A Dark Place to Die (16 page)

But for right now at least, the file is his, and his alone. He fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette before remembering for the ten thousandth time that he can't smoke indoors. Eckhardt is an old-school smoker, getting through two packs a day and it's killing him. Already fifty, he looks nearer sixty, with a pronounced wheeze to his breathing.
It's been a long time since he's done anything more active on duty than walking down the office steps to the car park. He knows he should give up the cancer sticks, and quick.

But not today.

'Off to the coroner's office,' he tells Nick Matui, bent over his keyboard picking out a report on a domestic homicide in Nerang that came in overnight. Matui looks up and smiles wryly as Eckhardt pats his jacket pockets. He might be checking for his car keys but Matui knows Warren is making sure there are some smokes left in the pack.

'Sure, Ekkers. Say hello to Max for me,' Matui winks. It's safe to say the death of Max Kolomiets is not being mourned at Homicide.

Eckhardt makes his way outside to where his police issue Commodore is parked under the only patch of shade in the lot. As he leaves the chill air-conditioning and steps into the Gold Coast heat, Eckhardt coughs wetly. He immediately rummages around for a cigarette, jams it gratefully into his mouth and lights up. He takes off his jacket and draws the smoke blissfully into his diseased lungs.

More like it.

There is no real need for him to attend the coroner's office. The autopsy has already been done on Kolomiets and Eckhardt attended part of it; enough to already give him most of what he wants to know. He didn't attend the crime scene as he was laid up with a bout of flu which he'd only shaken off the day before. Matui filled in and brought him up to speed before handing the file over. Eckhardt already feels at a disadvantage with the Kolomiets case. And, like his counterpart twelve thousand miles and ten time zones away, Eckhardt has an atavistic need to get close to the victim. Just like Frank Keane, Warren
Eckhardt would be hard put to identify why, or how, seeing the corpse helps . . . he just knows it does.

He cranks up the Commodore's air-con and switches the radio to Nova. He hardly ever likes any song they play but the station's bright chatter is as much a part of his daily life as the heat. He turns the car towards the coroner's office and is there within ten minutes. The office is wedged incongruously between a downmarket Chinese restaurant and a tyre shop.

Eckhardt parks, takes a last regretful drag of his cigarette (his second since leaving Homicide) and pops a breath mint, before locking the car and entering the CO.

After the usual form-filling, he's granted access to the cold room where post-autopsy bodies are neatly stacked in two rows of stainless-steel mortuary drawers. The multi-pierced attendant snaps the lock on one and slides Max Kolomiets's body out for inspection. With a nod at Eckhardt, the assistant draws back the top sheet and leaves him to it.

'Hello, Max,' says Eckhardt softly. He speaks without rancour. He's only met Max Kolomiets once, during an investigation into a routine drug murder. Kolomiets was listed as the victim's employer and was interviewed as such by Homicide. With his high-priced lawyer in attendance, Kolomiets slid smoothly away from the investigation, the only technical connection between him and the victim easily explained. Of course, Max had nothing to do with the crime. He was simply the poor man's employer. What this man did outside working hours was his business and his alone. No further questions? Then we'll be off.

As Kolomiets left the interview room he winked at Eckhardt and Eckhardt knew exactly what Max was telling him. I did this, and there's absolutely nothing you
can do about it, now or ever. Eckhardt knew, as did the whole team, that the victim was 'allegedly' skimming from Kolomiets and that could result in only one possible outcome. Proving it was another matter, and Kolomiets walked, as he always walked. 'Don't worry,' he said to Eckhardt at the door, 'you can't vin them all.' The Russian was untouchable. Except he wasn't.

Which is interesting, reflects Eckhardt: it means that something important in the safari park has changed.

He examines the neatest of Kolomiets's head wounds, the one that came as he lay already dead on the grass of the soccer pitch. It was a grace note, a shot by someone who didn't want to leave anything to chance. Forensics hasn't come back with any firm data on the gun, but from off-the-record snippets gleaned from the coroner, as well as his own experience, Eckhardt knows the muzzle was placed against the skin calmly by someone well-versed in violence. The body of Anton Bytchkov lay on a gurney in another of the coroner's steel cabinets, the wound in his head telling the same story.

The witness, the boy, won't speak.

Eckhardt doesn't blame him. It is frustrating but completely understandable. Eckhardt was over at the boy's home the previous morning and tried his best to put him at ease without success. The shrink is due for another visit that afternoon and Eckhardt is hopeful she'll have more success. A petite blonde wearing a tight-fitting skirt and a sternly professional expression, she called into the office at Homicide after the session with the witness and Eckhardt knew he'd have told her anything. The boy, of course, is another matter.

'One more session and he might begin to give us something,' the shrink explained as she left.

Eckhardt pats Max on the cheek, his flesh as unresponsive as a side of beef.

'Don't worry, Maxie,' he wheezes. 'You can't win 'em all.'

25

The only flight Koop can get, turns out – through no desire on his part – to connect via Amsterdam. As the plane dips in towards Schiphol, a disoriented and queasy Koop is unable to feel or articulate anything much about seeing his parents' homeland unroll beneath the wings of the jet. In truth, the place looks dismal, the light of the northern hemisphere flat and leaden after the sparkle of the past two years in Australia. Koopman disembarks and walks stiff-legged through the airport with an increasing sense of dislocation.

What does he think he's doing?

That feeling only increases after making the short hop on a budget airline into Liverpool. The same grey-green landscape, only this time as familiar as the pattern on his boyhood bedroom wallpaper. Koop gets off at Liverpool feeling like death and looking only marginally better. He's booked a room at a hotel down near the Pier Head. With both his parents now gone, and his brother still in hospital, Koop has no family in the city. There are friends, colleagues, that Koop might have called up to stay with but, like most coppers he knows, he prefers his own space,
even if that's just a rented room. This is not a social visit and Koop doesn't want to fend off questions about his life in Australia and explain why he's back. Even he doesn't know that. Besides, staying in a hotel will keep him light, flexible.

For what, exactly? Koop grimaces. Now he's actually in Liverpool it strikes him how ridiculous his pilgrimage is. Perhaps Zoe is right.

He picks up his bag from the carousel and moves through into the arrivals hall. Amongst the business travellers and returning weekend revellers, Koopman stands out, tall, tanned, his grey hair bleached lighter by the faraway sun.

'Jesus,' says Frank Keane, moving forward and putting out a hand. 'It's Crocodile fucking Dundee.'

After a moment's hesitation, Koop smiles and shakes Keane's outstretched hand. 'Frank,' he says, holding on a fraction longer and a fraction harder than convention requires. It's taken only a second but Koop finds himself establishing – or trying to – some sort of alpha-male dominance with his old colleague. Worse, he's pretty sure that the woman with Keane is aware of it too. From the look on her face she's less than impressed. He tries to relax, slightly ashamed of his posturing, however small it may have been.

'Not sure if you know Em? DI Emily Harris, Menno Koopman.'

Harris shakes Koop's hand. Her grasp is cool and confident. 'DCI Koopman, good to meet you.'

'Call me Koop. And drop the DCI too, if you don't mind. It's been a while since anyone called me that.'

There's a short silence during which Menno Koopman regards the two Liverpool detectives. Em Harris does the
same to him, not even trying to hide the fact that she's doing so. He's better-looking than Harris expected, taller too and carrying his fifty years with ease, and there's a steel in the eyes that doesn't bode well for any 'hands-off' message she and Keane might want to deliver. Other travellers drift past them, heading for the exits. Koop is aware of the sound of his hometown accent all around him, the nasal squawk as distinctive as ever, every second word a swear word.

'You greet all visitors to Liverpool personally these days, Frank?' says Koop.

By way of reply, Frank Keane hoists Koop's bag and pats him on the shoulder.

'Not all of 'em, Koop. Just the important ones.' He points to the door. 'Lift?'

Koop raises an eyebrow. 'Do I get a choice?'

Keane laughs.

'Since when has anyone told you what to do, Koop?'

'In that case I could murder a pint.'

Koop asks them to take him to The Phil, a hulking sandstone Victorian-gothic pub straddling a corner opposite the Philharmonic Hall and under the shadow of the retro-futuristic Catholic Cathedral – 'Paddy's Wigwam'. The Phil is the only pub Koop has ever heard of that has urinals listed as tourist attractions.

'You do miss this, a bit.' He waves a hand around the pub as Keane sets down a pint of lager in front of him. 'In Australia. The history, I mean.'

Koop drinks in the ornate plasterwork and complex Victorian woodwork, the soft lights rebounding off polished brass and curving light fittings. He wouldn't have
been able to tell anyone that was what he'd missed before getting back, but now he's here, it's obvious. He resolves to see more of the old stuff. A bit of kulcha, mate.

He might as well; it may be the only thing he manages to accomplish in Liverpool. The fact is, sitting in The Phil with the two detectives, Koop is feeling more than a little foolish. Both carry that air of absolute professionalism that he remembers well and it reminds him forcibly that he's nothing more than an amateur now. He delivers coffee, for fuck's sake. He knows what he'd be thinking if he was at the other side of the table.

Koop takes another drink and leans back, feeling the journey in the ache of his bones and the sand behind his eyes. He wants to take a long shower followed by an even longer sleep. He coughs, his throat dry from twenty-four hours plus inside a sealed metal tube.

'So,' he says, his eyes on Em Harris, 'what can I help you with, officer?'

'We heard you were coming.'

'Passport control,' says Koop. It's a statement. It's what he'd have done in their position. For the first time since arriving, Koop feels a tingle as something dormant stirs. He hasn't been out of the game for
that
long. It's not much but it feels good.

'We wanted to . . . to make sure you didn't do anything . . . rash, Koop.' Keane holds the gaze of his old boss. He taps his nail against the rim of his glass and Koop watches the small movement fixedly, Keane's words distant.

'Why are you here, Mr Koopman?' says Em, cutting across Koop's jetlagged stare. She leaves the prefix in deliberately and Keane glances sideways at her. Em Harris does everything deliberately and Keane can see why she's
being cagey. Menno Koopman may have been something in the city once, but as far as Em is concerned he's trouble. Harris has no illusions about the dangers someone like Koopman could pose to her investigation. And as much as Frank Keane likes to put himself about as top dog, Em Harris thinks of the case as hers.

'Koop,' says Koop with a wry smile. 'Call me "Koop".' He knows why she's keeping an edge.

'Why are you here, Koop?' says Harris, her voice business-like. 'You hardly knew your son. And your brother is still safely tucked up in Bowden.'

Keane flashes Em a glance but Koop holds his hand up in a gesture of surrender. He takes another drink and leans forward, digesting Harris's welcome information that Carl is under lock and key. Coming from the patently reliable Harris, it's a relief. She's answered the question that's been at the front of his mind since the news about Stevie: was his brother involved?

Koop relaxes.

'Honestly?' he says. He feels a sneeze coming on, lifts a tissue from his pocket and blows his nose. Christ, he's forgotten how cold this country can be.

'That would be best, Koop,' says Keane. 'Em has no patience with anything else.'

'I don't know why I'm here, not really,' says Koop. He spreads his hands out, palms upwards; an oddly Italianate gesture. 'Back in Australia – back
home –
it just seemed like something . . . I don't know, something that I had to do. DI Harris, Em, is right. I didn't know Stevie, not even a little bit. But he doesn't have anyone else to . . . well, there's no-one else left for Stevie. Not unless there's some de facto who doesn't know he's dead. From what the Aussies told me, that's not the case. And Carl? Well, I don't really
know about him either. I haven't seen him in more than ten years. Maybe that's got a bit to do with coming over too. Flesh and blood, y'know?'

The two cops don't reply. Koop looks at them both and smiles. It's an old copper's trick: say nothing and they'll keep talking. He continues regardless, not feeling like there's much for him to reveal.

'You don't have kids, right, Frank? Unless you've been busy over the past few years?'

Keane shakes his head.

'How about you?' Koop nods at Harris.

'Not my thing. Not yet, anyway.'

'Me neither,' says Koop, after a glance towards Harris. 'At least none since Sharon had Stevie. They just didn't come along for me and Zoe. Not after . . . well, it just didn't happen. I don't think I'm the fatherly kind, to be honest.'

Koop looks up and taps a finger on the table.

'But I
was
Stevie's father, at least technically. And since there's no-one else, it's up to me to see he's looked after. Even if it's just the funeral.'

'That won't be happening anytime soon, Koop,' says Keane gently. 'It's still a murder investigation, remember.'