The Dark Place Page 9

  Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

  Approximately a quarter of a million people have been buried on the site of Belfast City Cemetery, including politicians, inventors and writers such as Robert Wilson Lynd, one of the finest scribes Belfast has ever produced and friend to J.B. Priestly and James Joyce. The cemetery itself is dotted with beautiful cast-iron fountains and even boasts its own stream running through it. Local myth claims the stream is a purification, washing away the sins of forgotten and lost souls.

  Over the years, Karl had attended numerous funerals at the cemetery, some sparsely attended, others labelled “a good turn out”. But nothing had prepared him for the gathering crowd from the gay and transsexual community thronging the grounds as Ivana’s pink coffin was slowly being eased into the clay on this clear-skied Wednesday morning. Local news reporters – predictors of a circus-type funeral the day before – seemed bitterly disappointed at the dignity of the mourners and onlookers, and suddenly became instrumental in fulfilling their own dark prophecy by acting like clowns, jumping over nestling headstones like horses at the Grand National as they jostled for position using cameras and elbows as weapons.

  Granted, a goodly number of mourners were dressed in brassy outfits of orange, pink and rainbow-coloured garments, but the vast majority – including Karl and Naomi – wore sombre blacks and greys.

  “Oh Karl,” sniffed Naomi. “Poor poor Ivana … she … she never did anyone any … any harm. Did she?”

  “No. Of course not,” replied Karl, his suspicious and cynical mind thinking the opposite.

  “But why … why poor Ivana?”

  “I really don’t know, love,” replied Karl, wondering the exact same question.

  “Has Tom told you anything about how it happened?”

  “The cops have stated it was a burglary gone bad. There’s been a spate of them in that area over the last two months. They’re working on the theory that it’s the same person or persons,” replied Karl, deliberately omitting the grisly details of Ivana’s gruesome murder: her throat had been cut from ear to ear, almost severing the head.

  Naomi sniffed more, dabbing tears with a wet Kleenex. “They’re evil … evil, Karl.”

  “Hello,” said a voice, directly behind Karl and Naomi, interrupting the conversation.

  Turning, Karl stared directly into the face of Detective Malcolm Chambers.

  “Hello,” said Karl, trying to control the rise in his voice. “Naomi, this is Detective Malcolm Chambers, one of Detective Inspector Mark Wilson’s new and improved men.”

  “Oh … hello,” sniffed Naomi, reaching out her hand.

  “Hello,” responded Chambers, smiling, shaking Naomi’s hand before directing his attention back to Karl. “This is weird, but I still don’t know your name.”

  “What are you doing here?” asked Karl, easing Naomi back, closer, away from the smiling Chambers.

  “I’ve been put in charge of the Gilmore murder inquiry.”

  “The Gilmore? Oh … Ivana.” Hearing Ivana’s surname being spoken was almost alien to Karl’s ears. “Don’t take offence, Detective, but just how many murder inquiries have you been involved in?”

  “This … this is actually my first.”

  “It’s good to see the police are taking this seriously,” replied Karl, sarcastically.

  “Have you any suspects, Detective Chambers?” asked Naomi.

  “Well …” Chambers looked uncertain. “Actually, the inquiry is ongoing, and I’m not supposed to divulge anything to the public.”

  “We’re … we were Ivana’s best friends. Practically family,” assured Naomi. “Surely you could tell us?”

  Chambers glanced over his shoulder. A police photographer stood a few yards away, snapping pictures of the mourners and gathering onlookers. “We have a suspect in custody.”

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Naomi.

  “That was quick,” said Karl, his face knotting slightly. “Who is it?”

  “Please, don’t breathe a word of this to anyone – especially the media.”

  “No. Of course not,” said Naomi, easing closer to the young detective.

  “A Mister Vincent Harrison. He was seen leaving the Gilmore house at the time of the murder.”

  Naomi’s face paled. “Oh my goodness.”

  “He’s denying everything, of course, but it’s only a matter of time before he admits it. Initially, we thought it was a burglary gone wrong. But we got a tip from a member of the public on the confidential phone line, stating they saw Harrison leave Gilmore’s house at the time of the murder.”

  “That was nice and confidentially convenient,” stated Karl.

  “You sound almost disappointed,” replied Chambers.

  “Forgive my scepticism. Being an agnostic probably has something to do with it.”

  “Well, we know for certain that Ivana had a date with Harrison,” cut in Naomi. “She told us that only a few days ago.”

  “She did? That’s great,” proclaimed Chambers. “That’s a vital piece of information that could strengthen our case against Harrison’s denial, Naomi.”

  “No,” corrected Karl. “That’s hearsay. We don’t know for a fact that Harrison ever went to Ivana’s. And we certainly aren’t certain of it, at all. Just what Ivana told us, at the time. It’s circumstantial and would be thrown out of any court in the land.”

  “No need to be so gruff, Karl,” admonished Naomi, face flushing slightly. “I’m only telling Detective Chambers what Ivana said to us.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the law … Karl,” said Chambers.

  “I know a lot about everything, which makes me an expert on nothing.”

  “Well, the evidence is piling up against Harrison, and that certainly won’t be hearsay.”

  “What evidence?” asked Karl, not expecting an answer.

  “I … I shouldn’t really be discussing it.”

  “You can tell us,” said Naomi. “We won’t tell a soul. Promise.”

  Chambers looked at Naomi, and then at Karl, before returning his gaze back to Naomi. “We found a wedding ring at the scene. It was traced to Lunn’s jewellers, in Queen’s Arcade. It was one of a pair specifically designed for Harrison and his wife, Sinead.”

  “He … he was married?” asked Naomi, her face failing to hide the shock.

  “Two years. His poor wife fainted when she heard the news. Probably more stunned about her husband having sex with a …” Chambers’s voice suddenly trailed off. “I mean … you know …”

  “A transsexual? You can say the word,” said Karl, feeling a bubble of anger rising to the surface. “If the world had more Ivanas, it would be a far better place.”

  “I didn’t mean it in that way.”

  “No, of course you didn’t. Tell me, Detective Chambers. Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Robert Hannah?”

  Chambers suddenly looked uneasy.

  “I … don’t think so. Why? Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Probably just plucked his name out of the air. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to go,” said Karl, gripping Naomi’s elbow before heading off towards the far gate of the cemetery.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Naomi, as they reached the gate. “He’s only trying to find justice for Ivana.”

  “Who? Charming Chambers with his Tom Cruise smirk? He couldn’t find a needle if the thread was still attached.”

  “He gave us information not available to the public. Don’t you believe what he told us about Harrison?”

  “I believe Harrison did what most married men would do when confronted with having an affair – especially an affair with a transsexual. He denied it. Now the cops are wasting time, hoping to coerce a so-called confession out of Harrison, when in fact, they should be out there focusing on the real murderer. Want to know something interesting?”

  “What?”

  “Remember I told you I passed that information about Hannah on to the cops?”

>   “Yes.”

  “Well, it was smiling Detective Malcolm Chambers who took the call.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed. And he just claimed never to have heard of Hannah.”

  “I think I need a drink.”

  “You read my mind. Come on. Let’s go,” replied Karl, easing Naomi towards the car, but not before looking over his shoulder just in time to see Detective Malcolm Chambers instructing the police photographer to aim the camera lens in Karl’s direction.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Man is a creature who lives not upon bread alone, but principally by catchword.”

  Robert Louis Stevenson, Virginibus Puerisque

  Karl’s mobile rang as he was about to leave the office. He checked the number. “Number withheld”, said the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Mister Kane?” said an archaic voice. “Mister Karl Kane?”

  “Yes … who’s this?”

  “You’ve been very naughty, Mister Kane.”

  “Really? Listen, if this is about getting spanked, I’m seriously not into it – at least not by a man. So you take care and –”

  “You’re involving yourself in things that are really no concern of yours.”

  “People tell me that all the time, Mister …?”

  “I’m not people, Mister Kane. I believe you’ve already been told quite a bit about me by a passing friend of yours.”

  “Really?” The hairs on the back of Karl’s neck started nipping as he began searching frantically for a tape recorder in the top drawer of the desk. “Friend? What friend would that be, Mister …?” Where the hell is the damn thing!

  “Oh, I’m sure you know the friend in question – no longer with us, I’m afraid, buried two days ago. You really need to mind your own business, Mister Kane, rather than mine. Do you watch movies?”

  “All the time. It’s all I do.” Where the fuck is that piece of crap?

  “Remember what happened to Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong?”

  “Vaguely.” Found it! Karl quickly clicked a button.

  “Good day, Mister Kane.”

  “Who was that?” asked Naomi, just as Karl slammed the tape recorder back into the drawer.

  “What? Oh that?” said Karl, looking at his mobile. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me,” replied Naomi, folding her arms, waiting.

  “Some dirty old dog wanting to spank me. I wouldn’t have minded if it’d been a woman.”

  Naomi burst out laughing. “I can believe it. He probably spotted you walking about the town and saw that sexy wiggle of yours.”

  “You mean this one?” Karl began wiggling his arse.

  Naomi’s laughter became louder.

  “You’re such a tease, Karl Kane.”

  “I know. You wait until I get back later tonight, then we’ll get serious about the spanking,” said Karl, kissing her quickly on the cheek. “I’m off to see Tom. Find out if he has heard anything through the grapevine.”

  Leaving the office, he displayed little of the unease he now suddenly felt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Of malice or of sorcery, or that power

  Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm,

  Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt;

  Surprised by unjust force, but never enthralled.”

  Milton, Comus

  It was getting late, and Karl was feeling tired as he walked down Hill Street towards home. The day hadn’t been too fruitful. Hicks’s information had been sketchy at best. What little information there was available about Bob Hannah certainly wasn’t being shared – at least not with those outside Wilson’s magic circle.

  Already darkness was settling in as Karl fumbled for his keys outside the office.

  “Got a light?” asked a figure standing in the shadowy doorway, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  Karl was about to reply when he saw – too late – the fist shooting up like a meaty rocket, sparks tailing it before impact. He had never – at least as far as he could remember – been whacked across the side of the head with a frozen Moy Park chicken. If he had, he held little doubt that this was exactly the way it would have felt after being smacked in the face by this great slab of hand and knuckles.

  It wasn’t the pain so much as the surprise. Karl quickly tried steadying. Tried balling fists into defensive mode. Tried. Failed. His knees began buckling.

  Another rocket hit him in the chin. He felt a bone in his face snap.

  “I said, do you have a light?” asked Mister Moy Park, calmly, landing another frozen chicken rocket to Karl’s solar plexus.

  Struggling to keep the lights on in his head, Karl reached for the wall, trying desperately to steady himself. He failed, hitting the ground, banging his head off the pavement, bloodying.

  Suddenly, darkness came running at him.

  “You don’t look so bad,” said Mister Moy Park, hovering his boot over Karl’s face before crunching down on it.

  Karl felt the impact on the bridge of his nose seconds before Darkness took him into its loving arms.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “It’s an odd job, making decent people laugh.”

  Molière, La Critique de Pecole des Femmes

  Karl? Karl?

  Voices in my head. A whirling of maimed thoughts. Been having a lot of that lately.

  “Karl? Karl? Can you hear me?”

  “Huh?” Terrible pain. Feels like a train wreck.

  “Karl?”

  “Where … where am I?”

  “Karl!”

  “Naomi?”

  “Oh, Karl,” whispered Naomi, practically throwing herself on top of him. He tried wrapping his arms around her, but his arms felt lethargic. He didn’t recognise his surroundings.

  “Where … where am I, Naomi?”

  “You bastard, Karl Kane! Don’t you ever do this to me again!” she exclaimed, kissing his battered face. “Scaring the fucking shit out of me.”

  “You … you just used the ‘f’ word, Naomi Kirkpatrick. That’s the … that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear like that. What’s gotten into … you?”

  “That’s you rubbing off on me. I could kill you, for what you’ve put me through.”

  Karl tried desperately to chisel bits and pieces of information from the block of nothing in his mind. All he could conjure up were frozen Moy Park chickens, flying at him from every direction.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Naomi. Where the hell am I?”

  “In hospital.”

  “What? You know I hate bloody hospitals. Get me the hell out of – ohhhhhh …” He shifted the weight from his aching ribs. “My ribs? Are they busted?”

  “No, thank goodness. Just badly bruised. The doctor said you were lucky that you didn’t –”

  “Yeah. Lucky’s my middle name – ohhhhhh,” moaned Karl, easing out of the bed. “Where’re my clothes? Get my stuff, Naomi. I’m getting out of here.”

  “But the doctor said –”

  “To hell with the doctor. He doesn’t have to pay the bloody medical bills. Where are my clothes?”

  Reluctantly, Naomi opened up the door of a tiny metal locker adjacent to the bed and began removing Karl’s clothes.

  “You’re going nowhere, Mister Kane,” said a nurse, appearing as Karl’s bare feet touched the floor.

  “I’m going home, sister, and there’s nothing you can do. Naomi? Give me those pants.”

  “Karl, listen to Nurse Williams. Please,” replied Naomi, holding the bundle of clothes in her arms.

  “You’ve been very badly beaten, Mister Kane.”

  “That’s a revelation?”

  “You have a possible hairline fracture in your chin.”

  “My hairline is going thin?”

  “Stop being smart, Karl,” admonished Naomi.

  “You need to stay here for at least a day, Mister Kane, in case
of internal bleeding.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Nurse Williams, and all that you’ve done, but if I don’t leave now, my wallet will be the one having internal bleeding. I really must get going.”

  “But … but the police? They want to interview you, see if you can give them any information on your attacker.”

  “Tell them he had long flowing blond hair, a winged helmet and goes by the name of Thor. He’s the one who gave me the hammering.”

  Nurse Williams looked taken aback.

  “Please forgive his ignorance, Nurse Williams,” pleaded Naomi. “He’s still a child at heart – a very spoilt child.”

  “Naomi, for the last time,” replied Karl, “will you give me those pants, or do I walk out of here commando style?”

  “Did you get a look at him, Karl?” asked Naomi, helping Karl ease on to the sofa near the window, an afternoon sun brightening up an otherwise gloomy setting.

  “Well, his name could have been Campbell, because his hands were huge soup plates and he hit me with fifty-seven varieties,” grimaced Karl. “Can you hand me some of those painkillers, please, my loveliest love? And a glass of Hennessy to wash away the hospital aftertaste in my mouth.”

  “Hennessy and painkillers? I don’t think so. You’ll take water or have them dry.”

  “You’re a bloody torturer. Know that?”

  “What did he steal from you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Have you checked what he stole from you, this mugger?”

  “I can do all that, later, once I get –”

  “I checked. He took nothing. Isn’t that a bit strange, a mugger leaving your wallet and mobile phone?”

  “Who’s the private investigator here, Naomi? You looking to take my job?” replied Karl, forcing a grin while licking at a swollen upper lip.

  “Is that an answer?”

  “Look, he was … he was probably surprised when he heard you opening the door. Now, can I have those painkillers, please? You’re starting to act like Kathy Bates in Misery.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. We both know he wasn’t a mugger, Karl.”