Dead of Winter Page 13

  ‘The twenty thousand pounds,’ said Knifeman. ‘Stop pretending not to know. We’re not fools.’

  Karl’s mind instantly separated into two camps of thought – deceitfulness and truth – before finally opting for the latter.

  ‘Look…I’ll admit at the start of this investigation, money was the motive–’

  ‘I told you!’ exclaimed Knifeman, looking directly at the other two men. ‘What more do we need to know?’

  ‘Go and find his car,’ instructed Steinway to Knifeman. ‘Bring back anything of importance. Make sure you are not seen – by anyone.’

  Mumbling under his breath, Knifeman glared at Karl for a few seconds, before quickly leaving the room.

  A fucking psychopath, thought Karl, glad to see the back of the mad bastard.

  ‘If you are lying to us, stalling for time, it will be all the worse for you,’ said Steinway. His voice had a commanding calm.

  The calm before the storm, thought Karl, trying to angle his neck, hoping for a better view of Steinway.

  ‘Why were you spying on us?’ said the third man, speaking for the first time. Directly above his left eyebrow, the man had a small but deeply rooted scar.

  To Karl, the scar resembled a pitted star.

  ‘I’ve already told you. I’m a private investigator. When your friend comes back, he’ll confirm everything I said.’

  ‘You’d better hope he does,’ said Starman. ‘Luckily for you, we found no trace of certain tattoos on your skin. If we had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘You mean eighty-eight?’ replied Karl, seeing from the reaction in Starman’s eyes that he had probably hit pay dirt – though admittedly more dirt than pay.

  ‘What do you know about the numbers?’

  ‘Nothing, other than the fact they’ve been on the hands of victims discovered in and around the city.’

  ‘I wouldn’t use the word victims when describing filth.’ Starman’s voice sounded agitated. ‘Now, we need you to remain quiet, until we find out a little bit more about you.’

  It was forty long minutes later when Knifeman finally returned, a bunch of papers held tightly in his right hand. He looked less than pleased.

  ‘I found these. Cheap business cards,’ said Knifeman, handing them to Steinway. ‘Unpaid parking tickets and crumpled-up betting dockets. But other than that, no photo ID confirming his name. He also had this, hidden in the glove compartment.’

  It was the photo of Steinway given to Karl by Geordie.

  Almost immediately, Steinway began whispering into Knifeman’s ear. Seconds later, Knifeman produced a mobile phone and took a photo of Karl’s face.

  The stench of the place was finally getting to Karl. He needed to throw up. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, the pain in his back began intensifying.

  ‘My fucking back’s breaking!’

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed Knifeman.

  Less than a minute later, the mobile phone sounded loudly in the hushed room, making Karl jerk as if tapped with an electric cattle prod.

  Knifeman glanced at the mobile’s screen before showing it to the other two men.

  ‘Who gave you this?’ asked Steinway, holding the photo close to Karl’s face.

  ‘I…I stole it when I was searching about in the office, a few weeks ago. No-one even knows it’s missing. I can put it back just as easily.’

  ‘You’re not a very good liar, Mister Kane. Did Mrs Goodman give it to you? Or was it Talbot, the foreman?’

  ‘I already told you–’

  ‘What you already told was a lie. Don’t compound it with another, please, even if it is commendable that you think you’re protecting your source. Now, what’s Mrs Goodman’s involvement?’

  Karl let out a sigh before answering. ‘She’s not involved in anything, other than trying to save her business. She just wanted me to check that everything was above board with all her clientele, that none of them were breaking the law. I’m sure you’re aware of the history of this place, and her father and sister, what they did?’

  Steinway nodded. ‘Yes, it’s public knowledge: all the killings Mrs Goodman’s father was involved in before he himself was killed.’

  ‘Then you’d agree that the last thing she would want is a prying private investigator like me bringing any undue attention to this bloody place? She asked me to check, and then get out of her life and abattoir for good.’

  ‘That sounds feasible, if somewhat convenient.’ Steinway glanced over at Starman.

  ‘What guided you here in the first place, Mister Kane?’ asked Starman.

  ‘I’d like to boast it was brilliant brain-storming, but it was nothing more than a hunch. I decided to give it a try to see what I could discover, clearly wishing now I hadn’t.’

  ‘What exactly did you discover?’

  ‘The more I found out about the…’ Karl almost said victim, but quickly substituted the word. ‘…owner of each hand, the less inclined I became to find those behind the dismembering.’

  ‘Even though you discovered what scum they were, you don’t approve. I can tell by your voice,’ said Starman. ‘Perhaps you think everything is black and white? People like you, Mister Kane, can never truly understand that life is sometimes made of grey, and ruled by the past.’

  ‘I understand the darkness of grey, perhaps more than you do. But I’ve also learnt from the past that a blood-trail is a stain easily created but damn hard to erase.’

  ‘He’s saying what he thinks we should hear, just to stall for time!’ exclaimed Knifeman, becoming more agitated. ‘Don’t you see? He’ll do anything to get the blood money.’

  ‘I’ve already admitted that the money was the motivation at the start of this investigation. Was. Past tense.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Steinway.

  ‘You see these scars covering my body?’ said Karl directly to Steinway and Starman. ‘Want to know the story behind them?’

  ‘No!’ hissed Knifeman. ‘We have no interest in–’

  ‘Let him speak,’ said Steinway, his calming voice once again taking control. ‘Go on, Mister Kane. I was more than slightly curious about them, I have to admit.’

  ‘My mother was raped and murdered when I was eight,’ said Karl, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I was stabbed over twenty times, and left for dead by the same monster. These scars are a daily reminder of what he did. Each time I look at them, I see him, grinning, warning he’d be back to finish the job.’

  Steinway looked totally shocked at the revelation.

  ‘Years later, as an adult,’ continued Karl, ‘I had the chance to avenge my mother’s murder by killing the man responsible. I didn’t take it. Had I done so, two young girls wouldn’t have been brutally raped and murdered by the monster a few days later.’

  ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ asked Starman.

  ‘You think killing someone you don’t know can be done cleanly and neatly because it’s done with detachment?’

  ‘That’s your reason?’

  ‘Cowardice or conscience, perhaps. Even after all these years, I still debate with myself each night before I try to sleep.’ Karl’s voice was on the verge of breaking. ‘Still think I don’t understand the grey between the black and white? Think again.’

  Everything in the room came to an eerie hush. Karl’s laboured breathing was the only audible sound. It was left to Steinway to break the silence.

  ‘Release him, and put him in the chair,’ Steinway instructed Knifeman.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ said Knifeman. ‘What if he tries to get out?’

  ‘He’ll not get out. Place him in the chair.’

  Mumbling under his breath, Knifeman began manoeuvring Karl out of the Slaughter Restraint. To Karl, Knifeman was a lot slower taking him out than he had been placing him in the damn contraption.

  Finally upright, Karl was eased into a wooden chair, hands and feet still bound. Muscles were limp and unresponsive. His head felt light, yet despite the hellis
h situation, it was heavenly to be sitting again.

  ‘Go back and finish your work,’ Steinway ordered Knifeman. ‘We haven’t much time.’

  The last sentence caused a shiver to run up Karl’s battered spine. His stomach suddenly became a bucket of rats.

  ‘What…what are you planning to do with me?’ he asked, not really wanting an answer.

  In the stillness, broken only by the ticking of the clock, Steinway seemed to be reflecting. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Suddenly, Knifeman came rushing forward. In his hand he held a cleaver newly wet with blood. ‘He knows too much! Don’t you see? He’s playing mind games. We have no other choice than to dispose of him.’

  Steinway shook his head wearily. ‘You would spill innocent blood, mingle it with the guilty?’

  ‘He’s not innocent. He wants the blood money, and that makes him as guilty as the filth we’ve disposed of. Don’t you understand? We’ll go to prison for life, and they’ll have won.’

  ‘Won?’ said Steinway, shaking his head. ‘Is that what this is about? Winning? Have you lost sight of justice?’

  ‘No…no, of course not…’ Knifeman’s voice became subdued.

  ‘I give you my word that I won’t go to the cops – or anyone else,’ said Karl, marvelling at how calm his voice sounded, contradicting his frayed nerves.

  ‘Your word?’ Knifeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘A bounty hunter’s words?’

  Steinway slowly removed his mask, before looking directly at Starman. ‘I’ll not have this man’s death on my conscience. What do you say?’

  To Karl, Starman seemed to be taking forever to say something. He looked at Karl, then over towards the visibly agitated Knifeman, before looking back at Steinway. Finally, he spoke. ‘There’s a great possibility that Kane will go straight to the police and tell them everything, the moment he’s released. Of course, two of us do have the advantage of anonymity. He only knows you.’

  ‘I can live with that,’ said Steinway. ‘The police will get nothing from me if I’m arrested. You have my word on that.’

  ‘I don’t need your word. I’ve always trusted your decisions. This time will be no different. But this I say, and I want it understood by Kane.’ Starman turned his attention to Karl, looking directly into his eyes. ‘If anyone is ever arrested and charged, I’ll hold you personally responsible. I don’t care where you try to hide. I’ll find you – at any cost. Do you understand?’

  Karl did his best to nod. ‘I believe you. Hopefully, you believe me.’

  ‘Untie him,’ Steinway told Knifeman. ‘Help him get cleaned up. Give him back his clothes. We’ve a lot of clearing up to do.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ said Knifeman. ‘We’re finished the moment he walks out of here. He’ll go straight to the police. And what about Goodman?’

  ‘We’re finished here – forever. Enough blood has been spilt. As for Mrs Goodman, Mister Kane’s final report to her will say there was nothing to be concerned about. She’ll go along with that, once I tell her I’ve decided to retire. Besides, Mister Kane won’t jeopardise the safety of those he loves,’ said Steinway, turning his gaze on Karl. ‘Isn’t that right, Mister Kane?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE SCARLET LETTER

  ‘People think that Hell is fire and brimstone and the Devil poking you in the butt with a pitchfork, but it's not. Hell is when you should have walked away, but you didn’t.’

  Gary Oldman in Romeo is Bleeding

  ‘You come back at six in the morning, cuts and bruises all over your face and body, and smelling of God knows what, and say you just slipped on the snow?’ Naomi dabbed yellowish medicinal liquid on Karl’s face, while he sat on a chair in the living room. ‘You expect me to believe you just slipped? Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Karl wore only underwear, exposing a body badly bruised by its ordeal on the Slaughter Restraint. His swollen lips had turned as rusty as the liquid Naomi was administering, while the back of his head still throbbed terribly.

  ‘Well, for your information, Karl Kane, I’m not buying what you’re trying to sell.’

  ‘It’s easy slipping, once you know how, Naomi. Simply place one left foot in front of the other left foot, and just add ice plus a sprinkling of hardened snow. Works every time for me. Even better when I’ve had a few brandies for winter fuel.’

  Naomi released a sigh of disgust. ‘Your lips look like someone tried to rip them off. That wasn’t a fall.’

  ‘It was a kissogram gone wrong.’

  ‘Stop trying to be smart when you know you’re anything but.’ Naomi dabbed the liquid on roughly.

  ‘Fuck sake! Careful with that bloody stuff. You’re rubbing it on just a little too enthusiastically. That’s my face, not dough, you’re kneading.’

  ‘Stop fussing like a big girl’s blouse.’ She dabbed some more. ‘So, are you going to tell me about your little nocturnal shenanigans, or do I rub a little harder?’

  Karl thought of the last four nightmarish hours. Rolled them into a split second. Shuddered involuntarily. Another nightmare to add to the mounting toll.

  ‘It was all a waste of time and money. I was totally wrong,’ he finally said. ‘Nothing suspicious about that bloody place, or any of the even bloodier people working in it. If I’ve learned anything this day, it’s the fact that I’m a failure when it comes to hunches.’

  ‘I won’t have you being so self-critical. So stop it.’ She gently kissed the top of his throbbing head.

  He felt the kiss burning through his hair, all the way to the scalp, like a magical balm. Loved it. Loved being back with the woman he loved; her perfume, her voice. Her very presence was solace to his soul. Just wished he didn’t have to lie to her. How things could have ended so differently. Never seeing her again. He shuddered.

  ‘Karl? Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Oh…sorry, love.’

  ‘I said, what about Geordie Goodman, the owner? Nothing suspicious about her?’

  He had wondered the same, but Steinway’s concerned words had cleared her. No, Geordie Goodman wasn’t involved in this particular grisly case, but something else, perhaps? He really didn’t want to contemplate the thought, but had a sneaking suspicion that their paths would cross again, sometime in the future. It wasn’t Goodman he was thinking of, anyway, but the woman claiming to be Jemma Doyle, how she had fooled him into setting up Thomas Blake to be tortured, then murdered. He had phoned the number she had given him, but as he suspected, it was no longer in service. What a sad, pathetic sucker he had been.

  ‘No. Not a thing about Georgina Goodman. From the little I uncovered, she’s as clean as a nun’s bum. But I’ll tell you something, after visiting that terrible place, I’m gonna do my best to eat less meat.’’

  Naomi slowly sat down beside him, her lovely face suddenly terribly serious.

  ‘Are you trying to wind me up, Karl?’

  ‘Not unless you have a key sticking out of your back.’

  ‘You’ll really try?’

  ‘I’ll try. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘She threw her arms around his sore neck, hugging him tightly.

  ‘Easy, for fuck sake, Naomi. For such a wee thing, you’ve got the grip of a wrestler. Let go, will you?’

  She slowly released him, kissed his torn lips, and stood.

  ‘Could you manage a cup of nice coffee, if I make it special, just the way you like it?’

  He put on a limp voice. ‘I’ll try…but only for you.’

  She giggled, before quickly heading for the kitchen.

  Music started filtering from the kitchen, just as the doorbell down below began ringing insistently.

  He quickly grabbed Naomi’s pink bathrobe and made his way awkwardly downstairs.

  The bell rang and rang.

  ‘All bloody right! I’m coming!’ he shouted, halfway down the stairs.

  It was Sean, the postman, wrapped up as if for a polar expedition.

  ‘Couldn’t you�
��ve just dropped any mail through the letter box, Sean? All that irritating ringing like Quasi bloody modo.’

  ‘And a good morning to you, too, Karl. That colour really suits you.’ Sean grinned. He held out a large brown envelope. ‘This envelope is too big, and anyway it has to be signed for. It’s from a solicitor. I thought it might have been from a publisher accepting one of your rejected manuscripts.’

  ‘Cut the sarcasm. It’s too early in the morning.’

  ‘Just sign inside the window.’ Sean handed Karl the envelope and a black plastic signing device.

  ‘Who the hell invented this piece of crap?’ complained Karl, trying to negotiate the pen-like tool onto the screen.

  ‘Be as quick as you can. It’s Baltic out here, Karl.’ A frosty mist escaped Sean’s mouth each time he spoke.

  ‘Stop complaining. You get paid for getting your nuts frozen off.’

  ‘You must have been pollaxed last night. You look like you got a good hammering.’

  ‘It was Thor. So if you happen to see the long-haired prick on your rounds, give him a good kick up the Assgard for me.’

  ‘You know what they say? A bad morning is usually the result of a good night.’

  ‘Thank you, Socrates,’ mumbled Karl, awkwardly scribbling an illegible scrawl, before handing the device back.

  ‘Have a nice one,’ said Sean, throwing the mailbag over his shoulder before leaving the doorway.

  Back inside, Karl glanced quickly at the printed solicitor’s name. T. P. McGuigan. His heart moved up a notch. He didn’t like letters from solicitors – especially ones he had never heard of. He wondered if it was from Lynne, looking for more money? It was just the sneaky sort of shit she’d get up to: changing solicitors to confuse him.

  Upstairs, he threw the large envelope on the sofa, debating whether to open it or leave it for Naomi to hit him gently with any bad news it might contain. A cup of hot coffee sat on the table beside his chair. He could hear Naomi moving about in the bathroom.

  ‘To hell with it…’ He slit the envelope open with a pen and began removing the contents. A paperclip attached a page to another envelope. His name was scrawled across the envelope’s face like an unhealed scar. He sat the envelope down, concentrating on the page first.