Dead of Winter Page 15

  ‘It wasn’t what it looked like, Karl. Honest,’ said Lipstick, sliding in beside Karl.

  ‘I know what it looked like, and it was.’ Karl fumbled in his pocket and produced a mobile. Hit a few numbers.

  Lipstick looked terrified and very vulnerable. ‘You…you’re not going to call the judge and have my bail revoked?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Karl, before speaking into the phone. ‘Naomi? Listen. I’ve a visitor coming to see you. It’s Lipstick. Make sure you have a word with her. I must speak some foreign language because she doesn’t seem to understand me.’

  Karl clicked off the phone before fishing for some money in his pocket. ‘Here. Get a taxi outside, and head straight to my place. I’ll be watching from this window.’

  Lipstick looked horrified. ‘Can’t you give me a break?’

  ‘You’ve had more breaks than a KitKat.’

  ‘I can’t face Naomi, Karl. She’s going to be so angry with me.’

  ‘You don’t need a crystal ball to know that. Now get moving. I’m going to call her in twenty minutes. If you’re not there, I will make that phone call to the judge.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ said Lipstick, uncertainty on her face.

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’ said Karl, looking at his wristwatch. ‘Now it’s nineteen minutes…’

  ‘I’m beginning to dislike you, Karl Kane!’ said Lipstick, quickly sliding back out.

  ‘Join the queue. Eighteen and a half minutes…’

  He watched her running for the door. A minute later, he stood and put his overcoat back on, before heading for the counter.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Janice, taking bill, payment and tip.

  ‘Top notch, as usual, Janice. Goodnight, you sexy thing. Take care,’ said Karl, putting on his gloves.

  ‘Goodnight, Karl, and watch yourself out there.’

  Great Victoria Street Rail Station was still packed to the gills with tourists and locals when Karl eased through the side entrance adjacent to the Europa Buscentre.

  His intuition continued warning him as he walked with a forced casualness towards the rows of nondescript grey lockers down the dimly lit corridor. The ageing lockers resembled a fleet of tombstones.

  Nearing the designated locker – number twenty-eight – Karl quickly took in his surroundings: an elderly male cleaner wiping the floor with a mop that had seen better days – a bit like the cleaner. The man seemed to be creating more of a mess than anything else. He glanced at Karl for a second, before continuing his slow pendulum movements with the mop.

  Another man was standing a small distance away, scanning a freebie newspaper. He looked like an iffy businessman with a cheap suit and attitude to match.

  Undercover cops? Those two have the look and smell, especially that sneaky-looking bastard pretending to read the paper. Karl glanced up the corridor before checking the guy with the paper again. This could be a classic stitch-up and you’re providing them with all the needles and thread they need for your sorry arse, Karl Kane.

  Seconds later, Karl stopped hesitantly at the locker. Bending on one knee, he pretended to tie his shoelace while sneaking a glance under his arm. The iffy businessman was dumping the newspaper in an over-flowing bin. He appeared to be staring straight at Karl’s back. The cleaner, meanwhile, had stopped mopping the floor. He was leaning the dirty mop against a door, while wiping his mouth with what looked like a filthy rag. He seemed to be eyeing Karl, too.

  Is that a rag, or a walky-talkie in his hand?

  To Karl’s relief, the cleaner suddenly gathered his tools-in-trade, and began moseying out of sight towards the direction of the main part of the building.

  You’re becoming bloody paranoid. Strap on your balls and get the job done.

  Easing himself up, Karl glanced again at the other man, who was now speaking into a mobile phone.

  Shit!

  Against his better judgement, Karl’s gloved hand quickly removed the key from his pocket, grateful for the corridor’s bad lighting. Opening the locker, he peered inside. The oniony stench of sour feet hit him straight up the face. An old battered pair of Nikes and hardened socks the culprits. The contents of an upturned bottle of Brut aftershave had gelled, creating a gooey mess. The scent was weak but tangible, immediately reminding Karl of Edward Phillips in the departed days of his living.

  A used disposable razor encrusted with yellowing shaving cream and face stubble accidentally nibbled Karl’s gloved hand. He shuddered slightly. Alongside the disposable razor, a family of clipped, dirty fingernails nested inside a used Kleenex tissue.

  Disgusting…

  Even though he knew it wasn’t healthy to think ill of the dead, Karl had to question Phillips’ personal hygiene.

  A pinup of a beautiful nude woman attached to the inside of the locker door caught Karl’s probing eye. The nude had the largest ponderosa of pubic hair he had ever seen. He wasn’t a cartographer, but he would have said it resembled Alaska, if questioned on ‘Mastermind’.

  Just about to take his eyes off the picture, he noticed the dark-brown envelope taped to the hirsute forest. Freeing the envelope immediately, he tore a great hole, giving an unintended Brazilian to the Alaskan countryside.

  ‘Oops…sorry about that, lady…’ he whispered.

  Hurriedly, Karl slipped the envelope covertly into the inside pocket of his overcoat, feeling like a thief in the night before continuing with the rummaging.

  Badly soiled boxer shorts dangled from a hook, alongside a thickly knotted tie.

  An omen? Shitty underwear and a hangman’s fucking noose…

  Beneath copies of thumb-worn Hustler and other porn magazines, a large pouch protruded. He eased it out gingerly, as if it were a bomb about to explode in his face. It was made from faux reptile skin. A bulge rested in the middle of the bag, like a crocodile with a tiny animal lodging in its stomach.

  What the hell have you got yourself involved in? Just leave the–

  Without warning, a hand gripped Karl’s shoulder.

  Fuck! Karl’s heart popped. Back stiffened, ready for combat or arrest. Both, perhaps.

  Turning quickly, he saw that it was the dodgy businessman. He was brandishing what looked like a weapon.

  ‘You a smoker, pal?’ The man spoke with a Canadian inflection. An unlit, enormous cigar was clamped between two fingers.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, grabbing me?’ Karl tried desperately to control the pumping in his heart.

  ‘What…?’ The man looked taken aback. His face paled. Lips trembled. ‘I…I’m sorry, pal. I didn’t mean to startle you. I…I walked out of the hotel without my lighter.’

  ‘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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  OUT OF THE
PAST

  ‘They say money don't stink. I sometimes wonder.’

  Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely

  ‘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…