A Dark Place to Die

by Ed Chatterton

  Beauty from porn. They're clever, sexy pieces that Koop would, under normal circumstances, have enjoyed talking about with Zoe. Now, though, there's only one thing on his mind.

  Keith Kite.

  Koop had history with Kite long before Stevie. Anyone at MIT worked cases that had his fingers all over them. As slippery as an eel, and protected by more than a decade of graft, Kite proved impossible to link to anything substantial that would stand up in court. Witnesses, naturally enough, after seeing what happened to others who testified, clammed up. Koop didn't blame them, and since most of the cases where Kite was involved weren't homicides, his interest in Kite was marginal. Until now.

  Seeing Keane bring Kite in for questioning, so soon after being given the tip by Alan Hunter, means only one thing: Kite is involved. If Kite is involved, then Kite is the person responsible for killing Stevie.

  Koop takes another gulp of wine and fights to control himself. Don't lose it, Koopman.

  In a corner of the gallery, a temporary bar has been installed. In front of it stands a knot of people laughing and joking. It is, to a student of Liverpool types, an interesting mix, and Koop is nothing if not a lifelong observer, even pissed. To anyone with a working knowledge of Liverpool serious crime, the majority of those gathered around the bar are instantly recognisable as trouble. Kite stands in the middle, a champagne glass in hand, a thin blonde to his right, an artistic looking middle-aged woman to his left, possibly the gallery owner. Three men in suits, two of the Halligan tribe, and an uncomfortable-looking gorilla who Koop vaguely recognises from prior encounters with Kite: Bourke, is it? A fourth man drinking water stands slightly off to one side. Koop can't tell if he's with Kite's party or not and doesn't recognise him.

  The rest of the group are a ragtag of suits and women wearing very short skirts. All of them look moneyed and, to Koop's eyes, most have already had more than a toot of marching powder. Their conversation has that strident swagger that typifies a night out with Charlie.

  Kite appears to be listening intently to what the arty woman is saying. Koop has heard he's an art lover. How much Kite understands about it is another matter; Koop figures he may have adopted 'art' as a way of lifting himself above what he truly is. From the adoring looks and barking laughs he's getting, the guise is working.

  Without realising it, Koop drifts closer to the group and, as Kite turns his face from the conversation, his eyes catch Koop's. Kite is momentarily blank-faced before he raises his glass in Koop's direction. He turns away to the man drinking water and says something in his ear. Both of them look at Koop.

  Koop realises he's grinding his teeth.

  He forces himself to relax and finds a waiter, taking another glass from the tray. Even as he takes a mouthful of the wine he registers that it isn't the smartest of moves. He replaces the wine, swaps it for water and turns to inspect a large-scale piece consisting of polished silver balloons. The work has a dizzying quality that makes Koop's head swim, although whether that is the work itself, the wine, or the strain of not putting Keith Kite through the gallery window, he doesn't know.

  'Fuckin' exquisite, eh?'

  Koop turns.

  Kite stands at his shoulder, smaller than Koop, and points at a painting to Koop's left. 'Clever little bastard. You know if you look at 'em from a distance they're all fucking?'

  Koop glances back at the group at the bar. Only the man drinking water is looking in their direction.

  'What do you want, Kite?'

  Kite smiles. 'Me?' He tilts his glass towards Koop. 'Shouldn't the question be the other way round? I thought you'd left town, Cuntstable Koopman. For a land down under, where women summat and men . . . oh, I forget the fucking song. Load of shite, anyway. What brings you back to our glorious European City of Culture? Art? Or are you visiting that psycho brother of yours?'

  'It was DCI Koopman, Kite. And you know exactly why I'm back.'

  Kite opens his arms wide in mock outrage. 'Me? You're giving me credit for mind-reading, Mr Koopman. I'm no clairvoyant.'

  'If I mention the word "Halewood" to you, would you still be such a smartarse?'

  Kite's smile doesn't waver but Koop knows the word has meaning.

  'Hit home?'

  'You want to be very careful, Mr Koopman. You're just a civilian now, remember?'

  'Fuck off, Kite, before I do something I regret.'

  'Wouldn't want that now, would we, Mr Koopman? Zoe might have to start shopping for a black dress. How is the lovely Zoe by the way? Keeping well? She always was a lovely looker, your Zoe, although she's probably not getting any younger, is she?'

  At the sound of Zoe's name in Kite's mouth, Koop feels something loosen inside him. Something bad.

  'Is that a threat, Kite?'

  Kite turns back towards the bar, his shark smile fixed. 'Take it any way you like. I don't care, you Dutch cunt. You don't have the bottle to do anything about it, anyway, not now you're not a fuckin' bizzy. Have a nice trip back to Kangaroo Country, won't you?'

  Kite pauses. He looks at Koop pityingly. 'And as an art lover, you must make time to go and see the Gormley sculptures down at Crosby. Some people say they're a load of crap, but me, I love 'em.'

  He turns back towards the bar and Koop slams into him from behind.

  As people in the gallery scream and scatter, Koop flips Kite over and smashes his wine glass into Kite's forehead. The glass splinters and blood spatters onto the polished wooden floor. Koop grips Kite's lapels and headbutts him square in the nose. Kite's nose explodes and he howls. Before Koop can land another blow, he feels hands drag him away and a boot slam into his ribs. All the breath leaves him and he curls up against the gallery wall as three of Kite's men go to work. He manages to glance up and see one of the men reach inside his suit coat. Kite, on his feet, blood pouring from his head and nose, puts a hand on the man's arm.

  'Stop,' Kite says and the kicking ceases immediately. Kite staggers forward and puts his mouth close to Koop's face. Kite's blood drips onto Koop. 'Thanks for that, you stupid cunt,' says Kite. 'It tidies up a few things at this end.' He pats Koop's cheek with a bloody hand. 'One of my associates will be visiting your fair island soon. I'll make good and sure he looks up Zoe for me.'

  Koop tries to answer but all that comes out is a muted groan. Kite smiles and whispers in his ear. 'It'll make what we did to your boy seem like a warm-up.'

  And then, as the ceiling of the gallery flashes blue, Koop passes out.

  40

  'What were you thinking?'

  Keane paces the interview room, Harris sitting across the desk from Koop, her arms folded, her expression unreadable.

  'I mean, from some wet-behind-the-ears civilian, I can believe, Koop, but from someone with your background . . .'

  Koop rubs his back. The medics at Broadgreen have patched him up and he hasn't suffered any major damage, but he still feels like he's been ten rounds with a grizzly. He's been in hospital overnight. Keane woke him and brought him straight to Stanley Road and is working hard now to keep his temper in check.

  'You didn't call Zoe, did you?' says Koop. 'Because I'd prefer her not to be worrying.'

  'Never mind Zoe!' Keane shakes his head. 'No, we didn't. We had other shit to concern ourselves about, like why my ex-boss attacked a local businessman in front of the great and good of Liverpool. Including DCI Eric Perch.'

  'Perch was there? I didn't see him,' says Koop. 'That's not good.'

  'No shit? Come on, Koop, you know better than this.'

  'I can't say anything. Nothing you want to hear anyway, Frank. If you're expecting me to say I'm sorry, then you'll be waiting a long time. I'm only sorry I didn't kill him.'

  'You're lucky you didn't. Do you know that Perch is pushing for you to be charged with attempted murder?'

  Harris looks up. 'You know that's not going to work, Frank,' she says wearily. 'It's assault. Grievous, maybe.'

  'That's not the point! In Perch's eyes, we didn't control you and that means my life is
going to be made much, much harder. Christ knows where this leaves Kite in the investigation.'

  'He did it, Frank,' says Koop quietly. 'The fucker told me.'

  There's a short silence.

  'And you'd testify to that?'

  'Of course, but what difference would it make? My evidence is tainted anyway. Son of the victim. I attacked Kite. It wouldn't make it to court on that.'

  'He's right, Frank,' says Harris.

  Keane acknowledges the statement with a frown and a grudging nod.

  'Kite won't press charges,' says Harris. 'There is that. And the gallery has waived any charges too after I'd explained your . . . position. Your loss. They want payment for cleaning, though.'

  'Perch may not be so understanding,' says Keane. 'Jackson was at the opening. His boss,' he adds by way of explanation. 'Perch thinks it looks bad.'

  'Which it does,' says Harris.

  Keane raises his hands. 'Which it fucking does – correct, Em.'

  He paces around the table.

  'Here's what's going to happen,' he says. He sits behind the desk. 'No charges have been filed as of now. Which doesn't mean that there won't be some coming your way soon. Apart from Perch, OCS is actively agitating for a piece of you for stirring up Kite's little nest. But they haven't put anything down officially. Which means you can, technically, leave the country.'

  'Frank,' says Harris, a warning note in her voice.

  'It's alright, Em,' says Keane. 'This way everyone will be happy, believe me. Or as happy as they're going to be. The Terminator here has had a pop at Kite – nice going too, by the way – so he's kept his honour intact; Perch will be glad an ex-member of his department is safely twelve thousand miles away; OCS, once they settle down, will be happy that no-one is ruffling Kite's feathers again; and lastly, we'll be glad because we can get back on track with the Stevie White case.'

  'Did you chase the car thing?' says Koop. 'Halewood?'

  Keane runs his fingers through his hair. Like him, it feels old and tired. 'There may be something; we're still checking a shipment of Jags that went out to Brisbane via Hamburg. I didn't call because there's nothing solid. Without the cars themselves, the lead means nothing. Does that make you feel happy?'

  'Not really.'

  'Good, because I'm not really interested in making you happy any more. I went out further than I should have already giving you the file.'

  'You gave him the file?' Harris sits upright. 'You didn't tell me that.'

  'Because you'd have stopped me.'

  'Damn right I'd have stopped you, Frank! Christ, if Perch gets hold of that information, we're dead whatever happens.'

  'He's not going to find out. Is he, Koop?'

  Koop shakes his head. 'Not from me.'

  'I can't believe you did that,' says Harris, shooting a black look at Keane.

  'I thought it was safe. It was . . . I owed Koop one, Em.'

  Keane stands.

  'So it's "Get out of town by sundown", is it, Frank?' says Koop.

  'It's not quite sundown, Koop. I took the liberty of changing your return ticket. Not something I should be doing, but I'm sure you don't mind, do you? You fly out of Manchester on the 6.30 pm. You'll be back in Oz inside thirty hours.'

  Koop gets to his feet too. Keane is right. He had no business here. Everything has changed and Stevie, son or no son, was involved with some nasty people. It's been a mistake coming back to Liverpool. He shakes hands with the two cops.

  'You'll keep me posted?' says Koop. He thinks about mentioning Carl being out of Bowden on release but decides against it. It's Frank Keane's sloppy work that he doesn't have that information already and there's enough of the old dog in Koop to get some satisfaction from that.

  Keane nods.

  'Koop? One more thing.'

  Koop halts. 'Yes?'

  'No offence, but don't come back.'

  Koop steps into the corridor and closes the door behind him.

  41

  The cars are still at the lock-up. Stefan hasn't moved them on, thank Christ.

  The last thing Tony Link needs right now is having to off someone with the rep of Jimmy Gelagotis without expert help. Link has enough awareness of his own limitations to know that killing Jimmy unaided would be several steps above his pay grade.

  'See?' Tony Link's tone is suitably aggrieved. He gestures at the gleaming Jaguar sitting to one side of the unit, half-hidden under a soft cotton tarp. It needles him that Jimmy felt the need to pull back the tarp to check it was the Jag. The three cars are side by side in a storage unit rented by the elderly uncle of one of Stefan Meeks's boys. The uncle has no idea he is the signatory on a triple-size lock-up in Beenleigh.

  Stefan is too sharp to have any sort of paper trail directly connecting him to the unit. He doesn't like being around the cars any longer than is strictly necessary, and he is damn sure he doesn't like being there in the company of Jimmy Gelagotis. There's always the chance since the Kolomiets murder that Jimmy is being tailed, and Stefan doesn't want any part of that.

  Of course, there's no way he or Tony can display so much as a hint that that's how they feel. The code demands a cool detachment and apparent indifference to the possibility of police involvement. Stefan follows Tony's lead.

  'The stuff's in the boot.' He walks to the rear and, taking care to use the edge of the tarp to flick the lid, opens the boot. He reaches in and lifts up the carpeted flap hiding the spare.

  In the space usually occupied by the wheel is a rectangular stack of tightly packed white bricks each encased in heavy shrink-wrapped plastic. Stefan moves to the side of the car and, again using the tarp, opens the rear door. He lifts the floor mats to reveal two other blocks of plastic-wrapped cocaine lying flush against the car's chassis. He glances at Jimmy who nods before Stefan lets the carpet fall back into place. Meeks closes the rear door and replaces the tarp.

  Jimmy Gelagotis feels a weight lift from his shoulders at the sight of the coke. It's going to be fine.

  'Good,' says Jimmy. He pats Tony and Stefan on their shoulders in turn. 'Good, good, good.' He turns and moves towards the door. 'Let's get the stuff shifting. I don't want to wait. I don't care if it does draw some attention. I want this sold and turned into easy cash.'

  Tony Link and Stefan Meeks exchange a glance. Link shakes his head a fraction. Keep it to yourself, the gesture says. At least until later.

  'If you say so, Jimmy,' he says. 'But you did say you wanted this to lie doggo. Let any heat fade away. Three months.'

  'I do say so,' says Jimmy Gelagotis. The image of Stevie White screaming on that motherfucking video clip springs, unbidden, to his mind. 'I really do say so. There's trouble heading our way and I want to be able to meet it with full force. We might need more troops and that's going to take more money.'

  Tony nods. Inside he's thinking: troops? That's Gelagotis's problem in a fucking nutshell. He thinks he's in one of those dumb mafia TV shows. Tony wants to say to him, you're Greek, not Sicilian. Tony Link smiles as the three step outside into the bright glare of the afternoon sun and Stefan slides the door shut, locking it carefully. Jimmy is right about one thing. There is trouble coming right enough. Bad trouble.

  It's coming for him.

  42

  From the car park of a Red Rooster situated amid a tangle of fast-food outlets and exhaust-repair centres on a rise above the lock-up, Warren Eckhardt snaps off a round of photos. He's more than eighty metres away shooting from inside the air-conditioned comfort of his Commodore. Gelagotis, Link and Meeks have no idea he's there. Eckhardt continues snapping as Link and Gelagotis get into the Greek's car and drive off, Meeks following soon after.

  Eckhardt tailed Gelagotis from the Q1 apartment and so far it has proven to be a bonanza decision. If he knew what was in the lock-up.

  Eckhardt lights a cigarette and considers the options as he tails Gelagotis. Meeks peels off onto Beenleigh Road while Jimmy and Tony Link head south down the Pacific Highway. Eckhardt sticks with Gelagotis o
n the basis of him being the biggest shark.

  That the men have something hidden in the lock-up is hardly worth commenting upon: it's obvious to a one-eyed imbecile. The key question is what to do about it.

  Eckhardt calls his office and speaks to Cootes, his superior. He fills him in on the story so far and suggests a watch be kept on the lock-up. As he expected, the suggestion goes down like a bacon sanger at a bar mitzvah. Resource allocation doesn't stretch to backing the hunches of soon-to-be-extinct dinosaurs like Warren Eckhardt. Where's the evidence? Three criminals visiting a lock-up around the Goldie? Get real.

  'You know and I know there's something inside there, Warren,' says Cootes. 'But we have nothing to go on. You talked to Gelagotis. You tailed him to a location. They're private citizens. We have no probable cause.'

  'They're convicted drug importers. How about that?'

  Cootes sighs. Eckhardt swings the Commodore behind a panel truck, masking himself from any potential spotting by Gelagotis, six or seven cars in front in the middle lane.

  'Warren, you know that's not going to work. Stick with the Kolomiets thing. I have a whole team doing the work on that. You're part of that team. I'd like you back here from time to time.'

  'They're going to move it. I can feel it, Phil.'

  'It's Chief Inspector Cootes, Warren. You get a lot of slack from me, given the situation. But that doesn't mean you go rogue. Do the police work. Work it out until you finish. And don't call me Phil.'

  'OK, Phil,' says Eckhardt. 'Sorry, Chief Inspector.' He presses the 'end' key and picks up his cigarette from the tray.

  They're going to move it. He knows it as sure as he knows his right nut is bigger than his left.

  Up ahead the sign comes up for Surfers and Gelagotis takes it. A hundred metres back, and cloaked in the heavy traffic, Eckhardt slides smoothly down the off ramp and heads east.