Dead of Winter

I would like to thank all at The O’Brien Press for their hard work and dedication in helping the journey of this book. Mary Webb for her editorial input and keen eye; Emma Byrne for creating such a powerful and atmospheric Karl Kane cover; Ruth Heneghan for all the publicity generated, and Brenda Boyne at sales. Also, to all those behind the scenes, not forgetting Michael O’Brien.

T
he dark was shifting to early morning when Karl Kane – clad in nothing but a too-small pink bathrobe – discovered the severed hand nestling beside the milk and newspaper delivery on the snowy doorstep of his office/apartment in Belfast’s Hill Street.

‘Shit…’ muttered Karl once the revelation hit home.

From the moist Rorschach-like stains scarring the freshly fallen snow, Karl quickly determined it wasn’t all that long ago the hand had been part of the body proper. It looked to be reaching out in a macabre handshake.

A freezing wind skimming off the River Lagan suddenly began whistling up Karl’s canyon, making him shudder. Quickly
tightening
the belt on the bathrobe, he bent on one knee,
scrutinising
the hand and anything else that could well become relevant, subsequently.

‘What the hell…?’ The little finger was missing, but unlike the crisp severance of the hand’s stump, this seemed to have been gnawed carelessly off.

Suddenly from his peripheral, something between two columns of uncollected bins caught Karl’s attention. A mangy, rib-
protruding
cat, sat sneakily watching, the missing bloody finger housed perfectly between clamped fangs and filthy mouth.

The sight immediately sent a shiver up Karl’s willy. Never a lover of cats since his ex-wife, Lynne, threw one in his face, four years ago, scarring him for months, the emaciated creature only helped compound his loathing.

‘Bastard!’ shouted Karl, standing, faking a wild kick at the thieving feline before slipping unceremoniously onto his arse in the process.

Pain immediately speared him, sending shockwaves radiating from the base of his spine, rocking and shocking the vertebrae.

‘Fuck
…
oh
…
’
Tears formed in his eyes as he tried shifting his weight. To make matters worse, the belt suddenly slipped from the bathrobe, turning him into an instant flasher.

Two passing schoolgirls began giggling, nudging each other until the bloody hand came into sight. Seconds later, they went running down the street, screaming, schoolbags flying
haphazardly
into the air.

‘I just knew in my piss this morning that this was going to be one of those bloody days…’ mumbled Karl, quickly regaining his composure before staggering awkwardly towards the warm indoors to call the cops.

‘A
ny idea why someone would leave a severed hand at your doorway, Mister Kane?’ asked Detective Malcolm Chambers, three hours later, standing in Karl’s living room. An open notepad rested in the young detective’s hand. Directly behind Chambers, a radio was humming unobtrusively in the background. A song from the seventies playing
Motown
memories.

‘I’m more concerned as to what prick alerted the media,’ said Karl, sitting uncomfortably on a sofa, his tailbone throbbing with pain. He had yet to offer a seat to Chambers. ‘They’ve been parked outside my door for most of the morning, shouting up at the window and in through the letterbox, scaring away my clients.’

‘It certainly wasn’t us. The press never make our job any easier.’

‘Except when you need them to leak stories for you.’

‘The hand,’ said Chambers. ‘Any idea why it would be left at your doorstep?’

‘It’s not just
my
doorway. It’s shared by twenty other businesses
and every drunken bastard taking a piss in the night.’

‘We can do without the sarcasm and swearing, Mister Kane.’

‘I think we’re both of the same mind, that the owner of the hand has been chopped up by the serial killer running about Belfast.’

Chambers stiffened. ‘The police don’t believe there is a serial killer.’

‘Catch yourself on. Two right hands chopped off, and you claim there isn’t a serial killer?’

‘The first hand – discovered three weeks ago in the dock’s area – belonged to Kevin Johnson, a local loan shark. The rest of his body was found shortly after. We’ve already charged someone for that.’

‘Charley Montgomery? That’s a fucking joke. Everyone knows Charley never used a knife in his life. His
modus operandi
is a full magazine in the back – and I’m not talking the
Radio Times
.’

‘We’ve got compelling evidence against Mister Montgomery. Two eyewitnesses place him at the scene, and–’

‘Bollocks. Keep that shit for the TV cameras outside.’

Chambers’ face reddened. ‘Please tone your language down, Mister Kane. I’m just doing my job as–’

‘Wind your bloody neck in telling me to control my language!’ Karl was becoming touchy. His tailbone was killing him, and his haemorrhoids were beginning to flare again. ‘How long have you been
just
doing your job as a detective,
Detective
Chambers?’

‘I…’

‘Well?’

‘Six months…’

‘Six months?
Six
bloody months!’ Karl shook his head. ‘I’ve
been wearing underwear for longer than that.’

‘I really need you to focus on the questions, Mister Kane, rather than–’

‘The last time I saw you was at the funeral of Ivana, about five months ago. Wasn’t it?’

‘Ivana?’ Chambers looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Oh, Frank Gilmore, the transvestite murdered by Robert Hannah?’

‘Ivan
wasn’t
a transvestite. He was transsexual. Can’t you even get that right,
detective
?’ Karl was becoming irritated. ‘Why were you having my photo taken at the scene by a police photographer?’

‘I was simply following procedure and orders. Take as many photos as possible of everyone in the cemetery, in case the killer showed up at the funeral. They say a dog always returns–’

‘To its own vomit. Yes, I heard that old one when you were still in wet nappies.’ Karl was gathering steam. ‘Was
I
a suspect?’

‘You? No…not that I was aware of.’

‘Perhaps Naomi?’

‘Naomi?’

‘Don’t hand me that startled look crap. I’ve had time to think about that day in the graveyard. Perhaps it wasn’t my craggy gob you were interested in, after all, but Naomi’s beautiful face?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Chambers’ face was reddening by the second.

‘Have you got Naomi’s photo pinned up on your locker, like some pimply-faced adolescent? Eh?’

‘I was simply doing my job–’

‘Tell your boss, Wilson – my ex brother-in-law, as you’re probably aware – to send someone with a bit more experience the next time he–’

The door pushed open.

‘Coffee, detective?’ asked a young woman, entering the room while carrying a tray crowned with steaming coffee and biscuits. Extremely attractive and lissom, she was dark-skinned with large hazel eyes, and wild black hair cascading in every direction.

‘I…yes…thank you…’ mumbled Chambers.

‘Since when did we start running a bloody café, Naomi?’ asked Karl tersely, glaring at his part-time secretary and full-time lover.

‘Just ignore him, detective,’ said Naomi, placing the tray on top of a table. There was a lovely southern lilt to her voice, and it brought calmness into the room, if only for a second. ‘He’s always this cranky in the morning. Hasn’t had his Weetabix, yet, poor thing.’

‘It now transpires that this wee boy was taking
your
picture, Naomi, at Ivana’s funeral.’ Karl smirked at Chambers.

‘I didn’t say that, Mister Kane. You’re twisting–’

‘Chubby bloody Checker twists. I don’t.’

‘Oh, so that’s where I recognised you from, detective?’ Naomi smiled. ‘Ivan’s funeral.’

‘I wasn’t really taking just your photo. It was every–’

‘I hope you got my good side? I’m very vain, you know, when it comes to my face.’ Naomi winked, before heading for the door. ‘Enjoy the coffee.’

Chambers waited until Naomi left the room before addressing Karl.

‘Look, Mister Kane, I don’t set the rules. I just obey them, hoping to bring bad people to justice.’

‘Wise up, preaching like that to me. You’re starting to sound like one of those lying scumbags up in Stormont. Just what we
don’t
need. Another fork-tongued and over-paid politician.’

‘I guess to you I’m just some naive cadet?’ Chambers’ face looked pained. ‘I’m sorry you think like that, but I intend to carry out my duties to their fullest. If that’s old fashioned, then I can live with it.’

Momentarily, Karl looked taken aback by Chambers’ frank rawness.

‘You sound more like an idealist than a bloody cadet. I hope you know in your profession idealism is dangerous?’ Karl shuffled on the sofa. ‘Look, we seemed to have started off on the wrong foot – or hand. Sit down and enjoy your coffee.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chambers, looking visibly relieved before sitting down. He closed the notepad. Sipped the coffee. ‘This is excellent.’

‘The price I paid for it, I should bloody well think so.’ Karl sipped his coffee, eyes peering over the rim at Chambers.

‘Can I repeat my question?’ said Chambers.

‘Which one? I’ve a terrible memory.’

‘Any idea why someone would leave a severed hand at your doorstep?’

‘Look, granted I sometimes deal with the dodgiest of characters, but I doubt if any of them would leave a hand at my door. Besides, the hand was obviously dumped in one of the bins.’

‘But it was found on the ground, not inside the bins.’

Karl sipped the coffee again. He seemed to be weighing up a response.

‘The cat took it out, probably dropping it because of the weight. It just happened to land near my door and–’

‘Cat?’ Chambers’ face knotted. He quickly sat the coffee down
on a small table. Re-opened his notepad. ‘What cat?’

It was Karl’s turn to look uncomfortable. ‘The one chewing on the hand’s finger. The bastard disappeared with it, down the street. I thought about giving chase, but was practically nude.’

‘You should have mentioned that at the beginning,’ said Chambers, touchily, scribbling quickly on the notepad. ‘That wasn’t smart, leaving that particular piece of information out.’

Karl’s face reddened. ‘If my memory serves me well, when you arrived on the scene,
you
examined the hand. Yet,
you
didn’t bother to query about the missing finger?
That
wasn’t smart. Six months’ inexperience does that.’

It was over an hour later when a frustrated-looking Chambers finally exited.

‘You could have been a bit more sociable with that young detective, Karl,’ scolded Naomi, entering the room. ‘He looked a nervous wreck.’

‘If I’d been any more sociable, I’d have needed a condom. Anyway, it’ll toughen him up,’ said Karl. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing…’

‘When you say nothing, with a cliff-hanger voice and
that
look, it’s always something. What?’

‘I’m worried. You think that hand
was
left by the serial killer, don’t you?’

‘Well, there’s a slight possibility.’

‘It’s unnerved me.’

‘Unnerved
you
? What about me? I almost shit my pants – if I’d been wearing any, instead of your bathrobe.’

‘Just for once, can you please be serious, instead of flippant?’

‘I am flipping serious. Can’t you tell by the way I–’

We’re sorry for interrupting this programme,
stated a stoic voice from the radio,
but breaking news has just come in. Sources say a shocked member of the public discovered a severed hand in the city centre, in the early hours of this morning…

‘Shocked? I wasn’t shocked,’ said Karl, feigning shock. ‘The bastards better not release my name, otherwise my business will go down the shitter. Who the hell would hire a PI shocked at a bit of blood and meat?’

‘You’re not going to get involved, are you?’ Naomi’s face looked troubled. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.’

‘Give me one good reason why I’d want to get involved in one of your bad feelings?’

Other breaking news. An anonymous businessman has said the killings are becoming detrimental for future investments…

‘Give that man a cigar,’ said Karl, sarcastically. ‘All we need now is–’

…and has just announced that he is offering twenty thousand pounds reward for information leading to the arrest of the individual or individuals involved in these heinous crimes…

‘Karl? What’s wrong?’ asked Naomi, her forehead furrowing.

‘Wrong? Oh, nothing…’

‘When you say nothing, with a cliff-hanger voice and
that
look, it’s always something. What?’

‘Nothing,’ repeated Karl, thinking,
I’ve just been given twenty thousand reasons to get involved…