A Dark Place to Die (15 page)

North has never been a person to dwell on what the future might hold, but he feels safe in predicting that, unless someone gets him first, he'll continue to feed his habit. He can dress it up and tie a ribbon round it, look at it any way he wants to, but there's only one reason why: he likes killing people. Everything else is detail.

He'd enjoyed the Australian. It was all business – or mostly all – for Kite. Kite, by Declan North's standards, is somewhat squeamish, even sentimental. After the business with the Australian, Kite was nervy. North has stored that information away for a time when it might be useful. Information, he's always found, is the best weapon. After Semtex.

North was raised in a Republican household just off the Falls Road and was ten years old when it all began kicking off again in 1968. By 1972 and Bloody Sunday, Declan North has lost his father and only brother to the Troubles. He hasn't been overly traumatised by their deaths, in all honesty. At fourteen, had he been properly assessed, Declan North would have been diagnosed as a full-blown psychopath.

He'd have killed wherever he'd been born, but being where he was, being part of where he was from, proves to be a godsend. He adopts a political stance – easy to do under the circumstances – and begins positioning himself to become a member of the IRA. North has no illusions about changing the face of Ireland through his actions, although, being no fan of the English, that would be a very welcome bonus. No, he is in it for the kicks and the kills. To be sanctioned, praised and rewarded for doing something he'd have paid to do is sweet indeed.

And Declan North is that rare combination of order and madness that means he always carries out his task no matter how difficult, or disgusting, and doesn't leave a trace. He is never so much as arrested by the British.

This is invaluable to The Cause. It means he can travel freely, or as freely as any Irishman at that time in mainland Britain, and his handlers use this to the hilt. They don't know quite how he does it but Declan North is a man born to kill and, a rare quality,
get away with it
.

By the early eighties, the IRA is heavily involved in a rapidly growing – and satisfyingly profitable – drugs trade. They use what they're good at – fear and terror – to ensure the security of sizeable deals. If you need someone to ensure delivery, to enforce an unpaid bill, to ease the passage of contraband, they will do it – for a price. Declan North
has the good fortune to be in the right place when everything begins to go civilian. He has the experience and the skills that are in demand, and he makes a smooth transition to criminality long before the IRA is made respectable.

North caresses his naked chest. Thin scar lines, raised slightly from the skin, run laterally across his torso at intervals of a few millimetres. Beginning at shoulder height, there are approximately a hundred lines, most of them faded, some fresh. North takes out a vial of amyl nitrate, pops the cap and inhales, feeling his heart leap as the rush hits. He puts down the empty vial on the hotel dresser and picks up a fresh scalpel. He unwraps the sealed plastic wrapper and grasps the handle. He lovingly traces the flat of the scalpel blade along his engorged penis, the blade just brushing the skin, not breaking it. Under the harsh light from the single bulb, the only source of light in the black-painted room, the scalpel glitters. North slides the blade up his abdomen until the scalpel arrives at a spot just below the last transverse line on his chest. Now, gripping a little more firmly, he drags the blade across himself, his hand steady. A thin line of blood appears in its wake. North angles his arm to keep the line as straight as possible. He reaches the end, pinches the blood from the scalpel blade and licks his fingers. Taking a white towel, he presses it against the bloody line, feeling the sting as stray threads press into the wound.

On the wall to his right, Matty Halligan is lashed face-first to a wooden cross-beam. He wears a blindfold and heavy biker boots, but is otherwise naked. His buttocks are criss-crossed with lines that echo those on North's torso.

North picks up another vial of amyl nitrate and comes close to Halligan. He twists off the cap and holds
it under Halligan's nose. He snorts greedily and groans with pleasure. North takes hold of his scalpel again and, kneeling, slowly traces a fresh line of blood across Halligan's buttocks.

North puts his mouth to Halligan's ear.

'You saw what I did to the Australian,' he whispers. 'You liked it, right enough.' It isn't a question.

Halligan flinches. A tremor of real fear runs through him.

'Relax, big man,' whispers North. 'You're a keeper.' He looks across the room to where a naked younger man stands, head bent, his penis erect. North beckons him forward and the younger man takes up a position behind Halligan. He turns and looks at North for permission.

North nods and the naked man presses himself into Halligan. North sucks in a deep breath and settles down to watch.

23

It's exactly like going to see the headmaster.

The Fish occupies a larger than normal office on the fifth floor at Canning Place. In his day Koop always maintained his office right next door to his MIT unit at Stanley Road, but The Fish insisted on moving to where 'the big decisions are being made'. The MIT took that to mean he could be better placed for the arse-licking he's renowned for.

'Enter.' Perch's querulous voice answers Keane's knuckle-knock and Harris pushes open the door.

'Sit,' says Perch, waving a hand perfunctorily in the direction of two armless leather chairs in front of his desk, not looking up from the folder of notes in front of him. Keane gives Harris a wry wrinkle of the eyebrows as they take their seats – lower, naturally, than Perch. Keane wouldn't be surprised to learn that Perch consulted some ladder-climbing business manual on details like that. The two of them sit back in the not-very-comfortable chairs and wait. With Perch, you always wait.

He takes his time. He flicks the pages of his notes, peering through rimless spectacles, his face never lifting
in their direction. Eventually, after a number of silent minutes during which Keane has to fight the urge to check his watch, Perch closes the file with an almost unbearable air of efficiency, places his pen at exact right angles to one side and looks up at his two officers.

'Not very promising,' he says, tapping a thin finger on top of the file.

'Sorry, sir?' says Keane. God, this man was a tool.

Perch sighs. 'Your beach victim, DI Keane. Not made much progress, have you?'

'With respect, sir,' says Harris, seeing Keane's neck redden, 'we've established the identity of the victim and traced a connection between him and an Australian man –'

'Gelagotis,' interrupts Perch. Keane registers the DCI's need to let them know he's up to speed on the details. Prick.

'Yes, sir, Gelagotis. We've also found the murder site and we're awaiting forensics on material in the container.'

'And we know the victim was Koop's son,' Keane says, a little more forcefully than he'd meant to. 'Menno Koopman,' he adds, seeing Perch's facial expression.

'I know who Koopman is,' snaps Perch. He taps the file on his desk. 'I can read, DI Keane. I remember Koopman very clearly.' Perch purses his lips in distaste. 'A loose cannon. Your old boss, if I remember rightly.'

He leans forward and props the tips of his fingers together in an oddly ecclesiastical manner. 'And I'm not at all happy about his involvement.' He speaks as though Keane and Harris are personally responsible for Stevie White being the offspring of the former DCI. 'Not happy at all.'

Perch glances involuntarily upwards as if invoking a higher authority. You're looking in the wrong direction,
thinks Keane. Perch is more likely to be controlled from somewhere warmer.

'I've had to inform upstairs,' he says, his voice quivering with barely concealed irritation. 'They're going to want to know why a family member of one of our former heads is involved in a drug killing. And not for the first time.'

'White was hardly a family member,' says Keane. 'Sir. And Carl Koopman is still a patient at Bowden.'

'You know that?'

'We checked,' replies Keane, his voice even. 'Sir.'

'Steven White had never met DCI Koopman,' says Harris, anxious to divert any head-on collision between The Fish and Keane. 'He was seventeen when White's mother emigrated and as far as we know there has been no contact since. There's nothing to suggest that Koopman's involvement is anything except an accident of birth.'

'Really, DI Harris?' says Perch. 'Then why is Menno Koopman currently in the air somewhere between Sydney and here?'

Keane looks at Harris. 'That's news to us, sir.'

'I know it's news to you, DI Keane. The point is it shouldn't be. I shouldn't have to be told this through the grapevine like some village gossip!'

Perch judiciously neglects to mention he was passed this information less than ten minutes prior to his meeting. Instead, he lets Keane and Harris squirm. He looks at Keane sharply.

'As far as I'm concerned, Koopman is either dirty or trouble,' says Perch. 'Both of those alternatives are unacceptable and in my view he is likely to be both. The moment he sets foot in the city I want to know about it. I want an eye kept on him. And I want more detail on the brother. Got it?'

Keane doesn't trust himself to speak after the mention of Koop being dirty. He nods and gets to his feet, his neck now positively glowing.

'Will that be all, sir?' says Harris. She too gets up, mainly so that Perch won't be tempted to haul Keane over some very hot coals.

Perch waves his hand.

'Go and do your job,' he says, reaching for the phone. 'Don't make me do it for you.'

Harris steers Keane to the door, feeling his arm flex under her grip.

'Of course, sir,' she says. But Perch is already talking into the phone.

'The oily fucker!'

Keane smacks his hand on the car roof hard enough for a passing copper to shoot them a disapproving look.

'Don't let him wind you up so much,' says Harris evenly. She has to raise her voice above the roar of a passing lorry on Wapping, the six-lane road separating police HQ from the docks.

Men. It really was like taking care of small children. There is a lot, thinks DI Harris, to be said for having less testosterone.

'I'm not steaming about The Fish, Em! You expect that kind of thing from him. It's the slimy rat-fucker inside MIT who told him about Koopman's flight before we knew!'

'How do you know it's one of ours?'

Keane jams his hands in his pockets so as not to keep waving them around. He leans back against the car door and puffs out his cheeks. He lets out a long breath and then speaks more calmly.

'Because The Fish doesn't do detective work, Em. He's had a pencil jammed up his backside for so long he's got lead tonsils. No, a little birdie let this slip – didn't you hear him? He more or less told us. And since we're the only ones interested so far in the comings and goings of Menno Koopman, it follows that it was one of us who decided to take this tasty titbit up the food chain.' Keane walks a few paces and looks across the car park towards a view of the city skyline, and focuses as always on the Liver Building, indistinct in the misty sea air, the grey-green iron Liver birds on top looking west, straining to leave. Keane has always thought it a perfect image for the city: desire exceeding capabilities, but trying anyway. He once read that the original, twelfth-century symbol was an eagle but had been copied so poorly that a new creature was born. There was something about that too which resonated for Keane. Creativity from cack-handedness.

'Frank?' says Em Harris and Keane turns back towards the car.

'I bet it was that slimy bastard, Caddick. He's got an eye on leapfrogging over to HQ and it was him and Rose who've been doing the bulk of liaison with the Aussies.'

Harris shrugs. Privately she thinks Keane might be right about Caddick. It's the sort of thing an ambitious young DS might be tempted to do: drip feed potentially titillating information to a big noise like Perch in the hope of being seen as someone useful. But it's stupid thinking on Caddick's part if indeed it does turn out to be him. All it would do would be to lose him respect within MIT and lessen his chances of access to any other hot information.

Keane, she knows, will not let a slight like this pass without retribution, which in the knotty tangle of Mersey-side Police can take many varied and ingenious forms.
There are coppers she knows for whom the pursuit of criminals is incidental to their wars of attrition against other officers. The level of grudge-holding on the force would make a Borgia blush. But she also knows that whatever happens to Caddick doesn't matter, not in the context of this case. The big thing that she's taken from the meeting is the confirmation that the father of the victim is heading their way. A father with a reputation for getting what he wants when it comes to criminal investigations. And whatever Keane's prior relationship with Koopman, Harris wants to make sure there's nothing that will leach negatively into her career. Harris has plans.

'Koopman,' she says. 'What do you think he wants?'

'I don't know,' says Keane, opening the car door. 'But it's just about the only thing me and The Fish can agree on. I don't like it either.'

24

Jimmy Gelagotis isn't the only person on the Gold Coast with an interest in the Max Kolomiets/Anton Bytchkov murders. The morning after Warren Eckhardt speaks to Keane at MIT in Liverpool, the Kolomiets file lands on his desk, bounced from the Organised Crime Group to his outfit, South East Queensland Homicide. Kolomiets was well known to the OCG, and there's little doubt that they'll be heavily involved, but the protocol dictates that the brief is kicked through to Eckhardt as a prelude to being handed back. Eckhardt knows before reading it that this will end up being a dual department investigation, and that he and OCG will have to share information sooner rather than later, with OCG establishing alpha domination as soon as possible. There are already emails and phone messages indicating as much in Eckhardt's inboxes.