Dead of Winter Read online

  P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

  Late Thursday night running towards Friday morning. The man eased his tall ageing frame into one of the many abandoned warehouses studded in the docks area of the city. Once inside, he glanced upwards through a broken window. The city skyline had a grim appearance. Floating above, the palest of moons hung like an un-sacked testicle. Rain was coming down, mixed with sleet, and the night air was biting with a vengeance.

  He hated this cold weather and the dreary soul-destroying Belfast rain. Quickly pulled the overcoat tightly up to his ears, before lighting a cigarette. Sucked heavily on it, the nipple’s glow partially lighting up the side of his face. Smoke began filtering from his nostrils in ghostly grey leakage. He coughed twice, before smothering the third cough with a cupped fist.

  Despite the heavy darkness, he knew every square inch of the warehouse, having used the building for numerous backhanders from pimps, drug dealers and corrupt politicians.

  Flicking the half-finished cig into the darkness, his free hand touched the damp overcoat tenderly. A necessity. Felt the bulging revolver snuggled warmly up inside. A talisman. His best friend. His only friend. He smiled. Assured.

  He had arrived half-an-hour early, not wanting to be caught off-guard by any sudden and unexpected turn of events. If things went as planned, tonight’s payment would see his dream of a villa in the south of France come closer, and retirement from this dangerous game finally closing for good.

  From the outside darkness, eerie sounds came to his ears, slightly unnerving him: rusted chains chirped like wind chimes; battered directional signs squeaked on hinges; doors from abandoned containers knocked loudly up against their outer walls. A lone ship’s horn sounded like a dying whale.

  For a brief moment, he imagined the sounds of countless shipyard men working like ants, and growling industrial vehicles booming everywhere. But that was a million years ago. Now all that was left was rust. It was everywhere, devouring abandoned boats and every conceivable piece of metal. Even the genuflected weak light from the old lampposts failed to hide it.

  His mobile phone buzzed, startling him slightly. He removed it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered it anyway.

  ‘Hello?’

  The sudden coldness of gun metal against his neck numbed him. Momentarily, he became motionless. Then alive.

  ‘A little distraction and deception,’ said the gunman, slipping his hand expertly inside the man’s overcoat, before removing the weapon. ‘I thought it would take your mind off this being in your pocket. I didn’t want any accidents.’

  ‘Is this a robbery?’ he asked, too late, suddenly recognising the face and realising the stupidity behind the question. ‘You’ve been here all this time, in the dark, watching me?’

  ‘A fox like you has to be outfoxed. It took a while to place you in this position, but I always knew your excessive love of money would be your Achilles’ heel.’

  He was frightened and incredibly angry; angry for allowing himself to fall this clumsily.

  ‘You…you don’t have to do this.’ His voice now sounded wooden, desperate.

  ‘You’ve left me no other choice. If I let you live, you’ll become something I’ll no longer have any control over. If you want, you can have some time to make peace with God. That’s all I can offer you. It’s the best deal you’ll get.’

  ‘God? I doubt very much if any god would have his ears open for me – or you, come the day.’

  ‘You’re wasting valuable time.’

  ‘Well, then? What are you waiting for? Get it over with.’

  A flash and a loud crack exploded from the barrel. Silver light filled the warehouse. A few seconds later, the darkness returned, closing down like a fist with something secret in it.

  All went quiet on the waterfront.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

  ‘It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.’

  Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely

  ‘Karl? There’s a Miss Jemma Doyle wishing to see you,’ said Naomi, popping her head into the office.

  ‘Bit late for a Friday night, isn’t it?’ said Karl, reading his horoscope in the tabloid: Money on its way. And a surprise, for later in the week. ‘Does she have an appointment?’

  ‘No. I told her she needs to make one, but she was insistent. I can send her away, if you wish?’

  ‘No, that’s okay. Send her in,’ said Karl, quickly discarding the newspaper in the top drawer of his desk. He had tried reading other parts of the newspaper earlier in the day – anything to take his mind off the disturbing visit to his father, two days ago – but couldn’t stay focused. Cornelius’ pleading voice – like a song or a perfectly crafted line of movie dialogue – continued to play over and over in his head.

  No sooner had he closed the drawer than an extremely attractive woman appeared at the door, dressed in a stylish winter coat and skirt, and clutching a large leather handbag. Under the unbuttoned coat a black silk blouse revealed a generous ‘v’ of perfectly tanned skin. Her eyes were soft and doe-like, with just a hint of melancholy hidden behind them. Blonde hair reached to her shoulders and slightly beyond.

  Karl guessed her to be in her late twenties, or early thirties at the most. Everything about her said class.

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s late, Mister Kane, but I didn’t know I had to make an appointment,’ said Jemma Doyle, flashing a perfect smile.

  Only now did Karl notice the deep scarring on the left side of her face, not quite camouflaged by the expensive make-up she wore.

  ‘No, don’t worry, we were just doing our usual Friday night tidy up. Won’t you sit down, Miss Doyle?’ said Karl, touching Jemma’s hand gently before shaking it rather carefully, as if too much force could dislodge the glove.

  ‘Please forgive the gloves. I suffer terribly from eczema on my hands,’ said Jemma, sitting down opposite Karl. ‘This cold weather has an adverse effect on them.’

  Nodding, Karl asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

  She leaned in close. Karl could smell her perfume. A musky scent. Expensive. The kind he bought Naomi on very special occasions. There hadn’t been too many of those lately. Hopefully his horoscope’s predictions would materialise.

  ‘It’s my uncle, Thomas Blake. He’s been missing for a few years and my family have been trying to track him down. My father – his brother – wants to get in contact with him before…well, my father is extremely ill, Mister Kane…’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Doyle.’

  ‘Jemma. Please call me Jemma.’

  ‘Jemma…’ replied Karl, smiling a Colgate smile.

  ‘I know how busy you must be. Your secretary was quite adamant that I come back some other time, but I really need for someone to find Uncle Thomas, before it’s too late…’ Jemma produced a Kleenex and began dabbing at her eyes. Her voice was quivering, threatening to quit altogether. ‘I’m sorry…so silly of me…it’s just that all this responsibility in finding him has been put on me, and it’s stressed me out.’

  ‘It’s okay, Jemma’ soothed Karl. ‘Nothing like a good cry, I always say. That’s what I do when I’m stressed.’

  Jemma smiled. It made her even lovelier.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Jemma? Help warm you up.’

  Jemma nodded. ‘White, no sugar, please.’

  Pressing a button on the intercom, Karl said, ‘Naomi? Two coffees. White, no sugar, for Miss Doyle.’

  ‘Get it yourself!’ snapped Naomi, her voice as cold as the weather outside.

  ‘Um, sorry, but I forgot that the coffee machine isn’t working,’ mumbled Karl.

  ‘It’s okay, Mister Kane.’

  ‘Karl. Everyone calls me Karl.’

  ‘Karl…I’m so glad I came here,’ sniffed Jemma, forcing a smile while blowing her nose on the handkerchief. ‘You’ll probably think this sounds awfully stupid, bu
t something guided me to this place.’

  ‘Guided you?’

  Jemma nodded. ‘I was heading home, when my new car just refused to budge. An engine malfunction, apparently. According to the garage attendant, something about the chip in the car’s computer.’

  ‘The only chips my car knows are the ones I bring home on Saturday nights, plastered with salt and vinegar.’ Karl smiled.

  Jemma smiled in return, but the sad eyes belied it.

  ‘The attendant is working on the car right now. Said Friday night’s his busiest and it could be a couple of hours. So I just took a walk, while waiting. That was when I saw your business cards attached to a telephone box in Royal Avenue,’ explained Jemma, producing one of Karl’s cards from her pocket. ‘Isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Very strange,’ said Karl, feeling his face reddening. ‘I wonder how on earth that got there?’

  ‘Kane’s Able,’ smiled Jemma, reading the maxim inscribed upon the card. ‘I thought that was brilliant.’

  ‘One of my sharper moments, I have to agree.’

  ‘Finding this card and coming here has lifted my spirits.’

  ‘A bit like Lourdes.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Karl. ‘When or where was the last time anyone had contact with your uncle?’

  ‘According to my father, about six years ago. They had one of those family arguments over the family business, and neither of them backed down. My uncle left on that particular day and hasn’t been seen or heard of since.’

  ‘Nothing like a family to destroy a family business. Any photos of your uncle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jemma, removing three photos from her handbag. ‘These are about the best. My uncle hated his photo being taken. He was a bit superstitious in that regard. I think my father has one or two others. I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.’

  Karl gave the photos a quick once-over. Uncle Thomas had an over-sized head, crowned with a bird’s nest of unruly hair. The face was unsmiling and stern. A keep-well-the-fuck-away-from-me kind of uncle, thought Karl. ‘Mind if I hold on to these?’

  ‘No, not at all. You can return them to me once you’re finished with them,’ nodded Jemma. ‘Now, your fee. We haven’t talked about it. How much do you charge?’

  ‘I’m not cheap,’ said Karl. ‘I charge two hundred quid a day – plus expenses.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Jemma, reaching into the handbag again.

  ‘Wish all my clients were as agreeable with my fees.’ Karl was warming quickly to this appreciative woman.

  ‘My cheque book. I think I left it at home.’ Jemma suddenly looked troubled. ‘Do you take cash, Karl, or must it be a cheque?’

  ‘Cash is my preference. I’m actually allergic to cheques. They tend to burn me, on occasions, when the taxman discovers them.’ Karl smiled. ‘But look, Jemma, I still don’t know if I’m going to take the case.’

  ‘I have about one hundred with me,’ replied Jemma, thrusting the money into Karl’s ever weakening hands. ‘I can stop by tomorrow and pay the rest. Would that be satisfactory?’

  ‘We normally don’t open on Saturday. Look…okay,’ said Karl, resigned, taking the money. ‘For now, though, let me do a bit of investigating. We can talk about the rest of the bill later. Agreed?’

  Standing, Jemma nodded. She looked on the brink of tears, once again, as she wrote on a piece of paper. ‘You’re so kind, Karl. I’ll never forget you for this. Here’s my phone number, if you need to call me.’

  ‘Listen, Jemma, I have to be up front with you concerning missing persons. Luck plays a major part in finding the person sought – especially if that person doesn’t want to be found. Understand? I just don’t want you getting your hopes too high on me finding your uncle.’

  ‘All I ask is that you do your best, Karl,’ said Jemma, shaking Karl’s hand before disappearing out of the office, leaving the fragrance of her expensive perfume floating in the air.

  ‘You can close your mouth now, Karl. Flies are getting in,’ said Naomi, quickly entering the room after Jemma’s departure. ‘A pair of panties and you crumble.’

  ‘How can you be so hurtful?’ said Karl. ‘Anyway, what’s eating you?’

  ‘We can talk about the rest of the bill later,’ mimicked Naomi, sarcastically.

  ‘You were eavesdropping – again. What have I told you about that?’

  ‘Since when did we begin taking deposits?’ countered Naomi, ignoring the accusation. ‘Miss Jemma Doyle looked as if she could more than afford our special client fee, never mind a nominal two hundred.’

  ‘Naomi Kirkpatrick! I think you’re jealous.’

  ‘Tell that to the landlord next week when he comes for his money. Guarantee he won’t be saying we can talk about the bill later.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound just like me, and that’s scary. Come on. Let’s head over to Nick’s Warehouse,’ said Karl, holding up the five twenties in surrender. ‘I’ll buy you a lovely evening meal – and I’ll even have some expensive candlelight thrown in.’

  ‘Good job I’m not the jealous type, Karl Kane.’ Naomi smiled, quickly snatching the money from his hands.

  ‘How come every time I get money handed to me, you have the uncanny ability to make me feel skint?’

  ‘We’ll order a nice vegetarian meal, washed down with some nice expensive wine.’

  ‘Did I hear you right? Vegetarian?’ said Karl, making a face. ‘I warned you about trying to impose your sick beliefs on me. I want a good piece of meat, not some bloody dead plant or withered flowers.’

  ‘No meat tonight. Come on. No more arguing,’ said Naomi, putting on her jacket. ‘A strange coincidence, don’t you think, Jemma Doyle finding your card like that?’

  ‘That’s your suspicious mind working overtime, Naomi.’ Karl grabbed his jacket, and began easing into it. ‘I’ve no problem with coincidences – provided they only happen once and are entirely accidental. ‘

  But as he turned the lights off in the office, his own suspicious mind went into overdrive. Actually, he hated coincidences, especially those introduced by beautiful women.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ANALYZE THIS

  ‘Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it.’

  James Stephens, The Crock of Gold

  It was early next morning when Karl awoke to a million wasps rattling about inside his eardrums. Elsewhere, another type of noise was sounding, somewhere in the bedroom.

  ‘Huh…?’

  It was his mobile phone, resting on the bedside table.

  He tried ignoring the incessant screeching, but the more he tried, the more the migraine headache drilled its way into the side of his skull.

  Surrendering, he reached and lifted the annoying piece of plastic to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’ he asked in a groggy, injured tone.

  ‘Karl? What the hell took you so long?’ asked an annoyed voice. ‘I was about to hang up.’

  ‘Tom…? Sorry…I…oh, my fucking head…’ moaned Karl, hand squeezing tight against his forehead. ‘It’s Saturday morning. Don’t you ever go home?’

  ‘Sounds like you over-indulged in something, and I’m not talking about vitamins.’

  ‘Went out for a meal last night with Naomi. Got blocked out of my head. I think she spiked my drink. She’ll do anything to get me into bed.’

  An elbow shot into Karl’s ribs.

  ‘Oh! That hurt, Naomi,’ protested Karl. ‘Thought you were sleeping?’

  ‘Keep me out of your conversation,’ hissed Naomi, rolling over, taking most of the blankets with her.

  ‘Karl? Are you there?’ asked Hicks.

  ‘Sorry, Tom. Go ahead.’

  ‘I’ve got some news on the severed hand found outside your place.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I had one of the lads take a picture of it and enlarge it by ten.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You were right. It is the number eighty-eight.’

&n
bsp; ‘Hate to say it, but I told you so.’

  ‘I also did another re-run on the Kevin Johnson hand, but, although he had plenty of other tats, there was no sign of the number eighty-eight.’

  ‘Bang goes another of my grand theories of Johnson and the serial killer.’ Karl thought for a second. ‘Could be a cult of some sort. Witchcraft, perhaps?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I doubt very much we have a coven of witches running about Belfast.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you’d witnessed some of the women I went out with years ago.’

  ‘Can you stop the nonsense, just for a second?’ said Hicks, obviously tiring of Karl’s puerile prattle.

  ‘Could be bingo aficionados.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Eighty-eight. Two fat ladies. Those bingo fanatics would kill for a thrill.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Hicks sighed. ‘Talk to you later.’

  ‘Before you kiss me goodbye, could you do me a really big favour?’

  Silence at the other end.

  ‘Tom? I know you’re there. I can hear your heavy, sexy breathing.’

  ‘What is it?’ sighed Hicks.

  ‘I need you to check the records for a Thomas Blake. He’s a missing person, but could be dead.’

  Karl could hear Hicks scribbling something.

  ‘Okay, but that’s you favoured-out for the rest of the month,’ replied Hicks. ‘If I discover anything, I’ll let you know. Give my regards to Naomi.’

  Turning the phone off, Karl squeezed in closer to Naomi’s deliciously warm body. She stirred and growled in protest at the coldness of his touch.

  ‘That dirty old bastard, Hicks, said he wanted to ravage you,’ said Karl, nuzzling her neck while stroking her warm arse. ‘I told him I would kill any man who even dared look at you.’

  ‘Get your roaming hands off my bum,’ protested Naomi.

  He could tell she was smiling, and began pressing harder against her arse. His erection added an exclamation mark between her warm, firm buttocks.

  She groaned softly. ‘Anyone ever tell you, you’re a bad, man, Mister Kane?’