A Dark Place to Die (34 page)

There are always younger sharks. Kite was one once, back when Koop was putting together The Untouchables. A nasty, vicious scally who clambered his way out of the slime and up the ladder until it happened to him.

It must have been a hell of a shock, reflects Koop. Kite was so cocksure, so certain of his own invincibility, that he forgot Rule One: watch your back. If Keane was right it was this North who did it. North must have been the guy at The Granary. He has a vague recollection of an
unsmiling and unremarkable face, of a hand reaching inside a jacket . . .

Koop steps from the shower and reaches for a towel from the stack. He dries himself and shaves, careful not to cut himself as the A380 bobbles through some minor turbulence.

Flying at thirty-eight thousand feet, the Emirates flight is two hours out of Dubai with another twelve to go before Sydney, and Koop plans to have at least one more shower on board before landing. He seriously doubts he'll ever get the chance to do it again. The first-class flight is Koop's reward to himself after what has happened. He could have changed his ticket, but he simply didn't want to.

He sips his bourbon and looks at himself in the mirror. The events of the past days have not left any visible signs on Menno Koopman. He's a little tired, and his ribs still ache from the beating he took at the gallery, but the decadent surroundings of the flight are beginning to work on him. He feels rejuvenated, filled with desire for Zoe. Not to mention Melumi. Zoe is mad at him, he knows that – he's already tried calling her twice from the airport and once from the plane on the leg to Dubai – but he also knows it'll be fine when he gets back. That there'll be retribution coming his way somewhere down the track, he has no doubt, but nothing too terrible. He expects that she'll probably simply take off for a time, perhaps with Mel in tow. Punishment by denial of privileges. The age-old female prerogative.

Koop dresses and returns to his seat. A gorgeous, smiling hostess has made it up into a full bed while he's been showering. Koop lies back and thinks about what Keane said. With every passing mile he draws nearer to
home, the thought of getting back into harness with this Eckhardt character is becoming less and less attractive.

He'll see him, Koop decides, out of politeness, but that will be as far as it goes. This North can do whatever he wants so long as he stays out of Koop's life. And he can't think of a single reason why North wouldn't do exactly that. Koop has failed. Kite was dead, but that was nothing to do with him. From what Koop could put together, North is now the main player in whatever deal Stevie was mixed up with. The idea of pursuing North in Australia seems as deranged as chasing a great white into the surf.

No, Koop thinks, it's over. He lies back and drifts effortlessly into sleep.

North can keep the drugs.

58

'More chips, love?'

Dot Halligan fusses over her boys as she has done every Sunday of their lives; those that they have spent outside prison, that is. She ladles fried chips onto their plates without waiting for an answer. Dean wades in, spearing his fork into the fresh stack, his eyes not leaving the football showing on the vast plasma TV set. By contrast, Matty only nibbles the end of a chip as onscreen a flamboyant Suarez flashes a volley over the bar.

Dot, who watches her boys like a lioness, is beginning to worry about Matty. Well-dressed and immaculate as ever, he looks too thin. Dot prefers a man to have some padding. Like Dean, who resembles his father – God rot his eternal frigging soul, the lazy fat fucking bastard – more and more with every passing day.

Dot takes her place on her favoured armchair after a final check that the boys have everything they could possibly need. Beans, chicken, carrots, peas, chips, bread and butter on their plates, and sauce bottles – tomato for Matty, HP for Dean – standing like sentries on the opposing arms of the sofa.

What conversation there is centres around the hopes for Liverpool's season, and exactly how useless each and every player in red is, with the exception of the sainted Stevie G. Dot doesn't listen. She enjoys the sound of the male voices in her living room. She doesn't like football. After spending all of her sixty-five years living within walking distance of Anfield, she doesn't know the rules of the game, although, like all Liverpool women, she knows the names of those players who feature heavily in almost all discussions in every house or social function she has ever attended.

As she eats, Dot notices that it's Dean who is more animated, Matty doing just enough to keep the talk flowing. Matty's eyes are dark and she notices lines beginning to appear at the corners of his mouth.

'Everything OK, son?'

At his mother's question, Dean looks up from his plate and across at Matty, a sly smile on his face. 'Yeah, you alright, la?'

'Yeah, course, why?' Matty says, avoiding Dean's grinning face.

'You havin' too many late nights? Chasing girls again?'

Dean turns back to the TV, unwilling to trust himself not to laugh. He shakes his head a fraction, a gesture noticed by Matty who throws a chip at him. Unseen by his mother, Dean mouths the words 'you big poof' at him.

'I've been working too hard, Ma,' says Matty. 'We both 'ave.'

'Well, eat up, son,' says Dot. 'You're fadin' away. I've seen more friggin' meat on a butcher's apron.'

'OK,' says Matty. 'I'll do that.'

As the three finish their meal, Liverpool pull a goal ahead while Dot is clearing the plates, temporarily blocking Dean's view of the screen.

'Fuckin' 'ell, Ma!' says Dean, pushing his mother to one side and leaning to catch the replay. 'Out the fuckin' way!'

'Language, Dean! What would Father Flaherty say?'

'He'd say, "Out the fuckin' way, please,"' whispers Matty as Dot retreats to the kitchen. Dean creases up and takes out a cigarette.

'Not in the house, Dean!' His mother's voice cuts through the excited chatter of the commentary.

'Come on, dick 'ead,' says Dean, getting to his feet. He looks at Matty. 'Ready, you big shirt-lifter?'

Matty stands and fakes a punch to Dean's balls.

'In yer dreams,' says Dean. He walks into the kitchen and kisses his mother.

'You goin' already? You've only just got 'ere!'

Dean jerks a thumb in the direction of the street. 'We're meetin' up with some of the lads,' he says. 'Watch the second 'alf in the pub.'

Matty takes a length of kitchen roll and wraps a leg of chicken in it. He places it into a plastic zip-lock bag and drops it into his jacket pocket.

Dot washes her hands and dries them on a tea towel. She kisses both her boys and walks them to the door. Both were born in this house and if Dot Halligan had her way, both would stay there for the rest of their lives.

Matty opens the front door which exits directly onto the terraced street. 'See you, Ma,' he says and presses a thick wad of banknotes into her hand. As always, she pretends not to want it and, as always, Matty insists she take it. It's a ritual that has been going on for two or three years, the amounts rising markedly over the past eight months in line with the Halligans' business interests expanding healthily under the Keith Kite umbrella.

Dean's Porsche Cayenne is parked directly in front of the house. Dean's sister's boy, Darren, is standing next to it on his BMX bike, along with three or four other boys, all dressed in identical fashion: light-coloured tracksuits, brand new white trainers, baseball caps.

'Alright, Dean, la,' says Darren.

Dean grabs Darren in a headlock and rubs his gelled hair wildly.

'Fuck off, nob 'ead!' Darren struggles. His high-pitched adolescent voice making Dean laugh more.

'Come on, stop dickin' about.' Matty is standing by the passenger door, his fingers drumming impatiently against the roof of the car.

Dean releases the boy and presses a fifty into his hand. 'Get some more gel, Daz. You look like a fuckin' spaz.'

Darren runs a hand through his hair as Matty and Dean get into the Porsche.

Dean notices a man across the street, one of his mother's neighbours, standing in his open doorway, glancing momentarily in his direction.

'What do you want, Simpson, you nosy fucking dick?' shouts Dean from the driver's seat, his head out of the window. Simpson does not meet Dean's stare. Instead, he drops his chin and closes the door.

'That's right, dickhead. Bye bye.'

Dean gives Darren a meaningful glance and the boy nods. Simpson's window will be smashed tonight and he will do nothing about it. Dean seldom punishes any of his mother's neighbours for perceived slights – Dot has to live here, after all – but Simpson rubs him up the wrong way. It never hurts to remind the natives that the Halligans' bark is backed up with bite. Besides, it will give Darren something to do.

Dean pulls away and passes the corner pub. He navigates the familiar labyrinth of red-brick and concrete until they're out of Kirkdale and heading south along the Dock Road. On their right, monolithic warehouses between them and the river; on their left, a ragged string of used-car dealerships, greasy spoon cafés, wood yards, scabby looking council houses, dilapidated gyms and taxi firms. At Vulcan Street, Dean turns the car into the fenced-in yard of a builder's merchant. He parks the Porsche out of sight between two empty skips and he and Matty move inside the office.

Two middle-aged men in overalls are laughing at something on a computer screen. The laughter stops abruptly as the Halligans come in.

'Porn?' says Dean, with a nod to the screen. 'You two should know better at your age.'

'Sorry, Dean,' says the taller of the two. He sits back at the desk.

'No need to sit down, Terry,' Matty says. He gestures towards the window with a thumb. 'You and Noel do one. We'll lock up.'

The men stand and move to the door.

'Any visitors?' says Dean.

'No-one. Sunday, like.'

'OK, good. Right, like Matty said, fuck off.'

When both men have driven off, Matty takes a key from his pocket and the Halligans leave the office and walk across to the large warehouse which serves as a store for the building company they own: a legitimate and profitable concern that comes in very handy for cleaning their money.

At the door they greet Tyson, the yard's rottweiler, who has been barking maniacally at their approach. Matty
lifts the chicken leg from his pocket and holds it out. Tyson snuffles it up greedily and sits down heavily on the concrete.

Leaving Tyson outside, Matty and Dean unlock the warehouse and climb a set of steel stairs to a mezzanine floor which occupies the back half of the building's upper level. Planks and lengths of timber are stacked neatly against the back wall, the remaining space being taken up with an assortment of builders' equipment.

In one corner is a battered metal cabinet about two metres high and half a metre in depth. Matty slides a key into the large new padlock on the front and opens the doors wide. As his eyes fall on the contents, the hairs on his neck rise and he feels his sphincter tighten.

Bright white bricks of cocaine, shrink-wrapped and shiny, are stacked neatly, filling two-thirds of the cabinet.

Matty and Dean Halligan exchange glances.

'We fuckin' did it.' Dean's voice contains equal measures of glee and awe. He stands looking at the stack, shaking his solid head from side to side. He grips Matty around the shoulders. 'Me and me fuckin' little bum-bandit brother took the fuckin' lot!'

Matty shrugs out of Dean's grasp. He closes the doors and locks the padlock.

'Not quite the lot, Dean.'

'Alright, smart-arse. Ninety fuckin' per cent then.' Dean sticks his arms out wide and runs around the mezzanine in the manner of Stevie G celebrating a goal.

'Easy, Dean. We're not there yet.'

'Fuck that. It's done. It's over. No-one expected the fuckin' scallies to get their hands on it all. No-one.'

'North will know.'

Dean's face darkens momentarily at the mention of
Declan North. 'Will he fuck. He'll know something's happened, but he'll be looking at Koopman.'

Matty looks dubious. 'You think so? Sounds thin to me.'

Dean takes out a cigarette and lights up. 'Doesn't matter. Dracula said he was taking care of it. By the time North wakes up to the fact it was us, he'll be dead.'

'Dracula said? Well, that must be alright, then. You think you can trust that cunt?'

From the yard comes the sound of Tyson barking.

'Talk of the devil,' says Dean. 'That must be him.'

The brothers throw a dust sheet over the cabinet and walk back out into the yard. A two-year-old Ford is pulling up in front of the warehouse. Dean bends down to see the driver and Matty opens the warehouse doors. The Ford slides in and Matty closes the doors behind them.

The driver steps clear of the car and shakes hands briefly with each of the Halligans.

'Alright, Dracula,' says Dean. He drags on his cigarette and smiles.

'I told you not to call me that,' says the driver.

'Alright,' says Matty. 'We won't. What would you prefer; Eric or Mr Perch?'

'Neither,' says Detective Chief Inspector Eric Perch. 'As far as I'm concerned, we don't know each other.'

59

The two bodies in the burnt-out lock-up have changed everything.

Eckhardt is at the scene but OCG make it very clear that from here on in, the whole thing is going to be theirs. Collins, the senior assigned by Chris Chakos on the OCG side, is pleasant enough about it, but he wants all Eckhardt's files and he wants them now. When he finds out that Eckhardt has snapped Link and Meeks at the lock-up a few days before with Jimmy Gelagotis, Collins almost creams.

In truth, Eckhardt doesn't mind too much. He's used to OCG arriving late and grabbing the glory. To be fair, they've also been running a file on the Kolomiets case and, for all Warren knows, theirs may have been a fat and juicy one that contained the key to the Holy Grail.

But he doubts it. Not going on their reaction after he found Meeks and Link.

Eckhardt pokes around the edges of the crime scene for a while without expecting to get very much. Collins and his team have set up shop in a mobile unit parked at Red Rooster, although privately Eckhardt thinks they're wasting time looking for forensics other than bullets.