by Mari Hannah
‘What does he want in return?’
‘I don’t know. The chance to carry on without interference from law enforcement I’d imagine, to operate without us treading on his toes.’ Kate shoved harder. ‘Our presence is pissing him off. He’ll disappear if you go cold on me. We have a job to do. We’re wasting precious time here. Once this man is in the wind, any information he has will be gone and we’ll never find him.’
‘Oh, we’ll find him.’
Kate crossed her arms, refusing to be cowed, a slight shake of the head. ‘Take my word for it, you won’t. And even if you did, you’d get sod all out of him. I know him. You don’t. And don’t ask how, because that’s not something I can divulge either.’
‘I want results.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ Kate’s tone softened. ‘I’d rather cut my heart out than let these ideological freaks get away with a single death. Trust me, if this guy runs, you’re nowhere. I may not be Homeland Security, but I’m all you’ve got. Your call. Do you want this information or not?’
‘You think you can get it?’
‘I can try.’
Torres didn’t answer.
‘It could be a game-changer,’ Kate pushed. ‘So, let’s stop playing who’s-in-charge and get on with it, shall we? You’re going to have to sit this one out. Give me twenty-four hours. What do you say?’
She had her.
63
Kate drew a breath of fresh air deep into her lungs as she walked out of the hotel, exhaling slowly, repeating twice more, relieved to have got through her face-to-face with Torres relatively unscathed. Slipping on her sunglasses against the glare of a low sun, the DCI took off in the direction of her flat, keen to hurry things along now she had backing from SAC Torres and a new burner in her pocket. Though she was good for this assignment, with the energy and commitment required to carry it off, Kate had mixed feelings about meeting Brian Allen.
Had Craig and Finn O’Kane not tortured his sons to death, trying to extract information about their father’s whereabouts, she liked to think that Brian would have stayed dead and kept his hands clean. In the intervening years, there was every reason to believe that he’d left behind the thuggery that dominated his early life, but, in protecting himself from a rival gang hell-bent on payback, he’d proved that he was still capable of extreme violence. He couldn’t afford to back down. It would have meant running away, and that was not his style.
Other than circumstantial evidence linking him to Craig O’Kane’s death in Spain, Kate had no proof that Brian had taken the law into his own hands. No one had seen who’d taken the shot to stop O’Kane pulling the trigger on Hank. There were times when police officers were tempted to do nothing and let the bastards kill each other. If Kate was being honest, she was secretly proud of Brian for intervening to save the life of a cop.
She’d arranged to meet Hank in the small café in Hounslow at four o’clock to update him on progress. The argument with Torres meant her meeting had overrun and she was late arriving. He was waiting patiently, nursing a second cup of coffee, the remains of a sandwich on a plate in front of him, a newspaper spread out on the tabletop with the crossword puzzle half done.
He looked up as she approached.
‘We’re on.’ She slumped down in the seat opposite, her back to the window, affording him a good view of the street behind her.
‘Torres agreed?’
‘Reluctantly and rather personally.’
Hank’s eyes widened. ‘She’s here?’
‘I suspect she’s been here all along. It wasn’t a walk in the park convincing her. Put it this way, I’m under no illusion as to what she thinks of me.’ Kate eyed the street. ‘There’s a Ford Focus parked across the road.’ She reeled off its registration number. ‘A covert team, no doubt. Could be Brian’s crew but I’m inclined to think it’s Torres.’
‘Does she think you were born yesterday?’
‘She might. Garcia followed us to Minster Lovell and had the photos to prove it. Fortunately we lost him on the return journey or we’d be in deep shit now.’
‘Smart move, boss.’ He was referring to the murder of a certain mobile phone.
‘Imagine if he’d walked in on you and Brian. It would have been like a gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Did you get the cash?’
‘And your wheels.’
‘Good.’
Reaching inside the breast pocket of his overcoat, Hank drew out a brown envelope and slid it her way. Inside was a wedge of notes and a set of keys. Anticipating the nod from Torres, however begrudgingly, Kate had already told Hank that if this came off she needed to dump any technology Homeland Security had given her, just as she’d got rid of her police mobile and laptop. Neither would be used during the next phase of her operation – for any purpose – not even for an internet search or to contact Northumbria MIT. Silence and stealth was required from now on. She’d been clear on that score.
‘Any update from the Casualty Bureau?’
‘Not much …’ Hank had spent the morning there. ‘Elaine Hayes’s husband finally knows the truth. Having been told that she was ill at the airport and didn’t travel, he was shocked when officers turned up at his door to tell him that she did. Poor bastard was devastated, demanding ID, under the impression that it was the press at his door, not the police.’
Kate understood his confusion. Prior to boarding 0113, Elaine had fainted, spilling the contents of her bag on the floor. Jo had scooped it up, inadvertently handing her the wrong boarding card. In the split second it took Elaine to recover, opting to continue with her journey, Jo elected not to and was escorted landside.
‘He must have known when she failed to return home though, surely—’
Hank shook his head. ‘They’re in the middle of a divorce, no longer living together. He was planning on a reunion when she got back. Sound familiar?’
Kate shuddered.
‘It could so easily have been Jo,’ he said.
‘Thank God it wasn’t. Did you call her?’
A nod. ‘I told her you’d be out of contact for the foreseeable. She sent a virtual hug.’ Hank was buoyant now that his two favourite women were on speaking terms again. ‘How are you going to play it with Brian?’
‘By the book. He’s so minted, I reckon he might own the industrial estate where the two of you met. I can’t see him using it a second time. You’re done, for now, Hank. Under no circumstances do you go anywhere near it. You and I will not speak again until I have what we want.’
‘Be careful.’
A nod. ‘If I’m followed, I’ll abort.’
64
Kate waited in The Sun for three hours, her head in a magazine, an occasional glance at other customers, none of whom seemed to be paying her any attention. She’d almost given up hope when the phone rang, startling her. Taking the call, she listened carefully to the man on the other end. It wasn’t Brian but one of his minions, a young man by the sounds of it. He gave her a location and very little detail, enough to get her from A to B. No doubt there would be a second clue when she got there.
The line went dead.
Checking her watch, Kate waited a few minutes, as instructed. Folding her newspaper, she zipped up her leathers, picking up her motorcycle helmet and gloves. She carried them wherever she went, in case she wanted to hire a bike for business or pleasure. Bypassing the WCs, she used the rear door to exit the pub.
A Yamaha FZ6 Fazer was parked outside, exactly where Hank had said it would be. Kate preferred two wheels over four any day. The machine – much like the one she had at home – had the acceleration and size to weave in and out of traffic, the ability to get her out of trouble …
She hoped.
Taking a deep breath, Kate swung her right leg over the machine, dropping her visor, inserting the ignition key before pulling on her gloves. She never made it. Hauled off the bike from behind, she was manhandled towards a four-by-four and bundled into the back seat, two heavies wearing balaclavas flan
king her. A female was in the driving seat. As the doors slammed shut, the vehicle took off at speed.
Shoved in the back, Kate fell forward, landing hard on concrete flooring, splitting open the deep cut on her hand, her motorcycle helmet rolling away like a giant glossy white marble. Swearing at her attacker, her eyes quickly scanned the inside of the derelict building, smaller than the one Hank had described to her, a former garage by the looks of it. There were half a dozen inspection pits, evenly spaced in the centre. Some had been filled in. Those that remained open were like ready-made graves.
Oh God!
As Kate scrambled to get up, the guy stood on her injured hand, causing unimaginable pain. Pushing her down, he struck her with a fist that felt like a lump hammer as it connected with her forehead. Momentarily stunned, Kate saw double.
She wasn’t expecting this.
If Hank had been present, outnumbered or not, there would have been a riot. Ordinarily, Kate could handle herself, but she felt vulnerable without him by her side, more so than she ever had before. Suspecting that her second Homeland Security burner would also be rigged with a tracking device, at her instruction Hank was on the move, leading SAC Torres on a wild goose chase. Garcia too, in all probability.
Without backup, Kate was screwed.
She almost lost consciousness as a second blow landed on the left side of her jaw, followed by a sharp kick in the ribs. Her attacker, a young thug with a shaved head and skull tattoo on the side of his neck, a recent scar on his left cheek, moved away. For a moment, she lay still, praying he wouldn’t come back for more, questioning the wisdom of meeting Brian and his crew.
Across the disused garage, a figure appeared in profile, backlit by a streetlight she could see through the rear door on the south side of the building, his entry point. As the Glaswegian came into focus, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. Unless he’d had a personality transplant she’d be safe.
Brian eyed the motorcycle leathers hanging off her left shoulder, the trickle of blood she could feel snaking its way into her left ear.
Kate could see his outrage from ten metres away.
Helping her up, his focus switched to the thug who’d laid into her with no regard for the fact that she was a woman, let alone a copper he had a lot of time for. Maybe the young thug didn’t know. Unlikely, Kate decided. He’d have been warned to be careful, not to say too much in front of her.
No one had spoken a word in the car.
The subject of Brian’s attention didn’t appear so cocky now. The satisfied look in his eyes when he was laying into her had been replaced with blind panic. The muscles in his face were taut, one eye twitching nervously. He looked like he wanted to leg it.
Instead, he froze.
He knew what was coming, and so did Kate.
She met Brian’s gaze. ‘Don’t bother on my account,’ she said.
Ignoring her, he tipped his head on one side, his jaw bunching as he moved towards the man with the skull tattoo. Within striking distance, he made him sweat a while, his words slow and deliberate …
‘Did I fucking ask you to rough her up?’
‘No, boss—’
‘Did I ask you to speak?’
The guy shook his head. ‘No, boss.’
‘Then shut the fuck up!’
Kate recoiled as Brian hit the young guy full in the face with the butt end of his handgun, sending blood spurting in all directions, snapping his head around so violently it almost broke his neck. Poleaxed, the kid looked up, hands raised, an appeal for mercy.
‘Up!’ Brian yelled.
The kid did as he was told. Wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve, he brought himself upright, offering a grovelling apology to Kate. Other than that, he remained shtum, accepting his punishment and Brian’s word that his actions were unwarranted, no way to treat a lady. The Glaswegian had done what Kate would have liked to have done, only with less mess – a sharp kick in the balls, enough to satisfy her sense of justice for overstepping the mark.
Brian apologised to Kate.
‘What for? That’s what you do, isn’t it?’
‘He wasn’t acting on my instruction.’
Brian shared an economy of language with Torres. He was dangerous if crossed, but also a clever man, bizarrely an honourable man, in the way that those who operated in the murky underworld often were. It made Kate wonder what he might have made of himself had he not been born into a criminal family, experiencing violent behaviour from the moment he drew breath. He’d spent the majority of his life looking over his shoulder.
Such a waste.
He gave what looked like a prearranged signal to clear the building, before lighting up a long, fat cigar. Kate waited for his men to make themselves scarce, her eyes on their boss as a door slammed shut behind them.
‘The UK doesn’t suit you,’ she said. ‘You’re less tanned than when I last saw you—’
‘You’re better dressed.’ Brian was enjoying himself.
Kate wasn’t. ‘You caught me at a bad time.’
Brian nodded to someone out of her eyeline.
A woman stepped from the shadows. Made-up, nice eyes, hard as nails, the driver of the four-by-four that had transported her from Hounslow. Tugging at Kate’s motorcycle gear, she told the detective to get her kit off.
‘Uh-uh, I don’t think so.’
‘Do it.’
‘I never strip, unless asked nicely. Ask your boss.’
‘Girls!’ Brian puffed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Play nice.’
‘You heard the man,’ the woman said. ‘We need to know you’re not wearing a wire.’
We?
Kate wondered if they were an item. It wouldn’t surprise her. Though rough around the edges, Brian was the quintessential lovable rogue. His former girlfriend, Dr Maria Benitez – who’d helped him construct a new identity by faking a death certificate, and who’d supplied him with the insulin needed to keep him alive – was languishing in a Spanish jail. Other women he’d used as informants, discarded when they were no longer of use to him, were left broken by the experience.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Kate unzipped her leather one-piece, allowing it to fall to the floor. She was damned if she was taking off her boots. It was freezing in there. She crossed her arms, grabbing the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it over her head, then held her arms out, allowing the woman to pat her down, though there was no need. Kate’s bra and pants were too small to hide a postage stamp.
‘You look like you’re enjoying that,’ Brian chuckled.
Covered in goosebumps, Kate threw him a dirty look. ‘Yeah, I’m having a ball.’
‘Word is, you need a new squeeze.’ He pointed at his female associate. ‘In case you were tempted, Stacy’s spoken for.’
‘She’s all yours. Unlike you, I’m not into women half my age.’ Kate locked eyes with Stacy, a made-up name. If it had been real, Brian would never have mentioned it. ‘Do yourself a favour and ditch him before he ditches you.’
Ignoring the comment, Stacy confirmed that Kate was clean and left to join the others. Seconds later, a car started up outside and pulled away, leaving Kate alone with Brian.
65
Kate shrugged on her leathers, the fog in her head clearing. The Glaswegian didn’t know that Jo was alive. Kate wanted to keep it that way. For the first time since she’d been thrust headlong into the building, she studied the man she’d come to see. His attempt at cool was a façade, the eyes behind the new specs tired and tormented, those of someone who’d stood on the edge of the abyss more times than he could count. He was broken, as she had been when she thought she’d lost Jo – only his sons had stayed dead. Giving up everything to protect them had all been for nothing.
She almost felt sorry for him.
Brian wasn’t the only criminal she’d grown to like – some villains were charming, laugh-a-minute, protective of those they loved – but he was the only one she’d hate to see locked up for the rest of his days, an outcome she’d lose sleep ov
er. Reasons to lie awake at night were queuing up. Top of that list was whether or not her cover had been blown, a thought that prompted a question.
‘How come you knew I was in the area?’
‘I didn’t.’ Lowering his cigar, Brian sat down, placing his gun on the wonky rusting arm of a swivel chair that hadn’t been sat on for years. ‘In my business, it pays to keep up with current affairs. Your girlfriend’s name in the papers was a big fat clue. When one of my guys was arrested by someone whose name he had the presence of mind to remember, I knew you wouldn’t be far away.’
‘And that concerns you why? You asked for a face-to-face, but I’m not here so we can play catch-up.’
‘Shame.’
‘I asked you a question.’
‘You’re queering my pitch, Kate.’
‘And you mine.’ Sick of standing, Kate upturned a wooden crate and sat down facing him. ‘I’m investigating mass murder. What’s your excuse?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Look, I don’t have time for this cloak-and-dagger shit, so why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll be on my way. If your intel is any good, you have my word that we’ll not look too closely at you and yours. But know this: next time we meet, I’ll be fully clothed, and there’ll be a warrant in my pocket with your name on it.’
Brian threw her a beaming smile.
Embarrassed, Kate looked away. He knew she didn’t mean it. He’d saved Hank’s life and she’d never forget it. Bright had once asked if she’d let Brian go when she trailed him to the Costa Blanca. She hadn’t – and could never be accused of doing so: she was tied to a bedpost at the time he legged it. Recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest, Hank was barely able to walk.
Bright wouldn’t let it go.
The end of that conversation echoed in her head now …
‘You didn’t try very hard to go after him.’
‘Not my problem, guv. I was a guest of the Spanish and Police Scotland weren’t shifting themselves, were they? As far as they were concerned, Brian was outside of their jurisdiction and, when arrested, would become the subject of an extradition row … if they could be arsed to fill in the paperwork.’