Dead of Winter (13 page)

‘Why didn’t you kill him?’ asked Starman.

‘You think killing someone you don’t know can be done cleanly and neatly because it’s done with detachment?’

‘That’s your reason?’

‘Cowardice or conscience, perhaps. Even after all these years, I still debate with myself each night before I try to sleep.’ Karl’s voice was on the verge of breaking. ‘Still think I don’t understand the grey between the black and white? Think again.’

Everything in the room came to an eerie hush. Karl’s laboured breathing was the only audible sound. It was left to Steinway to break the silence.

‘Release him, and put him in the chair,’ Steinway instructed Knifeman.

‘You can’t be serious?’ said Knifeman. ‘What if he tries to get out?’

‘He’ll not get out. Place him in the chair.’

Mumbling under his breath, Knifeman began manoeuvring Karl out of the Slaughter Restraint. To Karl, Knifeman was a lot slower taking him out than he had been placing him in the damn contraption.

Finally upright, Karl was eased into a wooden chair, hands and feet still bound. Muscles were limp and unresponsive. His head
felt light, yet despite the hellish situation, it was heavenly to be sitting again.

‘Go back and finish your work,’ Steinway ordered Knifeman. ‘We haven’t much time.’

The last sentence caused a shiver to run up Karl’s battered spine. His stomach suddenly became a bucket of rats.

‘What…what are you planning to do with me?’ he asked, not really wanting an answer.

In the stillness, broken only by the ticking of the clock, Steinway seemed to be reflecting. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

Suddenly, Knifeman came rushing forward. In his hand he held a cleaver newly wet with blood. ‘He knows too much! Don’t you see? He’s playing mind games. We have no other choice than to dispose of him.’

Steinway shook his head wearily. ‘You would spill innocent blood, mingle it with the guilty?’

‘He’s
not innocent. He wants the blood money, and that makes him as guilty as the filth we’ve disposed of. Don’t you understand? We’ll go to prison for life, and they’ll have won.’

‘
Won
?’ said Steinway, shaking his head. ‘Is that what this is about? Winning? Have you lost sight of justice?’

‘No…no, of course not…’ Knifeman’s voice became subdued.

‘I give you my word that I won’t go to the cops – or anyone else,’ said Karl, marvelling at how calm his voice sounded,
contradicting
his frayed nerves.

‘
Your
word?’ Knifeman’s eyes narrowed. ‘A bounty hunter’s words?’

Steinway slowly removed his mask, before looking directly at Starman. ‘I’ll not have this man’s death on my conscience.
What do
you say
?’

To Karl, Starman seemed to be taking forever to say something. He looked at Karl, then over towards the visibly agitated
Knifeman
, before looking back at Steinway. Finally, he spoke. ‘There’s a great possibility that Kane will go straight to the police and tell them everything, the moment he’s released. Of course, two of us do have the advantage of anonymity. He only knows you.’

‘I can live with that,’ said Steinway. ‘The police will get
nothing
from me if I’m arrested. You have my word on that.’

‘I don’t need your word. I’ve always trusted your decisions. This time will be no different. But this I say, and I want it
understood
by Kane.’ Starman turned his attention to Karl, looking directly into his eyes. ‘If
anyone
is ever arrested and charged, I’ll hold you personally responsible. I don’t care where you try to hide. I’ll find you – at any cost. Do you understand?’

Karl did his best to nod. ‘I believe you. Hopefully, you believe me.’

‘Untie him,’ Steinway told Knifeman. ‘Help him get cleaned up. Give him back his clothes. We’ve a lot of clearing up to do.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ said Knifeman. ‘We’re finished the moment he walks out of here. He’ll go straight to the police. And what about Goodman?’

‘We’re finished here – forever. Enough blood has been spilt. As for Mrs Goodman, Mister Kane’s final report to her will say there was nothing to be concerned about. She’ll go along with that, once I tell her I’ve decided to retire. Besides, Mister Kane won’t jeopardise the safety of those he loves,’ said Steinway, turning his gaze on Karl. ‘Isn’t that right, Mister Kane?’

‘Y
ou come back at six in the morning, cuts and bruises all over your face and body, and smelling of God knows what, and say you just slipped on the snow?’ Naomi dabbed
yellowish
medicinal liquid on Karl’s face, while he sat on a chair in the living room. ‘You expect me to believe you just
slipped
? Really?’

‘Really.’ Karl wore only underwear, exposing a body badly bruised by its ordeal on the Slaughter Restraint. His swollen lips had turned as rusty as the liquid Naomi was administering, while the back of his head still throbbed terribly.

‘Well, for your information, Karl Kane, I’m not buying what you’re trying to sell.’

‘It’s easy slipping, once you know how, Naomi. Simply place one left foot in front of the other left foot, and just add ice plus a sprinkling of hardened snow. Works every time for me. Even better when I’ve had a few brandies for winter fuel.’

Naomi released a sigh of disgust. ‘Your lips look like someone tried to rip them off. That wasn’t a fall.’

‘It was a kissogram gone wrong.’

‘Stop trying to be smart when you know you’re anything but.’ Naomi dabbed the liquid on roughly.

‘Fuck sake!
Careful with that bloody stuff. You’re rubbing it on just a little too enthusiastically. That’s my face, not dough, you’re kneading.’

‘Stop fussing like a big girl’s blouse.’ She dabbed some more. ‘So, are you going to tell me about your little nocturnal
shenanigans
, or do I rub a little harder?’

Karl thought of the last four nightmarish hours. Rolled them into a split second. Shuddered involuntarily. Another nightmare to add to the mounting toll.

‘It was all a waste of time and money. I was totally wrong,’ he finally said. ‘Nothing suspicious about that bloody place, or any of the even bloodier people working in it. If I’ve learned anything this day, it’s the fact that I’m a failure when it comes to hunches.’

‘I won’t have you being so self-critical. So stop it.’ She gently kissed the top of his throbbing head.

He felt the kiss burning through his hair, all the way to the scalp, like a magical balm. Loved it. Loved being back with the woman he loved; her perfume, her voice. Her very presence was solace to his soul. Just wished he didn’t have to lie to her. How things could have ended so differently. Never seeing her again. He shuddered.

‘Karl? Are you listening to me?’

‘Oh…sorry, love.’

‘I said, what about Geordie Goodman, the owner? Nothing
suspicious about her?’

He had wondered the same, but Steinway’s concerned words had cleared her. No, Geordie Goodman wasn’t involved in this particular grisly case, but something else, perhaps? He really didn’t want to contemplate the thought, but had a sneaking
suspicion
that their paths would cross again, sometime in the future. It wasn’t Goodman he was thinking of, anyway, but the woman claiming to be Jemma Doyle, how she had fooled him into
setting
up Thomas Blake to be tortured, then murdered. He had phoned the number she had given him, but as he suspected, it was no longer in service. What a sad, pathetic sucker he had been.

‘No. Not a thing about Georgina Goodman. From the little I uncovered, she’s as clean as a nun’s bum. But I’ll tell you
something
, after visiting that terrible place, I’m gonna do my best to eat less meat.’’

Naomi slowly sat down beside him, her lovely face suddenly terribly serious.

‘Are you trying to wind me up, Karl?’

‘Not unless you have a key sticking out of your back.’

‘You’ll really try?’

‘I’ll
try
. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘She threw her arms around his sore neck, hugging him tightly.

‘Easy, for fuck sake, Naomi. For such a wee thing, you’ve got the grip of a wrestler. Let go, will you?’

She slowly released him, kissed his torn lips, and stood.

‘Could you manage a cup of nice coffee, if I make it special, just the way you like it?’

He put on a limp voice. ‘I’ll try…but only for you.’

She giggled, before quickly heading for the kitchen.

Music started filtering from the kitchen, just as the doorbell down below began ringing insistently.

He quickly grabbed Naomi’s pink bathrobe and made his way awkwardly downstairs.

The bell rang and rang.

‘All bloody right! I’m coming!’ he shouted, halfway down the stairs.

It was Sean, the postman, wrapped up as if for a polar expedition.

‘Couldn’t you’ve just dropped any mail through the letter box, Sean? All that irritating ringing like Quasi bloody modo.’

‘And a good morning to you, too, Karl. That colour really suits you.’ Sean grinned. He held out a large brown envelope. ‘This envelope is too big, and anyway it has to be signed for. It’s from a solicitor. I thought it might have been from a publisher accepting one of your rejected manuscripts.’

‘Cut the sarcasm. It’s too early in the morning.’

‘Just sign inside the window.’ Sean handed Karl the envelope and a black plastic signing device.

‘Who the hell invented this piece of crap?’ complained Karl, trying to negotiate the pen-like tool onto the screen.

‘Be as quick as you can. It’s Baltic out here, Karl.’ A frosty mist escaped Sean’s mouth each time he spoke.

‘Stop complaining. You get paid for getting your nuts frozen off.’

‘You must have been pollaxed last night. You look like you got a good hammering.’

‘It was Thor. So if you happen to see the long-haired prick on your rounds, give him a good kick up the
Ass
gard for me.’

‘You know what they say? A bad morning is usually the result of a good night.’

‘Thank you, Socrates,’ mumbled Karl, awkwardly scribbling an illegible scrawl, before handing the device back.

‘Have a nice one,’ said Sean, throwing the mailbag over his shoulder before leaving the doorway.

Back inside, Karl glanced quickly at the printed solicitor’s name.
T. P. McGuigan
. His heart moved up a notch. He didn’t like letters from solicitors – especially ones he had never heard of. He wondered if it was from Lynne, looking for more money? It was just the sneaky sort of shit she’d get up to: changing solicitors to confuse him.

Upstairs, he threw the large envelope on the sofa, debating whether to open it or leave it for Naomi to hit him gently with any bad news it might contain. A cup of hot coffee sat on the table beside his chair. He could hear Naomi moving about in the bathroom.

‘To hell with it…’ He slit the envelope open with a pen and began removing the contents. A paperclip attached a page to another envelope. His name was scrawled across the envelope’s face like an unhealed scar. He sat the envelope down, concentrating on the page first.

Dear Mister Kane,

Please find enclosed letter from one of our clients, now deceased. Should you need any more information, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Yours sincerely,

Thomas P. McGuigan

Karl’s intuition began kicking in.
Deceased
? He didn’t like the sound of that particular deadly word.

As if handling a booby-trap bomb, he began gingerly removing the contents from the other envelope. One typed page. Small key taped securely to it.

Well, Kane? Bet this comes as a bit of a shock to you?

Karl quickly ran his eyes to the bottom of the page, hoping to determine the sender. The name screamed at him: Edward Phillips.

‘Shit…’

If you’re reading this, Kane, then I guess I didn’t manage to die of old age in my bed, and have probably ended up a victim of a
mysterious
or violent death. If so, I’ve given instructions to Tom (McGuigan, my solicitor) to ensure this letter arrives safely in your capable, if somewhat dodgy, hands.

Remember that day we bumped into each other outside
headquarters
, all those eons ago? My pension had been withdrawn by that fuck of a brother-in-law of yours, and I was on my way to confront him? I was slightly intoxicated. Remember?

Karl remembered. Too well…

Karl had just emerged from Police Headquarters when he bumped into Phillips. Phillips had recently been drummed out of the force, with loss of pension and benefits. Rumour said it was something to do with shaking down drug dealers.

Upon seeing Karl, the ex-detective had engaged him in
conversation
, the effect of booze obvious in the way he slurred some of the words. The short version of his story was that he was heading in to see his old boss, Wilson, and was going to make him
reinstate
what was owed to him.

‘Good luck with that,’ Karl had said.

‘Luck’s got nothing to do with it when you’ve got good, solid insurance and just the right amount of secrets.’ Phillips had seemed very confident.

‘Secrets? What kind of secrets?’

‘As juicy as a box of oranges, or should I say, figs from King David’s garden.’ Phillips had winked knowingly.

‘King David?’

Karl remembered Phillips leaning in confidentially before he said, ‘Listen, Kane, I’ve always liked you, despite the fact that you probably shot two of my old workmates, who, likely as not, had it coming to them.’

‘That booze is making you talk shit, Phillips,’ Karl recalled saying. ‘I had nothing to do with Cairns or Bulldog being killed.’

Phillips had shrugged. ‘I’m only saying I always liked you, and just to prove it, if some unfortunate accident should befall me, I’ll make sure my solicitor sends you a little something in the mail.’

With that, Phillips had headed towards the door of HQ. ‘Be seeing you, Kane.’

What the hell was all that about?
, Karl had wondered at the time.

Maybe now he was going to find out.

‘You were wrong on that account, Phillips. You never did see me again.’ With difficulty, Karl sipped the coffee before continuing with the letter.

A numbered key should be enclosed with this letter. It opens a private postal box in the train station at Great Victoria Street. Open
it. Once you do, you’ll find a nice wee surprise from me. A sort of going away gift, we’ll call it. There will also be another letter. Read it and weep, Kane. Discover the truth about your so-called
moralistic
brother-in-law. Remember what I said about the King David Syndrome?

See you about, Kane. Some place…

Edward Phillips

A scraggly signature was scrawled over the typed ‘Edward Phillips’.

And there was a PS:
Oh, I suppose there’s a possibility that this communication has fallen into the wrong hands. If so, I guess it’s not you reading it. Probably, just like me, you’re dead also.

The coffee no longer tasted honest in Karl’s mouth. He sat the cup back down on the table.

‘Karl?’

‘Naomi! What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?’

‘I’m not sneaking anywhere.’ Naomi was leaning against the bathroom door, her arms folded, a frown on her face. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost.’

Or felt one pissing on my grave
. ‘It’s this awful coffee. Where the hell did you get it?
Miser Mick’s
? It’s bouncing.’ Karl desperately began balling Phillips’ letter.

‘What’s that in your hand?’ asked Naomi, ignoring the sarcasm in Karl’s voice.

‘What?’

‘
That
.’ Naomi pointed at the offending hand. Bits of the letter spiked out between Karl’s fingers.

‘Oh!
That?
Would you believe, another rejection letter? Those
heartless publishers show no mercy, always kicking a man when he’s down. That’s the third this week. They’re relentless and
ruthless
.’