A Dark Place to Die Page 16

  Inside, the only occupant is a man wearing a golf-club polo shirt and sharply creased slacks. He is bent over a ledger on the counter in front of him trying to look busy. At the sight of Koop, he straightens. Late October days at the club can be very slow indeed.

  Then the man's eyes fall on Koop's jeans, trainers and damp North Face jacket and an almost imperceptible sneer creeps onto his face.

  Golfers. A different breed, reflects Koop. He once knew a commercial painter and decorator who, working at one of the big clubs, was asked by a man wearing a cravat to 'paint more quietly' as the noise of his brush was disturbing the members. Koop is not, by nature, a golf club sort of person. Standing in the pro-shop, the rain puddling at his feet, he wonders if he might have risen further in the force if he had been. And then wonders if it would have been worth it. Probably not, if he had to dress like this twat.

  'Lousy morning,' says the guy, pleasantly enough. As Koop draws closer he can smell the man's aftershave. 'How can I help you?'

  'I'm interested in joining the club,' says Koop, doing his best to look convincing.

  The man stares at him.

  'Ah.'

  'Is there a problem?'

  The man smiles. 'It's just that there is a waiting list for membership, sir. Quite a substantial waiting list, actually. And the fees . . . well.' He looks Koop up and down and makes a sort of discouraging shrug. Koop wants to slap him. Instead he tries to appear crestfallen.

  'Oh, I see,' he says. He looks at the man. 'Is there some information I could look at? A brochure?'

  'A brochure?'

  'Yes, a brochure. A printed document? Something that explains how I go about applying.'

  'I'd have to see,' says the man doubtfully. He hesitates.

  'If you would,' says Koop with an encouraging wink.

  'There are some leaflets, I think.' He doesn't move. Instead, he peers around the counter as if expecting the leaflets to materialise. Koop remains still.

  'A leaflet would be good,' he says, politely.

  With a smile that vanishes quicker than it arrives, the man turns away from Koop and steps into a small inner office where he begins to rummage around inside the top drawer of a filing cabinet. The second he's gone, Koop reaches out a hand and rotates the ledger. As he expects, it is a booking diary containing the day's teeing off times. He slides a finger down the list until he finds the name he is looking for. He turns the ledger back as the man closes the filing cabinet.

  'There you are, sir,' he says, handing Koop an expensively produced card membership booklet. 'I think you'll find everything you need to know in there.'

  Koop opens the first page and tosses it back onto the counter. 'Thanks, but I think I'll stick to footy.' He turns and leaves the shop whistling. He couldn't help himself. Wanker.

  At the clubhouse, and following a short discussion to establish that the bar is open to non-members, Koop has a little further difficulty with the way he is dressed before he is, eventually, allowed in. His offending jacket is stowed out of sight and Koop is shown to a seat near the window overlooking the eighteenth green.

  A thin young man with a pronounced Liverpool accent, incongruous with his flawless manner, takes his order. Koop opts for a Diet Coke. His jetlag might need the caffeine later in the day. He's already beginning to flag after his night-time exertions and early start.

  The waiter brings his drink and Koop settles back. Despite his anti-golf prejudice, it's comfortable in the bar. He watches a few brave golfers battle their way to the eighteenth, the drizzle making their rainwear shimmer, and reflects on less comfortable places he's had to wait in his professional life.

  Koop finishes the Coke and orders a coffee. As he lifts it to his mouth, he braces himself against the expected disappointment of another English cup of slop, but this time, against all the odds, it's perfect. He picks up a newspaper and reads, keeping one eye on the eighteenth.

  Almost an hour into his wait, and just as Koop is beginning to think about giving it up as a lost cause, three golfers arrive on the green and he sits up, suddenly alert.

  The three finish their round, shake hands amid much exaggerated laughter and back-slapping, and head inside. A few minutes later the men appear, sans waterproofs, in the bar, their faces shining from four hours battling the elements. Eschewing the waiter service, and despite the early hour, they order beers at the bar and then head for a table. After glancing Koop's way, the tallest of the golfers disengages himself from his friends and walks across the thickly carpeted lounge.

  'Koop,' says the golfer in a thick Glaswegian accent. His voice is neither friendly nor unfriendly. 'I thought you were in New Zealand, man.'

  'Australia,' says Koop, making no attempt to get up.

  'Close enough.'

  'Sit down, Alan.'

  Alan Hunter glances at his companions before taking a seat.

  'How'd you know I'd be here?'

  'I didn't. But it's daylight so I figured you'd be on the course. You always used to be able to set your clock by your golf.'

  'Aye, true enough.'

  Hunter, dour-faced, but with a flashing smile that changes him radically on the rare occasions he uses it, is in his mid-fifties, trim and dapper with sandy-coloured hair running to grey at the sides. People in the bar flash surreptitious glances at him from time to time. Hunter is famous. A Liverpool player for twelve years, before retiring and becoming one of the north-west's biggest property developers. A millionaire from his sporting days, Hunter has successfully traded his sporting spoils for an empire now worth hundreds of millions.

  'So what brings you back to Liverpool, Koop, the weather?'

  Koop half-smiles. 'How's Siobhan?'

  Hunter looks shrewdly at Koop.

  'She's fine, just fine. Second year at university. Psychology.'

  'That figures,' says Koop. Alan Hunter rewards him with the smallest of nods.

  Koop holds his coffee cup and lets Hunter wait.

  Siobhan Hunter was one of Menno Koopman's highest-profile cases at MIT. A rape victim at sixteen, left for dead behind a nightclub in town one warm summer evening. Koop and his team found the rapist, a psychopathic bouncer by the name of Lewis. In the course of the investigation Lewis beat Koop severely, leaving him with a broken arm and fractured jaw. Despite his injuries Koop clung to Lewis until help arrived and Lewis ended up convicted for life. Lewis only lasted three weeks after the conviction, stabbed to death in his cell, assailant unknown.

  Alan Hunter owes him.

  Which doesn't mean that Alan Hunter likes it. His face hardens imperceptibly.

  'It doesn't feel right trading on a collar like Lewis, Alan,' says Koop. 'And I wouldn't do it unless I needed to badly. Very badly.' He pauses and fixes the Glaswegian with a stare. 'It was my son who they found at Crosby last week.'

  Hunter's eyes narrow. 'Son? Jesus. Sorry to hear that, Koop, really. I never knew you even had a son.'

  'Long story. The thing is, I need to cut some corners.'

  Hunter nods. 'Aye, I understand.'

  Koop knows what he's asking. Alan Hunter hasn't reached the position he is in by playing fair. He has stood on toes and broken rules and crucially, from Menno Koopman's perspective, is rumoured to have formed an allegiance with Ali Sawarzi, a one-time Liverpool drug operator who is busy transforming himself into a pillar of the community with Hunter's help.

  During the investigation into Siobhan's rape, Koop never pushed any information on Hunter towards the Serious Crime Squad. He didn't turn a blind eye, but neither did he use Siobhan's rape to delve further into Hunter's business. For that, as well as delivering Lewis, Hunter knows he owes Koop.

  'What do you need?'

  Koop leans forward. 'Stevie – my son – came here from Australia. He didn't know me, that's not why he came. He'd never been back to Liverpool as far as I know. And the next thing is he winds up dead.'

  Koop holds Hunter's gaze.

  'He was no angel, Alan. But he didn't deserve what happened.
He was tortured.'

  Hunter shakes his head. 'No.'

  'What I need to know is have you heard anything . . . on the jungle drums about Australia, or anything like that?'

  'Now wait a minute . . .'

  'Anything you can give me.'

  'I'm no grass, Koop.'

  Koop holds up his hands, palms outstretched. 'I know that.'

  Hunter seems to come to a decision. He inches forward and lowers his voice.

  'I may have heard a whisper. And here's the thing, Koop. I mention something, and you connect that something to someone, that doesn't mean that someone has done this to your boy, right? It just means I've heard a story and you might want to look closer.'

  'Anything you have.'

  'There might be something,' says Hunter. 'There was a sniff about a down under delivery being talked about.'

  'A delivery?' Koop says. 'You sure this isn't about stirring up trouble for one of your rivals, Alan?'

  Hunter stands up, a smile on his face, but when he bends forward to speak to Koop his voice is ice. 'It's a fucking big delivery, Koop. The kind that people have been known to get very twitchy about. I appreciate what you did finding that scum who raped Siobhan, but that's all I'm giving you, is that clear? We're quits. And if what I told you does turn out to have been behind this, then you're on your own. Because these people are bad news, DCI Koopman. Scary bad. And I'm not someone who scares easily.'

  He turns away.

  'A name, Alan?'

  Hunter stops.

  'You much of a Beatles fan, Koop? When was the last time you listened to Sergeant Pepper?' Hunter walks back to his golfing buddies without another word. There is laughter as Hunter makes a quip Koop can't hear.

  Koop sits for a few minutes thinking about what Alan Hunter has said, before drinking the last of his coffee and leaving the bar. Hunter doesn't look up as he walks past. Koop retrieves his jacket and walks through the drizzle to his car. He gets into the Ford and heads west towards Bowden Hospital and Carl.

  Hunter's information or not, Koop has to see his brother some time. It might as well be now.

  34

  Eckhardt takes his information to the Organised Crime Group.

  He has to. He's already held onto it a shade longer than is politically wise. There's a solid connection he can make between the recently deceased Stevie White and Jimmy Gelagotis. There's a solid connection between Jimmy Gelagotis and the recently deceased Macksym Kolomiets. Not to mention the recently deceased Anton Bytchkov. The last two he has no doubt OCG already knows about, but the White connection may be news.

  In Warren Eckhardt's view, Stevie White turning up dead is unlikely to be a coincidence.

  It'll be interesting to see if OCG feels the same way.

  Eckhardt takes it to Chris Chakos. He and Chakos go back a few years although Chakos has, it has to be said, worn better than Warren. A trim man of forty-five, Chakos competes in triathlons, has no spare body fat and would sooner have chewed a gorilla's nutsack than smoked a cigarette. The two men are in Chakos's office on the eighth floor at the OCG Broadbeach HQ.

  'It's not a lot really, is it, Warren?'

  Chakos taps the thin file Warren has hastily assembled.

  'Not a lot? What do you want, Gelagotis to give me a witnessed confession?'

  Chakos smiles thinly. 'That would be good, yeah.' He leans back in his chair. 'Come on, Warren, look at it from my point of view. It's of interest to OCG that Stevie White's turned up dead in Liverpool, you're right. And it's of interest that he might have a connection with Jimmy Gelagotis.'

  'There's no "might" about it.'

  'Because of the photo in the café?'

  'Yes, because of the photo in the café.'

  'Well, let's say that there's a connection. That's all we have right now. All you have.'

  'And White just happens to turn up dead twelve thousand miles away?' Warren Eckhardt reaches for his cigarettes before remembering. Again. 'Fuck.'

  'You know that White was from Liverpool?' Chakos holds Eckhardt's gaze.

  'What does that mean, Chris?'

  'I don't know. That's the point, Warren. For all we know it's a local beef.'

  'Local? White hadn't set foot in the place in thirty-odd years!'

  'And it's worth keeping tabs on. See if there's something that links White directly to drugs in Liverpool. Have the Poms said anything about that?'

  'No, not in so many words,' admits Eckhardt. 'But I'll chase that.'

  'Good,' says Chakos. 'And I'd like to be kept up to date on that.'

  The two men look at each other.

  'Come on, Warren, you know how it is. We have real cases on the books stretching us thinner than a hooker's g-string.'

  'This is a real case. An OCG case. Or it should be. What about the link between Gelagotis and Kolomiets?'

  Chakos nods. 'I'll grant you that that is a bit more solid, Warren. And look, this is very, very close to being an OCG case. We're not idiots. Kolomiets was in drugs. White worked with Gelagotis. It all hangs together, but so far not as an international deal – if we discount your gut feeling. We do want to be in on the Kolomiets thing. The link with Gelagotis might be of interest, but Kolomiets had plenty of other piranhas in the tank with him. People you don't know about.'

  'Then tell me.'

  Chakos smiles. 'I will. If anyone pops up who I think might be useful to you. I don't want this case to cross-pollinate, Warren. We sometimes have bigger fish to fry.'

  Eckhardt breathes deeply. His breath is wheezy, unhealthy. Chakos, the triathlete, winces inwardly.

  'Look,' says Eckhardt, leaning forward and tapping the file. 'There's something bigger going on, Chris, I can feel it. The murders are linked. White. Kolomiets. Gelagotis.'

  'Gelagotis hasn't been killed.'

  'He will be. You watch.'

  Chakos makes a note on a sheet of paper. 'OK, Warren, I appreciate you bringing these ideas to me. You've got some fair points, so here's what we're going to do. I'm going to expand the OCG investigation into the Kolomiets murder further, and I want you to bring anything you have back to me. The same applies to anything you get on the White murder from our Pommy colleagues.'

  Eckhardt nods.

  'But you'll have to work the Gelagotis/Kolomiets angle yourself. I'm not knocking your thinking and privately I think you may be on to something. But with things how they are, we have too many other possible scenarios for me to justify focusing money on that angle alone. I'll note it in the file that you're following that one on our behalf. I don't think Homicide will worry about that, will they?'

  Eckhardt thinks about it. 'I'm halfway out the door there, Chris. They don't give a flying fuck what I do as long as I don't stink up the office.'

  Chris Chakos stands.

  'That's it, then?' says Eckhardt. 'I'm on my own?' He struggles to his feet and shakes Chakos's hand.

  'For now. Until you get something a little more solid.'

  Yeah, thinks Eckhardt, and if I do establish a concrete connection you'll be all over me like ticks on a dingo's arse.

  35

  After talking to Alan Hunter, Koop has no more excuses. It's time to see Carl.

  He points the rental towards St Helens and, with sinking heart, prepares himself for an encounter he never thought would happen.

  Bowden Hospital is a twenty-minute drive from Liverpool, out past the grime and crime of Huyton and into the flat fields of East Lancashire. Koop has never felt at home out here in the villages that have been gradually swallowed by the city. Even after his years on the force this is an area he can get lost in with little effort and, in fact, does exactly that before eventually finding what he's looking for.

  The hospital is out on its own among farm fields. Despite the rural setting, it doesn't seem like a happy place. It presents a blank face to the world, its weather-aged Victorian stone concealed behind high walls and a security gate that wouldn't have looked out of place at Checkpoint Charlie.

  It takes
Koop almost half an hour and multiple identity checks before he gets as far as the second inner perimeter where he's told to wait for the duty psychiatrist to see him. Koop is shown to a waiting room situated in a steel and glass annexe where he sits in an uncomfortable chair, watching the rain fall on the main hospital building. It's a miserable sight and Koop experiences several stabs of guilt for his absence over the past decade. A bit too late for regrets, he reflects as the door opens and a middle-aged man in a rumpled jacket steps in.

  'Mr Koopman?' The voice is Scottish, Glaswegian. 'Dr Burton.'

  Burton has the air of a reformed boozer. Koop can't quite say exactly how he knows this but he's met this kind before. Perhaps it's the rasp in the voice matched to a clearness of eye. Burton raises an eyebrow. Koop realises he's been quiet a beat too long.

  'Sorry, miles away. Yes, Menno Koopman. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice. I should have called.'

  Burton sits down next to Koop. It's an awkward arrangement that further unsettles Koop's already shaky nerves. He shifts position to look at the psychiatrist.

  'Do all visitors get to see you?' he asks. 'Or only those with dangerous relatives as inmates?'

  Burton smiles thinly. 'Patients,' he corrects, in an intonation that makes it clear this is a correction he's made many times before. Koop nods, penitent. 'And, no,' continues Burton, 'not all visitors get this treatment. I was at the nursing station when the call came in that your brother had a visitor and I was curious.'

  Koop's antenna twitches. 'Curious?'

  'Yes,' says Burton. 'I wondered why he had a visitor.'

  'Is that supposed to be some sort of crack at me?' Koop's voice is all business now.

  'No, wait,' says Burton. His face softens and he holds his hands up in a placatory gesture. 'You misunderstand, Mr Koopman. I'm not making any judgement on your relationship with your brother. That's not something I'd do.' Burton shifts forward in his seat. 'I was wondering why you'd come at all.'

  Koop frowns. 'To see Carl, obviously,' he says. Despite the psychiatrist's soothing tone he's starting to get pissed off. He's never liked shrinks and now he's remembering why. Slimy buggers.