A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  'You still skimming off the Norris Greens, Tiny?' Koop stares across the tea cups at Prior. 'Did they ever find out it was you who lightened the load on that Rotterdam run?'

  Koop is talking about a case that came up three years before he retired. Another murder which led him and the MIT team back to the docks. During the case Koop discovered that Tiny Prior was being paid to grease the delivery lines for 'furniture' being shipped to the Netherlands. What he wasn't being paid for was skimming a little – he was, after all, Tiny Prior – off the real delivery; chemicals used in the manufacture of ecstasy. The Norris Greens took a hit when MIT passed the information along to the Organised Crime Squad. Koop kept Tiny's role to himself. Something for a rainy day. Which has just arrived.

  Tiny's pasty face turns even whiter. 'Don't joke, Mr Koopman.'

  Koop stands up and leans over Prior. 'Do I look like I'm fucking joking, Tiny? Now give me something I can use, or I'll let the Norris Greens know it was you. And I might be tempted to bring Keith Kite in on this one too.'

  'I can't.' Prior is shaking his head. 'They'll fucking kill me!'

  Koop drops his voice. 'No-one will know, Tiny. Just me and you. And you don't have to outright tell me. Just a pointer will do. Anything.'

  Tiny licks his lips. 'Alright. But it's nothing, really. And that's all you're getting, Mr Koopman.'

  'Fire away, Tiny.'

  Tiny Prior puts down his cup. 'You didn't hear this from me, right? You want to be looking at Halewood.'

  'Halewood? What is this, Give Us A Clue?' Koop jabs Tiny in the chest. 'Halewood? What does that mean?'

  Tiny Prior's face alters and Koop knows instantly that's all he's going to get from the Emperor of the Docks. 'That's it. Do what you want, Mr Koopman. You asked for something and I gave it yer. Now fuck off and leave me alone!'

  Koop stands up, his head brushing the steel roof of the cab.

  'Alright, Tiny. No need to get offensive.' Koop finishes his tea and replaces the cup in the saucer with a rattle. He looks out of the window and along the river towards Speke.

  Halewood lies ten miles south-east of Liverpool and means one thing and one thing only.

  Cars.

  The troubled Jaguar factory at Halewood produces the X-Type Jag, mainly for export. If Tiny Prior has pointed him at Halewood he's telling him that this business has something to do with cars. Koop knows that if Keith Kite is involved it's unlikely that the deal is about cars and cars alone. But it could mean that the cars are being used as a cover for something else.

  It doesn't take long for Koop to run into a brick wall.

  Without access to the force computers there's no way to get into the delivery manifests.

  Koop calls Keane and meets him in town.

  'I thought I told you to leave it alone?'

  'Told?' Koop arches his eyebrows. 'Are you serious, Frank?'

  'I was, yes.'

  Koop waves the comment away. He doesn't have time to get into a pissing contest.

  'Never mind all that.' Koop tells him about the information he's got from Tiny. Naturally he leaves Tiny's name out.

  'That's it?' says Keane. 'An anonymous tip about Jaguars? What am I supposed to do with that?'

  'You're supposed to be a fucking copper, Frank. Or have you forgotten that since I've been away? Christ almighty, I'm handing you a solid lead on this case. Think what we'd have done with it when I was here. We'd have been onto the thing like a dog on a rabbit.'

  'You're not here any more, Koop. That's the point. Things have changed.'

  'You mean you've changed.'

  'And what if I have? What the fuck business is it of yours?'

  'It's my son who was killed, Frank. I'd say that makes it my business, wouldn't you?'

  Keane glares at Koop. 'Don't come that crap, Koop. Stevie was no son of yours – not in a way that means anything. So don't get all high and mighty with me.'

  Koop tries to calm his breathing. He doesn't want an assault charge. And he isn't at all sure that Keane wouldn't go right ahead and kick his arse back to Australia anyway.

  'Look, I've given you the information. You must have known when you gave me Stevie's file that I'd be digging around. Well, I've done some digging and I've brought you a bone. A small one, I'll give you that, but it is a fucking bone. Can you at least look into it?'

  Keane lets out a long breath.

  'Okay. Okay, Koop. I'll see what we can do. But things have really changed since Perch came in.'

  'This is still a police force, isn't it?'

  'Yes, it is, Koop. A force that you're no longer part of. And I'm regretting giving you that file. I told you before. It was a mistake. You coming back was a mistake. Go home.'

  Keane walks away without another word.

  Home?

  Koop isn't sure he knows where that is any more.

  38

  'You're getting paranoid, Jimmy. Relax. Eckhardt's just some old fart. He's got nothing solid.'

  'Relax? Easy for you to say, brother.' Jimmy rubs his fingers against his chin. He and Tony Link are at the Q1 apartment, Ella having been sent out with a wad to do some shopping.

  'What do you want?' she'd asked.

  'Me? I don't want fucking anything. Just go shopping. Buy something.'

  Ella had shrugged and taken the money, leaving the two men drinking in the apartment.

  She doesn't like Tony or Stefan coming round. Jimmy might pay for the place, but this is her home and Stefan Meeks in particular is an out-and-out creep.

  Jimmy shared her with Stefan one time and since then he looks at her as if he wants to hurt her. He's careful to smile and joke, but he can't hide what's in his eyes. Tony, too, is less respectful than Ella would like. Despite their clothes and their cars and the money, they are not classy.

  She's glad to leave even if she can see storm clouds gathering outside the windows. If she parks at Pac Fair she needn't get wet.

  Jimmy Gelagotis drums his fingers on the arm of his chair but says nothing. Tony Link risks a glimpse at his watch.

  'You busy?' says Jimmy.

  'I got a few things to do. You know how it is.'

  Gelagotis nods. He does understand all about the need for keeping your eye on the details. It's how he's grown his businesses, the legit as well as the criminal. Tony is right. Except now Jimmy wants him and everyone else to focus their full attention on the shipment. This whole thing is beginning to leak like a busted bucket. First Stevie. Now this Eckhardt turning up out of the blue.

  Details. Details.

  'The cars?'

  Tony Link lets out an almost imperceptible sigh. 'They're golden, Jimmy. Stefan's all over 'em.'

  'They moved them?'

  'We've been over this, Jimmy. Yes, they've been moved. They're all at the lock-up in Beenleigh. Just like we discussed. Stefan took care of it all.'

  Jimmy looks at Tony Link. One of those Greek looks.

  'You trust him?'

  'Who?'

  'Stefan. You trust him?'

  Jimmy sits up in his chair.

  'Fuck, yes I trust him!' says Link. 'He's a solid bloke. I can't believe you asked me that, Jimmy. Stefan's one of our own.'

  Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't flinch. He nods absently. 'He's a Pom too. Did you know?'

  Link shrugs. 'Yeah? So what? Being a Pom makes him suss?'

  'The Poms sent the shipment.' Jimmy isn't asking a question but Link replies as if he is.

  'Stefan's good, Jimmy. This isn't the time to be worrying about your own.'

  Jimmy looks out of the window. Thinking: you're wrong, Tony. This is exactly the time to be worrying about the people around you. And about the details.

  'I want to move the cars again. Get them somewhere safer. And get the stuff moving, get it sold.' Jimmy talks quickly, decisively. 'And I want to see it for myself. All of it. All the merchandise. Now.' He gets up from his chair and grabs his car keys from the table.

  Link waits a beat before following Gelagotis from the apartment.
The two stand at the express lift side by side. Tony glances at the man next to him, the man he's been in business with for the past four years.

  He hopes to fuck that Stefan hasn't started moving the stuff already. If he has, they'll have to kill Jimmy earlier than planned.

  39

  The ticket is at the front desk when Koop gets back to the hotel at five. Anfield Road End, lower level, kick-off at eight. There's no note and Koop stares at the ticket for a while.

  'Who left this?' Koop asks the receptionist. She shakes her head. 'Sorry, Mr Koopman, I don't know. I could ask around, see if whoever was on the last shift knows?'

  Koop waves a hand. 'That's OK, it's no big deal.' A moment's reflection and he knows that he'll be using the ticket. It's a development Koop would be foolish to pass up. Chasing the delivery boy won't help. Besides, it's almost five years since he's been to the match.

  Two hours later, Koop is cutting through the cobbled back alleys up from Everton Valley. He's one of thousands heading to the brightly lit shrine which looms above the terraced streets. The lights from the stadium make silhouettes of the crowd and flicker on the glass shards concreted into the back walls of the tiny houses. Home-made burglar alarms. Some residents have chosen the belt-and-braces approach of razor wire and/or a rottweiler. There are no houses without some sort of violent deterrent. Koop knows they're wise. Anfield is a tough neighbourhood. He's arrested a significant number of scallies around here.

  Closer to the ground and Koop feels a surge of pride. He always did prefer the night games. At the back of the Kop the pre-match crowd scarf down burgers, chips, hot dogs. Beer too from the microscopic corner pubs, packed to overflowing and already in full song. A sign of the times: amidst the burger bars and dodgy souvenir stalls is a proper coffee stand, complete with steaming espresso machine. Lattes and cappuccinos in the lee of the Kop. Who'd have thought it?

  Koop walks around to the opposite end. At the corner of Anfield Road he catches the eye of one of the mounted police who does a double take. 'DCI Koopman!' says the copper, a twenty-year veteran. 'I thought you'd gone overseas? Canada, right?'

  'Australia.' He shakes the outstretched hand but cuts the reminiscences short. He's already getting the odd look from more than a few of the crowd and has no desire to raise his profile any higher. Leaving the horses behind, Koop finds the turnstile and squeezes through.

  He's in his seat ten minutes before kick-off. On his right is a young family. Dad and two excited lads of about eight and ten. The father nods affably as Koop sits, but it's clear this is not who left the ticket at the hotel. The aisle seat to his left remains empty through the ritualistic singing. The Liverpool anthem works its customary magic and Koop feels a tingle down his spine at the sound of forty thousand voices in unison. Fucking hell; what a moment.

  It's five minutes into the game before Koop feels someone slip into the empty seat and he looks round.

  'Hello, Menno,' says Carl. 'Any score?'

  It's one-nil to the Reds at halftime, but Menno Koopman has barely registered the details. By some tacit understanding, he and Carl have exchanged just a few words during the first half, and then only concerning the game, both of them grateful for the spectacle in front of them. That's why Carl chose here, Koop thinks, and why he waited until the whistle to take his seat.

  'It's good to see you, Menno,' says Carl. The two of them are standing, shaking some feeling into their feet. 'Really.'

  Koop is rocked by the warmth in his brother's voice. He feels a flood of shame at the way he's been. Or not been, to be more accurate.

  'You're looking good,' says Koop. And he's right, Carl Koopman is looking good. Considering. Older, obviously, and with a residual wariness about him that any copper would recognise as that of someone who's spent time locked up, but fit and healthy. He's dressed conservatively but well. There's no sign to the untrained eye that Carl is anything but a reasonably prosperous middle-aged man in good shape.

  'I hadn't realised,' says Koop. 'About Bowden, I mean.'

  Carl raises an eyebrow.

  'That you'd . . . been released.'

  Carl smiles but there's a touch of grit there. 'Cured, you mean.'

  Koop nods. 'Sorry.'

  The word hangs in the air. The pause threatens to become more awkward than it already is. Both men begin to speak at once and laugh.

  'After you,' says Menno. The phrase seems absurdly formal.

  'I don't mind that you didn't visit,' says Carl. 'What I did, well, it must have been very difficult. For you, I mean. It wasn't easy for me either, but I understand where you were coming from. Being a cop and all that.'

  Menno coughs.

  'I'm not saying I wasn't hurt,' continues Carl. 'But it's OK, Menno.' He looks directly at Koop and as Carl holds his gaze Koop feels vaguely uncomfortable. He forces himself not to look away.

  'I was ill, you know. I know you lot – coppers – don't see it that way, but that's what it was.'

  Menno doesn't know what to say. He makes a vague gesture with his shoulders, not quite a shrug.

  'I am better,' adds Carl.

  Menno nods. 'OK.' He looks around the stadium. 'Water under the bridge,' he says.

  'I've moved on,' says Carl. 'It's over.'

  'It's certainly over for Liam Jones.' The name of Carl's victim slips out before Koop can stop himself and Koop doesn't know why. The loss of one more drug-gobbling scrote certainly didn't deprive the world of anything that could be described as a productive human being and Koop feels slightly shameful using him as a moral baseball bat on his brother.

  'That's true,' says Carl. 'Very perceptive, Menno. You probably didn't need to point it out.'

  Koop sighs. 'Look, Carl, I don't know how to behave here. We haven't seen each other since . . . well, since the court case. I probably should have visited. I don't know. I don't know why I mentioned Jones. Who knows what's right in this kind of thing?'

  'I heard about Stevie,' says Carl.

  This information brings Menno up short and he feels the faintest whisper of disquiet tickle the back of his brain.

  'How?'

  'That doesn't matter.'

  Koop thinks: yes, it does. He tries to stop himself behaving like a policeman but it's hard. He waits for Carl to speak again.

  'Family is family, whatever happens,' says Carl, and this time there's no mistaking it; Koop's antennae are twitching. Carl hasn't changed his voice a fraction but Koop feels a charge in the atmosphere. 'I knew you'd come home.' Carl leans back and Koop lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

  'You knew?'

  'Yeah, I knew.' Carl smiles again. 'You're my brother, Menno. You can't change that. Blood is blood etc, etc.'

  Koop runs his tongue against his teeth. There's something wrong here and he tries to choose his words carefully. It doesn't work and comes out too blunt.

  'How did you know about Stevie, Carl?' he says. 'It hasn't been in the papers.'

  Carl blinks and looks as though he's about to speak. Then his puzzled expression hardens into one of understanding.

  'You think I had something to do with it? Loony tops nephew to get back at older brother – is that the great detective's scenario? Burton told me you'd been in. That's how I knew. Fuck, Menno, what do you think I am?'

  Carl turns and stalks off towards the exit leaving Koop watching him. The fact is, Menno Koopman doesn't have the faintest clue about what his brother is, or has become.

  'Jesus,' Koop mutters under his breath. 'Carl, wait!'

  Koop heads in the direction taken by Carl. A minute later he's standing outside the ground looking up and down Anfield Road. It's dark and still busy. Menno spots Carl and trots after him.

  'Wait,' says Koop as he taps his brother on the shoulder.

  It isn't Carl. 'Sorry, mate,' says Koop to the stranger. 'Thought you were someone else.'

  The man nods and walks off, leaving Menno standing in the middle of Anfield Road. He jams his hands into his coat pocket and heads towa
rds the city.

  Twenty metres away, Carl Koopman steps out from the black mouth of an alley bisecting the row of window-boarded terraces and follows his brother.

  By ten, Koop is halfway pissed. Three quick pints and chasers will do that. He's somewhere round the back of Bold Street, at a bar that wasn't there when he'd left Liverpool. Across the square a chattering crowd spills out of a converted former grain warehouse. For the first time, Koop notices it's an art gallery, its warm brick façade lit from below by a series of blue spotlights which cast beams up and onto the enamelled metal of the gallery sign. In trendy lower case, the name has been cut out – the granary – and its enhanced shadow cants up on the brickwork. In the courtyard the people look no less shiny and modern. The sound of their chattering reminds Koop of the lorikeets gathering in his fig tree at dusk.

  He swallows the last of his beer and drifts over to the gallery. No-one asks for a ticket and he lifts a glass of white wine from a passing waiter. He's already had too much but after the scene at Anfield he's past caring. This whole thing – whatever the fuck it is – is not working out. Exactly what Koop hoped to get from his trip he doesn't know. The one thing he does know is that he's getting nowhere fast. First Keane's ultimatum – there's no other word for it – and then the fucked-up thing with Carl. Koop doesn't even know if the Halewood information he gave Keane is being acted on or not.

  And then he sees Keith Kite.

  It's a sign, thinks Koop, although he has no patience with that sort of mystical crap. Whatever it is, as soon as Koop sees Kite he knows there's going to be trouble.

  He wishes he hadn't already had a few, though. He'd have preferred a clear head for this.

  Koop takes a mouthful of wine and wanders around the gallery, making a show of looking at the artwork. No longer a complete philistine, thanks to a lifetime with Zoe, he knows enough to see that this is good stuff.

  Intensely worked images have been digitally treated somehow so that their content is rendered almost impossible to extract. Yet the things positively hum with a playful sexuality. Koop looks across the crowded gallery and from a distance can see that the images have been taken from hugely inflated home-made pornography – threesomes, foursomes, spit-roasts, role-play, orgies – the tangled bodies pixelated, treated, abstracted until they become whirling patterns of vibrant colour.