Dead of Winter (15 page)

‘Can’t you read? Big sign over there stating that this is a designated
no-smoking area,’ snarled Karl in a voice he hardly
recognised
. ‘Now, piss off back to your hotel before I have the
Mounties
arrest you,
pal
.’

‘Sure…sure thing, pal. I…I don’t want any trouble.’ The man did a quick about-turn, before walking speedily down the
corridor
out of sight.

Leaning against the locker, Karl released all the tense air from his lungs, trying to calm the hammering in his heart.

‘You’re getting too old for this kind of shit. Way too old…’

Back to the task at hand, he quickly removed the pouch before slamming the locker closed.

Moving now with purpose down the corridor, his fingers gripped tightly on the pouch, as if fearful of some purse-snatcher stealing it.

He smiled wryly at that particular thought.
Perhaps that would be the best thing to happen to it, stolen, gone from my life for good?

The freezing weather outside was becoming suicidal, yet he was sweating bullets as he quickly stepped onto the zebra crossing near the Europa Hotel. To make matters worse, the damn pouch seemed to be breathing in his hand.

As he headed for home, there was little doubt in his mind as to what was in the reptile’s stomach, and it sure as hell wasn’t antelope meat.

‘I
didn’t hear you coming in last night,’ said Naomi, staring at herself in a full-length mirror, adding final touches to her hair.

‘I was supposed to meet a new client outside the Europa, but they were a no-show.’ Karl was typing out a few lines on his latest unappreciated masterpiece. Unbeknown to Colin the barman, he was quickly becoming the central character.

‘That makes me really angry, Karl. They must think you have nothing better to do.’

‘Goes with the job, darling.’

‘I’m glad to see you writing again, and ignoring those stupid publishers.’

‘Publishers? What do they know about publishing!’

The radio began playing Smokey Robinson’s
Being With You.

I don’t care what they think about me

I don’t care what they say…

‘I desired you this morning, when I woke up,’ said Naomi,
hamming
a husky voice while fluttering her eyelashes at the mirror.

‘I don’t know if that’s me or yourself you’re talking to, but you were snoring your head off like a lumberjack this morning – at least I
hope
that sound you were making was snoring, and not farting.’

‘Karl Kane!’ exclaimed Naomi, looking offended. ‘You know I’m too much of a lady for that.’

‘Makes no difference to me. I had sex with you, anyway, and you didn’t even notice a thing. Must be getting smaller as I get older.’

Naomi giggled. ‘Are you sure about not wanting to come shopping with me?’

‘You know I hate shopping. I’d rather spend the rest of the day chewing on steak knives.’ Karl hit a few more keys on the
typewriter
. ‘I see Lipstick has gone. Didn’t even hear her sneaking out, this morning.’

‘I gave her some money to buy a new pair of jeans,’ confessed Naomi. ‘The ones she had on were torn and filthy.’

‘Very charitable of you. I’d have given her a needle and thread along with some Persil, instead.

‘Sure you would,’ said Naomi, smiling. ‘You’re a big softy.’

‘Why be half a sucker when you can go the whole way, eh?’

‘I have to say that this is a lovely gesture, telling me to buy something nice for myself,’ said Naomi. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

‘Leave the jokes to me.’ Karl considered the sentence he had just typed. It didn’t seem to be gelling with the previous
paragraph
. Too much on his mind, no doubt.

‘Sure you trust me with
our
new credit card, though? I might get carried away.’

‘Just don’t rip the arse out of it or melt it, otherwise I might be
the one getting carried away – by the men in white coats.’

Karl couldn’t figure any way to get Naomi to leave the
apartment
, other than an enticement. He just hoped it wasn’t too expensive an enticement.

Smokey Robinson slowly faded, his lovely smoothing voice replaced by a newsreader’s dull and rambling tone.

Police have released the name of the woman murdered in the City Cemetery yesterday afternoon…

‘I didn’t even hear any news concerning a murder,’ said Naomi. ‘Just shows how commonplace it’s becoming.’

Sarah Cohen appears to have been the victim of a robbery…

‘Disgusting,’ said Karl, taking his attention away from the typewriter to listen.

The murder was soon replaced with news of job losses, and a forecast of more snow on the way.

‘Let’s not let that bad old news get us down, Karl. Get ready for some hot action when I get back.’ Naomi’s voice was full of promise and things to come. ‘As a treat, I’m going to buy some very sexy lingerie for you.’

‘I stopped wearing sexy lingerie a long time ago. It kept cutting the arse off me.’ Karl went back to typing.

Suddenly Naomi pushed his head up away from the typing, kissing him long and hard. The kiss was full of tease. He could taste her mouthwash. Mint. It made him feel dirty, in a clean and sexy way.

‘See you soon,’ she said, finally breaking the kiss before heading for the door. ‘Tiger.’

‘That word always brings out the animal in me,’ said Karl, screwing his hand into a paw before clawing at the air.
‘Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!’

Naomi laughed. Closed the door.

Karl listened to her footsteps fading and the front door closing before going into the bedroom and removing the pouch from beneath the bed.

‘It’s now or bloody never,’ he mumbled, unzipping the pouch slowly. Easing a reluctant hand inside, he began removing the large item contained within.

The gun was wrapped protectively in polythene. It stared out at him like a mummified foetus. He lifted the weapon gingerly via the corner of the polythene, scrutinising the metal more closely through the clear material.

‘A Beretta M9? A beautiful weapon for ugly deeds. As deadly as they come.’

He sat the gun down before tipping the pouch over, emptying out the stomach’s remaining contents: one large brown envelope and a half-pack of Polo Mints – Phillips’ favourite mint for trying to camouflage the stench of whiskey breath during duty hours.

Karl removed one of the mints from the open stack and began sucking slowly, his tongue negotiating the famous hole. Looked intently at the envelope. Then the wrapped gun. Sucked some more on the mint, before finally lifting the envelope. Tore it open, removing a wad of pages from inside.

‘I’m sure this is going to make interesting reading…’ Karl sucked harder on the mint.

It made him think of Naomi, the taste of her mouth. Then Edward Phillips’ mouth, dead in the grave, worms munching on lips.

He quickly spat the mint out into a tissue, and began reading.

Well, Kane

Still pursuing? I knew if anyone could be counted on to be
pigheaded
enough, it would be you. If you’ve come this far, then I guess my worst fears have been realised, and I’m no longer feeling any pain. Apart from this letter, you will also have discovered the double action Beretta M9.

But before I get to that
…
I suppose you still don’t remember too much of that particular day when we bumped into each other and I mentioned the King David Syndrome?

I know you’re not a great believer in religion, or the Bible, but, many aeons ago, King David of Israel spotted a beautiful woman named Bathsheba taking a bath. He instantly fell in love with her. However, he had one major problem. Bathsheba was already married, and not just to anyone. Her husband, Uriah, was one of David’s most fearsome and loyal soldiers, who just happened to be at the front, fighting against the ferocious Ammonites.

Not one to let a good soldier get in his way, David sent a letter to the commander of his forces, ordering him to send Uriah to the
hardest
and bloodiest fighting, so that the sword of the Ammonites will assure Uriah’s death. And that is exactly what happened.

Karl was quickly tiring of Phillips’ arcane gibberish, but
curiosity
forced him to read on, rather than expecting any real hope of enlightenment from the dead cop’s biblical tale.

About fifteen years ago when your brother-in-law was a mere holes-in-the-pants detective, we got a tip-off from a source about a big robbery due to go down on the outskirts of the city.

he source was your great friend, Chris Brown. That’s right. Mister Squeals On Wheels himself. Brown got a nice wee pile of blood money for the info.

‘Shit…’ Despite the revelation, Karl wasn’t entirely surprised at the wheelchair-bound informant’s name being mentioned. ‘You always had to be in the middle of dirty money, Chris. Any wonder you had so many enemies before you were gunned down?’

Assigned to intercept and apprehend the would-be robbers was an ‘elite’ (I have to laugh at that word, now) team made up of Wilson, Duncan ‘Bulldog’ McKenzie, Peter Cairns, Harry Cunningham, and my good self.

Karl’s stomach did a trap-door movement at the names of Bulldog McKenzie and Cairns glaring at him from the paleness of the page. His mouth became dry.

What I would give to see the expression on your face, Kane, at the mention of Bulldog and Cairns! There has always been speculation that you were somehow involved in their murders, but I disregarded that. You’re a lot of things, Kane, but murderer isn’t one of them. I doubt that you’d have the balls for that sort of thing. If I had been a gambling man like you, my money would be on Wilson’s dirty hands, in all honesty.

‘I suppose that’s why you’d never have made a good gambler, Phillips, in all honesty.’

To cut a long story short, two of the robbers were killed (we never took prisoners in those days because the shoot-to-kill policy was well cemented into our brains). Harry Cunningham, a decent sort of
bastard
,
was also killed in what was initially and
officially
termed ‘in the crossfire’. Is Harry’s name becoming clearer to you, Kane? Surely you remember Harry’s dutiful and gorgeous wife, Desiree? Do you think it a simple coincidence that Wilson was the man in charge of the bungled operation? Think again. Think harder.

‘Fuck…’

It was all becoming a bit clearer to Karl, if slightly murkier. Years ago – perhaps ten or eleven – Karl, along with his wife at the time, Lynne, attended the wedding of her brother, Mark Wilson and Desiree Hamilton. The local newspapers had given the
wedding
ceremony maximum and sympathetic coverage. A fairytale ending for a police widow whose courageous husband had been gunned down mercilessly in the line of duty. Desiree was now finding happiness at last, marrying her knight-in-shining-armour and one of the up-and-coming stars of the police force, Detective Mark Wilson. It brought tears to every eye.

Karl could feel himself tensing as he read on, anticipating more dark discoveries.

Examine the Beretta, Kane. Check the firing pin. See how it’s been filed down into a flat surface and made redundant? This was the gun given to Harry on the night of the robbery. Someone didn’t want Harry to be able to protect himself. I think you can figure that one out
…

Just remember that this is dirty territory, Kane. Speaking the truth about power is a dangerous business. It can get you killed. Keep
looking
over your shoulder. Sometimes it can tell you what’s ahead. But only sometimes…

Edward Phillips

This letter – like the previous – had a signature scrawled over the typed name.

Karl’s knees suddenly felt weak. The alcoholic euphoria he had been feeling from last night’s indulgence was quickly dissipating. In its place were the beginnings of a dull headache and a sense of emptiness and dread.

He quickly sat down on the bed. Debated what to do next.
Craved desperately for a cig. Scratched his upper arm at the annoying nicotine patch, hating its artificialness and lack of spontaneous kick.

‘What now…?’

Reluctantly, he came to the conclusion that the only sensible thing to do was either to put the gun back where he found it, or dump it in the River Lagan – now, not tomorrow, along with the letter. There was still time to shove the dangerous genie back in its bottle before it smashed into smithereens all over him. That was the only rational decision.

Unfortunately for Karl, if rationality ever became a currency, he knew he would be a very poor man indeed.

His mobile phone rang just as he began putting the items away.

‘Hello?’

‘You bastard! You killed her,’ said the angry voice at the other end. ‘I’m going to kill you, and that’s a promise.’

‘Whoa a second, fella. I think you’ve got the wrong number. You’d be as well to stop–’

‘
Murderer
. The others were fools, but you didn’t fool me.’

‘Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, or what the hell you’re talking–’

The phone suddenly went silent. For a few seconds, Karl stared at his mobile as if it were a dead thing.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Then, just as he asked the question, a thought grew so large in his mind that he could think of nothing else.

Quickly he moved to the TV, turning on ‘BBC News 24’, before frantically scrolling down the regions finder. Hit the button on local news. The murder in the graveyard was still prominent.
He stood watching a female reporter pointing at the scene, the camera panning the area. The reporter started talking.

Sarah Cohen had more than her share of tragedies in her short life…

While the reporter spoke, a family photo of the murdered woman appeared on the screen. Sarah was smiling, yet the eyes were full of sadness.

The face in the photo kicked Karl in the stomach. It was the face of the woman who had called herself Jemma Doyle.

Her three children were burnt to death in Ballymena…

Karl continued staring at the photo. He couldn’t move. Shock rooted him. The voice on his mobile phone. It was slowly coming to him. Even though it had been muffled when he first heard it, there was no mistaking it now. The voice in the abattoir. Knifeman.