Belfast Noir

by Adrian McKinty

  There’s a bit left over, so I might see if Maddy Grant wants to go to a film sometime. I get half price on a Wednesday. I think she’ll like that.

  OUT OF TIME

  BY SAM MILLAR

  Hill Street

  Karl Kane’s mobile began ringing on the bedroom table, just as the tablets he had consumed four hours earlier were starting to lose their cosy effectiveness. He could tell it was early morning because of the particular quietness from outside: no drunken louts or screaming teenagers spilling out from nearby pubs and clubs in and around Hill Street in city centre.

  He let the mobile ring for a few more seconds while glancing at the luminous alarm clock on the table. It was the dangerous side of four in the morning and phone calls at four in the morning, in Karl’s profession, only ever meant one thing: trouble.

  Reaching over, he hooked the phone with a finger and thumb before staring at the number.

  Lipstick. What the hell now?

  “Karl?” said the groggy voice of Naomi by his side. “What’s wrong?”

  Naomi was dark-skinned, drop-dead gorgeous, with large hazel eyes and wild black hair. Despite the Northern Irish cadence in her voice, it still commanded a strong Southern resonance.

  “Sorry, my wee darling. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Who . . . who is it?”

  “Lipstick.”

  “Lipstick? I hope she’s not in some sort of trouble.”

  “Trouble? Lipstick?” he said sarcastically. He hit the button on the mobile. “Okay, Lipstick, what’s wrong?”

  “Karl? What kept you?” Lipstick whispered, edginess in her young voice. “I’ve been waiting ages for you to answer.”

  “Sorry, like most law-abiding citizens I was in bed, trying to sleep.”

  “Say you won’t get mad.”

  “That’s a bit like when someone tells you not to get nervous. The first thing you do is get nervous.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Locked in a bathroom.”

  “What the bloody hell? You call me at four in the morning just to get you out of a—”

  “In the Europa.”

  “The Europa?”

  “Yes.”

  “I take it you’re whispering because you can’t speak too loud, in case someone hears you.”

  “Yes.”

  “A disgruntled client?”

  “If that means ugly and angry, then yes. He’s screaming through the door right now that he’s gonna kill me. I’m scared, Karl. He means it.”

  “Room number?” Karl quickly swung his legs out of bed, before parking his impressive bulk on the edge.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Has this creep got a name?”

  “Calls himself Graham Butler. He’s from London. He . . . he wanted me to do things I hadn’t agreed to. He wouldn’t pay me for what I already done for him, so I took his Rolex in exchange.”

  “I’ll be there within ten minutes. Hold tight.”

  “Karl?”

  “What?”

  “Look tough.”

  “At four in the morning and wearing pyjamas?”

  Naomi waited until Karl killed the connection. “What’s she got herself into now?”

  “Something I hope to get her out of, before I get too deep into.”

  He quickly put on a pair of socks while searching for his loafers.

  “You can’t keep putting yourself in danger every time she calls.”

  “Tell me how to say no to the person who saved my life, and I’ll do it.”

  “Get off the guilt trip. You’ve repaid her a hundred times. She’s ripping the arse clean out of it.”

  “I know she is, and it’s my arse taking the hammering. I won’t be long.” He gave Naomi a quick kiss, and headed out the door.

  * * *

  Karl arrived outside the Europa in less than the promised time. Residing a few streets away definitely helped. Attacked thirty-three times, the grand old building had earned the unenviable sobriquet of the most bombed hotel in Europe. Or as Belfastians flippantly referred to it: That blasted hotel.

  The last time Karl had been in the hotel was in the mid-’90s, helping Brad Pitt hone his accent for his role in The Devil’s Own. The elocution lessons—or spaking Balfast as Brad liked to call them—went well enough, but the promised part for Karl in the film never materialised. Still, he couldn’t complain. The pay off financially had been sound, and seeing his name on the screen credits at the end of the film went a long way to soothing his wounded ego. Naomi, of course, was enthralled by the tale, though he grudgingly had to admit she seemed more interested in Brad Pitt than Karl Kane.

  Usually the area around the hotel was buzzing with tourists and the homeless looking for a place to kip, but at this time of morning, foot traffic had wisely disappeared. Even the notorious adjacent cul-de-sac—“Blowjob Alley” (more rubber used than a Michelin tyre factory)—was strangely deserted. Outside the hotel, a sleepy fleet of taxis lurked in the shadows.

  Karl entered through the revolving doors leading into the marble-and-cherrywood reception of the grand foyer and was almost immediately eyed by a young concierge. “May I help you, sir?” he said disdainfully, looking a dishevelled Karl up and down.

  “No, you’re okay, son. Just heading up to see my old school friend Graham—Graham Butler—up in room fourteen.” Karl made a movement toward the lift, but was nimbly blocked by the adolescent.

  “You can’t go up until I call Mr. Butler on the phone. That’s hotel policy.”

  Karl glanced at the young man’s name tag: Raymond.

  “Hotel policy, Raymond? Is it hotel policy to turn a blind eye to janes and johns?”

  Raymond’s face reddened. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .”

  “No? I never forget a name. A friend of mine, who’s in trouble right now as I waste time speaking to you, happened to mention a Raymond to me. Likes to have his palms greased for turning a blind eye to illegal nocturnal manoeuvres of the sexual kind.”

  “I . . . don’t know what that means.”

  “No? Okay then, we’ll discuss the birds and bees later. Right now, be a good lad and hold that pose. I’ll be back down in less than five minutes. No one will be any the wiser. And here’s a score for forgetting.” Karl slipped a twenty-pound note into Raymond’s waistcoat jacket. “Oh, if I find out you phoned Butler, it’ll not be your palms I’ll be greasing when I return.”

  Raymond, looking faint, quickly moved out of the way.

  Twenty seconds later, Karl stepped out of the elevator and immediately took stock outside number fourteen. A muffled, but angry voice could be heard inside.

  Standing back a good three inches, he studied the door. He considered trying to kick the formidable-looking structure in, but quickly realised the implausibility of such a ridiculous act. He calmly rang the bell instead.

  After a few seconds, a harsh male voice shouted, “Who the hell is it?”

  “Room service, sir.”

  The door opened, revealing a nude, sweating man covered in tattoos. He was stocky, gym-manufactured, fake-bronzed, with ridiculously white teeth. He stood six-one, and was in his late forties auditioning for thirty. His hands were enormous—unlike his cock.

  “What the fuck’re you on about? I didn’t ask for any fucking room service,” Butler snarled, trying to sound like a tough guy.

  “Facial masseur,” Karl replied.

  “Huh? I don’t need a facial—”

  Karl’s uppercut caught him below the jaw so hard, Butler staggered backward over a sofa, before finally spreading out in crucifixion formation on the floor, moaning.

  “You will now.”

  Quickly walking over to the bathroom, Karl banged on the door.

  “Lipstick! Open the hell up! It’s me, Karl.”

  The door opened, revealing a young matchstick-thin girl, early twenties. Her features were a portrait of heroin-addiction misery. She was nu
de, awkwardly trying to cover up her private parts.

  “Is he gone, Karl?”

  “Let’s just say he’ll be out for some time . . . What the hell happened to your face?”

  Lipstick’s eyes were turning an angry purple, partially closing. Bloody drool dripped from her busted mouth.

  “He got angry because I wouldn’t do anal for him. You know I don’t do anal, Karl.”

  Karl made an uncomfortable face. “I wouldn’t let Naomi hear you say it like that. She might get the wrong impression. Hurry up and get dressed. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “But I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s just a few smacks in the gob.”

  “Do as I say. I’m not in the mood for debate.” Karl turned, walked over to the moaning Butler.

  “Tough guy, eh? Like picking on wee girls?”

  Blood was smearing Butler’s mouth. It looked vulgar. Smirking, he peered up at Karl. “You . . . you don’t know . . . who you’re fucking with, mate, you and your little whore.”

  “They say you should never kick a man when he’s down, but in your case I say name me a better time, eh?” Karl kicked the smirking face twice before placing his formidable weight down on Butler’s exposed balls.

  “Fuuuuuuuck!” Butler screamed.

  “You don’t look so tough now, not where I’m standing, mate.” Karl applied more pressure.

  “Fuuuuuuuck!” Butler’s face knotted inward with pain. He vomited a grey and yellow substance.

  “That’s enough, Karl!” Lipstick shouted from the bathroom, hurriedly getting dressed. “No need to hurt him more.”

  But the rage was with him, and Karl continued ball-pressing.

  “I said that’s enough!” Lipstick snapped, appearing beside Karl, pulling him away.

  “You’re too forgiving, kiddo. How many times have I told you to toughen up?”

  “Toughen up like you, the biggest softy on the planet? Besides, I got this.” Lipstick dangled an expensive-looking Rolex in front of Karl’s eyes, almost as if trying to hypnotise him. “He’ll hate losing this more than any kicking you can give him. He’s that sort of bastard.”

  Karl sighed. “I’m getting way too old for this kind of shit, Lipstick, and you’re way too young to be doing the kind of shit you do.”

  She put her thin arms around his thick neck and kissed his cheek, leaving her trademark shimmering on his skin. “I love you, Karl Kane. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Everyone loves me when they’re in trouble.”

  “Not like me, they don’t,” Lipstick said. “I love you.”

  “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get the hell out of here. We’ll grab a taxi to the Mater. It’ll be quicker than trying to get my car from Billy’s garage.”

  “Do . . . do we really need to go to the hospital? They might start asking awkward questions.” Then, uncontrollably, Lipstick started giggling.

  “What the hell’s so funny?”

  Lipstick pointed at Karl’s legs. “You really are wearing pyjamas . . .”

  * * *

  “Look at the state of you,” Naomi said, placing a steaming cup of coffee by the sofa Karl was stretched out on. “What time did you get in?”

  “About an hour ago,” Karl replied, yawning, reaching for the coffee. Black circles were developing under his bloodshot eyes.

  “Couldn’t you’ve at least phoned, let me know where you were? I was worried sick when you didn’t come back.”

  “If you remember, I was in a hurry. I left my bloody mobile behind. Now, can I drink this coffee in peace before it goes cold?”

  Naomi’s face flushed. She looked on the verge of intensifying the verbal jousting. Instead, she clicked on the digital radio, sat down at the breakfast table.

  A song on the radio ended and seconds later the local news came on: “A man, said to be known by police, was shot dead in his flat in the Sandy Row area of the city this morning. A quantity of drugs were discovered at the scene, and—”

  Naomi turned the radio off. “More grim news.”

  “Is there ever anything else in this bastarding place? Even when the sun shines, it’s dark. Belfast is God’s own private joke of perverse nastiness.”

  “Why are you so cranky this morning?”

  “Possibly because this morning I’ve had little sleep, waiting in a sardine-filled emergency room with Lipstick.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You didn’t give me time, did you, with your interrogation?”

  “What . . . what happened?”

  “A steroid-induced scumbag beat the crap out of her, over in the Europa. That’s what happened.”

  “God, Karl, is she okay?”

  “Her face looks terrible, but the doctor said she should be okay in a couple of weeks. She’s lucky not to be scarred for life. Lucky to be alive, if you ask me.”

  “What about the thug who did it? Was he arrested?”

  “Lipstick didn’t want the cops brought into it. I even had to make up a cock-and-bull to the nurse, who probably thought I was the one who did it. Sitting in the waiting room wearing pyjamas didn’t help, either. The looks I was getting, as if I was some sort of perv.”

  “Did the thug get away?”

  “Let’s just say I had a ball of a time with what little balls he had to boast about. He’ll be pissing glass for weeks. If it hadn’t been for Lipstick appealing to my gentler nature, he would’ve had more broken bones than Evel Knievel.”

  Naomi’s forehead furrowed. “Where’s Lipstick now?”

  “In the spare bedroom.”

  “What? Couldn’t you’ve told me this before now?”

  “Don’t start all that again. Anyway, bringing her back to her place wasn’t an option. She took a couple of painkillers. Hopefully she’s sleeping.”

  Naomi got up quickly. “I’ll check she’s okay.”

  Karl eased his tired body off the sofa. Took a deep gulp of coffee. “I’m away to get a wash and shave before we open up for business. I just hope the day gets a lot better.”

  * * *

  Saturday afternoon, Karl was just leaving the office to place a quick bet on a sure-hit-impossible-to-lose horse, when a car pulled up alongside him. The driver beeped the horn before getting out. He was young, hair combed back in a fashion long gone. Despite his age, there was something world-weary in his demeanour.

  “Didn’t you see the sign at the corner?” Karl said. “This is a no-noise zone. I should call the cops. Oh, sorry, I forgot. You are a cop, Detective Chambers.”

  “I need to talk to you, Mr. Kane. Urgently.”

  “It’ll have to wait. I only have a minute to get this bet done.” Karl pointed at the William Hill betting shop across the street.

  “That’s okay. I can wait here for you to return.”

  “I bet you a fiver you can’t.” Karl smiled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Just then, a female traffic warden came up behind Chambers. “Which of you two gentlemen owns the car?”

  “It’s mine,” Chambers said. “Why?”

  “Can’t you see the double yellow line?”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand. You can’t wait or park here.”

  Chambers’s hand went to his inside pocket and produced a small brown wallet containing his police ID. “I’m a policeman.”

  “Then you should know better. Now, move the car right now, otherwise I’ll have it towed.”

  Karl let out a loud laugh. “Belfast doesn’t know the meaning of the word protocol when it comes to making money.”

  A chastised Chambers got back inside and started the car.

  “That’s a fiver you owe me,” Karl said, making his way quickly to the bookies.

  Ten minutes later, Karl reappeared, tearing up a docket.

  “Any luck?” Chambers asked.

  “The nag went down at the first hurdle. A hundred quid gone like
a fart in the wind. Talking of farts, what little harassment operation has my devious ex-brother-in-law sent you on?”

  “Inspector Wilson has nothing to do with this. He’s in Edinburgh at the moment.”

  “Hope the bastard stays there.”

  “This is an off-the-record meeting. Can we go back to your office and talk?”

  “So you can eye Naomi? Not a hope.”

  Chambers’s face flushed. “We got a complaint from the Europa. A guest by the name of Graham Butler got a bad beating during the night. Apparently, Mr. Butler didn’t want it disclosed, but when the day-shift manager returned this morning, he immediately reported it to us as required by law.”

  “Long story short?”

  “What?”

  “Get to the point. I’ve a hundred quid to get back from Billy Hill.”

  “I checked the hotel’s CCTV. You were seen clearly on it, you and Miss Sharon McKeever—or Lipstick, as she refers to herself.”

  “Is there a crime in that?”

  “I suspect Miss McKeever was there for a sexual encounter.”

  “She’s an adult. She can do whatever she damn well—”

  “I believe something bad happened in Butler’s room, and you were called in to help her, knowing the history between you two.”

  Karl bristled. “History? What the hell’s that suppose to mean?”

  “She saved you from being killed by Peter Bartlett. That’s more than enough for you to be indebted to her.”

  Karl glanced at his watch. “Unless you’re planning to arrest me, I’m going back inside and—”

  “Graham Butler is a very dangerous individual. A well-known criminal boss from the East End. At the moment, he’s suspected of meeting with drug dealers over here, hoping to extend his so-called empire.”

  “I appreciate what you’re telling me, and sticking your neck out.”

  “Just make sure you avoid him. We’re hoping to send Butler back to London, first chance we get.”

  “I doubt Butler will come anywhere near me. He doesn’t look like that stupid a man.”

  “One other thing. A journalist from the Sunday Exposé has been talking to some of the staff at the hotel. Don’t be surprised if the newspaper contacts you.”