Bloodstorm Page 7

  A few seconds later, Munday entered, and without being asked, sat down.

  “Well? What have you got for me?” asked Munday.

  Karl removed a thick group of pages from the top drawer of his desk. They looked impressive as he began to read from them. “The unfortunate man’s name was Wesley Milligan, a one-time prison officer at Woodbank prison. He left the prison service about a year or so ago, practically disappearing without a trace. His estranged wife, Margaret, claims not to have seen or heard from him in all that time.”

  Karl glanced up from the report to gauge Munday’s reaction. Blank, just like most of the pages in Karl’s so-called report. He continued with his reading. “The wife showed little or no emotion when told of her ex’s death, according to the visiting police officer’s report.”

  “Is she a suspect?” asked Munday.

  The tone in Munday’s voice had changed slightly, Karl noted. “Not per se, but the police ‘remain interested’ in her, according to one of the reports I read – illegally, and at great risk, I hasten to add.”

  “Four sugars, black, Mister Munday? Correct?” asked Naomi, returning, pushing the door open with her arse before setting the cups of coffee down. “Some digestive biscuits for you, as well.”

  “Thank you,” replied Munday.

  A few seconds later, Naomi left the room, still smiling.

  Sipping carefully on the steaming coffee, Munday asked: “How did Milligan die? You haven’t mentioned it yet.”

  “I was just getting to it,” responded Karl, sipping his own coffee, feeling relief as the steam eased the sinus pain. He read from the second page. “Three bullets to the head, plus an initial examination indicated signs of torture on the body.”

  To Karl, the stoic Munday suddenly looked slightly shaken.

  “Are you okay, Mister Munday?”

  “What …? Oh … yes. Yes, of course,” said Munday, his composure regained.

  Munday took a good mouthful of coffee, before producing what Karl had been waiting for: an envelope. The envelope. “You’ll find the other five hundred in there, as agreed. Count it, if you wish.”

  “I trust you,” said Karl, trying desperately to feel the contents through the envelope’s window before popping it in the drawer. It feels like it’s all there. He hoped so.

  “Good. That’s how all transactions should be. Firmly embedded in trust. Now, there is one more thing I need you to do. I will make it worthwhile for you, of course.” Munday produced an identical envelope from an inside pocket. However, in comparison to the other one, this envelope looked obese. “There’s a grand in there.”

  Karl’s face reddened slightly. His sinuses suddenly cleared. He hoped his face hadn’t betrayed his racing heart.

  “I don’t imagine you’re simply going to ask me to get Milligan’s shoe size?” quipped Karl, his fingers barely restrained from grabbing the envelope. He sipped another mouthful of coffee, his eyes peeping over the cup, and unintentionally spied Naomi eavesdropping at the door. He gave her a withering look.

  “That first thousand was just a tester, Mister Kane, to see how you operate,” said Munday. “In all probability, I could have found out all the information you have already conveyed to me, just by waiting on a journalist to eventually cover the story in full.”

  “But you don’t have the luxury of time. Do you?”

  A tight smile appeared on Munday’s face. “I’m beginning to like you, Mister Kane. Up to your neck in debt, and yet you have the brass balls to carry a charade of indifference.”

  “What makes you think I’m in debt?” Karl’s arse suddenly felt itchy, but he fought the temptation to scratch it in the presence of Munday.

  “Like you, I have my sources.” Munday stared into Karl’s eyes. “You’re a very suspicious person, Mister Kane. I like that in a man.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that – the suspicious bit. Good job I’m not too paranoid or over-sensitive.”

  “On the contrary, I think being suspicious is a healthy trait. It keeps the brain ticking, alert for any unforeseen hazards.”

  “I’ll try and remember that the next time I feel a heart attack coming on. Now, how can I be of help?”

  Munday’s voice lowered to a whisper. “A man was found dead two days ago, at his home. Coincidentally, not too far from here in the city centre. According to my source, the police believe a prostitute was involved.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sure you could find out the name of most, if not all prostitutes in the area.”

  Karl laughed. “Better not let Naomi hear you say that. She might get the wrong impression.”

  “Prostitution isn’t endemic in Belfast – yet. There can’t be that many prostitutes operating in the city centre. I would appreciate a list of known ones.”

  The itching in Karl’s arse had suddenly become more aggressive. Karl did a slight wiggle, thinking of the cold haemorrhoid cream, the relief it would bring.

  “You’re not some Charles Branson character, are you, thinking of carrying out some sort of Death Wish revenge?” asked Karl.

  Munday almost smiled. “Nothing illegal, Mister Kane. I can assure you of that. The man murdered was a good friend of mine. Money can make the wheels of justice move a lot quicker, I find, so long as you are armed with the facts. And that’s what I need from you. The facts.”

  “Why don’t you just get one of your police mates – I mean sources – to get you the info? It would be a hell of a lot cheaper.”

  Munday’s facial muscles moved slightly. An attempt at another smile? “I’m a great believer in the private sector.”

  Karl returned the attempted smile. “Good answer. What was the gentle man’s name?”

  “His name is – was – Joseph Kerr.”

  “And Milligan? Was he another of your friends?”

  Rising from his seat, Munday stared directly into Karl’s eyes. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  Waiting until Munday had left, Naomi stormed into the room.

  “You’re not really going to get him that list, are you?”

  “Anyone would think by the look on your face I’d just lost a grand instead of gaining one.” Karl began searching the desk for his haemorrhoid cream.

  Folding her arms tightly, Naomi said, “There’ll be other clients. We don’t need this creep.”

  “In case it’s slipped your mind, I have bills coming out of my arse along with blood,” replied Karl, finding the cream, pointing it directly at Naomi.

  “Both can be stemmed. We can cut down on our spending, if need be. And instead of avoiding the doctor and behaving like a big girl’s blouse, you can get a good check-up.”

  “I thought when we started this relationship, we agreed there’d be nothing complicated?”

  “Doing the decent thing isn’t complicated for good people, Karl.”

  “Most of the working girls are well known to everyone in Belfast. It’s a small town, Naomi, in case you haven’t noticed. If Munday doesn’t get the list from me, he’ll get it from somewhere else.”

  “Let him do that. I think your first hunch was right. He is some sort of vigilante character, Karl.”

  “Don’t let us make imaginary evils, when you know we have so many real ones to encounter. Oliver Goldsmith, The Good-Natured Man,” said Karl. “You’re making Munday into something he isn’t. Besides, if anything were to happen to any of the girls, he would be the chief suspect. He doesn’t look like a stupid man to me.”

  “I used to think the same about you,” said Naomi, slamming the door behind her, leaving Karl alone with the money, his thoughts, a tube of haemorrhoid cream and an arse suddenly itching like mad.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday, 5 February

  ‘Money speaks sense in a language all nations understand.’

  Aphra Behn, The Rover

  “What’s this?” asked Paul, the barman.

  “Looks like a five-spot to me,” replied Karl, directing a sip of Hennessy to
his mouth while the index finger of his other hand pushed the five-pound note in Paul’s direction.

  “You want another brandy on the rocks, sir?”

  “What is the fastest way to get stoned?”

  “Sir?”

  “Brandy on the rocks. Think about it.”

  The barman seemed totally unimpressed at Karl’s humour. “Very good, sir. Another brandy?”

  “That five-spot is for you, my friend.”

  The barman looked suspiciously at Karl.

  “For me? Why?”

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Lester Piggott once said. All I ask is some info concerning the striking blonde.”

  “The what?”

  “The striking blonde. Isn’t that how you described her?”

  The skin on Paul’s face tightened noticeably. “You a cop? Listen, I’ve already told your mates that I remember very little about the woman.”

  “I’m not a cop, and those weren’t my mates you were talking to.”

  “Do you want another brandy or not, sir? I have other customers to look after.”

  “Your face looks like Rick’s in Casablanca.”

  “What?”

  “‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine.’”

  Paul’s face screwed into puzzlement, then slowly unscrewed into a half grin. “That has to be the worse Humphrey Bogart impersonation I have ever heard or seen – and I’ve heard some bad ones, in my time. Believe me.”

  “I shouldn’t have shaved this morning. I can do a mean Bogart better with a seven o’clock shadow.” Still with the phoney Bogart, he said, “‘Play it once, Paul. For old times’ sake.’”

  Paul quickly slipped the five-spot into his pocket. “As I told the cops, the woman came here a few times. Sipped Drambuie. Kept to herself. Know what I mean? Caused no bother. Very classy looking. Very classy, indeed.” Paul craned over his shoulder, scanned the bar from top to bottom, before looking directly at Karl. “My gut says she was a brasser. Actually, high-class call girl would be a better term. Brasser is too common for someone as classy as that.”

  Weighing Paul up as a person of the world, Karl did not question the young man’s judgement. “Do you think she knew her victim?”

  “Joe? Naw. No way. Joe was totally out of his league with her. I was shocked when she walked out with him. Joe wasn’t exactly Brad Pitt, if you know what I mean?”

  “I know what you mean. More the pits.” Karl smiled. “What was the attraction, then, if not his rugged handsomeness?”

  “Beats me.” Paul shrugged. “Oh, did I mention she was quite muscular?”

  “What?”

  “Muscular. Like she did a good workout every day. Looked like she could handle herself, if it came to it. Probably into judo and all that sort of shit.”

  “Muscular?” Karl thought for a moment. “Could she have been a he?”

  “What?”

  “A transvestite? A transsexual, even?”

  “No way! She was a real woman.” Paul sounded offended. “What do you take me for? Some sort of pervert?”

  “I’m not questioning your manhood, Paul, just asking the type of questions most cops don’t. I suppose all the glasses were washed?”

  “You’re thinking of fingerprints, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve done this thing before. Yes, I’m thinking of fingerprints.”

  “Yes, the glasses were all cleaned. Cops asked me the same thing during the interview. They were hoping to find fingerprints on any glasses used, but we always clean our glasses immediately after use. We run a very clean establishment here,” replied Paul, rather proudly. “Very hygienic.”

  Karl thought of a million smart retorts, but decided against using any of them.

  “Cigarette stubs with lipstick?” continued Karl. “Did she leave anything like that? Knife and fork from an unfinished meal?”

  “The cops asked the same. No, we clean up –”

  “Immediately after use. How silly of me to have asked. Bulldog seems to be really getting the hang of this, after all these years.”

  “Who?”

  “No one. Just a personal joke.”

  “There was one thing I forgot to mention to the cops, now that I think of it.”

  “Oh?”

  Paul said nothing, but smiled forcefully, as if advertising toothpaste.

  “Oh,” said Karl, producing another five-spot, placing it on the counter.

  “She looked a lot like an actress, but I just can’t remember which one. I’ve been wracking my brains over it,” replied Paul, pocketing the fiver.

  “Well, when you rebuild them, let me know. Just make sure it’s soon. Otherwise, I’ll be back for my fiver. And remember: if you’re ever in any sort of shit, I’m the guy who sorts out the shit,” said Karl, handing a business card to Paul before quickly departing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday, 12 February

  ‘He knows death to the bone.’

  Yeats, Death

  FORENSIC PATHOLOGIST TOM Hicks’s face was ghostly green, mirrored by the flickering computer screen. Karl could see antsize digits running riot on Tom’s face and glasses.

  “Our Mister Kerr? Have you figured out how he died?” asked Karl, scanning the post-mortem report, leaning back on a struggling chair. “It says here that there were no bruises whatsoever. What about those little bite marks mapping the face?”

  Glancing from the computer screen, Tom stared at Karl for all of one second. “Those are from his cat.”

  “What?” Karl frowned.

  “When his ex-wife arrived on the scene, she discovered that the pet cat had chewed lovingly on his face.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if his ex left the cat there deliberately, to do the dirty deed. I hate cats, so you’ll get no pussy-eating jokes from me.”

  Tom shook his head impatiently. “Grow up, Karl, for god’s sake. Your puerile nonsense is annoying at the best of times.”

  “Remember at school, when we were barely teenagers? You always said that.”

  “I don’t like to be reminded of those days, thank you.”

  Chalk Karl and Cheese Tom had been best friends since arriving at grammar school, both thrown in at the daunting deep end as new pupils transferred from their respective primary schools. Bespectacled Tom wasn’t long in attracting the usual diverse crew of bullies, testing their testosterone on the perceived weaker members in the concrete jungle. Unfortunately for the bullies, Tom’s friend Karl wasn’t weak, and loved nothing more than getting down and dirty, administering black eyes and blue balls to those on the receiving end, regardless of their size or strength. Soon, word spread not to mess with Karl ‘Kuckoo’ Kane – or his best friend, even when they became collectively known as the nerd and the turd.

  “The nerd and the turd,” smiled Karl. “I’ve often wondered what smart arse thought those nicknames up. I bet it was Milky Johnson, the sneaky bastard … Any guesses?”

  “I’d love to reminisce with you and all that, but if you don’t mind, let’s stay focused? We’re not kids anymore – at least one of us isn’t. Now, can we continue?”

  “The cat. You were saying?”

  “They found a badly chewed condom, inside the dead cat’s mouth. The unfortunate animal had choked to death.”

  “A cat trying to destroy evidence? Wilson will probably charge it with obstruction of justice.”

  “Phosgene.”

  “Weird name for a cat, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what killed Kerr. Toxicology tests conducted reveal traces of phosgene.”

  “Phosgene? What’s that?”

  “It’s a major industrial chemical used to make plastics and pesticides. It was used by the Nazis in the gas chambers to exterminate the Jews. It’s what chloroform turns into when it’s exposed to sunlight. With cooling and pressure, phosgene gas can be converted into a liquid so that it can be shipped and stored. It becomes deadly if it rises above seventy degr
ees.”

  Karl did a little whistle. “Powerful shit. But how did it become so deadly? Where did all the heat come from? According to your report, the room was quite cold, with two of the main windows wide open.”

  “I’m surprised your imagination can’t figure that out.”

  “What?”

  “The inside of the room was cold, but not the condom.” Karl detected a crafty wink in Tom’s reply.

  “I still don’t get it,” admitted Karl. “Where did all the heat come from?”

  “Don’t be modest, Karl. It doesn’t become you,” sighed Tom. “The inside of the condom was laced with phosgene. All the heat necessary was there in the form of his penis being warmed by her vagina. It would have been like an oven.”

  “Can’t you just say cock and cunt, like normal people? The terminology you use makes it sound creepy and dirty. But wouldn’t she be asking for trouble, if the condom broke?”

  “She’s obviously a risk-taker,” replied Tom, casually. “Danger probably intensifies her sexual prowess and appetite.”

  “Especially danger so close to the bone?” added Karl.

  Ignoring the pun, Tom returned to reading the information on the screen.

  “Where would you get this phosgene?” continued Karl, ignoring Tom’s feeble attempt to ignore him. “Doesn’t sound like something your average Tesco would have on their buy-one-get-one-free shelf?”

  “I’ve only been able to trace a small shipment allocated to Queen’s University, about six years ago. Unfortunately, what little they had was destroyed in a fire a few years ago by a careless student.”

  “Students. You got to love them. Give them a volcano, and they go and sit on it.”

  “Keep your voice down. I have a student from Queen’s working here at the moment. God knows what he gets up to when I’m not here …”

  “The old necrophilia?” said Karl, smiling.

  Tom sighed. “Haven’t you a horse meeting to go to, or something equally as important?”

  “What about the smell from the phosgene? Wouldn’t the victim have smelt something not right? Surely this phosgene would have been stinking the place out?”