede any investigations. There never was a Red Hand serial killer. The media should be more…’

  Watching Wilson and the reporter walking slowly back down Hill Street towards the rest of the gathering media, Karl probed for the phone in his pocket. No sooner was he about to hit the first number, than a voice called his name.

  ‘Karl!’

  ‘Tom?’ Karl quickly clicked off the phone.

  Tom Hicks was emerging from a car, hair and clothes dishevelled. ‘Are you okay, Karl?’ said Hicks, looking pale.

  Hicks sounded shattered.

  ‘Fine, Tom. Ever want your sinuses cleared, have someone stick a gun up your snout. Works every time.’ Karl tried forcing a smile, but nothing came.

  ‘What about Naomi?’

  ‘Staying tough, as usual.’

  ‘I screwed up, not telling you that Taylor, Brown or Blake had been charged with the murders of the children.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. How could you have known? Their records on that particular grisly deed were erased because they were found not guilty by a biased jury.’

  ‘I should have dug further. I should have found something.’

  ‘Stop crucifying yourself, Tom. There are more than enough bastards carrying hammers and nails in this lousy town to do it for you. Trust me. I learned that a long time ago.’

  ‘Thanks…’

  ‘Don’t thank me, but more importantly, don’t ever talk like this again. That’s an order. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.’

  ‘How about we get together next week, just for a quiet drink? Just the two of us.’

  ‘That sounds like a song.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve had a drink together.’

  ‘Just the boys night out, sort of thing?’ Karl finally managed a genuine smile.

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. I’ll give you a call during the week. We’ll arrange something. In the meantime, I think you better get down to my office. Wilson and his motley crew are there along with some of the media, fucking everything up.’

  ‘What about you? Not coming?’

  ‘In a few minutes. Just getting my head cleared.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you back at your place.’ Hicks looked uncomfortable again. ‘Glad you’re okay.’

  ‘I know you are. Go on. Do your job. I’m fine.’

  Karl watched Hicks proceed down the street, before hitting the numbers again on his phone. If he could only reach his source, this could turn out to be one of the most important phone calls he would ever make.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE STING

  ‘The stupid neither forgive nor forget; the naive forgive and forget; the wise forgive but do not forget.’

  Thomas Szasz, The Second Sin

  Karl and Naomi were relaxing on top of the bed, each reading a Sunday newspaper and sipping coffee. An orgy of tabloids and broadsheets was scattered haphazardly on the bed and floor, swamping the entire area. The radio was playing classic Motown hits from the seventies.

  ‘Coffee, Marvin Gaye and fat newspapers. This is what Sunday morning’s made for,’ said Karl.

  ‘Thought you said Sunday morning was made for great sex with the woman you love?’

  ‘That, too – if I can squeeze it in.’ Karl flipped over a page. ‘Every damn article seems to be about Bartlett. After almost a week, you’d think they’d give it a rest.’

  The newspapers were
still prominently carrying the death of Peter Bartlett, the one-time captain in the Royal Irish Regiment and killer who had narrowly avoided adding Karl to his obituary list.

  Naomi looked up from the paper she was reading. ‘The Sunday World is saying that Bartlett had been serving in Iraq when a roadside bomb killed three of his comrades and left him with horrendous injuries. Doctors said it was a medical miracle he managed to survive.’

  ‘I don’t think the devil would be too happy with the use of the word miracle in association with one of his own, Naomi.’

  ‘It goes on to say “He served with distinction and was awarded the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross for bravery. A terrific and fearless soldier, according to one former captain. But others said there was a dark side to Bartlett, that he was a racist with connections to the British National Front and to paramilitaries in Belfast. It’s also claimed that he would routinely physically and verbally abuse prisoners in his custody. Prior to the explosion he was being investigated about the murder of two local Iraqi men whose bullet-riddled bodies were found dumped on the outskirts of Baghdad. Apparently, origami was found in the pockets of the dead men, sculptured from the pages of the Book of Revelation.”’

  ‘They claim that certain British Army brass knew of Bartlett’s involvement in numerous other killings, not only here and Iraq, but possibly in Afghanistan, and that he was “a functional subsidiary” of British Intelligence.’

  ‘A functional subsidiary? What’s that suppose to mean?’

  ‘An assassin. Or in layman’s terms: we don’t mind you doing it, provided you don’t do something stupid like getting caught, and spilling the fucking beans. Far better you get shot. Dead men have a hard time moving their tongues.’

  ‘Very cloak and dagger.’

  ‘With the emphasis on dagger. Says here that the good captain was part of a notorious unit known as JFIT – Joint Forward

  Intelligence Team –based at the Shaibah Logistics Base, thirteen miles from Basra, in Iraq. The newspaper claims that all of JFIT members were a mix of military, MI5 and civilian staff and that they took their orders directly from London.’

  Naomi turned a page in the paper. ‘On my God, Karl…’

  ‘What? What is it now?’

  ‘Your name…it was on a list found in Bartlett’s hotel room.’

  ‘What? Let me see that,’ said Karl, taking the paper from Naomi.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘A load of fabricated crap.’

  ‘Let me read it.’ Naomi grabbed the paper back.

  Karl sighed. ‘Look, it’s nothing. I already knew my name was on a list found in Bartlett’s room. Chambers called me a couple of days ago to inform me of it.’

  ‘What? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘To prevent exactly what you’re doing right now. Worrying over nothing.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop trying to protect me. I’m a big girl.’

  ‘You can say that again, you big girl you.’

  ‘I’m serious, Karl.’

  ‘Okay. In future, you get all the bad news that I get. No point in just me getting the grey hairs.’

  Naomi continued reading. ‘The names of the people he murdered all were in red; those he intended to murder were in green…’

  ‘Thankfully, I’m as green as they come, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this ridiculous conversation.’

  ‘It says here Tev Steinway’s name was in red. Thought you said he was killed by a hit and run?’

  ‘Yes, well, according to Chambers, the cops now believe the and-run driver was Bartlett. Seems the sick bastard was extremely imaginative in his warped way of thinking out new methods of killing people.’

  ‘And to think he was in our home…’ Naomi shuddered. ‘Gives me the shivers, just thinking of it.’

  Karl reached over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘It’s over – for good. He’s dead.’

  Before Naomi could respond, the noon news came on the radio.

  Police have confirmed that they are re-opening the case of an arson attack in Ballymena, six years ago, when three Jewish children burned to death. There is speculation that Peter Bartlett, the man labelled the Red Hand serial killer, may have been the leader of the gang, but somehow managed to evade police by enlisting for military service in Iraq. The police say they have new and definite leads, and that a businessman is helping with their enquiry…

  ‘A bit bloody late,’ said Karl. ‘Think of the people who would still be alive if they had convicted the scumbags in the first place.’

  ‘You can’t blame the police, Karl; it was the jury.’

  ‘The jury can only play the cards given to them – by the cops.’

  Unconfirmed reports say the businessman’s name is Nigel Potts, and that he had been living under the alias of Nelson Roberton. Money found at the Europa Hotel has been linked to Potts and Peter Bartlett. Detective Inspector Mark Wilson will be heading the investigation…

  ‘Did you hear that, Karl? Mark Wilson’s heading the investigation.’

  ‘Anything for a headline.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a wee bit hard on him? At least he’s re-opened it, and it was through him all charges against Lipstick were dropped, provided she did rehab.’

  ‘She’s never taken drugs in her life. She didn’t need to be sent to a bloody rehab.’

  ‘He had to come up with something to appease the media. I for one think it was great of him, sticking his neck out.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one hell of a guy.’

  ‘I know you don’t see eye-to-eye with him, but don’t begrudge him the credit due, Karl. Things could have been a lot worse, had he not used his influence to help us all – you included.’

  Karl felt his face redden. He wanted to scream. Instead, he quietly sucked in air for five seconds, before slowly releasing it. Thankfully, his face began cooling down.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, Naomi. I’ll have to give him a big hug the next time I see him.’

  ‘Thank God for Lipstick,’ said Naomi, touching Karl’s hand tenderly. ‘I dread to think what would have happened had she not been here. She was so brave. I keep thinking would I have had the strength to pull the trigger?’

  ‘You’d be surprised at what we’re all capable of, Naomi, when the dice falls.’

  Naomi eased from the bed. ‘I’m going for a shower. Then I intend to visit Lipstick.’

  ‘Don’t let misguided guilt guide you, darling. We’ve been up every day this week to see her. She’ll be well taken care of, once she gets out of there.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘I’m full of misguided guilt, too. Of course I’m coming. But first, I’m popping downstairs. Want to check something on the computer.’

  ‘Don’t be long. I need my back washed.’

  ‘Only if you do my front.’

  ‘Deal.’ Naomi giggled. ‘Hurry.’

  Downstairs, Karl turned on the computer, and waited for it to warm up before inserting a disc. He watched the screen come to life, astounded at the details it was revealing, and then flicked on the volume.

  ‘Beautiful…’ he said in amazement, five minutes later, hitting a number on his phone.

  ‘Huh?’ A groggy voice answered.

  ‘Richard? Karl. Loved it, pal. It’s so perfect, I almost cried.’

  ‘Karl? Oh…good. Glad I was able to help. I was kinda worried when you phoned me that morning. You sounded badly shaken up. Only to be expected, of course, after that weirdo tried to shoot you. Man, what a crazy life you lead. No wonder you don’t take drugs. You don’t need them, man.’

  ‘I won’t forget this, what you did for me.’

  ‘It was nothing. Glad to be of help. Now can I go back to sleep? I don’t like Mondays.’

  ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘Those, too.’

  ‘I’ll probably need a couple of copies of this, for posterity.’ And bankability.

  ‘You can have them by the middle of the week. How’s that
sound?’

  ‘I owe you – big time. Anything I can do, just name it.’

  ‘Really?’ Richard went quiet for a few seconds. ‘How about buying me Detective Comics number Twenty-Seven?’

  ‘A comic? A bloody comic? I’ll buy you a hundred of them! What? Why’re you laughing?’

  ‘Detective Comics number Twenty-Seven is the first appearance of Batman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It sells for roughly half a million dollars – if you can find a copy in near mint.’

  ‘Half a bloody million? Shit, I’m in the wrong business.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Richard laughed. ‘I’ll think of something else, down the line. Goodnight.’

  ‘It’s bloody–’ The phone went dead. ‘…noon.’

  In the silence of the room, Karl re-watched the film playing before his eyes on the computer screen. The darkness of night made clear by modern-day technology, and all in lovely stunning colour.

  He studied himself and Wilson standing in the lit-up doorway of Long Bridge House. Admittedly, he looked terribly haggard on the screen, but the fact that Wilson looked even more dreadful helped.

  Wilson was talking: Just make sure the originals, along with the gun, are handed to me by this time tomorrow. Oh, one last thing. You know of my abhorrence of swearing, of course, but for you I’m going to make an exception. Fuck with me ever again and it’ll be the last time you fuck with anyone. Do I make myself clear?

  I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening. Can you repeat all that?

  You better have been listening, you fucking snail. I meant every word of it.

  Using the fuck word really doesn’t work for you, Mark, coming over all hard as rusty nails. Someone might just call your bluff.

  No bluff. One-upmanship, it’s called, and I always win at one-upmanship, Kane. Never ever forget that. At the end of the day I’ll do what’s necessary.

  That sounds like a threat on my life, Mark.

  Take whatever you want from it. Just have everything in my office by tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp. Do not be tardy.

  ‘Karl!’ shouted Naomi.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shower’s free. Hurry up!’