A Dark Place to Die (25 page)

'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 on 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.

43

Feeling battered, both physically and mentally, Koop takes a cab back to his hotel. Despite wanting to slump miserably in the back seat, he rides up front as is the custom with Liverpool cabs. To sit in the back could be seen as giving yourself airs. Thankfully, and unusually, the cabbie isn't the chatty sort. After his opening gambit on the likelihood of a management change at Anfield after the latest tragic loss to the Mancs (Ferguson had won his bet with Keane) has elicited a monosyllabic grunt, the cabbie turns up the radio for the short ride down to the Pier Head. Koop stares out of the window and watches the streets of his home town drift past. It's a city in flux, being pulled in contradictory directions.

He won't be coming back any time soon.

The cab pulls up outside the hotel. He pays the guy, overtipping him, and gets into the lift. It feels like forever since he left the place yesterday morning. As the lift rises, Frank feels nauseous and dizzy.

He checks his watch. Eleven am UK, 10 pm in the Northern Rivers. He'll call Zoe when he gets to the room, tell her he's coming back. With luck, she'll have simmered
down by now and if she hasn't, then, frankly, Koop is past caring. Zoe's wrath is no more than he deserves. Still, it'd be nice if she was in a forgiving mood. He needs something to look forward to.

The lift doors ping and Koop steps out into the hushed hallway. He slides the key card from his pocket and inserts it into the hotel door. The room is of the kind that requires the key card placed in a wall socket to access power. Koop slots it home and presses the light switch. As well as the light, the radio comes on, blaring out some anodyne generic R&B.

Koop walks the few paces into the bedroom and stops.

Keith Kite's corpse is tied to the hotel bed, naked save for a pair of soiled Calvin Kleins. A sock has been stuffed into his mouth and fixed in place with duct tape. Koop can see the woollen edges of the sock poking out below his nose. Kite's eyes are open, staring wildly at the ceiling through a dry mask of blood.

His throat has been cut and he has been badly beaten.

Koop realises he isn't breathing. He leans back against the hotel wall and tries to recover some sort of equilibrium. The atmosphere in the room is thick and Koop turns the air-conditioning to full.

He looks down at the floor. There are a number of blood marks on the tasteful ochre carpet. Taking care not to step on any, Koop draws closer to the bed. Kite's blood has soaked into the mattress. His aching muscles protesting, Koop squats awkwardly close to the floor and peers underneath the bed. The base looks relatively dry and there's no sign of a weapon. As he rises, Koop almost topples forward onto Kite. He puts out a hand to the wall and steadies himself, his breathing heavy.

Behind him, the curtains to the room are open. To one
side of the window is an office block. Koop can see a few shadowy figures moving around in those rooms that have lights on. He draws the curtains and sits down on a hard chair at the tiny desk to think.

After a few minutes have passed, Koop takes out his mobile and looks at it. The obvious thing is to call Keane. His finger hovers above the keys and then he closes his phone and replaces it in his pocket. He thinks about how this will play with Keane.

His thoughts aren't flowing easily and his head is pounding but those conclusions he does manage to reach aren't good.

Strike one: he fights with Kite and Kite turns up dead.

Strike two: Keane knows Koop's suspicions about Kite's involvement in the killing of Stevie.

Strike three – and this one makes Koop blink: his meeting with Carl now assumes a conspiratorial air.

Christ! Don't tell me Carl did this? Koop squeezes his forehead. Could he have? Some sort of twisted family thing? Blood is blood, said Carl. There are buckets of the stuff here. Koop tries hard to think clearly but can't. Instead, Koop does what he knows best: he acts.