Dead of Winter Page 7

  ‘Not necessarily. Muslims use it, too, and a couple of trendy restaurant owners. When it come to money, we don’t have any religious discrimination,’ chuckled Talbot. ‘How about a tea, before you go?’

  ‘Coffee, if you have it,’ said Karl, doubting that his stomach would hold it down.

  Five minutes later, Karl sat at the table watching Talbot rummaging through a battered and paint-peeling cupboard. He removed a near-empty bottle of Bushmills.

  ‘Medicinal purposes. Works wonders,’ said Talbot, winking.

  ‘Just like WD-40.’ Karl grinned.

  ‘I know I had some coffee here, somewhere.’ Talbot began pushing items out of the way. ‘One of the thieving bastards has sneaked in when they saw me on the floor. Probably nicked it. You need eyes in the back of your head for this job.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself, John.’ Karl glanced at his watch. Almost two and a half hours had passed since he first arrived. He needed to get moving. ‘I really have to be–’

  ‘No trouble at all. I know someone who has loads of the stuff. Back in a tick,’ said Talbot, quickly exiting the door, ignoring Karl’s protestation.

  Never one to allow a golden opportunity to slip by, the moment Talbot was out the door, Karl stood before hastily walking to one of the cabinets marked ‘Employees’ Payroll’.

  Sliding open the top drawer, he immediately began scanning the folders for something, anything, to jump out at him.

  Unfortunately, it was Karl doing the jumping.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ asked a calm but firm voice at the door.

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Karl, almost slamming the metal drawer on his fingers.

  A young woman, walking stick in hand, stood at the door, glaring at him. Her eyes were mirrored bullets, lethal in their intensity. He could almost feel the heat coming from them. She was small, 5-5, but Karl knew that dynamite can come in small packages, and if ever he was looking at living explosives, this was it. He couldn’t help but notice the braces looping the outside of her legs like a miniature steel construction. They seemed to be the only thing stopping her from toppling over.

  ‘You better have a good reason for searching private property,’ she said, threateningly. ‘Just who the hell are you?’

  ‘Never mind who I am, just who the hell are you?’ said Karl, shaken, but brave-facing it with a bluff.

  ‘If that’s the way you want to play it, we’ll let the police do all the questioning.’ Producing a mobile from her pocket, she hit a few numbers. Placing it to her ear, she said, ‘Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a break-in at–’

  ‘Whoa, there. Let’s just think about this for a few seconds and not be too hasty, Miss…?’

  ‘One moment, please, officer…’ she said into the mobile, before looking straight into Karl’s eyes, glaring even more intensely.

  ‘Okay. You win. I’m a private investigator,’ said Karl, removing one of his business cards and holding it out.

  ‘Place it on the table. Sit down. Don’t make any sudden moves.’

  ‘The way you’re talking, you’d think that was a gun in your hand instead of a cane, Miss…?’ said Karl, complying.

  ‘Don’t let the walking stick fool you. I’m more than capable of defending myself from the likes of you.’ Lifting Karl’s card from the table, the young woman appeared to be scrutinising it. A few seconds later, she spoke into the mobile. ‘Sorry, officer. False alarm. No…everything is okay. Thank you.’

  ‘I guess that means you believe me?’ said Karl, watching her pocket the phone.

  ‘I rarely believe anyone, least of all strangers. Luckily for you, I remember the name and face. I saw you on the TV, not so long ago. Something to do with finding a kidnapped girl. A university student, wasn’t it?’

  Karl nodded. ‘My daughter, Katie.’

  ‘Oh…she’s okay?’ The woman’s face softened slightly.

  ‘As much as can be expected, considering what she went through, Miss…?’

  ‘Goodman. Georgina Goodman. Everyone calls me Geordie,’ she replied, approaching the table before sitting down, resting the walking stick on top.

  ‘You’re the boss…?’

  ‘That’s correct. I’m the boss. You look shocked. Don’t think women can handle being bosses?’

  ‘No…nothing like that. It’s just…this abattoir. Not the most glamorous of places, or what I’d expect a young woman to be in charge of.’

  ‘It once belonged to my father. But that, as they say, is another story. Now, what exactly are you doing here, searching? And no bullshitting.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you get enough of that in the pens,’ said Karl, forcing a smile but receiving only a stony stare from Geordie. ‘Look, to be honest with you, I know a bit of history about this place, the killings a few years back.’

  Geordie suddenly stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re here to do some sort of blackmailing, then you’re wasting your time. It’s all public knowledge, what went on here back then, with my father and sister.’

  ‘No, I’m not here to dig up the past, I can assure you. You’re aware of the body parts discovered in and around the city, I assume?’

  ‘The mysterious severed hands? Of course. Who isn’t? They’re the talk of Belfast.’

  ‘Yes, well the cops think it could be a doctor, but I think–’

  ‘You think it could be someone working here, because of its grisly history.’ It was a statement. ‘The police have already been here, last week, asking questions.’

  ‘What…? Oh…I thought…’

  ‘That no one else had checked us out?’

  ‘Something like that. My ego has been slightly dented now.’

  ‘The cops seemed to be more interested in free steaks, rather than any answers.’

  ‘Greedy corrupt bastards. They’re all the same. Can’t watch them.’

  ‘I doubt very much that we’ve a serial killer running about the place, Mister Kane. I told the police the same. The people working here may look frightening with all that blood on their faces and hands, but it actually washes off at the end of a hard working day. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to insult the workers, but this is the only abattoir we have in Belfast.’

  ‘Not forgetting its bloody history, of course?’

  ‘Well, yes…’ Karl was beginning to look uncomfortable. ‘Admittedly, I could be a mile off track, but then again, I could be a couple of inches near.’

  Geordie sighed. ‘I can see you’re not going to drop this, Mister Kane, so what exactly do you want from me?’

  ‘Have you noticed any unusual behaviour from anyone working here? Someone keeping odd hours, out-of-the-normal absenteeism? Anything of that nature?’

  ‘I’d have to go through all the files, again, just like I did for the police. That’s going to be time-consuming. We’ve only recently started to computerise the business. My father wasn’t a great believer in computerised technology or–’

  ‘Got some!’ said Talbot, entering the room. ‘If I get my hands on that thieving bastard…oh, Geordie. Didn’t see you sitting there. You’ve met Mister Kane, then? He’s a scout for Channel Four. They’re thinking of shooting a movie here. Can you believe it?’

  Karl’s face reddened.

  Geordie smiled wryly. ‘Yes, John. Mister Kane has been explaining in great detail his line of work to me.’

  ‘Look, I don’t think I can stop for that coffee, after all, John,’ said Karl, standing. ‘Just remembered another appointment.’

  ‘Oh, you’re going?’ said Talbot, looking slightly disappointed. ‘Sorry I took so long.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, John. Hopefully, the next time I’ll get a chance to savour it,’ said Karl, before looking directly at Geordie. ‘You will let me know your decision, Miss Goodman?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Goodman,’ said Geordie, forcing herself up from the table before reaching for the walking stick. ‘Goodbye, Mister Kane. Be careful on the way out. The
lighting isn’t that great.’

  Karl thought he could detect a slight warning in Geordie’s voice.

  Outside in the cold air, Karl cleared his lungs of the lingering stench bottled inside. He spat a few times, his mouth cotton dry. He knew it would take a longer time to rid himself of the taste lingering in his mouth.

  Just as he was about to get into the car, his phone rang. It was Hicks. He sounded annoyed.

  ‘Why’d you have your phone turned off? I’ve been calling you for over an hour.’

  ‘Just got caught rummaging through a woman’s drawers.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Nothing. What’s wrong, dear Tom?’

  ‘Just calling to let you know that I’ll have the information you wanted on Blake, tomorrow.’

  ‘Excellent. How about I drop by in the afternoon?’

  ‘Make it morning – early. I’ve a court attendance before noon.’

  ‘Very much appreciated, Tom. See you in the morning, first thing.’

  Karl clicked the phone dead and began easing the car out in the direction of the road. As he looked in the rear-view mirror, he could have sworn someone was watching from the abattoir window. It looked like Geordie Goodman.

  Tiny mice suddenly ran up his spine. He shuddered in a very bad way. He hated when his spine moved like that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A TOWN CALLED BASTARD

  ‘She had eyes like strange sins.’

  Raymond Chandler, The High Window

  It was early next morning when Karl showed up at Hicks’ office.

  ‘Don’t offer me any coffee, Tom. My stomach’s not feeling the best,’ said Karl.

  ‘You really should consider cutting down on the booze. It’s not doing you any good, from the looks of it.’

  ‘Booze has nothing to do with it. It was all that bloody blood in that hellhole called an abattoir. What have you on Blake?’

  ‘Done time. Nothing major, it would seem. Released from prison three years ago. Burglary, a few years back. Last known address to be the town of Ballymena.’

  Hicks gave a possible street address, explaining that the information was sketchy at best.

  ‘It’s better than nothing,’ said Karl extracting a beaten docket, and scribbling on it.

  ‘What’re you writing?’

  ‘Good plans always start with a piece of paper. No matter how you figure it, adding and subtracting comes to zero. It’s what’s in between that gives the final sum. No need to be concerned.’

  ‘I’m always concerned when I give you information. I hope you’re not going to do anything illegal with it?’

  ‘Nothing too illegal.’ Karl smiled. ‘I’m getting paid, so I’ll take a wee trip out to the backwoods of the Bible belt, later today. See if I can coax uncle Thomas and Lassie to come home, all is forgiven.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on Ballymena. It gets a bad rap from outsiders.’

  ‘Bad rap? Don’t make me laugh. Their very own paper, the Ballymena News, stated that there are at least two hundred and thirty heroin addicts living in the Ballymena area – that’s a staggering seventy per cent of the province’s heroin users. And I can still remember the excellent exposé the Guardian did, a few years back.’

  ‘Those figures are probably embellished.’

  ‘Embellished, my arse. Did you know that heroin is easier to purchase in Ballymena than hard liquor, condoms, clean air and good neighbours? Suicide is very high – though not high on the fundamentalist Christian agenda of saving the dead rather than the living.’

  ‘Christians are an easy target, Karl. You’re starting to sound like a bully.’

  ‘Good Christian people is the term Ballymenians normally use to refer to themselves, ignoring the ingrained sectarianism devouring their town. Ballymenians may indeed be legendarily humourless, but it can’t be denied that they don’t have a strong case for irony.’

  ‘There’s a lot of culture in that wee town.’

  ‘Culture?’ Karl shook his head and walked to the door. ‘Bacteria’s got more culture than bloody Ballymena. I’ll talk to you later, when I get back.’

  It was four hours later when Karl parked his car in an underground car park on the edge of Ballymena town centre. The night was quickly coming on outside and he wanted to get to a bar inside; hopefully one contained within the cut-price motel he was planning to book into. He didn’t feel like doing too much walking tonight.

  Exiting the car with a scuffed leather grip bag in hand, he spotted two men playing cards outside a makeshift office. One was elderly and in a wheelchair; the other much younger, dressed in grease-monkey garbs.

  ‘Do I pay now, or later?’ asked Karl, directing his question at both men.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re at, big lad? Pay now, of course,’ said Grease Monkey, grinning a row of black and missing teeth. He smelt strongly of car oil and stale body odour. He had mean, tiny tight eyes, and looked as if he hadn’t shaved since King Camp Gillette was in nappies.

  Karl had difficulty deciphering the man’s broad Ballymena drawl, and immediately though of Duelling Banjos, Grease Monkey making his way through the swamps of Ballymena, shotgun in hand, looking for virgin male passageways. A yellowing poster above the office door alerted him to the mindset of Grease Monkey and Co: ‘Immigrants are like sperm. Millions get in, but only one works’.

  ‘How much?’ said Karl, going for his wallet.

  ‘How long?’ said Grease Monkey.

  ‘One night,’ replied Karl, carefully erasing I hope from the sentence.

  ‘Ten quid. Be back before this time tomorrow, otherwise you pay double.’ Grease Monkey grinned annoyingly, again, before throwing down a three of clubs on the table.

  The older man quickly lifted the card. Smiled all gums. Threw out a different card in return.

  ‘I got a straight run, Jimmy boy.’ The old man proudly displayed the cards in his hand.

  ‘That’s not a straight, Chester. All the cards need to follow each other. Told you that before.’

  Karl could see that neither man was actually playing with a full deck, but, deciding to direct his questions to the man in the wheelchair, he asked, ‘The Motel Royal. How far am I from it?’

  ‘Depends how far you want to be.’

  Grease Monkey grinned at Chester’s reply.

  ‘Could you walk there?’ asked Karl, getting annoyed, before realising his Freudian slip.

  ‘What the hell’s that suppose to mean?’ asked Chester, clearly upset. ‘You trying to be a smart arse? If I could walk at all, the first thing I’d do is sink my useless boot into your big city arse.’

  Grease Monkey giggled like a big girl on her first kiss.

  ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ mumbled Karl. ‘I meant…could I walk there, or would I need to call a taxi?’

  ‘When you get outside, turn left,’ said Grease Monkey. ‘Two streets down make another left. Cross over to Burger King. Directly behind it, three streets to your left and you’ll see The Royal. Don’t go down the street directly beside Burger King, though. Take the one beside the burnt-down school and abandoned police station, but avoid Dog Turd Avenue, if you know what’s good for your health.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Karl handed Grease Monkey a ten spot.

  ‘Though, if I were you, I’d take a taxi,’ stated Grease Monkey, an oily hand quickly taking the money. ‘Not the safest part of town, where you’re heading. Just last week we had two men stabbed to death in a drug fight, not a kick in the dick away from where you’re staying. Lots of skegheads roaming about.’

  ‘Skegheads?’ The tag sounded like a bad sci-fi movie.

  ‘Heroin junkies. You’ll recognise them by their yellow skin and lack of beef. Those lads or lassies would cut you for a penny. There’s a load of them roaming about out there at this time of night.’

  Karl’s stomach did a little bend. ‘Know something? I think I’ll take your advice and call a taxi. You wouldn’t happen to have the number of a reliable taxi place?’ />
  ‘Sure. That’s my taxi, over there beside the exit. Hop in. I’ll take you,’ said Grease Monkey, throwing down his cards. ‘Look after the place, Chester. Won’t be long.’

  Inside, the taxi was packed with Christian pamphlets and hymnbooks with Ian Paisley’s name plastered all over them.

  Ballymena isn’t known as the Bible belt of Ulster for nothing, or being forward in its backward way of thinking, thought Karl, easing the hymnbooks out of the way.

  ‘You can have one of those, if you’re Christian-inclined,’ said Grease Monkey, starting the car-cum-taxi wreck. ‘No charge. We never charge for the Reverend Paisley’s word being spread.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Karl, reluctantly lifting one of the pamphlets, trying not to offend. ‘I’ll read this later on. There’s nothing I like better than to snuggle up to a good read and cup of cocoa in bed.’

  Grease Monkey smiled approvingly.

  Less than a minute later, Karl was travelling down an unmarked dirt road, where a featureless and flat housing estate dissolved into squalor, infested with the rotten stench of grey hopelessness.

  ‘Motel Royal,’ said Grease Monkey, halting the car on skidding wheels. ‘If there’s anything you need while staying in our lovely town, just give me a howler. Everyone knows me. The name’s Grassy Noel.’

  ‘Grassy Noel?’

  ‘It’s my street tag. I sell a little bit of weed on the side. Can have some for you in about ten minutes, if you want? Bring it right up to your room.’

  ‘No thanks. I gave up gardening a long time ago.’

  ‘If you’re worried about getting caught with it, don’t worry. I have a saying: on the street, always be discreet.’

  ‘You should send those charming words to Seamus Heaney. I’m sure he’d appreciate them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘How much for the ride?’

  ‘Four quid.’

  Karl handed over a fiver.

  ‘I don’t have any loose coins on me.’ Grease Monkey smiled, and once again Karl thought of Duelling Banjos.