Killing for Keeps (13 page)

T
his was no ordinary grey and rainy Monday morning. No amount of depression in the weather could dampen Kate Daniels’ spirits. She was on a roll, finally making headway,
in possession of unequivocal proof that she was on the right track. Her discovery that Terry and John made not one but two visits to the QC club on Thursday, 23 August wasn’t the full story.
With Carmichael’s help, she’d established that the brothers had re-entered the premises shortly before midnight; they then came running out again at eight minutes after two. John was
screaming into his phone as they separated, legging it in different directions. A few minutes later, two men were seen climbing down the fire escape, coats over their heads in order to mask their
identity –
or their red hair
.

Kate had slept for less than four hours. She didn’t feel tired – just depressed by the prospect of meeting Bethany’s grief-stricken parents, a task so grim the worry of it had
deprived her of the little time she had to rest. Try as she might to imagine how they were feeling right now, in her heart she knew she wouldn’t come close. Pushing away that gloomy thought,
she allowed the adrenalin rush she’d felt the night before to bubble to the surface, knowing from experience that it would carry her through until the Millers arrived.

CCTV sightings of the Allen brothers at the QC nightclub had cut the time frame down considerably, allowing her to target her enquiries more appropriately, leaving far less time unaccounted for
than she had originally calculated between their exit from the premises and the discovery of their bodies at the RVI and Silverlink Industrial Estate.

Kate had issued a TIE action to trace, implicate or eliminate her suspects, Craig and Finn O’Kane. Her gut instinct was that they were responsible. The onus was on the Murder Investigation
Team to find enough evidence to prove it in a court of law and she’d instructed the squad to do a job on them. An information gathering exercise to uncover recent photographs, current and
past addresses, what vehicles they drove, who their associates were, what offences they were suspected of, details of significant others and current financial position.

‘Every scrap of intelligence is being checked.’ Kate was heading along the corridor with Jo towards the staff canteen, a chance to escape the mayhem of the incident room for a few
minutes and talk without interruption. ‘Finding them is the hard part. They’re thugs, not down-and-outs living on the street. These men are clever criminals hiding behind reputable
businesses in Glasgow, Edinburgh and other cities too.’

‘Can’t you put out a general alert?’ Jo asked.

‘You mean flash it all over the papers?’

They turned the corner, pushing open the door. Perfect: the room was empty. They got water from the machine and took a seat beneath the window, Kate telling Jo that it would be unwise to involve
the media at this early stage. On the one hand they could be very useful – it would give her many more pairs of eyes if local people knew what the O’Kane brothers looked like –
but the last thing she wanted was some have-a-go hero getting hurt tackling a pair of dangerous psychopaths.

‘I have to be so careful not to spook the public or drive the offenders underground,’ she explained. ‘Maintaining a silence means the O’Kanes won’t know what we
know. I want to keep it that way.’

Jo fell silent, lifted her drink to her lips and sipped gently, leaving no lipstick on the white beaker. How the hell did she do that? How, despite the demands of her job, did she manage to turf
up at work as if she’d stepped out of a photo shoot? Kate’s eyes travelled unashamedly over Jo’s pleated navy shirt, the alluring split at the neck, a tiny button the only thing
keeping it from slipping from her shoulders.

‘I’ve contacted Strathclyde police,’ she said. ‘I’ve been very guarded, putting feelers out to find out what the tale is, but only with my operational equivalent.
People talk. It pays not to trust anyone. The fewer people who know we’re sniffing around, the better. The O’Kane brothers have no idea our disqualified driver spotted red hair, or that
Vicky told us where John was headed the night he died. They’ll be hoping that none of that information is available to us. Fortunately, they’re wrong.’

‘You think they’re still on the patch?’

Kate shrugged. ‘They could still be here, waiting for McKenzie to stick his head above the parapet. On the other hand, they may have gone off home until the heat dies down. Our lot are
well briefed to keep a lookout. On the off chance they’re already across the border, the SIO up there has been primed to give me a shout.’

‘Did you find John and Terry’s phones?’

‘No, I didn’t. That reminds me, mind if I make a call?’

Taking her phone from her pocket, Kate dialled a number.

A woman answered. ‘CSI Northumbria.’

Kate grimaced.
They were SOCO! What was with the fancy name?
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, Murder Investigation Team. I’d like to talk to the officer who
inspected the burnt-out Range Rover in the East End . . . yes, part of the Allen enquiry. Quick as you can, please.’

The line clicked and a male officer picked up, identifying himself, telling her he’d completed his report and was about to call her.

‘Good. You have something for me?’

‘Negative. I’m afraid there’s no sign of any components of mobile telephones in the vehicle.’ Kate thanked him and hung up. It was not the result she was after.

‘H
a!’ Gormley chuckled. ‘Turns out the Essex Lion is no more than a large domestic cat called Teddy Bear.’ He was referring to reports of a wild animal
roaming the tiny village of St Osyth. The news had taken the media by storm, triggering the involvement of experts from Colchester Zoo as well as police firearms teams. ‘Witnesses reported
having seen and even heard the ruddy thing roar. Divvis!’

Kate grinned. It was much-needed light relief from the serious offences they were dealing with. She’d come from a fraught meeting with Bethany Miller’s parents, who, having formally
identified their daughter’s body, had stayed in Newcastle overnight, insisting on speaking to the Senior Investigating Officer before returning home to Cumbria – as was their right.
Kate had taken the opportunity to find out more about the girl, whether she’d been in touch, whether she had any friends she might have stayed in touch with. But the parents were vague
– no, more than that, they were downright evasive and uncaring – leaving her in no doubt as to why Bethany preferred prostitution on the streets of Newcastle to life with them. Maxwell
was mistaken. There was little love in that family; no chance of Bethany patching things up and moving back in, with or without a baby. And now the Millers had the effrontery to demand justice for
the poor girl.

Shame they hadn’t been so concerned when she was alive.

The rest of Kate’s morning was spent with her team, a recap of where they were at. The consensus of opinion was that the O’Kanes were unaware they were being hunted – or they
didn’t care. The brothers’ arrival at the club did not feature in the frame-by-frame pictures on the incident-room wall, and all they had of their departure were shots of two figures
leaving via the fire escape, faces obscured by their coats. Brown suggested the O’Kanes had sent someone ahead to open a toilet window on the ground floor so they could slip in unobserved.
Security wasn’t foolproof by any means.

Kate looked out through the grubby window on to the street below, preoccupied with thoughts of Terry and John, particularly their missing phones. She needed to find them. Outside, the rain had
cleared. The wind was getting up as people hurried along Market Street in their lunch break, passing a row of police vehicles parked all along the road. Getting out of an unmarked vehicle was a DS
she’d had a brief fling with at training school.

Two-timing bastard.

The relationship was history, however, the recollection prompted a thought about cheating other halves. It made her wonder about Amanda – John Allen’s latest squeeze, according to
the gossip Brown had overheard at Grant’s. She’d still not been located. SOCA didn’t have her down as one of his known criminal associates, so the connection had to be pleasure
rather than business. CCTV footage showed that he’d called someone twice from the QC Club. If he was two-timing Vicky and it wasn’t her he was calling, maybe it was Amanda.

And what of Terry’s phone? His wife was point-blank refusing to speak to the police. Assuming he hadn’t lost it in his rush to escape his torturers, it was safe to assume that John
had taken possession of it before leaving him at A & E.

Kate sighed. If John had been overpowered before he had time to dump the phones, it stood to reason that these vital devices had fallen into the hands of his killers. Even now they could be
going through the address books, trying to find someone who could lead them to McKenzie. They’d be particularly interested in recently dialled numbers, so Amanda could well be their next port
of call.

Somehow, Kate had to get to her first.

I
n desperation, Kate called Towner. He didn’t pick up. She tried again. Same result. So she texted: phone me! Frustrated, she tried to get on with her work. At a little
after one p.m., her mobile rang. Towner refused to talk. He was petrified. People were nervous and he was leaving town, he told her.

‘Listen to me, you piece of shit!’

The phone went dead before she’d finished yelling into the receiver.

Hank arrived in her doorway as she slammed it down. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘My snout hung up on me!’

‘Your politeness probably put him off.’

Kate laughed, the tension gone. She called Towner back, listening as the number rang out, rolling her eyes at Hank. ‘John called somebody from that club, Hank. You saw the footage. He was
agitated, screaming for help. He’s got to be calling someone close by, someone able to render assistance in the form of a hiding place or reinforcements to see off the O’Kanes. We need
to talk to Amanda, if only to rule her out. Personally, I reckon he was calling McKenzie.’

‘I agree. McKenzie isn’t stupid though. Wherever he is, he’s well hidden.’

‘Yeah, but . . .’ She held up her phone. ‘This scumbag knows more than he’s letting on.’

K
ate floored the accelerator. If Towner wouldn’t come to her, she’d go to him. Turning left out of the station, she drove down Pilgrim Street and took the exit off
the Swan House roundabout heading for the East End, Hank by her side. They were pleased to be out and about. Since Bethany Miller’s death, a new wave of information was coming into the
incident room: statements, documents, telephone messages, intelligence from the house-to-house. All of this intel was being acted upon, but so far they had no concrete proof that the incidents were
linked.

‘I don’t know how Harry does it,’ Hank said.

He was referring to the Receiver, a key member of the team. It was Harry’s job to work out which pieces of evidence were crucial, which bits less so. His was a desk job. He was continually
reading. What came his way could change the whole emphasis of an enquiry as stuff dropped out and something new came in. He spent endless hours updating information for officers on the ground
which, in turn, generated more actions going forward. There was a constant reappraisal of priorities going on.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Kate said.

An hour ago, she’d been offered the services of a part-time detective for her incident room. She’d fought against it. What use were they to an SIO if they didn’t know what had
happened in the three days they were off duty? Threads were dropped. They weren’t up to speed. It was impossible to keep up with a fast-running enquiry.

Turning left, Kate stopped at the lights to let an old lady cross the road. As she waited to move off again, her thoughts turned to the murder wall and the special box flagging up new events. It
was the first thing she looked at each time she entered the major incident room. In her job, you could go out in the morning and come back at lunchtime to discover that everything had been turned
upside down by some new development. That was why briefings were so important, why she insisted on everyone being there.

Her phone rang.

She answered, putting it on speaker through the hands-free.

Robson sounded excited. ‘I just took a call from the cleaner you met at Theresa Allen’s flat. She wanted to speak to you urgently—’

‘She remembered McKenzie’s name?’

‘Even better – she said to let you know that there were two Scottish thugs hanging about earlier. They were asking after Theresa. And get this: one of them had red hair. It looks
like the O’Kane brothers are still around.’

Kate and Hank high-fived. It was great news. Now more than ever, they had to find Towner and get a handle on Amanda, McKenzie – or both.

W
here is he?
Kate barged through the pub door and out into the sunshine, heading for her car. Pushing the button on her key-fob for the umpteenth time, she yanked open
the door and climbed in.

‘Where now?’ Hank asked.

She looked blankly at him. ‘I have no bloody idea.’

They had visited just about every pub in the East End, a string of betting shops and various cafes without success. Having exhausted all of Towner’s haunts, they had no choice but to
return to Kate’s office and hope that he made contact.

They didn’t have long to wait.

As they entered the incident room, Kate’s pocket vibrated: a text from the man himself. She caught Hank’s eye, held up her hand with fingers spread to indicate five minutes, and
hurried straight into her office to call Towner back. He didn’t answer. Swearing under her breath she tried again. The ringing tone stopped and the connection was made.

Towner was shitting himself. She could hear it in his voice, his nervousness proof that he knew more than he’d let on.

Deciding the restrained approach might work, Kate put in a few minutes of gentle persuasion. It paid off: Towner admitted he had information that might help, but told the DCI that he was too
terrified to get involved. If John and Terry’s associates didn’t silence him, the men who killed them soon would. He wasn’t prepared to test that theory by grassing anyone up.

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Kate said. Her assurances were met with a long silence. ‘C’mon Towner, you know me. Have I ever let you down?’

Still he didn’t bite.

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Kate held on to her temper, even though she was ready to rip his head off. Finding him was bad enough. Talking to him was something else altogether. With careful
handling he usually came over, but, for once, she wished he’d do so without making her sweat.

‘I can offer you safeguards,’ she said.

‘Oh yeah?’ Towner gave a nervous laugh. ‘That even sounded like a lie. What d’you take me for? What you going to do? Give me close protection for the rest of my days?
I’m going to need it, if I talk to you.’

‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘I’ll—’

‘Up the creek without a paddle, that’s where.’

‘Fuck’s sake! Stop messing me about, Towner.’ Time to change tack. What this needed was the personal touch. ‘I’ll meet you. Usual place in ten.’

‘No way!’ he yelled. ‘Anyway, I’m not around.’

‘So where are you?’

‘Whitby.’

‘You’re kidding. Why?’

‘Why d’you think? I’ll meet you at Botham’s teashop at half four.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’ Kate glanced at her watch. It was three-fifteen. ‘You know I’ll never make it.’

‘Half four. Come alone or forget it.’

‘Wait! Listen—’

‘They close at five,’ he said. ‘If you’re not there by then, you’ll never see me again.’

The dialling tone hit her ear.

She hit redial:
unobtainable
. The bastard had either thrown the mobile in the drink or taken the SIM out. She grabbed her coat and ran . . .