by Mari Hannah
A few minutes later, a woman arrived, dark hair, worn loose, a friendly face. ‘I’m Helen Dean. How can I help?’
‘Pleased to meet you, Ms Dean. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels. This is my colleague, DS Hank Gormley.’
‘Please, call me Helen.’ Intrigued, she moved away from queuing customers who were earwigging on their conversation. ‘People always get nervous when the police turn up, not that it happens often, you understand. Most people who come here are lovely. Is there a problem?’
‘No,’ Kate said. ‘But I’d like some information and I’m hoping you might be able to provide it.’
‘What do you need to know?’
‘I understand that it’s possible to convert an entry ticket to an annual pass for free, one with no limit on entry.’
‘Yes, that’s correct, so long as you have a receipt.’ Helen pointed towards the kiosk. ‘You can do that here or online within fourteen days if you prefer.’ She stared into the middle distance. ‘As you can see for yourselves, the estate is extensive. It’s impossible to see it all on one visit.’
Having studied the visitor map and read the information leaflet while she waited in the queue, Kate understood why multiple trips to Blenheim might be necessary. The house, she imagined, was capable of handling only so many visitors at a time. It would be crammed most days, the state rooms in particular. Then there were the pleasure gardens, the various exhibitions, the Capability Brown landscaped gardens, the maze, all within walking distance. The list of interesting places to see went on and on.
She smiled at Helen. ‘I could spend a fortnight here.’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ve been here for twelve months and I’ve yet to see it all. Many people spend their whole annual leave here, especially our international visitors. They adore the grandeur of the palace. Their fascination with British aristocracy is never-ending. The Brits, on the other hand, can take it or leave it.’
‘How exactly is the transfer done?’
‘Sorry? I’m not following.’
From the look of him, neither was Hank.
Kate explained: ‘I assume those taking up the offer of annual membership receive some kind of photo ID to ensure that memberships are not passed around randomly.’ She could draw parallels with Heathrow.
‘Exactly that,’ Helen said. ‘They’re all logged, timed and dated.’
Hank had already caught up, though Kate could see from his expression that he still thought she was crazy. His lack of enthusiasm was beginning to irritate her. Ignoring his negativity, she refocused on Helen. If Jo had exchanged her ticket for a yearly pass, she’d done it since 18 October, possibly as recently as yesterday when her mobile was activated, not before Flight 0113 went down.
‘Helen, if I were to give you a name, how soon could you search your database?’
‘I could do it right away if that would suit.’ She glanced at the busy kiosk. ‘Actually, I can access it remotely from my office.’ She swept a hand out. ‘It’s this way.’ She threw Hank a half-smile. ‘There’s room for you too, if you’d like to join us.’
Hank made a move.
Kate didn’t.
In her peripheral vision, she’d spotted a woman who was going through the upgrade process, having her photograph taken at the kiosk. She was issued with an annual pass straight away. As she walked towards them, she smiled.
Kate asked if she might examine it.
After a brief inspection of the lanyard around Helen’s neck, the woman handed the ID card to Kate. It was similar to her police ID, only white where hers was blue. The size and material of a credit card, it had a gold image of Blenheim Palace at the top, the name of the adult pass-holder, a long series of letters and numbers, an expiry date of 23 October 2015, a barcode at the bottom, terms and conditions on the reverse side.
‘Thanks, that’s very kind.’ Kate returned the pass. ‘Have a lovely day.’
Helen Dean’s office was situated behind the Visitor Centre where the Queen Pool was visible through the window, a far cry from the detectives’ Wallsend base where any kind of view was non-existent. Kate was drawn to look outside. She imagined Jo wandering the grounds, loving it, even on her own. It was simply stunning. Not too busy either, despite the fair weather, which would suit Jo perfectly. She’d hate crowds.
The detectives accepted the offer of coffee, declining anything to go with it. Helen’s assistant left the room to fetch it, then all three sat down. While they waited for their refreshments to arrive, Kate pinched a pad from Helen’s desk, writing down the parameters for her search, itching to get going.
Helen logged on to her computer, loaded the page and was about to enter the search criteria, when the coffee arrived. The assistant handed them out then made herself scarce, closing the door behind her so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Helen looked over her right shoulder. ‘What name am I looking for?’
Kate sat forward, on the edge of her chair. ‘Josephine Soulsby.’
‘Middle name?’
‘None.’
Hank avoided eye contact with Kate as Helen’s fingers flew over the keys. She pressed enter, waited a moment, then more typing. She swivelled the screen so that the detectives could see the negative result, shaking her head at the same time. ‘As you can see, there have been no recent applications with that name.’
‘Damn.’ Kate’s head went down, figuratively rather than literally, her hopes plummeting. She’d pinned them to this one lead. She was about to get up, when Hank spoke out.
‘Try Josephine Stephens.’ He explained that Jo was a widow.
Helen repeated the action.
It was worth a punt, but Kate didn’t think it would lead anywhere. While Jo’s sons, Tom and James, were born during her marriage to Alan Stephens, their mother had reverted to her maiden name when she separated from her philandering ex-husband, who’d since been shot dead in his Quayside apartment overlooking the River Tyne. Jo’s official documents and bank accounts were all in her maiden name, a detail Hank was aware of.
Still, he was trying to show support.
Kate appreciated that.
The expression on Helen’s face when she turned to face them was answer enough. ‘Nothing recent, sorry.’ She thought for a moment, then resumed typing, studying a list that popped up on screen. She shook her head. ‘No joy … I’ve now searched the whole database. We have a number of members with the two surnames you gave me, but none matching the forename Jo or Josephine, and there are no recent applications. Could it have been completed online at an earlier time?’
‘Unlikely,’ Kate said. ‘She wasn’t intending to come here when she set off from home.’
‘Where is home?’
‘The outskirts of Newcastle.’
Helen asked for the full address and postcode.
Kate gave it. Seconds later, her worst fears were realised – another nil return. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She stood up, extending a hand to Helen, thanking her for her time. Hiding her bitter disappointment, Kate left the office with a bleeding heart. Hank’s haystack had grown. The chances of finding the needle contained therein was zero.
Hank caught up with her outside. Kate was a mess, as expected, standing with her back to the warm palace wall, looking to the horizon, a wistful expression on her face, as if she might spot Jo walking across the extensive South Lawn. He didn’t say anything, just placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. What could you say to someone hell-bent on an impossible quest? Kate was so sad, so blinded by love, she stonewalled every counter-argument he put forward, unable to recognise her obsession.
She took off.
Where she was heading was anyone’s guess. Hank hoped that she’d make for the car and stop buggering about. The fresh air might do her good. He soon realised that this was no ordinary walk in the park; it was a fast-paced charge. She was on a deadline, due at Heathrow by morning. If she didn’t make it, Torres, Waverley and Bright would be queuing up to s
how her the door. Before they reached the car, she pulled up, turning to face him, signalling her intention to keep on with her search, whether he liked it or not.
He didn’t.
Not only was he out of breath, he was bereft of ideas, unable to stop her futile search for a dead woman.
‘Will you cheer up?’ she barked. ‘She’s around here somewhere.’
‘Kate, you heard Helen. There’s no proof that—’
‘Yet. There’s no proof yet.’ She met his gaze defiantly. ‘I accept that Jo didn’t convert her ticket, but you saw the queue at the kiosk. If it was that bad yesterday, she might not have bothered. It doesn’t mean she wasn’t here.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to help me find the evidence, or stand around with your hands in your pockets, moaning like a rookie on a first assignment because it didn’t fall in your lap without you lifting a finger? You’re a detective. Try acting like one.’
‘Know what? I’m beginning to think that you’re a sadist as well as a masochist.’
At last, a smile …
It didn’t linger. Kate was on point, except he didn’t think she actually had one. She was her own worst enemy, unable or unwilling to extricate herself from the guilt she was feeling, fighting with everyone who got in her way, including him.
It was driving him mad.
Sensing his irritation, she climbed down, apologising for having disrespected him. ‘Hank, I went too far. It was unfair and uncalled for. There’s not a polis alive I’d rather have by my side. All I’m asking is that you stop giving me grief. I promise I’ll drop this if we don’t find her today.’
‘You said that out loud. You’ve never kept a promise in your life!’
Wounded, she stepped away.
He’d touched a nerve.
Kate was well aware that she was pushing him in a direction he didn’t want to go, but he might as well have said: isn’t that why we’re here, because you let people down?
Like her, a moment ago, he was wishing he could take it back. ‘Kate, I didn’t mean—’
‘No, you’re right. I deserved that. I have broken promises. God knows I’m paying for it, but this is one I intend to keep.’
‘Honestly?’
She gave a three-finger salute. ‘Scouts’ honour. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m asking.’
‘You’re the boss.’
Hank was hoping, praying, that once she returned to London and immersed herself in work, she’d be so engrossed in the fight against terrorism, she’d forget this nonsense and keep that promise.
There was more chance of him making Chief Constable by midnight.
52
It began to rain as they left Blenheim, heading for the nearest pub, Hank in the driving seat. Having skipped breakfast, they were both ready to eat. There was no selection involved. They stopped at the first place they came to, the smell of good grub hitting them as soon as they walked in.
It would do nicely.
Having cleared the air, they were in a better frame of mind as they approached the bar. Kate ordered burger and chips, mayo rather than tomato ketchup. Unheard of. She needed to bulk up. Keen to do the opposite, Hank opted for a ploughman’s, billed as a speciality, with local pickle, a favourite among the clientele according to the menu.
The barman asked where they were sitting.
‘Can we have that table near the fire?’ Kate pointed it out. ‘And can I grab some water to take with me? Actually, give it to my colleague.’ She caught Hank’s eye. ‘I’ll meet you over there. I left my laptop in the car.’
‘I’ll get it.’ He was out the door before she could argue.
Her mobile rang as she took the water and two glasses to the table, keen to plan her next move. By the time she sat down, the ringing tone had stopped. The device lit up as she took it from her pocket, a text arriving, a number not in her contacts. She stared at the message for a long time:
Word is the fat man is throwing his weight around. Might be able to help with that.
Kate was instantly on alert.
Her eyes made the pub door, looking for Hank, wondering what was keeping him. Did this have something to do with the racist he’d locked up at Heathrow yesterday? Was it a warning to back off?
A second text arrived:
It’s Brian – aye, that one!
The accompanying emoji sent her pulse racing. A tiny flag … a Scottish flag. Her hands shook as she poured herself a glass of water, unable to believe what she was seeing. She read the texts again to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
She wasn’t …
There was no doubt in her mind who’d initiated the communication.
Brian Allen was the most brazen and inventive criminal she’d ever come across, a legend in his time, not a person she ever thought she’d see or hear from again. In his day, the one-time Glaswegian gangster had made a fortune out of other people’s misery through organised crime. Although Strathclyde Police – now part of Police Scotland – had never been able to prove it, it was strongly suspected that, together with his cohort, Brian had killed a rival gang leader, Dougie O’Kane, in 1993. A wreath sent to taunt the O’Kane family had a message pinned to the front: We done it.
Such was the audacity of Brian Allen.
Five or six years later, he’d fled the city with his family. Reinventing himself in Newcastle didn’t last. He later left the country. Police thought he’d gone soft, run away to save his skin, but that wasn’t the case. He’d done it to protect Theresa, the love of his life and mother of his children, from those who would seek revenge for the killing of O’Kane. Just as Kate was jeopardising her job to find her soulmate.
The circumstances were different, but she could relate.
All she knew about Brian scrolled through her head.
In 2005 he’d faked his own death; so far as the world and his widow were concerned, he’d suffered a heart attack while on a golfing holiday in Spain. For the next seven years he remained out of sight, but then his sons, John and Terry, were tortured to death within hours of one another on Kate’s patch, all the evidence pointing to O’Kane’s sons, Craig and Finn. When the investigation led Kate to Glasgow, she found Finn O’Kane strapped to the front of a four-by-four, squashed like a fly against a wall, a handprint deliberately placed on the windscreen identifying Brian as the culprit.
An eye for an eye.
No one had seen it coming, including Kate. Newcastle cops, young and old, admired the guy, but not for rising from the grave to take revenge on the O’Kane boys. He’d done much more than that, saving the life of a much-loved detective, the one who’d just walked back into the pub.
53
Hank sauntered across the bar, pushing back wet hair, her laptop under his arm. For a split second, Kate wondered if he’d been standing there, watching her. If he’d seen her face drop, he didn’t show it. As he sat down, she could smell smoke on his clothing, which explained why he’d been gone so long. She wasn’t the only one under stress and keeping secrets.
Unaware that she was drowning in a case she’d rather forget, he placed the laptop on the table in front of her. Paralysed, her thoughts all over the place, Kate could only stare at it, unable to shake the image of Brian Allen from her head.
Might be able to help with that.
What exactly did he mean?
Taking a sip of water, she wondered what he was up to. The implication was clear. Whatever it was involved Heathrow. If he had information to give, it would be incumbent upon her to act on it immediately. She was conflicted. If she showed Hank the text, he’d haul her arse to London to report the matter to Torres. Aware of her promise to abandon their search for Jo by the end of the day, Kate kept it to herself, but still it played on her mind.
Hank eyed the laptop. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘What?’
‘The clock is ticking,’ he warned.
‘I thought we’d eat first,’ was all she could think of to say.
His focal point was the p
ub’s serving hatch. ‘How long can it take to cook a burger and throw some cheese on a plate?’
‘Be patient, they’re busy.’ Her tone was overly sharp.
Hank was bemused by it. ‘You OK? Your hands are shaking.’
‘Low blood sugar,’ she lied. ‘I’ll be fine when I’ve eaten.’ She didn’t dare look at him.
He pointed at her laptop. ‘Well, get a wriggle on while we wait.’
Kate played along, pulling it towards her, opening the lid, only half concentrating. What did Brian want? A fugitive on the run from British and Spanish police wouldn’t show himself for nothing. With that thought lingering, with Hank breathing down her neck, she began googling nearby hotels. With time running out, she had to push on and find Jo.
Jo had always been the one who booked their holidays. She was prescriptive when it came to a crash pad. Kate could almost hear her voice: too corporate – she hated impersonal; too near a main road – she liked peace and quiet; not enough outside space; no pool – she loved to swim. Sharing her thoughts with Hank brought out the worst in him.
‘That’ll cut down the options considerably.’ His sarcasm was cutting. ‘There must be hundreds of hotels around here.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘What about that one?’
‘She’d wouldn’t stay there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Discount chains are not her style. She’s a hotel snob. Put it this way, she knows what she likes.’ Kate’s voice broke as she said it.
He climbed down.
Their food arrived, the burger first. Kate had lost her appetite after reading Brian’s text. She hadn’t thought of much else in the past few minutes. She couldn’t deal with this now … but deal with it she must. If he had information to share, she had a duty to locate him and report to Torres, despite the fact that it would raise awkward questions for her. The first thing the special agent would ask was how a fugitive from justice had her personal number. Apart from Kate, only Hank knew the answer to that.