The Dark Place (8 page)

“We won’t hear you talk like that, Ivana,” said Naomi, hugging her. “It was brave of you to come forward, trying to help. Both Karl and I are so proud of you. Isn’t that right, Karl?”

“Huh? Oh … of course we are. It took a lot of …” he almost said balls, but quickly decided against that particular word, under the circumstances “… courage.”

“Look at the state of me,” said Ivana, wiping a small gathering of tears away from her face, snot from her nose, as she stood to leave. “All my make-up is running all over the place. I’m a total mess.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” soothed Naomi. “We’re going upstairs. I’ll have you looking as good as new for Vincent.”

“There’s something else, isn’t there, Ivana? Something you’re not telling us,” said Karl, standing, looking directly into Ivana’s eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You came here to clear your conscience by telling us half a story, as if –”

“Karl!” shouted Naomi. “What on earth are you –?”

“A half-baked story, Ivana, that makes
you
feel better? You don’t care about the young girls! You couldn’t give a damn about –”

“I do!” screamed Ivana.

“Karl! That’s enough,” threatened Naomi.

“Tell me everything, Ivana! Not the bits that suit, but the bits that you fear, the bits that –”

“Karl! Enough!”

Ivana suddenly crumpled back down into the chair. “No … no,
Naomi … he’s right. I haven’t been totally truthful.”

Naomi’s face suddenly reddened.

“Listen, Ivana,” said Karl, his voice now calm. “You might still be harbouring feelings for Bobby, for helping you discover the truth about yourself, all those years ago, as a wee boy struggling to face an inhospitable world. But that was then, Ivana. This is now. If you know where he is, for the sake of any future victims, you’ve got to tell me – now, before it’s too late.”

Ivana’s sobbing began filling the room, as Karl continued relentlessly but calmly.

“You were having a relationship with Bobby, before your sex change, weren’t you? Is that why he attacked you? He felt betrayed that you had gone behind his back, become a woman, years later, the ultimate betrayal in the eyes of a very sick misogynist?”

Ivana dipped her head, nodding. “Yes.”

“Where is he, Ivana? You must tell me.”

Ivana shook her head. “I can’t. They’ll put him in prison to be killed, and it will be my fault they sent him there. In school, I was a bully’s wet dream. I know what it’s like to be picked on, day after day.”

“He’s
not
the victim, Ivana! He could be responsible for the murders of those young girls. You’d rather see more young girls butchered? Is that what you want? Did you really look at that poster of young Martina Ferris, her eyes?”

“Yes! Yes … I saw them … still seeing them …”

“Tell me where he is!”

“I can’t!”

“You can and you
will!
” exploded Karl, slamming his fists on the table, making both Ivana and Naomi jump.

“Karl!” shouted Naomi. “There’s no need for –”

“
Where
is he, Ivana?”

“I … I …”

“
Where?
”

“Okay … okay …” whispered Ivana. “I’ll tell you where he might be.”

It was a good fifteen minutes before Ivana confessed all that she knew, her face a map of tears and destroyed make-up. Naomi tried her
best to comfort her by holding her tightly, whispering soothing words into her ear.

“There now, Ivana. It’s all over. It’s okay. You’ve been so brave. It’s okay.”

“Naomi’s right, Ivana. You have been brave to come forward,” admitted Karl. “Who the hell knows what I’d have done under the same circumstances?”

“There … there’s one other thing,” sniffed Ivana. “I don’t know if it is important or not.”

“Yes?” asked Karl, wondering what the hell else could be added to this hellish tale.

“When he was young, Bobby was an expert hunter and tracker.”

H
e sat naked on a mound of sand and scraggy grass, watching the sea drain from the deserted shore. The drainage was leaving behind a solid emptiness weighing heavily on what remained. A bone-white moon kept intermingling with ghostly orange clouds, giving the night sky a dark red hue. The ozone coming off the shore brought a stench with it, not unlike the smell of blood now webbing in his nostrils.

As a boy, he loved visiting the seashore, catching crabs, turning them on their backs while he opened them up, seeing what made the creatures tick. But not tonight. Tonight, he was here for a totally different reason …

Standing, he walked back to his car, casually opening the boot, all the while feeling the moon washing over his naked body. Tiny electric shocks ran under his skin.

Delightful
.

Hordes of gathering night moths suddenly brought a susurrus whisper to his ears. Their sound was reassuring, calming, and he began removing the carpet topping, exposing the blackness below.

The girl’s body was wrapped tightly in black bin lining, like a
putrefied mummification. He could clearly see the nose stressing the texture, and the little “o” made by the startled mouth.

Bending, he leaned into the car’s boot and kissed the startled mouth. It gave him fresh, redeeming shudders of electricity. Scooping the body up in his arms, the dead weight made his massive arm muscles bulge with strain. He listened for a few seconds to the quietness before proceeding towards the sandy tongue of shore. His movements were slow and deliberate, like Frankenstein’s godless creation slinking into the night.

The shore’s edge was firm, but the more he progressed outwards towards the sea, the less stable the sand became, shifting its wet particles to accommodate his weight. Twice he almost stumbled, but the dead weight in his arms helped him to balance.

It was ten minutes later when the cold sea water finally reached just below his chest. He could feel its deceiving strength while buoying the body on the surface with one hand, ripping the bag open with the other.

She stared up at him from within the bag, one lifeless eye seemingly focusing over his shoulder at the moon. Her other eye was gone, and the empty socket was collecting water that rushed out and ran down her grey cheekbone as she bobbed in the sea. More water rushed to wash away the remnants of blood attached to the body, exposing a pale scar snaking from the hollow of her throat to the middle of her chest: the vestige of a furrow caused by deliberate and cruel hands.

Without warning, a baptismal wave suddenly swept over him, stealing the body from his grip. He struggled for control, but lost his balance to the surging water.

A few seconds later, she was gone. Free at last.

“W
hat are you going to do about the information Ivana gave us yesterday?” asked Naomi, sitting with her feet up on the sofa, a copy of
Northern Woman
by her side.

“Not much I
can
do except give it to the cops – which I did, early this morning, while you were snoring your pretty head and hangover off,” said Karl, handing her a steaming cup of coffee. “I gave the info as an anonymous, concerned citizen, using my best Humphrey Bogart to disguise my own voice.”

“You didn’t call Wilson personally?” asked Naomi, a puzzled look appearing on her face. “I assumed –”

“You should never assume. Always remember that assume makes an arse out of u and me.”

“Ass. It’s
ass
, Karl. Not arse. I saw
The Silence of the Lambs
, as well.”

“Yes, but this is the Belfast version,” grinned Karl.

“What’s going on with you and your brother-in-law, Karl? Something isn’t right.”

“
Ex
-brother-in-law. A family tiff. That’s all. The less we see of each other, the better. Anyway, I spoke to Hicks about an hour ago, see if he
knew what action the cops took. According to him, they’re not going to do shit.”

“Are you serious?”

“They said that Mister Robert Hannah is an upstanding member of the business community, and they more or less laughed at the suggestion that he could be involved in anything as terrible as abduction and murder.”

“They’re not even going to search the address Ivana gave us?”

“Mister Hannah is a generous contributor to the policeman’s balls. Bit of a contradiction, policeman’s balls, I know, but there you have it.”

“Working-class kids against money?”

“You’re starting to scare me, Naomi.”

“I am?”

“Your thinking is parallel with my own.”

“Great minds and all that?”

“Look, I’ve got to pop out for a little while,” said Karl, reaching for his jacket.

“You’ve been popping out a lot lately,” retorted Naomi.

“That’s what one nudist said to the other.”

“Very funny. Where exactly is it you’re popping out
to?
”

“To see a Mister Smith, my dear,” replied Karl, smiling, planting a kiss on Naomi’s cheek. “Hopefully, I’ll be back within the hour. Enjoy that lovely Rio coffee. Cost me a fortune.”

“Be careful … please.”

Seconds later, Karl went out the door carrying nothing but himself. It took him all of five minutes to locate the small, nondescript shop in Bridge Street, sandwiched between a shady-looking café and a dilapidated bakery short of dough. Outside the shop, a large painted sign proclaimed:
We Open the Doors Others Can’t
.

Karl entered, immediately spotting a man in the far corner. The man had his broad back to Karl, and tiny sparks were dancing on either side of him as he bent into his work. Dust was everywhere. The heat inside the shop was horrendous. The man’s large bulk seemed to be blotting out all oxygen in the room.

“Don’t do anything foolish, old man, and everything will be a-okay,”
whispered Karl, leaning over the counter. “There’s a gun pointed right at your back. I want your wife or your money. The choice is yours.”

The sparks stopped dancing. The man’s broad back stiffened. “You can have the money, but only on condition that you take the wife as well. She’s upstairs, shaving her chin,” said the man, turning slowly. He had the stocky build of an ex-boxer, his face mapped with tiny scars, missing teeth and a broken-down nose no longer in use.

Karl grinned. “How’s business, Willie?”

“It scares the business out of me whenever I hear those words from your mouth, Karl. It always follows with a request,” said Willie Morgan, turning to face Karl, a finished key in his hand.

“How’s Isabel?”

“I haven’t spoken to her in a week; I don’t like to interrupt her,” said Willie, reaching for his smokes, offering one to Karl before placing one in the V of his fingers. For such a stocky man, he held the cigarette rather daintily.

“I’ve never had so many offerings of cigarettes since I gave them up,” moaned Karl, declining the cig. “How can you stick the heat in here? I’ve lost a pound just standing talking to you.”

“I’m still waiting on your request,” said Willie suspiciously, scratching the splinters of the short silvery hair on his well-used face, while doing a quick search of his pocket. Winningly producing a lighter, he lit the cig.

Karl listened to the paper and tobacco crackling, making him pine for the good old, bad old days of lung-staining enjoyment.

“I need a favour.”

“I knew it,” said Willie, shaking his head before inhaling deeply on the cig. “What is it?”

“It could mean breaking the law,” supplied Karl. “No, actually, let me rephrase that. It
will
mean breaking the law.”

“How do you know I haven’t changed since the last time you saw me? I could be an upstanding member of the community.”

“The weather can change, Willie; not you,” said Karl, grinning.

“For someone who was going to be a cop and whose brother-in-law is a top detective, you fly awfully close to the sun. One day, your arse is going to be melted, like Icarus. You know that, don’t you?”

“Thank you, Socrates, for those enlightening words.”

“Now, what’s this I hear about you in hospital, a few months back? An operation of some sort?”

“What?” said Karl, feeling his face reddening. “It … was nothing. Simply a check-up.”

“I heard it was to have your haemorrhoids removed,” stated Willie, staring directly into Karl’s eyes.

“For fuck sake. Is nothing in this town sacred?”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How are they? Your piles?”

“If you really must know, they’re a bit like Terry Wogan: extremely unfunny and full of shit,” replied Karl. “Now, how about a cup of that infamous coffee of yours, the one they use for tar-and-feathering?”

“Flip the sign and bolt the door. I’ve done enough trade for today.”

“Oh, almost slipped my mind,” said Karl, flipping the sign on the door. “Any disposables?”

Willie’s eyebrows moved slightly. “Only if need be.”

“It’s need-be time.”

“I can tell there’s something hairy coming up,” sighed Willie, “and I bet it isn’t my arse.”

Karl watched Willie heading into a backroom, emerging less than a minute later with a wooden box.

“Something a bit more impressive than a box, please,” said Karl, finding a tall stool at the counter before parking his bulk.

“Take a look at this baby,” enthused Willie, opening the box, exposing a gun. “It’s a beauty. A .357 Colt Python – the Rolls Royce of handguns because of its superior finish, high-quality parts, excellent accuracy and smooth trigger pull. This is the three-inch barrel version, favoured by undercover cops and
dodgy
PI’s in the good old US of A – making
you
feel right at home in its company.”

“No trace?”

“Not a hope. Serial number’s been filed away. Stolen about three years ago from a cop’s house. He was too embarrassed to report it missing, apparently,” replied Willie, smiling secretively.

Karl held the weapon in his right hand, his thumb depressing the sharply knurled button to release the cylinder. Gentle pressure from the fingers of his left hand slipped the cylinder out of the metal stomach, exposing its contents. Clean light gleamed off the brass rims of the bullets bedded in their metal housing.

“You keep it fucking
loaded?
” asked Karl, taken aback.

“Would you keep a car with no petrol in it?”

“Point taken. What else do you have for me in your bag of tricks?”

“Here. Take a peep into the schoolhouse. Check the sleeping teachers.”

“Teachers?”

“They help to teach people a lesson,” replied Willie, grinning.

Peering into the box, Karl could see three bleak-looking items nestling snugly together like mummified corpses.

“Blackjacks? I suppose you could say that this brings new meaning to the term jack in the box,” quipped Karl.

Removing one of the blackjacks, Willie slapped it hard against the palm of his beefy hand. “These are the best teachers in town. Besides, they’re not just any old jacks. These are bludgeoning impact weapons used by the military, security and cops around the world. Professional grade construction, made of smooth black cowhide, loaded with spring steel. The manufacturers advise extreme caution when using. You have to laugh at that. When you hit a man with one of these babies, you don’t wrap it in cotton wool or use extreme caution. They’re covering their arse, of course. The responsibility is on you.”

“You must have a stake in the company, the way you describe those so gleefully.”

“I’m letting you know that just because they don’t fire bullets, they’re not any less lethal than a gun.”

“Why three? Aren’t they all the same, doing what they say on the label?”

“Are all guns the same?”

“Of course not.”

“There you go, then. You’ve answered your own question. Take this one, for example,” said Willie, holding out the jack in his hand. “It’s a
round jack. It concentrates force on the target and can actually break bones with relative ease. Whereas this one …” Willie removed another jack from the box. “This is the flat, spreading its force out on the target, increasing the severity of damage done to the skin but
without
breaking bones.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Now this one?” continued Willie, unabated, removing the final jack from its housing. “This is my all-time favourite. The cylinder. Cops in Chicago used these during prohibition to take down the mob’s so-called tough guys with one single slap upside the head. This coconut is guaranteed to knock the biggest ape in the jungle out. Your choice.”

“So many to choose from. It’s almost an embarrassment of riches,” said Karl, doing an eeney-meeny-miney-mo with his index finger. “This one, I think. The flat.”

“Sure? Do you still need the disposable, even with this?”

“Yes. Just a precaution. I’m like boxers, in that sense.”

“What? You like to beat the crap out of people?”

“No,” replied Karl, grinning. “I like covering my arse.”