pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks seesawing mischievously.
‘Hurry, my dearest…’
She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom , slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by familiar tinkling sounds.
‘I have something for
youuuuuuuuuuuu
,’ he sang out loudly. ‘It’s hot and getting bigger by the second.’
‘Really?’ shouted Naomi from the bathroom. ‘Well, until you get more money from Miss Jemma Doyle, you can put your tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon…’
CHAPTER TWELVE
BLOOD WORK
‘Oh! God! That bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap.’
Thomas Hood,
The Song of the Shirt
‘H ello, Tom? Karl,’ said Karl, holding the phone while guiding his car into a wasteland of grey buildings and mangled steel frames, three days later. ‘Listen, I think all those cop mutts are barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Really? And what tree should they be barking up?’
‘The tree where I’m heading, right at this moment. The only abattoir in Belfast.’
‘The abattoir? Are you serious?’
‘Why not? I don’t necessarily believe it has to be a doctor or medical student. A good butcher is as skilled at slicing meat as any surgeon. I was at the Continental Market yesterday, at the City Hall, and watched German butchers working on a pig. Horrible to look at, but they were brilliant, the way they did it. That’s when I got the idea.’
Karl could hear Hicks making a grunt of scepticism. ‘I think you’re way off, Karl, and wasting your time.’
‘Admittedly, I’m thinking outside the box, but this was onceowned by the Shank family.’
‘The Shank family? The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell.’
‘I’ll explain it all to you when I get back.’
‘Just be careful. Those sort of places have a terrible safety record,’ said Hicks. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got some news on the fingerprints on the hand found at your doorstep. His name is – or
was
, assuming he’s dead, of course – Billy Brown. A very bad boy, indeed, according to police and prison records.’
‘Oh? What did Bad Boy Billy Brown do time for?’
‘You name it, he’s done it. Rape, arson, attempted murder, to list a few.’
‘An impeccable CV. Anything else?’
‘He was originally from London, and a member of the neo-Nazi BNF.’
‘The British National Front?’
‘Yes, plus he was wanted in England for the attempted murder of a young black man in the London Underground, four years ago. Been on the run ever since, and was apparently hiding over here, sheltered by loyalist paramilitaries in Limavady, Coleraine and Ballymena, to name just a few small towns.’
‘As if we haven’t enough of our own locally grown scumbags, we’re now importing them,’ said Karl, bringing the car to a halt. ‘Perhaps someone within the paramilitaries killed Bad Boy Brown because he was bringing too much heat?’
‘We’ll never know unless we find the body –
if
there is a body to be found.’
‘Time will tell. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m at the abattoir now. If all goes well, I’ll brass neck it, and ask for a few free steaks for you.’
‘Just watch yourself.’
‘I didn’t know you cared, Tom Hicks,’ replied Karl, blowing a kiss down the phone before snapping it shut.
The abattoir was located near Duncrue Street, a desolate, so-called industrial area where men were men – and even some of the women, too. Shells of shuttered factories landscaped the grey-brick background, like shantytowns of desolation. Walls of putrid garbage did eerie slow-motion movements, caused by burrowing rats gnawing everything in sight. An abandoned train with dilapidated carriages sat glued with rust. Mountains of disused car tyres snaked in dark coils, resembling giant anacondas awaiting victims.
Exiting the car, Karl could see, too late, that
‘Hurry, my dearest…’
She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom , slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by familiar tinkling sounds.
‘I have something for
youuuuuuuuuuuu
,’ he sang out loudly. ‘It’s hot and getting bigger by the second.’
‘Really?’ shouted Naomi from the bathroom. ‘Well, until you get more money from Miss Jemma Doyle, you can put your tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon…’
CHAPTER TWELVE
BLOOD WORK
‘Oh! God! That bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap.’
Thomas Hood,
The Song of the Shirt
‘H ello, Tom? Karl,’ said Karl, holding the phone while guiding his car into a wasteland of grey buildings and mangled steel frames, three days later. ‘Listen, I think all those cop mutts are barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Really? And what tree should they be barking up?’
‘The tree where I’m heading, right at this moment. The only abattoir in Belfast.’
‘The abattoir? Are you serious?’
‘Why not? I don’t necessarily believe it has to be a doctor or medical student. A good butcher is as skilled at slicing meat as any surgeon. I was at the Continental Market yesterday, at the City Hall, and watched German butchers working on a pig. Horrible to look at, but they were brilliant, the way they did it. That’s when I got the idea.’
Karl could hear Hicks making a grunt of scepticism. ‘I think you’re way off, Karl, and wasting your time.’
‘Admittedly, I’m thinking outside the box, but this was onceowned by the Shank family.’
‘The Shank family? The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell.’
‘I’ll explain it all to you when I get back.’
‘Just be careful. Those sort of places have a terrible safety record,’ said Hicks. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got some news on the fingerprints on the hand found at your doorstep. His name is – or
was
, assuming he’s dead, of course – Billy Brown. A very bad boy, indeed, according to police and prison records.’
‘Oh? What did Bad Boy Billy Brown do time for?’
‘You name it, he’s done it. Rape, arson, attempted murder, to list a few.’
‘An impeccable CV. Anything else?’
‘He was originally from London, and a member of the neo-Nazi BNF.’
‘The British National Front?’
‘Yes, plus he was wanted in England for the attempted murder of a young black man in the London Underground, four years ago. Been on the run ever since, and was apparently hiding over here, sheltered by loyalist paramilitaries in Limavady, Coleraine and Ballymena, to name just a few small towns.’
‘As if we haven’t enough of our own locally grown scumbags, we’re now importing them,’ said Karl, bringing the car to a halt. ‘Perhaps someone within the paramilitaries killed Bad Boy Brown because he was bringing too much heat?’
‘We’ll never know unless we find the body –
if
there is a body to be found.’
‘Time will tell. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m at the abattoir now. If all goes well, I’ll brass neck it, and ask for a few free steaks for you.’
‘Just watch yourself.’
‘I didn’t know you cared, Tom Hicks,’ replied Karl, blowing a kiss down the phone before snapping it shut.
The abattoir was located near Duncrue Street, a desolate, so-called industrial area where men were men – and even some of the women, too. Shells of shuttered factories landscaped the grey-brick background, like shantytowns of desolation. Walls of putrid garbage did eerie slow-motion movements, caused by burrowing rats gnawing everything in sight. An abandoned train with dilapidated carriages sat glued with rust. Mountains of disused car tyres snaked in dark coils, resembling giant anacondas awaiting victims.
Exiting the car, Karl could see, too late, that
Similar Books
