Bloodstorm Read Free

taking up residency. Directly above his head, a framed and personalised drawing from the much sought-after political cartoonist John Kennedy, gazed down upon the room. It depicted a caricature of Karl, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, magnifying glass in hand, reading the fine print of a publisher’s contract. Three framed photos of his daughter, Katie, were proudly centred on a large mahogany table. But it was an engraved plaque resting on his desk that always gave Karl indigestible food for thought. ‘
Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’. Samuel Beckett.
    “I
am
failing better, but I can’t help feeling you were an old cynical bastard, Sam.”
    Two more letters were extracted from the tray, both with identical themes: Final Notice. One was from the telephone company stating that his phone line would be cancelled at the end of the week, should no attempt at payment be made on a three-month overdue bill; the other was from the law firm of
Richards & Richards
, demanding more alimony for Karl’s ex-wife, Lynne.
    “What a start to the week,” mumbled Karl, flinging the letters back into the messed tray.
    “Your secretary told me to go right through. The door was open,” said a man standing between the door’s framework, coat hanging limply over his left arm.
    The man was stocky, with the battered, unshaven face of a failed pugilist. Liver spots ran down the side of his face like rusted tears. His skin was as grey as ashtray crust. Decorating his knuckles were thick patches of red hair, making Karl think of an aging orang-utan – or gorilla. But it was the eyes that reigned supreme over all focus points of the man’s face. Static. Disquieting. Beetle-skin dark.
    “I’m Bill Munday.” The man smiled but his mouth barely moved.
    Karl extended his hand. “I’m Karl Kane, Mister Munday. What can I do for you?”
    Munday shook Karl’s hand – a bit too convincingly for Karl’sliking. To Karl, Munday’s slab of hand felt like the inside of a turkey at Christmas.
    “I’m hoping you can help me with a little piece of information, Mister Kane.”
    “Won’t you sit down? I’m just browsing through some threatening letters sent to one of my clients from two dicks.”
    Pulling up a chair before sitting, Munday said, “I’ve been told you’re one of the best private investigators in Belfast, and very discreet.”
    “I never argue with the truth.” From a crushed carton resting on top of his desk, Karl plucked a cigarette from a quickly depleting stock. He fired up a
Zippo
, its flame long and thin, and gave life to the cig before releasing a prayer of smoke from his nostrils. He offered a cig to Munday.
    “No thanks. Gave them up a long time ago.”
    “Good for you. Wish I could,” said Karl, sucking again on the cig. “Well, what can I do for you … Mister Munday?”
    Unrolling a newspaper in his massive hands, Munday tapped page four. “Have you read about the body found in Botanic Gardens, not too far from the museum, yesterday?” he said, handing the newspaper to Karl.
    Karl studied the page. “I think I heard something about it, on the radio,” he lied, more concerned about the horse results, twenty pages down, or the obituaries on page thirteen, where he liked to keep tabs on no-show clients. “Would you like some coffee?”
    Munday nodded. “Black, with four sugars.”
    Pressing a button on the phone’s intercom, Karl requested: “Naomi? Two coffees. Black with four sugars, for Mister Munday.”
    “What?” returned the affronted voice of Naomi. “I’m a secretary – unpaid for in the last two weeks – not a waitress. Get off your bloody backside and get it yourself!”
    “Coffee machine seems to be out of order at the moment,” mumbled Karl, releasing the button quickly, directing the cig to his lips again. “The body in Botanic Gardens? What of it?”
    Pulling his chair closer to Karl’s desk, Munday whispered, “I need you to find out as much