The Dark Place Page 6

  Karl’s mobile rang. It was Hicks.

  “Tom? What’s happening?”

  “The bodies in the Black Mountain and the city centre.”

  “What about them?”

  “Definitely weren’t those of the young girl you’re searching for. The young girl in Black Mountain was Tina Richardson, a runaway from a home in Larne, two years ago. She was fourteen.”

  “Terrible.”

  “The body found in the city was that of Eileen Flynn, another runaway, this time from Belfast itself. Eighteen years old.”

  “Shit.”

  “Bodies were mutilated, exactly in the same method.”

  “That vora rep thing?”

  “Vorarephilia,” sighed Tom. “Yes, kidneys and liver removed, surgically. Both bodies were overweight – forcefully so.”

  “Did Professor Kelly over at Queen’s get back to you with any explanation?”

  “Not yet. She seems as baffled as me. Anyway, it’ll probably be all over the news this afternoon. I told Wilson I’m no longer willing to keep this from the general public. Oh, almost forgot to mention: I hear Phillips got his full retirement pension. Even got a recommendation from Wilson.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Got it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, yesterday.”

  “Funny, now that you mention it, there is a strong resemblance between Wilson and Arkle,” replied Karl. “What happened to the investigation? Wasn’t Phillips being investigated for corruption or some other sort of bullshit?”

  “He was accused of shaking down pimps and drug dealers in the city, as well as being involved in two controversial shootings. Investigation found no evidence of wrongdoing, allegedly.”

  “Ever get one of those feelings in your piss that things just aren’t kosher at the House of Wilson?”

  “No, never in my urine, but I know exactly what you mean,” said Hicks. “Something’s going on between Phillips and Wilson.”

  “Out of all of Wilson’s crew, Phillips was the one I always got on well with – most of the time, at least.”

  “With the way he’s turned out, why am I not surprised at that statement? To be honest, I never liked the man. I always suspected he thought himself like the rest of his associates – above and beyond the law.”

  “You always suspect someone of something. It’s your suspicious nature, Hicks.”

  “What was that all about?” asked Naomi, who had beeen waiting for Karl to end the phone conversation.

  “That was Hicks. It appears that Belfast has a serial killer on its hands, and the shit is about to hit the fan.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I prefer women with a past. They’re always so demmed amusing to talk to.”

  Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan

  Considered by many to be Belfast’s best gay/transsexual bar, Billy Holiday’s was buzzing when Karl and Naomi entered, passing a sign at the doorway stating: Never mind just one good night out. We’ll make your hole weak.

  A woman, dressed in tight black leather and uncannily resembling Freddie Mercury, sang from an irritatingly loud karaoke machine. Sweat was escaping from every pore in her muscular body as she swayed, running the mic seductively up the inside of her thighs. The fake moustache glued to thick lips was the only thing that looked real.

  Accompanying her on stage was a tall, bald man covered in tattoos, grinding an air guitar, his face a mixture of anguish, pain and ecstasy.

  “Naomi! Karl! Toot-a-loot! Over here, darlings!” shouted a voice from a darkened far corner.

  “Ivana!” Naomi immediately smiled, waving back enthusiastically. Karl, less so.

  “I didn’t think you were coming, Naomi,” claimed Ivana, kiss-kissing Naomi’s cheeks falsely.

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for anything, Ivana,” said Naomi, handing a small birthday-wrapped box to Ivana.

  “Oh, you lovely person. You really shouldn’t have,” gushed Ivana.

  “That’s exactly what I told her, Ivana,” said Karl, slapping his hand with a baton made from rolled-up posters.

  “Don’t listen to him, Ivana,” replied Naomi. “You know what he’s like.”

  “Thankfully, my dear, I don’t. And neither do I want to,” retorted Ivana, unwrapping the present. “Oh! Naomi … this is too much … it’s beautiful.”

  A small gold necklace centred with a large pearl rested in the opened box.

  “Here. Let me clip it on for you,” volunteered Naomi, circling the necklace on to Ivana’s neck. “Oh, Ivana, that is so you.”

  “It’s beautiful, darling. Thank you … both.”

  “Vodka and orange, Ivana?” suggested Karl, while a waiter, attired in nothing other than a leopard-skin thong and a banana bulge, hovered at the table, menacingly close to Karl’s face.

  “Large,” replied Ivana, winking at the waiter. “I always take it large.”

  “A large vodka and orange, Bacardi and Coke and a small glass of Hennessy, please,” said Karl, emphasising the small, while doing his best to avoid looking at the semi-naked young man. “Wow, that lady singer has a set of pipes on her. She doesn’t even need the mic.”

  “Freaky Muckery?” spiked Ivana, acidly. “She and her sidekick, Ben Gay, have been on the karaoke machine all night and doing my head in. Did I say karaoke? Derrieroke, I call it. Freaky pulling a song out of her arse and trying to sing it. C’mon, Freaky and Gay! Stop hogging the karaoke!”

  Defiantly, Ben Gay immediately brought the invisible guitar to his teeth and ran his mouth along it like a beaver munching a log.

  “What’s got up the old queen mum’s bum!” retaliated Freaky, garnering much laughter from the crowd.

  “Not you, anyway!” responded Ivana, lightning fast.

  Ben Gay went sliding along the stage on bent knees, knocking over Freaky and the karaoke machine in the process, his head landing between Freaky’s legs.

  “Shouldn’t that be the other way round, Freaky!” shouted Ivana.

  “Oh, Ivana,” giggled Naomi.

  “Well, serves her right. She’s a cheapskate, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a cheapskate,” replied Ivana. “She’s so cheap, she charged her children for the breast milk they consumed.”

  Even Karl had to grin at that one.

  “And as for Ben Gay? Don’t get me started! He’s a twin. I went out with both of them, years ago, just to see if their dicks were identical.”

  Karl cringed. His armpits suddenly felt clammy. Wished semi-naked Tarzan would hurry the hell up with the drinks.

  “You’re cruel, Ivana!” giggled Naomi. “And were their dicks identical?”

  “Totally. Right down to the last blue vein, darling!”

  Naomi burst out laughing.

  “Any bloody chance of that waiter?” asked Karl, trying to catch Naomi’s attention.

  On a roll, Ivana asked, “What did Freddie Mercury’s mother say as his coffin was being lowered into the cold ground?”

  “I don’t know,” replied a giggling Naomi, shrugging her shoulders.

  “That’s the cleanest hole he’s been in for a while!”

  “Oh, Ivana. That’s not nice,” said Naomi, sternly, no longer smiling or laughing. “You shouldn’t make fun of the dead.”

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right, darling,” replied Ivana, sounding slightly contrite. “It was a cheap joke and I apologise. Actually, I’ve always been a great fan of Freddie.”

  Thankfully for Karl, the waiter returned and deposited the drinks on the table. Karl left it to Naomi to tip, not knowing where it might end up.

  “Do you think the owner would mind if I put a poster up on one of the walls?” asked Karl, taking a much-anticipated sip from the Hennessy.

  “Poster? Depends, I suppose,” replied Ivana, sipping on the vodka and orange. “What’s the poster of?”

  Karl unrolled the group of small posters of Martina Ferris. The young girl’s sad face seemed even more forlorn coming out eyes first.


  “I had a few of these made this morning, hoping the local bars and cafés wouldn’t mind putting them somewhere the general public can see them. Her name is Martina Ferris. She’s been missing for almost a month.”

  “Poor thing,” said Ivana, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s so sad-looking.”

  Naomi nodded in agreement.

  “She was last seen in and around the Custom House Square area,” continued Karl. “Her last fixed abode was –”

  “Ivana?” cut in Naomi. “Are you okay? You’ve become pale.”

  “What? Oh! No, I’m fine, darling. I think it’s the orange in the vodka. Doesn’t taste right. That’s all …” Ivana pushed her drink to the side. “They never use fresh fruit in this place.”

  “You’re leaving yourself wide open with that remark, Ivana,” said Karl, a wry smile appearing on his face.

  “Enough, Karl,” said Naomi.

  “Okay. That was tasteless. Would you like me to order another one for you, Ivana?” asked Karl reluctantly, not too sure how much money was left in his skinny wallet.

  “No … no, I think I’ve had enough. I’ve been drinking most of the evening anyway. Time to call it a night. Give me one of the posters. I’ll make sure it gets a prominent display.” Standing, Ivana hugged Naomi. “Thank you for making this a very special birthday, Naomi – both of you. I’ll see you during the week. Goodnight.”

  Naomi waited until Ivana had left before asking Karl, “What do you make of that? She looked terribly sad once she saw Martina’s poster, didn’t she?”

  Karl nodded, his thoughts the same, only darker.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses.”

  George Bernard Shaw, Mrs Warren’s Profession

  “Karl? We have a visitor,” pronounced Naomi, her face a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “Bet you’ll never guess who.”

  “You’re right. I’m all guessed-out. So why don’t you tell me?” deadpanned Karl, eyes not moving from the horse racing section in the morning’s Irish News. There were four-legged certainties inked somewhere in these Monday morning pages, but the only certainty at the moment was Karl having a difficult time sniffing them out. He hadn’t picked a winner in over four weeks, and forced himself to believe that the law of averages – like fortune – would eventually favour his braveness.

  Before Naomi could reply, a voice from behind her said, “I don’t know how you stick him, Naomi. He’s such an ignorant bastard.”

  This time, Karl’s eyes did move, before registering shock at what stood before them.

  Ivana was wearing tight, expensive Italian washed-out jeans, a T-shirt with the distinctive red and white cursive Coke swirl emblazoned on it and a pair of purple-striped Nike tennis shoes, tied with red laces. Her hair was done in a bun, shamelessly exposing a professional make-over done less than an hour ago.

  Karl did a wolf whistle.

  Ivana seemed quite pleased at the response.

  “You really look stunning, girl,” enthused Naomi, giving Ivana a loving hug.

  Karl nodded in agreement. He had never seen Ivana looking so lovely, almost feminine.

  “You shouldn’t have got all dolled-up just to come here to see me, doll,” said Karl, doing his very bad Humphrey Bogart impression. “It’s been what? All of three days since we last locked eyes at your birthday gig.”

  “Very funny, Karl Kane. For your information, I have a date on Thursday night. These are just casuals,” stated Ivana, parking her arse on a table like she was taking up permanent residence.

  “A date? Tell me quickly!” gushed Naomi excitedly. “Who is he?”

  Ivana’s face beamed. “Vincent Harrison.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh! That new waiter in Billy Holiday’s, the one who served us on your birthday?”

  Karl had a sudden vision of Tarzan swinging through the room, dangling on vines, peeling his banana.

  “Do you think he might be a bit too young for my taste?” asked Ivana.

  “Well … no …”

  “You can’t lie to save your life, Naomi! All those old bitches are saying I’m a baby snatcher. The cheek of them!”

  “And the cheeks on him!” responded Naomi, smiling. “They’re jealous of you, Ivana.”

  “I didn’t hear you, dear. What did you say?”

  “I said – Ivana! You heard me perfectly!”

  “I know dear. I know,” smiled Ivana.

  “He really has a nice arse, hasn’t he?” said Naomi.

  Ivana nodded. “Very nice arse, darling. Very nice everything.”

  “That’s nice to know, Ivana,” cut in Karl, quickly returning to his newspaper. “Did you come here just to tell us about Vincent with everything nice?”

  Suddenly sitting down on the chair next to the desk, Ivana hooked the newspaper from Karl’s fingers and said, “No … actually … I’ve come to talk.”

  The immediate sombre tone of her voice stopped Karl from snapping the newspaper back.

  “Go ahead. I’ve got two good ears and a head full of nothing. Just don’t tell me that you’re pregnant,” said Karl, smiling. “Or that you’re trapped between a cock and a hardener.”

  “That isn’t funny, Karl,” said Naomi. “Apologise to Ivana, right now.”

  “My apologies for my crass humour, Ivana. Now that you have the full attention from a fool, what’s on your beautiful mind?”

  “I’ll go and make some coffee,” volunteered Naomi.

  “I would much rather you stayed, Naomi,” said Ivana. “I have to get this off my chest and need you to hear what I have to say. You may not think much of me when you do.”

  Naomi shook her head. “Don’t be silly, Ivana. You know how much I’ve always admired you, your bravery. Isn’t that right, Karl?”

  Karl nodded, noticing for the first time that Ivana’s T-shirt did not say Coke, at all, but Cock.

  “Would you like something stronger than coffee, Ivana?” offered Karl, pulling his eyes away from the disconcerting T-shirt. “Make you feel a bit more relaxed, perhaps?”

  Ivana’s face tightened, then quickly loosened as if remembering the price of the make-over. “No thank you. I wish to remain clear-headed,” she replied, looking directly into Karl’s eyes. “It’s concerning … it’s concerning those young girls found murdered in the Black Mountain and city centre. The news hasn’t stopped showing their faces on TV the last couple of days. Terrible …”

  “Absolutely horrible,” agreed Naomi.

  A thick silence swiftly entered the room. Naomi glanced at Karl, who kept his face professionally expressionless.

  “Yes? What about her, Ivana?” enquired Karl, eventually breaking the silence.

  “I think … I think I know who could have something to do with them.”

  “What?” Karl’s attention went immediately into full swing. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not … I’m not one hundred per cent … call it intuition. Something just snapped in me when you produced that poster of the young girl with the sad eyes, at my birthday. I can’t get her face out of my head. I don’t even know if what I have to say is relevant.”

  “Anything you tell me will be thoroughly checked out, Ivana,” encouraged Karl. “Anyway, it’s better to be one hundred per cent wrong rather than seeing another young girl brutally tortured and murdered. Don’t you agree?”

  “That’s good philosophy, I suppose.” Ivana had an anguished look on her face while picking at an errant piece of cuticle on her middle finger.

  Naomi reached out and, touching Ivana’s shoulder, said, “Just take your time, Ivana. We are both here for you as friends. Okay?”

  Ivana nodded, before sucking in air. “All those years ago when I was a young boy named Frankie Gilmore, my father worked as the gamekeeper for a very wealthy family from the Malone Road called Hannah. The Hannah family owned acres and acres of woodland and forest on the outskirts of Belfast. The family consisted of a mother, father and son
. The mother, Margaret, had inherited the money from her parents, prominent horsy people originally from Scotland. The father, Paul, was a distinguished and well-known surgeon.”

  “You’re not talking about Sir Paul Hannah?” interrupted Karl. “Used to be the chief surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital?”

  “Yes … yes, that’s him. Of course, he wanted his son, Robert – or Bobby, as we called him – to follow in his footsteps, but unfortunately Bobby had no penchant for medicine – at the time – and was much more interested in owning his own Hollywood movie studio or messing about with his amateur magician’s box, much to his parents’ dismay.”

  Both Karl and Naomi leaned slightly closer to Ivana, as if having difficulty hearing the words coming from her mouth.

  “Bobby was a … strange boy, a loner,” continued Ivana. “He was never without his movie camera, posing as a big shot director, boring the knickers off everyone he encountered. Unfortunately for me, my father forced me to play with him on weekends because he thought it would keep him in his job as gamekeeper.”

  “That must have been horrible for you, Ivana,” said Naomi, reaching out and holding Ivana’s hand.

  “It wasn’t too bad at the start, darling. Bobby was an insufferable bore, but he had lots of money and was always buying buckets of sweets and cream cakes, all of which he used in an attempt to manipulate me into liking him. He was rather plump – like his mother – and always managed to devour more than his share, and even though I had a terrible sweet tooth, his eating habits always put me off. It was like watching a greedy little pig, tiny teeth sawing into the cakes, the cream plastered to his face.” Ivana placed her hand over her mouth and coughed loudly. “You’re both probably thinking I have a cheek to talk about anyone?”

  “For fuck sake, Ivana, you’ve called me worse things than being fat and a greedy pig,” said Karl impatiently, “so let’s not get bogged down on childhood sensitivities. What else can you tell us about Bob the Plasterer?”

  “Karl’s right, Ivana,” encouraged Naomi. “We were all probably little snot noses growing up, teasing each other terribly.”