A Dark Place to Die (20 page)

Keane breaks off with a quizzical glance at the PC standing next to the door.

'Parkes, sir.' Keane remembers the young copper from the White murder site.

'Constable Parkes.' Keane sits and looks at the file on the desk in front of him.

'Do you have to practise that before they give you the shiny badge?' says Kite, his mouth smiling, his eyes dark.

'We don't have badges, shiny or otherwise, Mr Kite.'

Kite gives a shake of his head. 'Fucking amateur hour,' he mutters.

'Mr Kite, we're investigating the death of one Steven White, at Crosby Beach on or around October the eleventh, 2011. We have reason to believe you may be able to shed some light on the matter.'

'Does Beyoncé here ever say anything,
Roy?
Or does she just sit there looking beautiful?' Kite turns to Harris. 'Cappuccino, luv, there's a good girl.' He sits back in his chair, his eyes black holes.

Keane wonders if Kite has already had a toot. It's early but the rumours are he's a user.

'Does the name Steven White mean anything to you, Mr Kite?' says Harris.

'One sugar, and don't forget the cinnamon sprinkles.'

'Sean Bourke's one of your lads, isn't he, Keith?' Keane says.

Kite shrugs. 'I've met him. Not sure what you mean by "one of my lads".'

'We're in the process of matching Sean's DNA to a container in Seaforth. Seems that Sean found your business
methods a little too much, even for someone like him. He puked. The DNA match will put Sean at the crime scene.'

Keane waits. He and Harris both know the DNA evidence on Bourke won't be worth anything. DNA matches from vomit can be too easily contaminated for a court's liking. Frank's hoping Kite doesn't know that.

'What do you want me to say? I've met this man Bourke. What he does with his time is up to him.'

'You'd let him go just like that, Keith?' Keane's voice is hard.

Kite looks at him sadly and shakes his head. 'Fucking pathetic. You have to have more than that.'

Frank's voice is expressionless. 'You were seen, Mr Kite, dining with someone answering the description of White, the day before he was found. Sean Bourke was also there. Would you like to comment?'

Kite smiles blandly at Keane. 'I'm a busy man. I see lots of people in my game. This Bourke might have been there. I don't know.'

'What is your game exactly, Mr Kite?' Harris taps a finger on the file in front of her. 'Quite an impressive resume.'

Kite looks at her, an expression of mock surprise on his face. 'What do you know? It can read. Well, I suppose even monkeys can be trained to recognise words, eh? No offence.' He glances at Keane and then swivels his head back to Harris. 'I'm a businessman, dear. A very successful one. As you know.'

'Does your business involve a Macksym Kolomiets?' DI Harris stares directly at Kite, an icy smile in place. There is a flicker from Kite. His smile doesn't waver but he's heard the name before, Harris is sure. 'I see you recognise the name.'

'Never heard of him,' says Kite. 'And what are you: clairvoyant? Is mind-reading now admissible in court?' Kite sits up straight in his chair. 'Now enough fucking about. I'm due at an opening tonight and I want to do a few things before it starts.'

'An art opening?' Keane breaks in. 'That's right, Keith, you're something of a culture vulture, aren't you?' He taps his pen against his teeth. 'What do you think of the Gormleys by the way?'

'Overrated. And some would say derivative.'

Keane barks out a laugh. 'Big word for you, isn't it, Keith? Been reading, have you? Mind you, you had plenty of time for that inside, didn't you? A four stretch, I believe. Some of you nightcrawlers go that way: Open University, degrees. All that crap. You want to watch that some of those big words don't get stuck in your mouth. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.'

Kite's eyes hold Keane's. 'Yeah, you're right, it can be, Roy. Very dangerous.'

'I hope that's not a threat, Mr Kite.' Keane's voice is even.

Kite says nothing. He sits back and folds his arms.

Christ, Keane is sick to the back teeth of these low-rent fuckwits. For all his expensive tailoring and money, Kite is still one of the crop-haired, tracksuited, unlovable and unloved bottom-feeders that Liverpool's sink estates produce in their thousands. Keane experiences an adrenaline spike as he imagines smashing Kite's nose out through the back of the nasty little scum-sucking bastard's skull. Instead, in a measured tone he asks another question.

'The man you killed . . .'

Kite snorts. 'Give me a break.'

'The man you killed,' repeats Keane. He fixes Kite with a stare. 'You know whose son he is, don't you, Keith?'

Harris nudges Keane's foot with her toe. She's not happy about Keane revealing this information but he doesn't respond. For the first time in the interview Kite looks ruffled. It's the reason Keane has brought Kite into the interview; the real reason, not the bullshit he fed Harris.

'What the fuck are you talking about?' says Kite. He's recovered, but Keane can sense that this is unexpected for him. He presses forward.

'You didn't know? That's priceless, Keith. Stevie White, the man you tortured and burnt, is connected in a way you didn't know about.'

'Connected?' All pretence that Kite doesn't know about the dead man is forgotten. Keane has information Kite wants.

'Detective Chief Inspector Koopman,' says Keane. 'You remember him, don't you, Keith?'

Kite's brow furrows. 'Koopman? What's he got to do with this . . . this
alleged
murder?'

Keane allows himself a smirk. Harris is fuming but remains silent.

'White was Koopman's son, Keith.'

Kite's face darkens.

'Nothing to say?' Keane leans forward. He lowers his voice. 'You know what Koop is like, don't you? How do you think he'll take the news of your involvement?'

'Are you finished?' says Kite, all humour gone from his face. 'Because if you're not, then I'd like to speak to my lawyer. It was amusing, but time is pressing and all that.'

He looks at his watch. Harris wants to do the same. It's all she can do to not sigh out loud. This is going nowhere fast. In her view, not only has Frank chosen the wrong option in bringing Kite in too soon, he's compounded that by mentioning Koopman.

Keane perseveres for a few more minutes, but Kite's mouth remains closed. The arrival of his lawyer signals the end of questioning.

As Kite leaves the interview room, Keane does his best to avoid meeting Emily Harris's eyes. It isn't until they get back to the office that they speak. He looks out of the window at the edifying spectacle of the dual carriageway and the car park. He rubs the bridge of his nose and feels old.

'I told you so,' says Harris.

Keane raises a hand in an 'I surrender' gesture. 'At least no-one could accuse you of not stating the obvious, Em.'

Harris holds out a Post-it note. 'And Perch wants to see us. Kite's lawyer has been bending the ear of the gods.'

Keane is about to speak when he sees Kite leaving the building and getting into the lawyer's BMW.

'Shit,' says Keane.

33

Dry – or close enough after ten minutes in the car with the heater on full blast as to make no difference – and ten miles further north from the beach, Koop pulls onto the drive leading down to the new golf club complex which has risen up, seemingly overnight, in what looks like a riposte to the crusty grandees of Royal Birkdale and Hillside golf clubs a few miles further north in Southport.

The club has been an instant success and has attracted a different breed of clientele to the course and hotel: businessmen, footballers, soap stars, visiting actors, sports teams. To Koopman, the place looks like a suburban mansion on steroids wrapped around an expensive-looking golf course.

Koop walks along an impeccably groomed gravel path which meanders past a curve of unused golf carts. The weather is keeping all but the most dedicated of players at home. Beyond the carts is the pro-shop and booking centre.

Inside, the only occupant is a man wearing a golf-club polo shirt and sharply creased slacks. He is bent over a ledger on the counter in front of him trying to look busy.
At the sight of Koop, he straightens. Late October days at the club can be very slow indeed.

Then the man's eyes fall on Koop's jeans, trainers and damp North Face jacket and an almost imperceptible sneer creeps onto his face.

Golfers. A different breed, reflects Koop. He once knew a commercial painter and decorator who, working at one of the big clubs, was asked by a man wearing a cravat to 'paint more quietly' as the noise of his brush was disturbing the members. Koop is not, by nature, a golf club sort of person. Standing in the pro-shop, the rain puddling at his feet, he wonders if he might have risen further in the force if he had been. And then wonders if it would have been worth it. Probably not, if he had to dress like this twat.

'Lousy morning,' says the guy, pleasantly enough. As Koop draws closer he can smell the man's aftershave. 'How can I help you?'

'I'm interested in joining the club,' says Koop, doing his best to look convincing.

The man stares at him.

'Ah.'

'Is there a problem?'

The man smiles. 'It's just that there
is
a waiting list for membership, sir. Quite a substantial waiting list, actually. And the fees . . . well.' He looks Koop up and down and makes a sort of discouraging shrug. Koop wants to slap him. Instead he tries to appear crestfallen.

'Oh, I see,' he says. He looks at the man. 'Is there some information I could look at? A brochure?'

'A brochure?'

'Yes, a brochure. A printed document? Something that explains how I go about applying.'

'I'd have to see,' says the man doubtfully. He hesitates.

'If you would,' says Koop with an encouraging wink.

'There are some leaflets, I think.' He doesn't move. Instead, he peers around the counter as if expecting the leaflets to materialise. Koop remains still.

'A leaflet would be good,' he says, politely.

With a smile that vanishes quicker than it arrives, the man turns away from Koop and steps into a small inner office where he begins to rummage around inside the top drawer of a filing cabinet. The second he's gone, Koop reaches out a hand and rotates the ledger. As he expects, it is a booking diary containing the day's teeing off times. He slides a finger down the list until he finds the name he is looking for. He turns the ledger back as the man closes the filing cabinet.

'There you are, sir,' he says, handing Koop an expensively produced card membership booklet. 'I think you'll find everything you need to know in there.'

Koop opens the first page and tosses it back onto the counter. 'Thanks, but I think I'll stick to footy.' He turns and leaves the shop whistling. He couldn't help himself. Wanker.

At the clubhouse, and following a short discussion to establish that the bar is open to non-members, Koop has a little further difficulty with the way he is dressed before he is, eventually, allowed in. His offending jacket is stowed out of sight and Koop is shown to a seat near the window overlooking the eighteenth green.

A thin young man with a pronounced Liverpool accent, incongruous with his flawless manner, takes his order. Koop opts for a Diet Coke. His jetlag might need the caffeine later in the day. He's already beginning to flag after his night-time exertions and early start.

The waiter brings his drink and Koop settles back. Despite his anti-golf prejudice, it's comfortable in the bar. He watches a few brave golfers battle their way to the eighteenth, the drizzle making their rainwear shimmer, and reflects on less comfortable places he's had to wait in his professional life.

Koop finishes the Coke and orders a coffee. As he lifts it to his mouth, he braces himself against the expected disappointment of another English cup of slop, but this time, against all the odds, it's perfect. He picks up a newspaper and reads, keeping one eye on the eighteenth.

Almost an hour into his wait, and just as Koop is beginning to think about giving it up as a lost cause, three golfers arrive on the green and he sits up, suddenly alert.

The three finish their round, shake hands amid much exaggerated laughter and back-slapping, and head inside. A few minutes later the men appear, sans waterproofs, in the bar, their faces shining from four hours battling the elements. Eschewing the waiter service, and despite the early hour, they order beers at the bar and then head for a table. After glancing Koop's way, the tallest of the golfers disengages himself from his friends and walks across the thickly carpeted lounge.

'Koop,' says the golfer in a thick Glaswegian accent. His voice is neither friendly nor unfriendly. 'I thought you were in New Zealand, man.'

'Australia,' says Koop, making no attempt to get up.

'Close enough.'

'Sit down, Alan.'

Alan Hunter glances at his companions before taking a seat.

'How'd you know I'd be here?'

'I didn't. But it's daylight so I figured you'd be on the course. You always used to be able to set your clock by your golf.'

'Aye, true enough.'

Hunter, dour-faced, but with a flashing smile that changes him radically on the rare occasions he uses it, is in his mid-fifties, trim and dapper with sandy-coloured hair running to grey at the sides. People in the bar flash surreptitious glances at him from time to time. Hunter is famous. A Liverpool player for twelve years, before retiring and becoming one of the north-west's biggest property developers. A millionaire from his sporting days, Hunter has successfully traded his sporting spoils for an empire now worth hundreds of millions.

'So what brings you back to Liverpool, Koop, the weather?'

Koop half-smiles. 'How's Siobhan?'

Hunter looks shrewdly at Koop.

'She's fine, just fine. Second year at university. Psychology.'

'That figures,' says Koop. Alan Hunter rewards him with the smallest of nods.

Koop holds his coffee cup and lets Hunter wait.

Siobhan Hunter was one of Menno Koopman's highest-profile cases at MIT. A rape victim at sixteen, left for dead behind a nightclub in town one warm summer evening. Koop and his team found the rapist, a psychopathic bouncer by the name of Lewis. In the course of the investigation Lewis beat Koop severely, leaving him with a broken arm and fractured jaw. Despite his injuries Koop clung to Lewis until help arrived and Lewis ended up convicted for life. Lewis only lasted three weeks after the conviction, stabbed to death in his cell, assailant unknown.