Killing for Keeps (26 page)

H
aving been contacted by SOCA, Spanish police were keen to cooperate with British law enforcement, even keener to dissuade the wrong sort of tourists taking refuge in their
country. Organizing a warrant for the villa Kate wanted to search was no problem for them. It was secured within the hour. The officer-in-charge, Comisario Roberto Chavez, insisted on accompanying
her to the villa, supplying a team of officers to do a thorough forensic job on the place on her behalf. Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble. As they waited to gain access, he was at pains to
point out that many of the fugitives living in Rojales had come from the United Kingdom.

Kate nodded a guilty apology.

What else could she do? She couldn’t argue with him. It was a well-known fact that criminals had taken up residence in Spain for years, on the Costa del Sol in particular, many of them
favouring the hills around Marbella.

She couldn’t see the attraction herself.

Right this minute, she was too bloody hot and couldn’t hear herself think. A family of screeching parakeets had taken refuge in a palm tree further down the street. They were making such a
din, flying in and out of their nest, squabbling with one another over bits of food. In competition with the birds, Chavez began shouting instructions to his men. Kate left him to it, wandering off
to take a photograph to share with Jo when she got home. They had seen birds like these at the Pets’ Corner aviary in Jesmond Dene. Jo hated to see them caged. It was wonderful to observe
them, free to enjoy life in the treetops, their habitat secure from prying eyes.

The noise they made was another thing entirely.

Kate wondered what the residents of the magnificent villa adjacent to the tree thought of them. How they stood the commotion day after day, though hopefully not at night. Presumably, even
parakeets needed their sleep. As cute as they were, she’d be a bit cross if she’d bought an idyllic hideaway, ignorant of the noisy neighbours nesting in the tree outside.

As she snapped away, she thought of Jo’s compassion for all living creatures; like the time she found a baby bird that had fallen from a nest and dug up worms for days in order to feed it.
Daft really. The day it flew away was magical. Then it flew right back, landing on her hand as if it was thanking her for taking the trouble to save its life. When it flew off a second time she had
tears in her eyes.

Kate smiled at the memory.

Life wouldn’t be the same without Jo in it. That thought dragged her down, their broken relationship hanging over her like a shadow. She couldn’t shake it off, no matter how hard she
tried. It was all her fault. She had no one to blame but herself. Maybe a holiday together was just what they needed to sort themselves out.

Hank gave a yell: their Spanish counterparts were in.

Pocketing her phone, Kate joined them at the villa, heart sinking as she entered the house, stepping over a pile of leaflets and magazines on the hallway floor, further evidence that no one was
living there. Crouching down, she used the end of a pen to move them around. There was nothing of interest. A film of dust covered the floor tiles; clearly the place hadn’t been cleaned in a
while. Magazine issue dates confirmed her worst fears. They had lain untouched for months rather than weeks.

‘Why?’ Kate whispered, getting to her feet.

‘You talking to yourself again?’ Hank asked as he approached. ‘What’s up?’

‘That!’ She pointed at the mail drop on the floor, fixing him with a hard stare. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me. If this is Brian’s villa – and I think it is
– then where is he? I can understand him being on the run now he’s wanted for Finn’s murder, but this lot suggests he’s been gone for some time. If he’d been living
here minding his own business since disappearing, what prompted him to move away so long ago? Apart from John, no one knew he was alive.’

‘Maybe he found out John sent Vicky the photograph and decided to cut and run.’

‘Perhaps.’

As they walked further into the house, she thought some more about Hank’s suggestion. The dates on the stuff pushed through the letter box fit loosely with the timing of John’s last
visit to Spain. The only other explanation she could come up with was that John might somehow have got wind of the fact that the O’Kane boys were on his father’s trail and had tipped
him off a while ago. Either way, Brian had got the jump on them –
again
.

Hank stifled a yawn behind a sweaty hand. With no air conditioning it was sweltering in the house. ‘Where do you propose we go?’ he asked.

It was a good question: one Kate had to think about. She couldn’t help wishing she were thirty thousand feet above ground in a tin tube on her way home. It would be a relief to get out of
the stifling heat and feel a nip in the air. She longed to be surrounded by lush green grass. By the state of him, Hank did too.

He loosened his tie a touch.

While waiting on the warrant, she’d driven him to their hotel to change into something more appropriate. He was dying in his suit. She was about to tell him to take off his jacket when her
phone rang.

Carmichael
.

‘What you got for me, Lisa?’

‘I viewed the footage of Brian on CCTV. He travelled to Spain on a dodgy passport in the name of Ray Charlton. You won’t believe this: airport security even frisked him.’

‘You sure it was him?’

‘Hundred per cent . . . hold on a minute, boss . . . yes?’ Carmichael’s voice was lost as someone spoke to her at the other end –
something about CCTV –
and then it all went quiet as she turned her head away from the speaker. Seconds later, she was back. ‘Sorry about that . . . we have the images. I’ll email them to you. Brian was
travelling light. Hand luggage only – a small black bag. He bought fags and Irish whiskey on his way through duty-free. Paid with cash. He’s a cool customer. I’m watching the
footage now. He’s strolling through the departure hall, not even breaking sweat.’

Kate wished she wasn’t.

Thanking Carmichael, she hung up.

‘You want me to check that lot in the hallway?’ Hank asked.

‘No need, they’re just leaflets and magazines. Dead men obviously don’t get much post.’

‘Er, when in Spain.’ He pointed through the window to a bank of mailboxes attached to the wall. ‘It serves the whole block, complete with name-tags and keyholes.’

Kate grinned and asked Chavez if anyone had found a key to the postbox outside. He turned to yell at his men and within seconds an officer came running with it in his hand. Taking it from him,
the DCI went outside to investigate, only to have her hopes dashed. Barring a small sheet of folded paper – some sort of bill for €157 – the box was empty.

Her head was down as she went back inside.

The only tangible lead to Brian Allen was proving next to useless. Without further intelligence, her search would end and the case would collapse. Wandering through the villa, she looked around,
hoping to find something that might give away his whereabouts. There was nothing on the walls that spoke to her, no telltale prints that might point to a location he could be using as a hideaway.
She had no doubt that he’d be lying low for a while.

In the bedroom, Chavez’s men were dusting for fingerprints. One young officer was shaking a telephone directory in the hope that something would fall out. Nothing did. Cupboard doors stood
open, drawers had been pulled out. The bed had been turned down and was being examined for trace evidence: hair, skin, dried body fluids. Proving that Brian had once lived there was the most she
could hope for.

Kate wasn’t quitting yet.

There was always an alternative if you looked hard enough, and she was not a detective who fell at the first hurdle. As she continued to search, Bright’s voice popped into her head.
‘You have one week to wrap up your search in Spain. Not a minute more,’ he’d told her. ‘We have finite resources, Kate. The budget for major incidents is already stretched
to the limit. The Crime Commissioner’s salary has to come from somewhere.’

Clearly, he was not a fan.

Kate sucked in some air.

She was wasting her time searching the villa. The place was empty. Cleaned out. No clothes or personal papers. Zilch. Despite her seven-day deadline, she’d advised Hank that if she
hadn’t found Brian within the week – and more importantly Craig O’Kane – she’d take annual leave until she had.

True to form, he said he’d do the same.

As she walked back down the hallway, there was a flurry of activity in the porch beyond the front door. Raised voices. It wasn’t the Spanish being, well, Spanish. The tone of the
conversation was far more urgent than that. Rounding the corner, Kate suddenly felt as if she was in her own incident room, surrounded by her own team. She knew elation when she saw it.
Didn’t need to understand the language to know that something exciting was going down. She could see it on the face of local officers.

Hell, she could feel it.

Hank arrived by her side, drawn by the thrill of a breakthrough.

Whatever it was, he could feel it too.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Comisario Chavez grinned.

A suspicious stranger fitting Craig O’Kane’s description had been spotted a short distance away at La Marquesa Golf Club. An alert member of staff had heard about two Englishmen
local police were hunting. Putting two and two together she’d phoned the law.
Shrewd move.

T
he revelation had everyone scrambling into a convoy of police vehicles, racing towards the golf complex with blue lights flashing and sirens screaming. In their vehicle, Hank
rode in the back, Kate up front. Normally comfortable at high speed, they endured a heart-stopping, white-knuckle ride, thanks to their driver continually crossing himself while overtaking and
praying in his native tongue as he weaved in and out of traffic. At one point, Kate shut her eyes, bracing herself for a collision, before yelling at the idiot to slow the fuck down and keep both
hands on the wheel. Advanced police driver he certainly was not. She wanted to live long enough to make an arrest, she told him. He took no notice and, despite the rapidity of his response to the
perceived emergency, the stranger at the golf club was long gone by the time they arrived.

That was the bad news.

On the positive side, it was confirmation that Craig O’Kane was in the area, on the trail of the man who killed his brother. The receptionist, Neena Gil, had no hesitation in making the
identification. Thankfully there was no need for an interpreter; she spoke perfect English, having taken a business studies degree at London Metropolitan University with a view to starting her own
real estate agency on returning to Spain.

‘No hope of that in this economic climate,’ she told them. ‘So I’m working here until things improve.’

‘You’re sure this is the man?’ Kate held up O’Kane’s photograph.

The young woman nodded.

‘You said he was acting suspiciously?’

‘And quite aggressive when I told him to be patient.’ Neena glanced past Kate to the door. ‘At first I thought he was waiting for someone to arrive. He kept looking over his
shoulder at the entrance, trying to push to the front of the queue when I had other customers to attend to. He wasn’t a tourist. No interest in playing golf or becoming a member. There was
only one thing on his mind and that was finding Señor Allen. I made out that I knew him, even though I didn’t. I kept the man waiting a moment while I checked the club’s
database, even offered him coffee or a drink on the house.’ She thumbed over her shoulder to an office behind her. ‘I went to call the police. When I returned, he’d
disappeared.’

Kate wished that all witnesses were as good as this one. ‘And Señor Allen?’

‘We have no Señor Allen at La Marquesa.’

‘Are you certain, Neena? It’s imperative we trace him.’ Kate showed her a photograph of Brian, just to be sure. ‘He may be using the name Ray Charlton.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t recognize him.’

That wasn’t the answer Kate wanted to hear.

T
hree days had passed since the last sighting of O’Kane and the trail had gone cold. To further complicate matters, the hire car he was using was found abandoned not far
from the golf club. He was obviously aware he’d been clocked on CCTV. Taking the view that he wouldn’t risk hiring another, Hank asked local police to keep a close eye on any vehicles
reported stolen. Old ones. That was part of the offender’s MO for no other reason than they were easier to break in to.

Together, Kate and Hank spent the weekend scouring the area, visiting every golf complex in a twenty-mile radius. A wasted few days, as it turned out. It looked as though their suspect had gone
to ground. They were desperate for another sighting. When it didn’t materialize, Kate had no option but to turn her attention once more to Brian Allen. After all, finding him had been the
sole purpose of O’Kane’s trip to the Mediterranean. Why else risk his neck travelling from his home in Scotland? He could so easily have been arrested at an airport terminal at either
end.

Kate longed to detain both men and return to the UK with her reputation restored. If she went home empty-handed she’d be letting Bright down. Letting herself down.

Sadly, it looked as though she had no alternative. She was running out of ideas.

In the absence of fresh intelligence from Chavez and his men, she decided to up the ante and widen her search.

Dumping her belongings in the boot of the hire car, she waited for Hank to do the same and then slammed the lid shut. She was eager to be on the move and hadn’t yet told him where they
were going. Time to put that right. Walking round to the driver’s side, she opened the door and climbed in.

‘How d’you fancy the five-star treatment?’ she asked. ‘La Manga suit?’

‘You’re talking my language.’ His face lit up. ‘Why La Manga?’

‘Why not? We’re chasing a villain who thinks he’s fucking James Bond. Anyway, I’m sick of waiting. We need to be more proactive. If we want O’Kane, we need to go
back to plan A and find Brian. He’s a man who likes the high life. O’Kane may be a Glasgow thug, but I’m betting he’ll have worked that out. If so, he’ll be hanging
out in all the best places. Where better to start than at the most prestigious golfing venue in the area?’ She turned the engine over and pulled away. ‘Besides, that fleapit we’ve
been staying in was getting on my tits. I need a bed I can actually sleep in. And since we’re travelling light, a place with laundry service wouldn’t go amiss.’

Laughing, Hank strapped himself in and made a meal of sniffing his armpits.

A signpost for Torrevieja and Cartagena saw them join the motorway southbound. For a while traffic was slow. It wasn’t until they left the built-up area that they picked up speed. Kate
took little notice of the countryside whizzing by. She was on autopilot, mind on the job, the frustrating near-miss getting the better of her. She’d come so close to catching O’Kane she
could almost taste it, but he’d slipped from her grasp.

Time for a rethink.

‘We should change our approach,’ she said.

Hank pushed his sunglasses higher up the bridge of his nose. ‘In what way?’

‘We should stop and get you a hire car of your own.’

‘Really?’ He lifted a water bottle to his lips. ‘I thought you said we were on a tight budget.’

Kate pictured herself arguing the toss with the guv’nor when they got home, possibly empty-handed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Scratch that idea. It was pants.’ Indicating, she
pulled out to overtake, telling him they would stand a better chance if they worked independently. ‘We’ll book in together, as friends this time. It’ll appear odd if we’re a
couple who spend no time with each other.’

‘You kidding?’ He almost choked on his drink. ‘We’re supposed to be married, remember? It’ll look a damned sight odder if we’re talking.’

‘We just got a divorce.’

‘On what grounds? My snoring keeping you awake?’

His wounded expression made her laugh out loud. ‘It’s not helping. I believe irretrievable breakdown is the correct term. My people will talk to your people. Mine will insist on a
fifty-fifty split of all bank accounts and a large chunk of your pension when you retire. You can keep your car. I wouldn’t be seen dead driving it. I never liked our poxy house, so you can
have that too, along with the contents. I get the dog. Do we have a deal?’

They drove on, the banter between them lifting their mood. Only seventy kilometres to go – if they were lucky, they would make their destination by nightfall.