A Dark Place to Die (24 page)

Carl smiles but there's a touch of grit there. 'Cured, you mean.'

Koop nods. 'Sorry.'

The word hangs in the air. The pause threatens to become more awkward than it already is. Both men begin to speak at once and laugh.

'After you,' says Menno. The phrase seems absurdly formal.

'I don't mind that you didn't visit,' says Carl. 'What I did, well, it must have been very difficult. For you, I mean.
It wasn't easy for me either, but I understand where you were coming from. Being a cop and all that.'

Menno coughs.

'I'm not saying I wasn't hurt,' continues Carl. 'But it's OK, Menno.' He looks directly at Koop and as Carl holds his gaze Koop feels vaguely uncomfortable. He forces himself not to look away.

'I was ill, you know. I know you lot – coppers – don't see it that way, but that's what it was.'

Menno doesn't know what to say. He makes a vague gesture with his shoulders, not quite a shrug.

'I am better,' adds Carl.

Menno nods. 'OK.' He looks around the stadium. 'Water under the bridge,' he says.

'I've moved on,' says Carl. 'It's over.'

'It's certainly over for Liam Jones.' The name of Carl's victim slips out before Koop can stop himself and Koop doesn't know why. The loss of one more drug-gobbling scrote certainly didn't deprive the world of anything that could be described as a productive human being and Koop feels slightly shameful using him as a moral baseball bat on his brother.

'That's true,' says Carl. 'Very perceptive, Menno. You probably didn't need to point it out.'

Koop sighs. 'Look, Carl, I don't know how to behave here. We haven't seen each other since . . . well, since the court case. I probably should have visited. I don't know. I don't know why I mentioned Jones. Who knows what's right in this kind of thing?'

'I heard about Stevie,' says Carl.

This information brings Menno up short and he feels the faintest whisper of disquiet tickle the back of his brain.

'How?'

'That doesn't matter.'

Koop thinks: yes, it does. He tries to stop himself behaving like a policeman but it's hard. He waits for Carl to speak again.

'Family is family, whatever happens,' says Carl, and this time there's no mistaking it; Koop's antennae are twitching. Carl hasn't changed his voice a fraction but Koop feels a charge in the atmosphere. 'I knew you'd come home.' Carl leans back and Koop lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

'You knew?'

'Yeah, I knew.' Carl smiles again. 'You're my brother, Menno. You can't change that. Blood is blood etc, etc.'

Koop runs his tongue against his teeth. There's something wrong here and he tries to choose his words carefully. It doesn't work and comes out too blunt.

'How did you know about Stevie, Carl?' he says. 'It hasn't been in the papers.'

Carl blinks and looks as though he's about to speak. Then his puzzled expression hardens into one of understanding.

'You think
I
had something to do with it? Loony tops nephew to get back at older brother – is that the great detective's scenario? Burton told me you'd been in. That's how I knew. Fuck, Menno, what do you think I am?'

Carl turns and stalks off towards the exit leaving Koop watching him. The fact is, Menno Koopman doesn't have the faintest clue about what his brother is, or has become.

'Jesus,' Koop mutters under his breath. 'Carl, wait!'

Koop heads in the direction taken by Carl. A minute later he's standing outside the ground looking up and down Anfield Road. It's dark and still busy. Menno spots Carl and trots after him.

'Wait,' says Koop as he taps his brother on the shoulder.

It isn't Carl. 'Sorry, mate,' says Koop to the stranger. 'Thought you were someone else.'

The man nods and walks off, leaving Menno standing in the middle of Anfield Road. He jams his hands into his coat pocket and heads towards the city.

Twenty metres away, Carl Koopman steps out from the black mouth of an alley bisecting the row of window-boarded terraces and follows his brother.

By ten, Koop is halfway pissed. Three quick pints and chasers will do that. He's somewhere round the back of Bold Street, at a bar that wasn't there when he'd left Liverpool. Across the square a chattering crowd spills out of a converted former grain warehouse. For the first time, Koop notices it's an art gallery, its warm brick façade lit from below by a series of blue spotlights which cast beams up and onto the enamelled metal of the gallery sign. In trendy lower case, the name has been cut out –
the granary –
and its enhanced shadow cants up on the brickwork. In the courtyard the people look no less shiny and modern. The sound of their chattering reminds Koop of the lorikeets gathering in his fig tree at dusk.

He swallows the last of his beer and drifts over to the gallery. No-one asks for a ticket and he lifts a glass of white wine from a passing waiter. He's already had too much but after the scene at Anfield he's past caring. This whole thing – whatever the fuck it is – is not working out. Exactly what Koop hoped to get from his trip he doesn't know. The one thing he does know is that he's getting nowhere fast. First Keane's ultimatum – there's no other word for it – and then the fucked-up thing with Carl. Koop
doesn't even know if the Halewood information he gave Keane is being acted on or not.

And then he sees Keith Kite.

It's a sign, thinks Koop, although he has no patience with that sort of mystical crap. Whatever it is, as soon as Koop sees Kite he knows there's going to be trouble.

He wishes he hadn't already had a few, though. He'd have preferred a clear head for this.

Koop takes a mouthful of wine and wanders around the gallery, making a show of looking at the artwork. No longer a complete philistine, thanks to a lifetime with Zoe, he knows enough to see that this is good stuff.

Intensely worked images have been digitally treated somehow so that their content is rendered almost impossible to extract. Yet the things positively hum with a playful sexuality. Koop looks across the crowded gallery and from a distance can see that the images have been taken from hugely inflated home-made pornography – threesomes, foursomes, spit-roasts, role-play, orgies – the tangled bodies pixelated, treated, abstracted until they become whirling patterns of vibrant colour.

Beauty from porn. They're clever, sexy pieces that Koop would, under normal circumstances, have enjoyed talking about with Zoe. Now, though, there's only one thing on his mind.

Keith Kite.

Koop had history with Kite long before Stevie. Anyone at MIT worked cases that had his fingers all over them. As slippery as an eel, and protected by more than a decade of graft, Kite proved impossible to link to anything substantial that would stand up in court. Witnesses, naturally enough, after seeing what happened to others who testified, clammed up. Koop didn't blame them, and since most
of the cases where Kite was involved weren't homicides, his interest in Kite was marginal. Until now.

Seeing Keane bring Kite in for questioning, so soon after being given the tip by Alan Hunter, means only one thing: Kite is involved. If Kite is involved, then Kite is the person responsible for killing Stevie.

Koop takes another gulp of wine and fights to control himself. Don't lose it, Koopman.

In a corner of the gallery, a temporary bar has been installed. In front of it stands a knot of people laughing and joking. It is, to a student of Liverpool types, an interesting mix, and Koop is nothing if not a lifelong observer, even pissed. To anyone with a working knowledge of Liverpool serious crime, the majority of those gathered around the bar are instantly recognisable as trouble. Kite stands in the middle, a champagne glass in hand, a thin blonde to his right, an artistic looking middle-aged woman to his left, possibly the gallery owner. Three men in suits, two of the Halligan tribe, and an uncomfortable-looking gorilla who Koop vaguely recognises from prior encounters with Kite: Bourke, is it? A fourth man drinking water stands slightly off to one side. Koop can't tell if he's with Kite's party or not and doesn't recognise him.

The rest of the group are a ragtag of suits and women wearing very short skirts. All of them look moneyed and, to Koop's eyes, most have already had more than a toot of marching powder. Their conversation has that strident swagger that typifies a night out with Charlie.

Kite appears to be listening intently to what the arty woman is saying. Koop has heard he's an art lover. How much Kite understands about it is another matter; Koop figures he may have adopted 'art' as a way of lifting himself above what he truly is. From the adoring looks and barking laughs he's getting, the guise is working.

Without realising it, Koop drifts closer to the group and, as Kite turns his face from the conversation, his eyes catch Koop's. Kite is momentarily blank-faced before he raises his glass in Koop's direction. He turns away to the man drinking water and says something in his ear. Both of them look at Koop.

Koop realises he's grinding his teeth.

He forces himself to relax and finds a waiter, taking another glass from the tray. Even as he takes a mouthful of the wine he registers that it isn't the smartest of moves. He replaces the wine, swaps it for water and turns to inspect a large-scale piece consisting of polished silver balloons. The work has a dizzying quality that makes Koop's head swim, although whether that is the work itself, the wine, or the strain of not putting Keith Kite through the gallery window, he doesn't know.

'Fuckin' exquisite, eh?'

Koop turns.

Kite stands at his shoulder, smaller than Koop, and points at a painting to Koop's left. 'Clever little bastard. You know if you look at 'em from a distance they're all fucking?'

Koop glances back at the group at the bar. Only the man drinking water is looking in their direction.

'What do you want, Kite?'

Kite smiles. 'Me?' He tilts his glass towards Koop. 'Shouldn't the question be the other way round? I thought you'd left town,
Cuntstable
Koopman. For a land down under, where women summat and men . . . oh, I forget the fucking song. Load of shite, anyway. What brings you back to our glorious European City of Culture? Art? Or are you visiting that psycho brother of yours?'

'It was DCI Koopman, Kite. And you know exactly why I'm back.'

Kite opens his arms wide in mock outrage. 'Me? You're giving me credit for mind-reading, Mr Koopman. I'm no clairvoyant.'

'If I mention the word "Halewood" to you, would you still be such a smartarse?'

Kite's smile doesn't waver but Koop knows the word has meaning.

'Hit home?'

'You want to be very careful, Mr Koopman. You're just a civilian now, remember?'

'Fuck off, Kite, before I do something I regret.'

'Wouldn't want that now, would we, Mr Koopman? Zoe might have to start shopping for a black dress. How is the lovely Zoe by the way? Keeping well? She always was a lovely looker, your Zoe, although she's probably not getting any younger, is she?'

At the sound of Zoe's name in Kite's mouth, Koop feels something loosen inside him. Something bad.

'Is that a threat, Kite?'

Kite turns back towards the bar, his shark smile fixed. 'Take it any way you like. I don't care, you Dutch cunt. You don't have the bottle to do anything about it, anyway, not now you're not a fuckin' bizzy. Have a nice trip back to Kangaroo Country, won't you?'

Kite pauses. He looks at Koop pityingly. 'And as an art lover, you must make time to go and see the Gormley sculptures down at Crosby. Some people say they're a load of crap, but me, I love 'em.'

He turns back towards the bar and Koop slams into him from behind.

As people in the gallery scream and scatter, Koop flips Kite over and smashes his wine glass into Kite's forehead. The glass splinters and blood spatters onto the polished
wooden floor. Koop grips Kite's lapels and headbutts him square in the nose. Kite's nose explodes and he howls. Before Koop can land another blow, he feels hands drag him away and a boot slam into his ribs. All the breath leaves him and he curls up against the gallery wall as three of Kite's men go to work. He manages to glance up and see one of the men reach inside his suit coat. Kite, on his feet, blood pouring from his head and nose, puts a hand on the man's arm.

'Stop,' Kite says and the kicking ceases immediately. Kite staggers forward and puts his mouth close to Koop's face. Kite's blood drips onto Koop. 'Thanks for that, you stupid cunt,' says Kite. 'It tidies up a few things at this end.' He pats Koop's cheek with a bloody hand. 'One of my associates will be visiting your fair island soon. I'll make good and sure he looks up Zoe for me.'

Koop tries to answer but all that comes out is a muted groan. Kite smiles and whispers in his ear. 'It'll make what we did to your boy seem like a warm-up.'

And then, as the ceiling of the gallery flashes blue, Koop passes out.

40

'What were you
thinking?'

Keane paces the interview room, Harris sitting across the desk from Koop, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.

'I mean, from some wet-behind-the-ears civilian, I can believe, Koop, but from someone with your background . . .'

Koop rubs his back. The medics at Broadgreen have patched him up and he hasn't suffered any major damage, but he still feels like he's been ten rounds with a grizzly. He's been in hospital overnight. Keane woke him and brought him straight to Stanley Road and is working hard now to keep his temper in check.

'You didn't call Zoe, did you?' says Koop. 'Because I'd prefer her not to be worrying.'

'Never mind Zoe!' Keane shakes his head. 'No, we didn't. We had other shit to concern ourselves about, like why my ex-boss attacked a local businessman in front of the great and good of Liverpool. Including DCI Eric Perch.'

'Perch was there? I didn't see him,' says Koop. 'That's not good.'

'No shit? Come on, Koop, you know better than this.'

'I can't say anything. Nothing you want to hear anyway, Frank. If you're expecting me to say I'm sorry, then you'll be waiting a long time. I'm only sorry I didn't kill him.'