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Private Investigator Karl Kane returns to the streets of Belfast investigating the discovery of a severed hand. Karl believes it's the work of an elusive serial killer, but the police are claiming a simple vendetta between local criminals. Karl embarks on a nightmarish journey as he attempts to solve the mystery and soon he's suspecting Mark Wilson, his detested ex brother-in-law. But as the winter days become darker, Karl discovers that Wilson is more than a match for him when it comes to dirty dealing and even dirtier fighting, as he battles to keep from becoming the next victim.
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Contents
DEDICATION
For Jemma Doyle. You know why.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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.
PART ONE
CITIZEN KANE
Che Gelida Manina, (Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen)
La Boheme, Giacomo Puccini
CHAPTER ONE
THE ICE HARVEST
‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean…a common man and yet an unusual man. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.’
Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder
The 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.
CHAPTER TWO
RAGING BULL
‘My eyes have seen what my hand did.’
Robert Lowell, Dolphin
‘Any 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…
CHAPTER THREE
SWEET VIOLENCE
Oh the weather outside is frightful…’
Dianne Reeves, ‘Let it Snow’
From inside the warmth of his favourite watering hole, Harold Taylor gazed out the window, watching the latest falling of thick snow painting over his beefy Range Rover 4x4, parked a short distance away. The take-no-prisoners snowstorm had long since dulled and diluted visibility on the Antrim Road, but Harold was eager to be heading home. The Rover wouldn’t let him down. Of that he was certain.
‘You’re crazy, Harold, for even thinking of driving in that weather,’ said Paul McKenna, manager of the Antrim Arms Motel, watching Harold pulling on a storm-proof jacket.
‘I’ll go crazy if I have to listen to any more of these moaners, Paul,’ said Harold, with a shake of the head. ‘A wee bit of snow and they’re all crapping their knickers about driving in it.’
‘I still think you should stay. You heard the storm warning from the weathermen advising drivers to avoid all unnecessary journeys. Besides, the cops love nothing better than to catch drivers under the influence, in this weather.’
‘Ha! Don’t you worry about me driving in a wee bit of snow. The Rover’s a bit like me. It can handle any situation thrown at it. Anyway, I’ve only had a few jars. Nothing to worry about if the cops do stop and breathalyse.’
‘I still say you should stay. I’ve got a couple of vacant rooms upstairs. You should grab one before they’re gone. Better safe than sorry.’
‘Want to bet I won’t be home in less than an hour?’
‘Knowing you, you’d drive like a mad man just to win the bet. I don’t want that on my conscience.’
‘What conscience?’ Harold smiled, pulling open the large brass entrance door, allowing a whirlwind of biting snow to enter.
Outside, fat snowflakes began caking Harold’s face. He moved quickly to the Rover, and once inside, hit the heater full blast.
With little effort he started the vehicle and commenced guiding the brute onto the tree-lined Antrim Road – but not before waving triumphantly at McKenna’s wary face at the motel window.
On the road, snow began falling more heavily. Branches were cracking under the weight, sounding like human bones snapping. Wipers squeaked across the windshield, spreading the increasingly dense flakes of snow across it. Visibility lessened. A mist was forming. Harold ploughed onwards. Steady. The twisty road looked eerie. A ghost’s entrails.
Within minutes of travelling, the wipers scything the windscreen began leaving chalky smudges in their wake, making visibility even more difficult. He reached to turn the radio on. That was when the obscure figure standing on the edge of the road came suddenly into view.
And he was heading straight for it.
‘Fuck!’ Pressing down heavily on the brakes, he curved the steering wheel with all his strength. The Rover skidded haphazardly across the road, wheels spinning wildly. Harold held his breath. Seconds later, the vehicle came to a thunderous stop, cushioned by a pyramid of hardened snow leaning against an embankment.
Thankfully, there was no on-coming traffic.
Inside the Rover, Harold tried to regain his composure. Hands were shaking. Skin clammy. He tried steadying his breathing. Had he made contact with the suicidal maniac? He dreaded the thought of leaving the vehicle to investigate; thought about speeding off as quickly as possible, knowing there would be no witnesses in sight.
A movement in the rear-view mirror caught his eye. The figure was moving, seemingly unhurt.
Opening the door, Harold leapt out into the thick snow, quickly going on the offensive.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he growled, walking clumsily towards the figure. ‘Trying to get us killed?’
‘I…I’m sorry. I didn’t see you coming up the road. The snow was blinding me.’
‘Well, that’s no damn excuse for…’ Harold’s voice trailed off. The figure was a woman. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was something striking about her. She looked terribly frightened. Tiny flakes of snow and ice encrusted her eyelashes. Her lips were slightly parted, dry and chapped from the bitter cold.
‘I’m sorry, my car broke down near the Serpentine Road,’ said the woman. ‘I tried calling emergency services, but no response. Someone down the road told me there’s a petrol station nearby. I was on my way to ask for help.’
‘Yes…there’s one a further mile or so up the road. You’d be mad to walk to it, though.’ Harold relaxed the tension in his face muscles, noticing for the first time the oddity of her eyes. One blue. One green. ‘You’re lucky you made it this far without getting hit by something. Come on. I’ll drop you off. I don’t live too far from the station.’
Her eyes seemed to look beyond him. A blank stare was the only response, as if she hadn’t heard the offer. Another few seconds went by and she still hadn’t spoken.
Harold shook his head, turning his attention back to the road. ‘Suit yourself, then. Walk. Don’t say you weren’t warned.’ He headed back towards the Rover and got in.
Once seated, he looked in the rear-view. The woman remained standing at the side of the road, defiantly, snow filtering over her.
He started the Rover and began exaggerating the accelerator with his right foot. The metal beast roared like a bull in heat. Harold’s eyes never once left the mirror.
‘No! Wait!’ she shouted, scuttling across the road, slip-sliding awkwardly on icy patches and snow.
Harold smiled. Unlocked the passenger door. Waited.
‘Good to see common sense prevailing,’ he said. ‘Soon have you nice and warm.’
Keeping her eyes on him, she slowly eased onto the leather passenger seat. The extreme shift in temperature seemed to catch her off-guard as she closed the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper.
‘Don’t mention it. That’s my good deed for the day. I always say, what goes around comes around. Harold’s the name, Miss…?’
‘Kerry…’ said the woman, hesitantly. ‘Kerry Morgan.’
‘In this weather we should make it to the petrol station in about twenty minutes. Put your seatbelt on, Kerry. We don’t want any more accidents.’ Harold’s voice sounded all fatherly.
Kerry nervously fiddled with the seatbelt, missing the buckle twice before finally finding its niche.
The belt’s strap pronounced her breasts and Harold felt the blood stir in his stomach. He became aware of her womanly smells mingling with the leather aroma from the Rover’s seats. A throbbing but pleasurable pain began worming its way into his crotch area, hardwiring pheromone to his brain. He wondered what she would look like naked in the bathtub in his cellar?
‘Are you from around here, Kerry?’
‘No. I…I live in Bangor. I was heading to Mallusk to visit my parents. It’s my mother’s birthday, tomorrow.’ A faint smile appeared on her face.
To Harold, the smile looked forced. Nerves? Shyness? He couldn’t determine, only that the pain in his cock was intensifying. There was only one cure for that particular pain.
It was then that he decided he would hurt her. Badly.
He gunned the Rover forward, showing-off its muscular prowess. The brute roared with satisfaction before munching its way greedily through the snow.
For the next few minutes of driving, silence accompanied them, until Harold finally decided to break it.
‘Must have been frightening, travelling from Bangor in all that snow, Kerry?’
Kerry nodded slightly. ‘Yes. It was my first time driving in such conditions. I’ll never do it again, I can tell you. It was very scary.’
‘Well, it’s good we don’t get this kind of weather too–’
‘Arghhhhhhh.’ Kerry suddenly held her stomach tightly. She buckled forward slightly.
‘What is it, Kerry? Are you okay?’
‘Ohhhhhhhh, my stomach. Stop. I need to get out.’
‘What’s the–?’
‘Stop! I need to get out, right now!’ Kerry began struggling with the seat belt.
‘Okay, okay! Take it easy.’ Harold quickly eased the Rover over to the side of the road.
‘It…it must be something I ate earlier.’ Kerry looked queasy. ‘I need to go to the toilet, really badly. This is embarrassing. I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ assured Harold, smiling. ‘When nature calls, we all have to answer it.’
Kerry stepped quickly from the Rover, glancing all about, looking lost.
‘Down that little pathway,’ said Harold, pointing at an old walkway no longer in use. ‘Plenty of trees to give you a bit of privacy. Don’t take too long, though. It’ll freeze the arse off you.’
The woman moved quickly but gingerly down the pathway, gripping onto bushes for balance. She looked back once, and then disappeared behind thickets and uprooted trees long gone to rot.
Harold’s eyes never left her.
He tried picturing Kerry on her hunkers, vulnerable and exposed, panties handcuffed around her ankles. The urge to sneak down and watch her was overwhelming. But what if she caught him? That would give the game away. Why risk it? In about forty minutes he would have her all to himself. The thought of her beautiful panties wrapped around her ankles, though, gave him a lovely shiver. The urge became stronger, more intense.
‘Fuck it.’ He quickly opened the glove compartment. Found the serrated hunting knife. Touched its curved teeth with his index finger. A tingling sensation shot through his body. He licked dry lips before sliding the knife up the sleeve of his coat, careful of the weapon’s deadly honed blade.
Stepping quickly out of the Rover, he glanced up and down the Antrim Road. Not a sinner in sight. The urge in his pants began tormenting him again. His cock was quickly becoming rock-hard. The hardwiring in his brain began sizzling with electricity. His skull felt on fire. He wanted her. Needed her. Now.
Silently, he tracked the exact same path as Kerry. He could see where her dainty footprints led the way, before being disrupted by a scattering rock formation.
For fuck sake, which way did she go? She can’t have got too far in this snow.
Suddenly, he heard a faded rustling sound, just beyond a heavily snowed hedging.
He stopped all movement. His back went taut. He brought the knife out. This would be easy. There! He could see the top of her head now, clearly, just beyond the far hedging. She seemed to be standing, looking all about.
His heart began pumping buckets of blood into his brain. His knees felt weak. Wobbly. It had been a long time since he had felt this beautiful sensation.
She disappeared from view.
Fuck! Where’d she go? Probably behind the hedging, squatting onher hunkers. Probably got the shits. He pictured her naked again.
His hands began trembling as he edged closer, desperately trying to control his breathing. He sniffed the air like a wolf hunting down its victim. She was close by. He could smell her.
‘Harold?’ said a whispery male voice behind him.
‘What the fuck…?’ He turned. His eyes went immediately to the gun pointing directly at his face. A muscle in his cheek jumped. Stomach tightened.
‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’
The man said nothing, just kept pointing the gun. A few seconds later, Kerry reappeared, face flushed.
‘Don’t you remember me, Harold?’ the man asked.
Harold shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never set eyes…’ Just as he said the last word, it came to him. The courtroom. The stoic relatives who sat there, day after day. The blood drained from his face, as if his throat had just been cut.
The man smiled. ‘Now you remember, Harold. Don’t you? This day’s been a long time coming, but it’s finally arrived…’
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BONE COLLECTOR
‘He knows death to the bone.’
W.B. Yeats, Death
Karl stood at the office doorway of best friend and forensic pathologist Tom Hicks. The pathologist’s face was ghostly green, mirrored by a flickering computer screen. Karl could see ant-size digits running riot on Tom’s face and glasses.
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Karl…?’ said Hicks, glancing up from his computer. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Lovely greeting. Haven’t seen your grumpy old gob in months, and that’s what I get for coming to visit you, down in this dank, cold, bloody dungeon?’
Hicks made a grunting sound. ‘This surprise visit wouldn’t have anything to do with severed hands and a reward of twenty thousand pounds?’
‘You’re such a cynic, Tom. Anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Yes. You. Each time I catch you out. Anyway, how is Katie doing?’
Karl seemed to hesitate before answering. ‘She’s taking each day as it comes.’ His voice became sombre. ‘She’s still undergoing intensive therapy after that scumbag, Hannah, abducted her.’
‘Young people nowadays are very resilient, Karl,’ assured Hicks. ‘Katie will soon be back to her old self. Just you wait and see.’
‘I…I suppose you’re right,’ said Karl, believing the opposite.
‘What about the locksmith? The one who had his throat cut. Last I heard, his condition was downgraded from critical to serious.’
‘Willie?’ Hicks’ question brought flies buzzing around inside Karl’s stomach. He felt slightly queasy with guilt. ‘Finally got out of hospital two weeks ago. I visited him yesterday. Recuperating well.’
‘According to reports, he was lucky to have come out of that alive – you all were, with the exception of the two killed in the explosion, Burns and Hannah.’ Hicks looked accusingly at Karl. ‘Blowing up Crumlin Road Prison? Doesn’t get much bigger than that, Karl.’
Karl didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. ‘I only have condolences for Brendan Burns. Hannah can burn in hell.’
‘Burns was the bomber, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s what they say.’ The annoying flies were trying desperately to escape through Karl’s mouth. He could feel dread creeping across his face.
‘According to the report I read, he was also the man who tried killing Wilson years ago, leaving him scarred for life.’ Hicks looked accusingly at Karl. ‘You knew that, of course.’
‘Eventually.’
‘Eventually? Sometimes I think you never weigh up the consequences of your actions, Karl.’ Hicks shook his head. ‘Consequences can be for a lifetime. Burns will end up being one of those consequences, as far as Wilson is concerned. He’ll never forgive or forget your association with him.’
‘Fuck Wilson. He hates me, anyway. It was a small price to pay for Katie’s freedom. To me, Burns was a hero. He sacrificed his life for Katie, while Wilson and his useless crew did ring a ring o’ rosies.’
‘What…?’ Hicks looked taken aback. ‘What on earth are you talking about? From all accounts, I thought Wilson pulled out all the stops in trying to find Katie?’
‘There are things best not talked about, Tom, for your own benefit. The less you know, the less possibility of you being dragged into any future criminal proceedings?’
‘Criminal proceedings? What criminal proceedings? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Let’s just drop it. Okay?’
Hicks sighed. ‘Okay. Your face is telling me I’ve reached a dead end. Despite my concerns, at the end of the day I’m always on your side, right or wrong. That will never change. You know, don’t you?’
‘You don’t have to tell me that. I already knew it, the first day we met in school.’ Karl grinned at the memory. ‘I protected you from all those bullies with wet dreams about beating the crap out of you.’
‘You’re the only person I know can make violence sound creepily erotic,’ said Hicks, approaching a battered coffee machine encrusted with dirt and hardened grease. ‘Coffee?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
Karl took a seat while watching Hicks pour the thick liquid into two mugs. Coffee dregs, no larger than full stops, began haplessly rearranging themselves in dodgy oily patterns.
‘Enjoy.’ Hicks handed a full mug to Karl.
‘You could tar and feather some poor bastard with this,’ said Karl, taking a suspicious sip before making a face. ‘Ghastly shit.’
‘How’s your father? The last time we spoke, he wasn’t in the best of health.’ Hicks blew on the coffee. Drank. Unlike Karl, though, he didn’t make a face, as if he were immune to the potent oil-like liquid.
Karl thought for a moment before answering. ‘His mental health isn’t the best. Hardly knows what day it is. These days, I don’t even think he recognises me anymore.’
‘Oh…I’m really sorry to hear that, Karl. Will you tell him I was asking about him…I mean…’
‘It’s okay. I know what you mean. Yes, I’ll tell him tomorrow. I’ve a visit arranged up at the nursing home.’
Both men sipped at the coffee. The only sound came from the humming computer.
‘You’ve got about ten more minutes before I kick you out,’ said Hicks, finally breaking the silence.
‘What’s your rush?’
‘I’ve a hand to examine.’
‘The one found yesterday?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I feel very close to that hand. Make sure you take care of it.’
‘How so?’ said Hicks, his left eyebrow suddenly curving into a hairy question mark.
‘Because the bloody hand was left on my bloody doorstep, yesterday morning. That’s how bloody so.’
Hicks almost spat a mouthful of coffee out. ‘You’re winding me up.’
‘My severed hand to god,’ replied Karl, raising his hand to chest level. ‘I had Wilson’s schoolboy detective questioning me about it. Can you believe that?’
‘Detective Chambers?’
‘Yes. With him on the trail, the killer – or killers – won’t be having any sleepless nights. I thought he was going to faint when he saw the hand and blood.’
‘Well, he’ll soon be joined by some old warhorse named Harry McCormack, if the rumours are true.’
‘Harry McCormack?’ Karl’s heart popped slightly. ‘The Harry McCormack? One-time heavy with Special Branch? I thought the powers-that-be had retired that dinosaur about two hundred years ago.’
‘Do you know him?’
Karl nodded. ‘The bastard’s nuttier than a squirrel’s turd. Face like a car wreck. His wife, Virginia, used to be a cop, too. Hairy Virgina, they were collectively known as.’ Karl took a brave gulp of coffee, as if to wash McCormack’s name from his mouth. ‘What theories is He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed coming out with concerning the hands?’
‘Wilson? The cuts on this new one are so precise he thinks there’s a strong possibility that the culprit or culprits could be in the medical profession.’
‘Wouldn’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure that out. A doctor?’
‘Possibly. Could also be a medical student, though.’
‘Or nurse. Some of them are as knowledgeable as the doctors – sometimes more so.’
‘I never thought of that. Still, hard to believe a woman would be capable of such a grisly act – especially if she were a nurse.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Wilson and his team are working on them upstairs, which means it could take a while.’
‘What about the tiny, faded numbers on the hand, saddled between the index finger and thumb? Those were the first things I noted when I scrutinised the hand, before it went all prune-like. The numbers resembled a blue “88”. Amateurish. Looked like prison tats.’
‘I’ll check it out. Didn’t notice any numbers in my initial examination, but then, I wasn’t looking for them. I’ll let you know.’
‘What about the body? Has it turned up yet?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘What about Kevin Johnson’s hand?’
‘What about it?’
‘Any tats on it?’
‘Covered in them. Don’t forget, Johnson did long stretches in prison. It would’ve been against the norm if he didn’t have some. The word HATE lined the fingers. An ace of spades and a shamrock – which looked more like a cabbage leaf – on the back of the hand. Some prisoners collect these things with the passion of a lepidopterist.’
‘A lep what?’
‘Lepidopterist. One who collects and studies butterflies.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you say that, then? Oh, that’s right. You used to do that shit in school. That’s why you were always getting beat up, and I had to rescue you with my fists.’
Hicks glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time for you to go.’
‘Now, can you give my head peace and kindly get going? If I hear anything relevant, you’ll be the first I’ll contact,’ said Hicks, ushering Karl out towards the door. ‘Unfortunately, knowing you, you’ll probably discover something before I do.’
Tipping an imaginary hat before leaving, Karl replied, ‘Make no bones about that, my good friend.’
Once outside, Karl removed the mobile from his pocket and hit a number. After a few seconds, a soft voice answered.
‘Dad?’
‘How’s my favourite daughter doing?’
‘Great. Getting stronger each passing day. Oh, did I tell you, I’m thinking of taking driving lessons, then hopefully get a wee run-around?’
CHAPTER FIVE
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
‘A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all.’
W.B. Yeats, Death
Where am I? wondered Harold Taylor, awakening from a drug-like stupor. A darkened room of sorts. The exact time was a mystery to him. He was stuck in a moment, trying desperately to piece together events. The room was funerary and cold. Walls covered in blood. Pieces of meat barbed with specks of dirty-white bones. Everything bizarre. Unreal.
From his peripheral, he could just about make out a cluster of people lurking nearby. They all seemed to be adorned in gowns, surgical gloves and masks. Each item of clothing looked heavily stained with blood. The sight terrified Harold.
Doctors?
They were whispering. Secretive hushes. They looked as if they were about to perform major surgery on some unfortunate being.
Is that it? Am I in hospital? Did I crash the Rover? What happened to the woman? Kerry…?
Harold tried speaking. Nothing came. Gums dry like cotton. Mouth taped.
Panicking, his tongue began pecking frantically at the tape, trying to get out.
Then the realisation suddenly hit home: he was inverted, naked, dangling from the ankles, hands tied securely behind his back.
As the seconds passed, something dark and sinister began swelling in him. The burden of the closed space created fear. It touched everything and set his mind alight.
Can’t breathe…
His heart started pumping madly, as if he’d just sprinted up flights of stairs trying to escape pursuers. Panicking, he began mumbling incoherently, shaking his head and body wildly at the cluster of people, hoping to get attention.
A man’s head turned, his eyes looking directly at Harold’s. He whispered something to the group before walking slowly forward.
Harold’s eyes went straight to the man’s hand. The hand housed a large knife, its half-moon-shaped blade glistening in the godless gloom of the filthy room.
Fuck!
More blood began rushing to Harold’s head, adding pressure to his stressed brain. He could feel blood spouting from his nose, leaking slowly down his eyes. It stung like acid, blurring his vision.
I can’t breatheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Oh god, help me!
The man now stood beside Harold, pushing down on a red control button stationed on a steel table to his right. A chain began rattling. Gradually, Harold felt his body moving, snaking
