A Dark Place to Die (29 page)

Thirty metres away, invisible in the crook of a fig tree, Declan North places his rifle inside its leather carrying case and drops lightly to the ground. He sets off back up the rise, as behind him Mitch Barnes finally begins to scream. North moves purposefully.

There are things to do.

50

Before the interview Koop calls Zoe. It isn't something he's been looking forward to. Moresby takes him into a small office, places a phone in front of him and leaves. Koop has no doubt he'll be listening in on an extension.

'Koop?' Zoe's voice, half-asleep, sounds older. 'What is it? Are you alright?'

'I'm fine, there's nothing to worry about,' he says hurriedly, conscious of how stupid a statement that will turn out to be once Zoe hears what he has to say. Koop is sure there are women somewhere who would react calmly to being woken with the news that their husband is being held on suspicion of the murder of an international drug dealer, but Zoe, he strongly suspects, won't be one of them.

'Give me a minute,' she says. He hears her put her hand over the speaker and talk to someone in a muffled tone. Mel must be staying. When Zoe comes back on to the line she sounds alert.

'I'm in the kitchen,' she says. 'What's up?'

Koop tells her. Her reaction isn't any better than he imagined it would be.

'You stupid, stupid,
stupid
bastard!'

There's a whole lot more like this during which Koop realises Mel must have come into the kitchen. He can hear Zoe repeating his words to her in tones of incredulity.

'I'm coming over,' Zoe says in a firm tone.

'Don't be ridiculous.' Koop winces at the blast down the phone. It's the wrong thing to say and it takes another minute or two to calm her down.

'This won't stick,' he says, his voice sounding like his old policeman self. As he says it, his spirits rise with the realisation that it's true. Modern policing stuffs up from time to time but not on things like this, not any more. Forensics will show no traces of Kite on him. The path report would demonstrate a time problem. There will be physical evidence – or lack of – which will take him out of the loop. For all he knows the CCTV at the hospital alone will be enough to get him off the hook. Motive would only carry the case so far before it ran out of steam.

Zoe isn't convinced. At one point she swears at him and Mel picks up the phone. In the background he can hear banging and crashing noises.

'She's really mad, Koop. She's broken a couple of things.'

'I got that, Mel. Listen, don't let her do anything silly like coming out here. There's really no need. It's all a bit of a misunderstanding. I'll be coming back as soon as all this gets sorted.'

Moresby pokes his head around the door and points at his watch. Koop nods.

'You know what she's like, Koop,' says Mel. 'And it does sound bad from this perspective.'

'It sounds worse than it is.'

'Well, I'll do what I can. That's all I can say. Do you have somewhere we can reach you?'

Koop gives her the Stanley Road number.

'What about a lawyer?' says Mel.

'We're not at that stage yet,' replies Koop, although he's far from sure that's the case. 'If I do, there are a couple of good ones I know from way back.'

'She got the GOMA gig,' says Mel.

Shit, thinks Koop. I never asked.

There's a short silence. Moresby comes into the room and stands at the door. Koop holds up an apologetic hand.

'I've got to go. Look after her, Mel.'

'I'll try, pervert. Bye.'

'Bye, slut.' Koop hangs up and Moresby raises a quizzical brow.

'Slut?'

'Long story.'

Without offering any further explanation, Koop follows Moresby back down the corridor and into Interview Room 3. His conversation with Zoe has been unsettling from a personal point of view but Koop feels strangely invincible as he takes his seat. Reader and Moresby sit across the table from him, with Em Harris at the end. Koop glances at her as he sits.

'Gone over to the dark side?'

Harris looks at him coldly but Koop sees the colour rise at the base of her throat.

'Perch must be making it worthwhile,' he says. 'Frank's a good copper. I hope you know what you're doing.'

'Can we start?' says Harris, looking at Koop, but talking to Ian Moresby.

'Good idea, love,' says Moresby. He flicks an eye towards Koop who registers the none-too-subtle put-down. Harris doesn't react. Reader presses the start button on the data
recorder and gives the details of those present in a quick monotone.

'Did you kill Keith Kite?' says Reader.

'Straight into it?' says Koop. 'OK, that's fine. No, I did not kill Keith Kite.'

'He was found in your room.'

'Is that a question?' says Koop.

'Perhaps you'd like to comment?' offers Moresby.

'Yes, he was found in my room. That would be the first thing that's wrong with this. Come on, Ian. Think about it. If I'd killed Kite, would I have left him there like that?'

Moresby sucks on his lower lip.

'Left him like what?' says Harris. 'You admit to seeing him?'

Dave Reader flicks her an irritated look which Harris ignores.

'Yes, I admit I saw him. And I should have called you right away. Should have, but didn't. A mistake, I admit. But I was disoriented. Tired. I'd been in Broadgreen all night.'

'Because of the beating you took after attacking Kite at The Granary?' Reader checks his file. 'Says here you glassed him, Koop. Is that how you normally greet people in Australia?'

Koop holds up his hands. 'No. Yes. Wait. Yes, I did hit him with the glass and it was a stupid thing to do.'

'Very,' says Harris.

Koop turns in his chair to look at her directly.

'You saw my son, didn't you, DI Harris? Down at the beach, I mean? It
was
your name on the sheet as the attending officer, wasn't it? You were at the autopsy too. If that had been your boy out there, how would
you
have
greeted the man responsible? A frosty glare? Give me a fucking break.'

'So you wanted to hurt him?' Dave Reader's voice is soft. 'It's understandable, Koop. We'd all have felt the same way.'

'Yes, I did. I did want to hurt him and I'm glad I did hurt him. My only regret is that I wasn't the one who killed him.'

'Were you observed at Broadgreen? On the ward, I mean?' Ian Moresby is looking at his file. 'You were admitted at 11.54 pm and discharged at 8.30 the following morning.'

'You mean I sneaked out of the ward, tracked Kite down, took him off his goons and persuaded him to come back to my hotel room where he let me tie him up and butcher him? That's your theory?'

Moresby looks at Reader and there's a short silence before Moresby speaks again.

'It might not have been you who did the persuading.'

'Not me? What do you mean?'

'You have friends in Liverpool, don't you, Koop?'

'Friends?'

Moresby leans forward and crosses his arms on the table. His voice is quiet, conspiratorial. 'Alan Hunter. There's a name that can get things done in this town.'

'Hunter?' Koop rubs the bridge of his nose. He's asking the question to buy some time as much as anything else. The mention of Hunter means one thing. They aren't going to give this up without a fight. 'I know Hunter, yes.'

'You found his daughter's attacker, Koop. Good police work as I remember. Very good. Hunter must have felt like he owed you.'

Koop is impressed. They've made the connection
between him and Hunter. And then he remembers Reader and Moresby are OCS. Post 9-11 it has become acceptable, routine almost, for drug investigations to use wire-taps and bugs. Hunter may have been under investigation when he spoke to Koop. He makes a mental adjustment not to underestimate Reader and Moresby again.

'You think Hunter delivered Kite to my room like a plate of steak and chips? Hunter might have owed me something, perhaps, but not that.'

'He gave you Kite's name.' It's a statement from Dave Reader. 'Or as good as.'

So there was a wire. Or a tail. Koop flashes back and the image of the thin waiter at the golf club comes into mind. It doesn't matter; they have the information.

Koop shrugs. 'He might have given me a start. That's all. He never mentioned Kite by name. And Hunter won't sit still for something like this, Dave. He'll have you in court just as fast as Zentfeld can get here.'

Arthur Zentfeld is a colourful and high-priced lawyer with a rottweiler reputation as a career-wrecker. Quick to litigate on his client's behalf, he has a long record of painful victories against Merseyside Police. He is Alan Hunter's pet lawyer.

Chris Reader winces at the mention of his name.

'Speaking of lawyers,' says Moresby, 'this might be a good time to reiterate that you have declined one for yourself. Just for the record.'

'I don't know,' says Koop. 'I may be giving Arthur a call myself. Seeing as how I'm so tight with Hunter and all.'

He sits back and looks at the three detectives. Koop feels old. Too old for this shit.

'We've got enough on you leaving the scene, Koop. Even if you had nothing to do with Kite's death, you know
better than to do something like that.' Moresby holds Koop's gaze.

Koop holds up his palm. 'Stupid, I know. I must have still been affected by the beating at the gallery. At least that's what any decent brief would suggest. It's certainly the only fucking reason I can think of.'

'Let's take a break.' Moresby leans forward and speaks into the microphone. 'DI Ian Moresby suspending interview with Menno Koopman.'

'That's it?' says Harris. 'That's the interview?'

Moresby turns to Harris. 'That's our interview so far, DI Harris. We think we may need to discuss this in private. If that's OK with you and DCI Perch?'

Reader gestures to the uniformed officer at the door.

'Take Mr Koopman to the holding cells, Lucas. Get him a cup of tea and keep him away from the regular scum.'

Lucas leads Koop from the room. As the door closes behind him he sees Reader and Moresby turn to face Emily Harris.

He almost wishes he was staying.

51

The first thing Keane feels like doing is to head for the pub to get well and truly fucked up. It is, surely, the only sensible response to what's happened. Hit the bar for a couple of hours and blot out Emily Harris's backstabbing face for a while.

Instead, he gets in the car and goes to see Gittings. There's more than one way to skin a rabbit.

Keane heads back into the city and drives down the hill towards the tunnels. He takes the Birkenhead route and slips under the river to the Wirral shore. Once in the Birkenhead badlands he follows the road east to New Brighton, parking outside a tiny pub which huddles on the promenade close to the back of the old theatre. It's an unrepentant shithole, the sort of place that Keane would have usually only entered with a kitted-up riot team.

Or when he needs information.

Like Menno Koopman, Frank Keane worked with Sergeant Gittings as a raw recruit. Ten years after Koopman was following the big racist bastard around Liverpool, Keane found himself doing pretty much the same and with similarly mixed feelings. By Keane's time, Gittings was a
decade older, six stone heavier and rapidly approaching the end of a long and massively undistinguished career in uniform. But the fact that he spent almost every day of his working life on the street gives Gittings a knowledge of the inner workings of the city that can't be matched by anyone. He knows every brick, every scrote, every deal and backhander, from Speke to Southport and all points in between. He is a sponge, soaking up street information and storing it. Keane, like many other ambitious DIs, uses Gittings from time to time as a sort of sounding board. With each passing year his reach fades as he grows further away from the contacts he made as a copper. The last time Keane saw him was three years before and Gittings didn't look good then. Frank is hoping things haven't got much worse.

Keane pushes open the door of the pub. Despite the rain and wind driving in off the Mersey, the interior of the pub seems bleaker than outside. There are three people in the bar besides Keane and the terminally bored-looking barman. Two alcoholic pensioners, a man and woman, sit on a bench seat below the only window in the room. The window itself is entirely covered by grimy security screens. Whether these screens are there to keep people in, or vandals out, Keane isn't sure. Certainly the two fossilised drinkers nursing their greasy glasses look more like longterm inmates of some Siberian gulag than happy patrons in a place of entertainment. Tonight's karaoke, promised by the shrieking orange fluoro poster above their heads, seems as unlikely as a performance of avant-garde theatre.

The other occupant of the room is, as Keane expected, sitting on the same seat he's been sitting on for the past five years. The first thing Keane notices about Gittings is that his face has taken a severe beating at some point.
He was never a movie star before, but now he looks truly hideous. His boozer's nose has mutated like some fungal growth, sprouting raw red hillocks which have pushed his eyes even further back into the folds of blue-veined flesh that surround them. What little hair remains is still cut short against his scalp; a residual habit. His body is wrecked. Always fat, he now has the proportions of a bull walrus. His body bulges against the constraints of his bar chair. He wears, as always, clothes which owe more than a little to the uniform he wore all his police life. Black pants, black shoes, blue shirt and a black coat, all of them greasy and stained. He is sixty-six, but looks like Methuselah. Up close, he smells of stale food and incontinence. It's not unbearable, but it's close.

Keane orders a pint of lager and a double whisky. Neither drink is for himself. He places the whisky in front of Gittings and takes the stool next to him. It's a few moments before Gittings realises a glass has appeared and, at first, he seems to think it may have arrived through divine intervention such is the expression of radiant joy that lights up his bloated face.

'Don't encourage 'im, mate,' says the barman. 'He's a narky fucker when he's had too much.'