Bloodstorm (16 page)

Wilson glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to tap it.

“You better hope that no one comes through that door, Mark. If they do, I’ll shoot you first.” Karl’s eyes became stone. “The next day, after the gunmen had visited us, the first thing you asked me was had I read the manuscript. Remember?”

“Yes. And?”

“You said you were hoping I had read the manuscript so that I would know the names mentioned in it. You also wanted to know had I made a copy. Remember?”

“Yes,” said Wilson, nodding. “What of it?”

“I’ve been doing some thinking since then. I wonder what would have happened if I had said I read the manuscript, or kept a copy of it? Perhaps you would have passed this information on to your friends, and I would have had another visit from them again. Fuck, can you imagine your face had I said I recognised Sooty and Sweep?”

“I know how this must all look to you, but … it’s just not true. How can you even think I would see harm come to you or Naomi?”

“I know, you being such a moralistic person, and all? Now, just between two ex-brother-in-laws, let me bring you into my latest story. Scumbags arrive. Threaten to kill if they can’t find manuscript. Leave with it. Unbeknown to them, daft private investigator has another copy, on his hard disc; makes a bucket load of copies of said missing manuscript. Sends them to well-known solicitors in Dublin and London with the instruction that if anything should happen to either daft investigator or the love of his life, copies of manuscript are to be forwarded to prominent
journalists and newspaper editors, immediately.”

When the punch to Wilson’s face connected, it knocked him clean from the chair and onto his arse, curling him into a knot in the corner.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” said Karl, standing over Wilson.

The blood flowing from Wilson’s mouth looked vulgar, like cheap lipstick. He wiped it away, smearing his chin in the process.

“You hit like one of your queer friends. Can’t you put some beef into it?” taunted Wilson, his face lining with anger. “No wonder my sister couldn’t stand the sight of you. Just between us? She never regarded you as a man. She always had bigger balls than you.”

“Possibly,” acknowledged Karl, backing slowly out of the room. “More likely a bigger dick.”

Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Karl wiped Wilson’s blood from his hand, before quickly snowballing the bloody cloth, shoving it in his pocket.

He took the back stairs two at a time, never breaking stride, genuinely believing he could hear pursuers not too far behind. Near the exit, he stumbled on the bottom step like a drunk but recovered quickly despite feeling the loss of all senses in his body.

Outside in the pissing rain, he ran for the car. It waited for him in the shadows. The best friend in the world …

“Y
OU GO OUT
in the middle of the night, return with a swollen hand, and I’m expected to say nothing?” stated Naomi, pouring steaming coffee into a cup. The television hummed silently in the background, showing a DVD movie.

Karl’s knuckles were already turning purplish. He moved the fingers gingerly. Thankfully, nothing seemed to be broken.

“It’s nothing. I punched a scumbag in the gob. He had it coming – a long time ago. I needed to get it out of my system; he needed to get it into his.”

“Karl! You’re out beating people up?” Naomi shook her head in disbelief. “Is this some midlife crisis I should be aware of? If so, what’s next on the agenda?”

“There’s nothing next,” said Karl blowing loudly on his knuckles.
“There’s no agenda. Some ice would be nice, though.”

“Can’t you exercise caution, just for once?”

“You’ve reached middle age when all you exercise is caution.”

Naomi handed Karl the cup of coffee. Upon touching it, he grimaced.

“Sore?” asked Naomi.

“Very.”

“Good.”

“You’re evil.”

“When I need to be. Now, who was the so-called scumbag, and what was all that nonsense about seeing a man about a dog?”

Karl allowed the television screen to distract him from Naomi’s persistent questioning. The DVD played out silently before his eyes. Some sort of period piece. A girl posing for an artist in what looked like a large medieval farmhouse.

“Freeze the picture, Naomi.”

“What?”

“The movie. Freeze it.”

“
Girl with a Pearl Earring?
”

“Just freeze the picture, Naomi … please.”

Reluctantly, Naomi obliged. The movie came to a halt.

“Can you back it up, just a little, to a few seconds ago?”

Naomi clicked the remote, and the movie went into slow mo, backwards.

“Stop! There. That’s perfect!”

Karl brought his face closer to the television, to the large close-up of a young girl staring directly at him, smiling almost defiantly through the glass screen.

“That girl. Who … who is she?” asked Karl in a low tone, a slight quiver in his voice.

“What?” Naomi looked puzzled.

“The
girl
, Naomi,” said Karl, annoyance replacing the quiver. “Who the hell is she?”

“Scarlett Johansson. Why? Don’t tell me you have a thing for … Karl? What’s wrong …?

Karl’s mind suddenly was startlingly clear. Everything began hitting
him at once. The face. The name given to him by Paul the barman.

She’s changed, my phantom, changed from a mist to a solid object …

T
HE
A
NTRIM
R
OAD
was dark and dangerous, made all the more so by the felled trees lining the route. A few street lamps concentrated light on lonely patches of dark earth, revealing flickering shapes not attached to anything in particular.

The harsh rain battering Karl’s car was quickly becoming a deluge, as if he were trapped inside a suffocating plastic bag. The slick road felt frisky, with very little traction for safe driving. In a month of torrential rain, the weather forecast predicted that tonight’s storm would be the most violent.

“Trust you to pick the king of shitty nights …” whispered Karl, trying to take comfort from his own voice, but finding very little. He
hated driving in the rain. It made him feel susceptible to chance and the elements. The tattered wipers weren’t helping his unease, smearing the windshield with grey, smudgy skid marks, making it extremely difficult to see clearly.

Thankfully, the swelling in his hand had flattened over the last few days. He wondered how Wilson’s face looked? He smiled at the thought.

Quickly clicking on the radio, Karl negotiated the many stations before finding the flawless voice of Billie Holiday singing
Stormy Weather.
It calmed him, slightly. He whispered the words, a duet with Billie.

“Just cant get my poorself together, Im weary all the time …”

Looking in the rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time, Karl glanced at the two bulbous headlights following behind too close for comfort, seemingly using his car as a guiding marker.

“Must be a magnet you’re driving, arsehole …” he said, wishing he could pull over in this narrow stretch of road, allow the offending driver time to overtake.

He endured the magnet for another ten torturous minutes, before the car suddenly disappeared from view at Bellevue Zoo.

“Away to visit your relatives?”

He continued his journey until he was just outside the city limits, to a forested area of Victorian-style houses, each separated by acres of freedom and privacy.

Easing the car to a halt, he rummaged in the glove compartment, fumbling for a road map he was sure existed. He found it – parts of it. Oil and time made what remained of the map vague.

He shook his head, disgusted at the state of the map, promising that as soon as he made some money, he would invest in one of those satellite things that brought you right to the door of your destination by a simple push of the button. Cleaned your arse and wiped your face, as well, if all the hype were to be believed. Or he might just get the shitty wipers fixed, instead.

The rain pounded the car. He couldn’t hear himself think, let alone make sense of the map. He started the car, and drove on.

Cutting further up a narrow, man-made dirt laneway, he could feel car and stomach sink as the thick muck took hold. The wheels spun, 
spewing up filth and grime all over the windscreen. He quickly turned off the wipers.

“Come on, old pal. Don’t let me down now … please.”

The car shuddered with determination, black smoke belching from behind.

“Come on …”

Without warning, the car jerked forward, catching Karl off-guard. He couldn’t see a thing, his instincts and frayed nerves competing with each other. He steered left, then right, then quickly left again, afraid to take his foot off the accelerator in case of being cemented into the muck. A tree suddenly jumped into view. He hit the brakes. It was two seconds too late …

How long had he been unconscious? A few seconds? Minutes? He checked his watch. Smashed. Gingerly, he touched his forehead. “Oh …” The wide gash felt deep. Blood trickled, staining the side of his face, eventually drying in patterns pre-defined by the wrinkles in his skin. A used
Kleenex
helped to soak some of the blood up. “Stupid bastard …” He was winded. Shook up. Other than that, he knew it could have been worse. A hell of a lot worse.

Opening the door, he went staggering out into the muck and filthy rain, desperate to inspect the damage to his beloved car. “Ah fuck no …” A dent the size of a microwave oven greeted his bleary eyes. He ran his hand over the bonnet, tenderly, as if it were human skin. “What a disaster.” The only solace he could find was that the engine appeared to be unscathed.

He dabbed the forehead wound again, then threw the ineffective tissue away. The blood began streaming down his face.

Thankfully, the rain helped dilute it.

Stepping away from the car, he made his way up the dicey hillside, pushing through thorn bushes and overgrown hedges, slip-sliding his way to the top of the steep climb, breathless and disorientated, mucked from the waist down.

“There has to be an easier way to make a living in this godawful …”

The house, sprawling in size and eerily alone, sat resting in the clearance, bloated and proud. A plenitude of peeling paint, missing slates and gaping windows gave the appearance of neglect. It was hard to tell. Nowadays, people were doing their houses up just like this to give them that ‘listed’, antique look.

Seeing at least three
No Trespassing
signs nailed between broken fencing and trees, he proceeded cautiously. Other signs warned of guard dogs and nightly patrols.

He was less certain of his actions now, the storm and crash bringing great sobriety. He waited a long time before moving towards the front door, its enormity almost vulgar.

Pressing the button stationed near the middle of the door, Karl listened for any movement from inside. The doorbell’s chime became too loud for his ears. It seemed to last an eternity. He pictured it echoing in the hall, up the stairs, in every nook and cranny, screaming.

A curtain moved, he was sure, from the east window. The wind? Leaning his face up against the window, he could feel its coldness pooling in his gums. A light came on, flooding him, catching his peeping Tom act. Startled, he stood back quickly, almost stumbling backwards.

The door opened.

He wasn’t in the least surprised to see Jenny Lewis standing there. The ugly beast of a shotgun in her hand, though, was a bit of a shock. It made her look tiny. It made her look quite dangerous …

“T
HIS IS GOING
to hurt you more than me,” said Jenny Lewis, calmly.

“Do your worst,” mumbled Karl, bravely, feeling quite cowardly sitting on the chair.

Jenny leaned against him, her bosom level with his eyes. Karl gritted his teeth, waiting for the inevitable pain.

“
Fuckkkkkk!
”

“Oops … sorry, that slipped a bit. You must remain still, Mister Kane. These temporary stitches will do until you get to a hospital. The wound looks a lot worse than what it actually is,” encouraged Jenny.

Karl’s face began screwing with pain as the needle went to work on his skin.

“You’re a book of surprises, Jenny,” said Karl through clenched
teeth. “Where did you learn a neat little trick like this? And don’t say watching
Blue Peter
.”

She smiled, but did not answer his question fully. “I’m afraid I had what most people would call a sheltered childhood. I never watched
Blue Peter.
”

“That’s okay. Never watched it much myself. Always making things out of
Fairy Liquid
bottles. To be honest with you, I think they bought most of the stuff they claimed to have made. I was always suspicious of them, their shiftiness.”

A soft laugh escaped Jenny’s mouth. “Even as a child, you were suspicious by nature, Mister Kane?”

“It was a gift.”

“And now? Are you still suspicious of everyone?”

“Depends. Now, say someone was to stick a shotgun close to my face, I think you’d agree that would give me just cause for suspicion?”

“I apologise for that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Scare? I’m afraid to check my underwear at the moment. Do you always greet guests with a shotgun in your hand?”

“We don’t get too many visitors out in this neck of the woods, especially this late at night and certainly not in weather like this. I’d be very wary of anyone out on a night like this.”

“So would I, to be honest,” conceded Karl.

“Are you sure I can’t take that overcoat? It looks soaked right through.”

“It’s fine, thanks. If I take it off, I would get too cosy. Probably fall asleep at that terrific fire burning in your living room.”

Jenny dabbed at Karl’s wound with a cotton ball. “Almost finished. Take a deep breath.”

“Shouldn’t you offer me alcohol now, like they do in the cowboy movies?”

“That’s a myth. Actually, alcohol is the last thing you would want in your bloodstream at a time like this. It makes the heart pump faster, and that in turn spews out the blood uncontrollably. Very messy,” replied Jenny, reaching for a tiny pair of scissors to trim the stitches’ tails. “There! Not too bad, if I say so myself. Would you like a mirror to see the results?”

“No thanks. I’ll take your word for it. I’ve had enough shocks for one night.”

“Coffee?”

“Only if the milk is amber in colour and made of 100 per cent alcohol.”

“I’ll see what I can come up with, even though I’ve warned you of its capabilities,” smiled Jenny. “Then you can tell me all about your journey, and what you’re doing here at this time of night. I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”

Karl tried smiling also, but his facial muscles didn’t seem to be working right, as if the stitches had been pulled too tightly.

While Jenny readied the coffee, he glanced about the large kitchen, trying to distract himself from the list of questions on his tongue. He stared at the shotgun resting on the far table. Its two hollow eyes stared right back, defiantly.

“Nice place you have here, Jenny. Yours?”

Jenny looked at him for all of two seconds before answering. “I doubt if I could afford a place like this on my salary. This is my mother’s. She is upstairs, in bed, unwell at the moment.”

“Sorry to hear that,” says Karl, slightly mortified. “I hope I didn’t disturb her?”

“I don’t think you did. She’s heavily medicated, at the moment.”

“It’s nothing serious?”

“A long-term illness.” Producing two miniature bottles of
Drambuie
, she placed them on the table. “Sorry, but this is about all I have. Airline freebies.”

“On a night like this, they’re from god’s own cabinet.”

Resting a cup of steaming coffee on the table, she warned: “Careful. It’s very hot.”

Karl poured a healthy amount of thick
Drambuie
into the coffee. “
Dram buidheach!
”

Suddenly, Jenny paled.

“Not having any?” asked Karl.

“No … it’s … it’s too late for alcohol, and caffeine keeps me awake. I enjoy my sleep too much.”

“They say it’s bad luck to refuse an offer of a
Drambuie
. I only wish that caffeine was all that kept me awake,” said Karl, sipping, loving the hot liquid spreading throughout his battered body. “
Hmm
. This
is
good. Have to get you to give me the recipe, before I go.”

Sitting down opposite him at the table, Jenny finally asked, “Perhaps now you can tell me what this is all about, Mister Kane?”

“I thought the first thing you would have asked me was how I found your address, seeing that it’s not the one listed in your job application?”

“You’ve been going through my files? Why?” Jenny’s face suddenly tightened; lips pressed into a thin line. “Did Wilson ask you to do that?”

Shaking his head, Karl replied, “I checked both official and unofficial files on you, Jenny. My apologies for being such a sneak, but I felt I had to do a bit more digging when I came across a little snippet in the obituary pages.” From his pocket, Karl removed a piece of paper, unfolding it carefully. “This is a clipping from a newspaper, a week ago, informing its readers of the passing of one Franco Lodovico, a retired medical professor from Queen’s University. The unfortunate man died of a heart attack. You may already be aware that Hicks has a medical student working with him at the moment?”

“What has this to do with you coming here?”

“The young man was fortunate to have worked alongside Professor Lodovico. I had an interesting conversation with the young man, not too long ago. He told me that there had been a fire in the laboratory a while back, apparently caused by one of Professor Lodovico’s careless students. Fortunately, Professor Lodovico was able to evacuate the room before any harm was done to any of the young people. The room itself was a write-off, though, with practically everything destroyed. Everything it seems bar a small quantity of phosgene, which seemed to have miraculously escaped only to show up in a bedroom murder, over two months ago.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Mister Kane? And what is photo …
photogenn?
”

“
Phosgene
. Easy word to muddle. I won’t get into the history of it, except to say it is quite deadly, and definitely not recommended for toothaches or, god forbid you ever have them, haemorrhoids.”

“Have you finished your story?” asked Jenny, her annoyance obvious.

“Please bear with me, Jenny. It’s quite an interesting story. It seems Professor Lodovico was a well-respected and much-loved professor, not only by academia in general, but more so by his loving wife and daughter.”

“Where are you going with this, Mister Kane?”

“Your mother’s name? It’s Lucia, isn’t it?”

“I … what of it?”

“The obituary gave Professor Lodovico’s wife’s name as Lucia and his daughter’s name as Giacomina.”

“And?”

“Giacomina when anglicised translates into Jenny. Lodovico becomes Lewis.”

“Just a weird coincidence,” responded Jenny, the left side of her face flushing slightly. “I thought you much more intelligent than that, Mister Kane. You travelled all the way here, and in this terrible weather, just because of a couple of names? Very foolish.”

“Perhaps I’m just an intelligent fool, but in my tiny world, coincidences are neither simple nor coincidental, Jenny. Take that day in the station, for example, the very first day that I met you.”

“What about it?”

“You volunteered to interview Paul the barman at the murder scene, almost falling over yourself in the process.”

“Is there a law about being enthusiastic, or wanting to impress?”

“Not at all. But you were playing reverse psychology, forcing yourself on misogynistic Wilson, knowing there was little –
if any
– chance of him sending you to the murder scene. In fact, you were
betting
on it. Very good. Very cool. You would do great at one of my poker games.” Karl smiled sorely. “Tell me, what would you have done had Wilson called your bluff, and the barman recognised you?”

Jenny gave a slight shake of her head, before answering. “You’re confusing me. How could the barman have recognised me? I had never been in that particular bar before.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Scarlett Johansson?”

“Scarlett Johansson? The actress? Ha! I wish.”

“That’s how one witness described the woman in the bar. I watched Scarlett Johansson, a few nights back, on some movie. Know something?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“If you were blonde, or even had a blonde wig on, you’d be the spitting image of her.”

“I think you’re flirting with me, Mister Kane.”

For a few seconds, Karl stared into the coffee as if it might reveal some secret. Then, bringing his eyes into track with Jenny’s, he stated, “That night down at the computer room, when you surprised me, a couple of months ago?”

“What about it?”

“I didn’t give it too much thought, at the time, but afterwards I realised you were just as startled as me – more so, perhaps.”

“What did you expect? You were lurking in the dark. Scared the life out of me. Remember?”

Karl nodded. “I remember. Only, the reason why you were so jumpy was because you weren’t there to make photocopies, as you claimed. You were trying to figure a way into Hicks’s lab.”

“What?” A sound like a burst pipe escaped her mouth. “Your concussion must be confusing you, Mister Kane. Why on earth would I want into the lab?”

“Hoping to recover your one mistake.”

“Mistake? What mistake?”

“These,” said Karl, fingers removing a tiny transparent bag from his coat pocket. He held the bag in the air, close to her face. “Two hairs, one of them is pubic.”

A puzzle line began creeping onto Jenny’s forehead. “A bag containing a pubic hair?”

“Not just any old pubic hair,” replied Karl, placing the bag on the table. “That particular pubic hair belongs to you.”

The puzzle line deepened. Two more appeared. “My pubic hair, Mister Kane? I don’t think so. And as for the other hair? That’s blonde. Wrong colour. In case you can’t see too clearly, I’m brunette.”

“Granted. That hair in the bag is from a blonde wig. But who
knows where that will lead? Could be a wig that was bought last year in
Debenhams?
” Karl put on his classic poker face.

“Could well be. From what I hear, they sell hundreds if not thousands of wigs each year.” Jenny returned Karl’s question with a poker face of her own.

“The ones in the bag are evidence from the murder scene of Joseph Kerr. I removed it from the forensic lab when Hicks wasn’t watching.”

“I bet that’s illegal, Mister Kane.”

“I bet you’re right, Miss Lewis. Actually, I’m adept at sleight-of-hand manoeuvring. Take this, for instance,” said Karl, producing another hair between his thumb and finger. “I removed it less than fifteen minutes ago, from your sweater, while you tended my wound. I’m sure it matches one of the hairs in the bag.”

Karl strengthened his poker face, knowing that Hicks had told him the pubic hair was practically useless, void of follicle or root.

She smiled forcefully. “Very sneaky of you, Mister Kane. You would make a good pickpocket. But even if these fantasies of yours were true, you have contaminated the evidence. It would be thrown out in a court of law.”

“Contamination is one of the unforeseen hazards of the job, but it isn’t the most unpleasant. This particular investigation has led me into a very dark journey, of unpleasant people doing the most unpleasant of acts.”

Ominously, Karl watched as Jenny stood, then moved towards the kitchen counter. Her fingers brushed along the metal snout of the shotgun, sending ripples of electricity throughout his tense body. The fingers hovered over the brutal weapon for what seemed an eternity before making a diversion to the cupboard directly above her head. A large vanilla envelope was suddenly produced. Jenny placed it beside Karl’s cup.

“You can open that, if you wish,” stated Jenny.

Obligingly, Karl eased out the contents: a group of photographs. Black and white. Young men grouped together in some of the snaps; dispersed in others. He studied each photo, not knowing what he was supposed to be looking for. Who are they? What are they doing? The
photos look aged, but surprisingly unscathed. The subjects though were distant, making it difficult to discern any clear identity. Tellingly – even to Karl’s untrained eyes – all the photos seemed to have been taken with a zoom lens.

“Do you recognise anyone?” asked Jenny, sitting down again, opposite Karl.

“They are very old photos,” said Karl, fanning them out on the table, like a winning hand at poker. “No, I honestly can’t say I do.”

“This man here?” Jenny tapped the photo resting beneath Karl’s left hand. “Don’t you recognise him?”

The man looked slightly arrogant, with edgy eyes. He was staring directly at Karl. The picture was disconcerting.
Who is
…?

“Shit …” said Karl, a whisper. “A bit thinner, more hair, more youth, but little doubt that’s Bill Munday – or William McCully, as he turned out to be.”

“Ten out of ten, Mister Kane.”

“What’s so important about these photos? And why is McCully in them?”

“Recognise any of the others?” continued Jenny, ignoring Karl’s questions.