A Dark Place to Die (19 page)

He steers the familiar roads north, no need for the map of Merseyside the hire company has provided, his years of policing engraving the geography of the city on his brain forever. The traffic is still quiet, not yet into rush hour, and, in any case, he's heading against the flow, out of the city. He selects the Dock Road deliberately, surprised at the changes that have happened in the two years or so since he left. Everything that could be cleaned has been cleaned. Smart street signs, new paint, sandblasted industrial buildings are creating a shiny new corridor through some of the most benighted urban areas in Europe. Behind the scrubbed main road the estates still look like places nobody lives in through choice.

Koop drops off the Dock Road at Seaforth, leaving the sickly chemical smell coming from the industrial dock complex behind, and passes the end of the Freeport.

It's beginning to rain when he sees the first brown tourist sign guiding him left towards the Antony Gormley sculptures on Crosby Beach. He follows the road around the marine lake and parks behind the meagre dunes.

Koop turns off the engine and listens to the rain thrum against the roof. Koop remembers his mother's insistence that this particular rain was 'the sort that gets you wet'.

After a couple of minutes he picks up the bunch of flowers he'd bought in Liverpool and steps from the car. Although not particularly cold by Liverpool standards, it's enough for Koop. He shivers and yanks the zipper of his North Face jacket up to his throat and hunches his
chin into his chest. The Northern Rivers rain he'd left behind in Australia was straightforward, honest weather; great heavy sheets rattling straight down and bouncing off the earth. This sneaky stuff seems to soak into your bones.

Maybe his mother had been on to something.

He walks across the dunes, the claggy sand sticking to his shoes, the front of his jeans rapidly becoming sodden. As he crests the top he gets a faceful of wet sand, whipped off the top of the rise by the wind. Ahead of him, Crosby Beach stretches to his right, the Gormley figures disappearing into the distance.

Koop lopes down onto the concrete promenade and then down once more onto the sands. His first thought is that the beach is busy, before he realises almost all the people are simply sculptures. It's eerie being the only moving figure.

Koop knows the crime scene location from Keane's file. He trudges towards it now, past the flying saucer roof of the local swimming baths looking like something dropped in from a Tim Burton movie, until he reaches a point about twenty metres from one of the sculptures. The tide is out and Koop is certain he's close to the point where his son died.

There is no visible sign left that a man met a violent death at this spot.

The pole and concrete base have been taken away and successive days of tides have flattened any trace of what happened. Koop hadn't been expecting any. This is a pilgrimage.

Now he is here he feels unsure of himself. Perhaps even a little silly. He wonders – a classic Catholic reaction – if he's guilty of wallowing in an affair that he has no right
to be involved with. What is it that makes Stevie
his
son? A hot flash of lust thirty-odd years ago?

Koop self-consciously places the flowers down on the sand and looks out to sea, waiting for an emotional response to come. Out in the grey haze, an enormous container ship drifts past, looking as though it's floating in a few inches of water, an optical illusion caused by the lie of the shore and the size of the craft.

The rain grows heavier and Koop turns away, disappointed with himself not to be feeling something more. He isn't sure what, but he expected more than this.

A woman with a small dog struggles down the steps onto the promenade. She carries a polythene bag containing the dog's crap in her hand.

Koop walks back to the car. There's nothing for him here.

31

Warren Eckhardt has never met Jimmy Gelagotis in the flesh before today.

He knows little about the man. Considering how well known Gelagotis is on the Goldie, Eckhardt is disappointed he's not better informed. Nor did he know much about Gelagotis's associates. Although, after a moment's reflection, perhaps he's being too hard on himself. Why should he know? Jimmy now circulates in the lofty circles patrolled by Organised Crime and seldom falls under Warren Eckhardt's radar.

Warren does know a few things. As an associate of Kolomiets, it's natural that any investigation will want to talk to Gelagotis. Eckhardt also knows that if Jimmy Gelagotis has killed Max Kolomiets, then it's a royal flush to a low pair that Gelagotis will have a signed and sealed alibi for the time in question.

But sometimes you just have to shake the tree.

Things are happening on his patch that Warren doesn't like. That's OK. Things happen all the time that Warren doesn't like. Christ, if he got his undies in a knot over every damn thing he didn't like, he wouldn't get up most mornings.

This time, though, Warren has the scent of something much bigger in the air. He spent a fruitful hour talking to DI Keane in England about the Stevie White case, during which he and Keane exchanged some highly useful information on some of the key players. At the end of the call Warren is pretty sure that Jimmy Gelagotis – if he's involved – may have bitten off more than he can chew.

Which can only mean that there's a very good reason for him to take that risk. With Stevie dead, Jimmy is going to have to attack or defend; there are no other options, apart from surrender, which Warren discounts immediately. From the background Eckhardt has been given by Frank Keane, anyone who plays games with an outfit as connected as the Liverpool cartels is not someone who would consider surrender a suitable strategy.

Besides, if Eckhardt didn't know it before, one glance at Jimmy Gelagotis tells him that. Not tall, not short, with the build of a middleweight and carrying himself like someone who knows what he is capable of but doesn't have to prove a damn thing.

'What can I get you, chief?' says Jimmy from behind the counter where he is checking the till. He's standing in front of a pin-board containing photos of the restaurant staff. Jimmy Gelagotis is in many of them, smiling and laughing. His accent contains second-generation traces of his Greek origins.

Warren Eckhardt absent-mindedly shakes out a smoke from his pack of cigarettes.

'Sorry, chief, no smoking, remember?'

Eckhardt holds up a hand in apology. Almost five years since the ban on smoking inside and he still keeps forgetting. He slides the pack back into his jacket.

'Flat white. Large, thanks.' Eckhardt hands over four dollars and pauses.

'Anything else, chief?' Gelagotis is filling a steel jug with hot water.

'You know me, Jimmy, don't you?'

Gelagotis shrugs. 'Lots of people come in here, chief. Maybe I seen you before. I don't know.'

Eckhardt smiles, revealing an uneven row of nicotine-stained teeth. 'Have it your way. When the coffee's ready perhaps you'll sit down with me for a pow-wow? Up to you, Jimmy.'

As Eckhardt picks up a handful of extra packets of sugar, his gaze is caught by one of the photographs on the café pin-board. It shows Jimmy with his arm around a taller, younger blond man. Both are smiling and holding beers.

The blond man is Stevie White.

Eckhardt turns from the photo to see Jimmy following his line of sight. Eckhardt gives him a sardonic smile, walks across to a window booth in the far corner and waits.

A few minutes later Gelagotis appears, Eckhardt's coffee in hand. He places the cup on the table and regards Eckhardt for a moment before taking the seat opposite. Any warmth that had been there has gone from his face.

'I'm sitting. What's this about?'

'You know, Jimmy. And you've got me as police, right? You're not giving much away to admit that.'

Gelagotis nods. 'Police. I see that. And I think you was pointed out one time to me. Something to do with drugs, right?'

'Look, Jimmy, I appreciate that lying is so ingrained in you that it's hard for you to think or speak any other way, so I'll make it simple.' Eckhardt stops to sip. 'Oh, good coffee.'

He puts down the cup and taps the table with a yellow finger. 'You already know I'm police. Warren Eckhardt from SE Queensland Homicide. I used to be with the Organised Crime Squad which is where you will have crossed my path – or maybe one of your tame cops knows me. I know you've got one in your pocket, at least, and I've a fair idea who that might be. But that's not all that important right now. What
is
is that you're Jimmy Gelagotis and I have a thick file on you. A great big thick juicy file.'

Jimmy makes a dismissive sound.

'Oh I know, Jimmy. Stale news. I'm not here about what's in the file. I'm here to just talk with you about what's happening. Before everything goes Wild West on us and I'm looking at you on a coroner's table. Just like I did with Max Kolomiets this morning. Yes, it didn't take very long, did it? For me to get in your face, I mean. You were expecting a little longer.'

Jimmy Gelagotis makes a motion to stand but Warren Eckhardt shoots out a surprisingly strong hand and grabs his wrist.

'Sit down, Jimmy. Really. This is going to help you.'

Gelagotis waits a beat and glances down at Eckhardt's hand. Warren opens his fingers and gestures to the seat. Gelagotis sits.

'I hardly knew Kolomiets,' he says eventually. 'If that's what this is about. Or are you after money?'

Eckhardt pulls a disappointed face.

'I know you did Kolomiets, Jimmy. I know it just as surely as I know the sun will rise, that this is good coffee, or that I will be having a cigarette the instant I'm back in my car. Given time I'll most likely prove it too. But see, here's the thing: I don't think I'll get the chance to prove a damn thing before someone gets to you, Jimmy.
That could be one of Kolomiets's boys – no, wait – you'll already have considered that, right? They must have been ready for the switch too. So, let's assume it's not one of The Russian's old team.' Eckhardt pauses. He sips his coffee and looks past Gelagotis at the pin-board. He decides to take a calculated risk.

'Does the name Stevie White mean anything to you?'

Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't blink. 'I know Stevie, yeah. So what? The guy's a customer, man.' His face shows nothing but Jimmy's thinking: this is coming home too quickly.

'He's dead, Jimmy.'

Gelagotis shrugs. 'Like I said, I hardly knew him.'

'Right,' says Eckhardt. The news of White's death is not a shock to Gelagotis, Eckhardt would bet his left nut on that.

'Aren't you curious about how he died, Jimmy? Or where?'

Gelagotis drums his fingers lightly on the surface of the table. 'Get on with it, Eckhardt.'

'I'm assuming from your reaction that the news is not a surprise to you, Jimmy. Which means you must be very worried, my friend.'

Gelagotis gives Eckhardt a level stare. 'Do I look worried?'

'No. No you don't, I'll give you that – you've managed to put a lid on it, outwardly at least. But you are worried. I see it. Because you know what'll happen. They'll be sending someone from Liverpool. Or maybe one of their friends. The Colombians. The Irish. The East Europeans. Those boys play hardball, Jimmy.'

'Do you practise this routine at home?' Gelagotis is shaking his head. 'It's fucking pathetic, man.'

Warren Eckhardt holds up a hand. He's smiling. 'OK, maybe I'm laying it on a bit. I'm a bit of a ham at heart.
Frankly, I don't care if someone does kill you, Jimmy. As far as I'm concerned it's one less cockroach I have to deal with. But this is out of your league, brother. Way out of your league. Did you hear what the Poms did to Stevie? Did you? The details, I mean?'

Jimmy feels his neck flush. The image of the video clip flashes through his mind.

'You did?' says Eckhardt, surprised at the reaction from Gelagotis. He wonders how much detail he knows and how he's come by that information. 'And you still think you're going to make this thing work out? Christ, maybe you're tougher than you look.'

Jimmy Gelagotis doesn't reply. He lets the silence build.

Eckhardt drains his coffee.

'OK,' he says, getting to his feet. 'I'm pretty sure the next time I see you, you won't be looking as fresh as you do now. Have a think about telling Uncle Warren all about it.'

Jimmy Gelagotis shakes his head. 'Like I said, I'm just a businessman. I don't know what you're talking about.'

Warren Eckhardt wipes the edge of his mouth with a paper napkin. He takes a business card and holds it out to Gelagotis. When he makes no move to take it, Eckhardt places it on the table and pushes it slightly towards the Greek.

'Well, seeing as you're a
businessman
, Jimmy, here's my
business
card. Call me if you feel you want to get something off your chest. Think of me as your priest . . .'

He walks out into the heat of the day. As he reaches his car he turns to see Gelagotis pick up his card.

Tree shaken.

32

Kite is enjoying himself. Harris can see it written all over his face.

She looks across the interview room at Frank Keane fiddling with the controls of the digital recorder. Once Perch gets hold of this, it might be time to start thinking about that transfer.

Kite is their man, Emily Harris is sure of that. Just like she knows he's responsible for a large percentage of the crime on Merseyside, not to mention elsewhere. But knowing that, and proving it, are two entirely different things. As she sees the situation, hauling Kite in for questioning will accomplish nothing except give him the satisfaction of walking out with a smile on his face.

She and the tree-shaking Warren Eckhardt would not see eye to eye.

Keane, on the other hand, is at one with the Australian. He wouldn't have used the same phrase, but what he's doing with Keith Kite is precisely the same.

'9.35 am. Wednesday the nineteenth of October, 2011. DI Frank Keane and DI Emily Harris. Interview five four two, interview room three, Stanley Road Police HQ.
Interview subject, Keith Andrew Kite. Also present Constable . . .'