by Mari Hannah
She rang the doorbell.
Vicky didn’t answer immediately – not until she realized they weren’t going away. When she did finally open up, a baby was pinned to her hip, his big blue eyes fixed on the detectives.
‘What do you want?’ She glared at Hank. ‘I could’ve sworn I told you to get lost.’
Kate held up ID. ‘I’m—’
‘I know who you are,’ Vicky interrupted. ‘And why you’re here.’
‘May we come in?’ Kate asked. ‘I’d like to help.’
‘Oh yeah, how you gonna do that?’
The two women locked eyes. Kate urged her to do the right thing for all their sakes, including the little one who would one day begin to ask questions. Vicky was a pretty girl, twenty-two years old with corkscrew auburn curls. Dark eyeliner made the whites of her eyes stand out. And she was nowhere near as hard as she was making out. After a few moments of uncertainty, she walked away, leaving the door wide open, an invitation for them to follow her in – a hint that all was not lost.
Relieved that they weren’t wasting their time, Kate entered the house, Hank bringing up the rear. The flat was contemporary and nipping clean inside. Not flash, but these two wanted for nothing, except maybe the guy who paid the bills. A photograph of Terry and John holding champagne flutes at a wedding celebration caught her eye as she scanned the walls – both good-looking lads.
‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ she said, hoping the young woman didn’t ask too many questions about the circumstances surrounding her boyfriend’s death. There was no point dancing round the subject. The DCI wanted information. They all knew that. The sooner she got it, the sooner she’d be on her way. ‘You’ve met DS Gormley. My name is Kate Daniels, Murder Investigation Team. We need to talk.’
Stroking the child’s head gently, Vicky eased him into a highchair, made him comfortable and applied a plastic pelican bib he didn’t want to wear. ‘Talk if you want. I need to feed the bairn.’
‘What’s his name?’ Kate asked.
‘Nathan.’
‘Hello, Nathan.’ Kate turned from the child to his mother. ‘How old is he?’
‘Nine months.’
‘He’s cute.’
As if he knew he was being talked about, the child began bouncing in his seat, stopping only when his mother lifted a nursery-rhyme bowl from the kitchen bench and sat down beside him. Kate looked on as his chubby little hands grabbed for the spoon each time it came within striking distance – a picture of domestic bliss. But very soon, his expression changed from eager anticipation of more food to concern for his mother. As young as he was, he’d picked up on a change in atmosphere and was distressed by the silent tears rolling down Vicky’s face. He glared at Kate as if it was all her fault.
‘How the hell does a girl like her get mixed up with the likes of John Allen?’ Kate whispered, letting herself out, making a beeline for her Audi. ‘I mean, she’s bright, intelligent, caring – a good mum too. You only need to look at her little boy to see that he’s thriving. What an absolute waste.’
Hank shrugged, meeting her eyes across the roof as they climbed in. ‘There’s no accounting for taste. Anyway, she coughed. I call that a result, don’t you?’
Kate agreed.
Securing the name of the club where the victims were planning to meet the night they died was a tangible lead she felt sure would uncover witnesses to what happened, why it happened and who was responsible. Sticking her key in the ignition, she glanced back at Vicky’s front door. The whole time she’d been in the house, something had niggled away at the edge of her consciousness, her eyes drawn back, time and again, to the photograph of two young men smiling into the camera, triggering a chain of thought she couldn’t share with Hank until they had left the house.
‘He must’ve been an amazing brother,’ she said.
‘Which one?’ Hank strapped himself in.
As an only child, Kate had no references from which to draw. She was trying to imagine the power of love between siblings, the bond between blood brothers whose lives had been linked from birth and strengthened through the death of a father they both idolized.
‘John,’ she said finally.
‘What about him?’
‘You love your brother, Hank?’
He gave her an odd look. ‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘You do though, right? You’d do anything for him?’
‘Of course.’
She held his gaze. In her head she was back at the morgue, viewing Terry Allen’s body, Stanton giving her a running commentary of what actually killed him. The fact that there were traces of chloroform round his mouth and nose. How he’d suffered before drawing his last breath. The thought of what he’d endured sent shivers down her spine all over again.
‘How many fingers would you be prepared to lose before you gave him up?’ she asked. ‘One? Two? A handful? Terry Allen wasn’t Superman. He didn’t squeal because he couldn’t – he didn’t have the answer to whatever question they were asking him. He didn’t know, Hank. He didn’t bloody know.’
18
At precisely four o’clock, Kate stood up to address the squad in an incident room packed to the rafters with police and civilian personnel. Frantic activity and the hum of conversations died down as she called for order. In seconds, the room was still, all faces turned in her direction, every member of staff paying attention, waiting for what they had already been told was a breakthrough in the case.
Glancing at a hastily scribbled aide-memoire, she was about to begin speaking when Jo Soulsby slipped quietly into the room at the back, miming a sorry. She’d agreed to assist the enquiry from this point on, an unusual occurrence in a gangland feud, but the level of violence was such that Kate had made a good case to her superiors on the grounds that they couldn’t afford to have a couple of sadists running amok on the streets of Newcastle. Besides, there were no guarantees that the Allen brothers were the only targets. On a personal level, Kate was pleased to see Jo back where she belonged after a year out on secondment to a local prison, a disastrous move on so many levels.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I have a lot of ground to cover, so get your notepads ready. We now know from his hospital admission sheet that Terry Allen suffered a serious assault on Friday, thirteenth July. He was treated for his injuries and discharged himself the same night against medical advice.’ She scanned the room, finding Maxwell. ‘Neil? What’s the state of play with CCTV from Grant’s?’
‘There’s very little historical footage,’ he said. ‘The digital revolution passed the management by, I’m afraid. They still record to disk, which they wipe and reuse to save money. The earliest dates they have are only a fortnight old. I haven’t spotted Terry or any of the scum he hangs out with, but I think I may have identified Sky.’ He paused as the DCI congratulated him on a job well done. ‘She’s there most nights, hanging round the door, picking up punters.’
At his request, Carmichael uploaded an image of a leggy brunette to the murder wall. Wearing a strapless sparkly top, short skirt and thigh-length boots, she was standing near the doorway smoking a black cigarette, obviously plying her trade as customers entered and left through the main entrance.
Kate asked Carmichael to zoom in on her face so the team could examine her features in greater detail, but no squad member was able to ID her.
‘Get a copy to Vice.’ Kate was looking at Maxwell.
‘I have done. They’re clueless.’
Kate’s enthusiasm plummeted. ‘Must be new to the patch.’
Maxwell nodded. ‘You want me to try and find her? She’s hot.’
The DCI scowled at him. ‘She’s a kid!’
No one except Maxwell was laughing. The office fanny rat, he thought he was a player where women were concerned. He leapt at the chance of making their acquaintance at every opportunity. Detectives bowed their heads, expecting him to get a more serious ticking off for not taking the briefing seriously. There was no piss-taking, no le
tting off steam. The SIO was right to be angry. Despite an attempt to hide it, Sky could only be a teenager – a young one at that.
Maxwell’s smile melted away under the intensity of the boss’s glare.
‘It must be your lucky day, because finding Sky is exactly what I want you to do,’ Kate said. ‘Consider yourself on nights, kerb-crawler and official sleaze-ball for the next few days.’ The squad were now laughing. ‘Wear your best cravat and make damn sure you don’t get locked up. You’re excused as soon as this meeting is adjourned. Who’s next?’
One by one detectives took their turn updating the team on the state of play with their particular enquiries. A dozen or so statements had come in but, because the offences had been committed in the dead of night, there was nothing in them that Kate could identify as worthy of further investigation. No one had seen anything of interest and, if they had, they were keeping it to themselves. The wall of silence surrounding the Allen family was proving difficult to scale. The DCI worried that the enquiry would stall.
‘Where are we with joyriders?’ she asked.
Carmichael raised a finger. ‘I pulled a few names from the PNC – offenders who’ve been locked up in the past in and around North Tyneside, one or two living in close proximity to Silverlink. Division were issued with details of the vehicles we’re interested in. One young lad seemed rather nervous when questioned. Turns out he nearly came to grief when a Range Rover shot over the round-about the wrong way at high speed.’
‘Could be our vehicle,’ Kate said. ‘By nervous, I take it you mean disqualified?’
‘He’s already on probation. Banned from driving for two years.’
‘No wonder he’s jumpy. Get him in here, Lisa. Maybe he knows more than he’s prepared to admit. If he doesn’t cooperate, put him in a cell and give his probation officer a call. That might jog his memory a little quicker. In the meantime, I want to talk about the ring found on Terry Allen’s finger, the only one he had left. Finger, I mean, not ring.’
DC Brown jumped up, handing out a stack of photocopies with a blown-up image of the ring in question. It was an engraved antique, not worth that much, but it was vital to have its provenance checked out. Raising an action to facilitate that, Kate glanced again at her notes. She was flagging but couldn’t let it show. The team were restless too. Everyone keen to bugger off and get on with the job, except Robbo, whose kid had kept him awake half the night.
Raising a hand, he spoke through a gaping yawn, for which he apologized profusely. ‘We still don’t know where John was between three a.m. when he dumped Terry at the hospital and five a.m. when he was next seen wrapped round the rear wheels of the van that killed him. Those missing hours are vital. Assuming he was grabbed at the hospital, whoever dumped him at Silverlink didn’t go there straight away or Prentice would’ve seen them on his security monitors much earlier.’
‘Division are monitoring CCTV, all routes between the two,’ Maxwell volunteered. ‘But don’t hold your breath. They found nothing so far. It looks like they drove John round for a while in order to extract information. Probably showed him his brother’s severed fingers while they were at it. Sick bastards. That would be enough to make most men talk.’
‘Especially you,’ Carmichael muttered under her breath.
Hank grinned at Lisa. She tolerated Maxwell, but there was no love lost between them. She thought he was a lazy git with no redeeming qualities. He thought she was a smart arse, a young sprog with far too much to say for herself, the bosses’ favourite. In a personality contest, she’d win hands down.
‘What about mobile phones?’ Hank said. ‘Terry managed to communicate with John somehow.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Carmichael said.
Hank asked her to explain.
‘It could’ve been the offenders, couldn’t it? If they told John what they had done to Terry, they’d expect an instant reaction. Even if John suspected a trap, he’d set off to find his brother no matter the risk to himself, wouldn’t he? He was a thug. They all think they’re bulletproof.’
For once, Andy Brown disagreed with Lisa Carmichael. ‘If that was the case, they would’ve chosen somewhere isolated, a spot where they could grab him without any difficulty—’
‘Not the way I see it.’ Carmichael stood her ground. ‘The boss said that leaving John’s body in full view of CCTV at Silverlink was like giving someone the proverbial finger. A public spectacle, she said. An execution wasn’t enough. The offenders not only wanted him found, they wanted to advertise what they had done to him.’
Kate could see both sides of the argument. ‘I don’t know why, but I can’t help thinking that Terry escaped all by himself. I don’t know, maybe he played dead, did a runner while their backs were turned. But Hank is right, we need to chase up the comms.’ She singled out Brown. ‘Andy, I’d ask Lisa but she has a lot to do. Can you talk to the service providers for me? See if either brother has a mobile registered. I think they’re too clever for that, but it’s worth a shot.’
‘Check out John’s landlines too, while you’re at it,’ Hank said.
‘No, don’t,’ Kate said. ‘I’d like to tackle Vicky myself on that score.’
Brown looked at her. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘Thanks, Andy, but Hank and I went to see her earlier. She won’t take kindly to another detective knocking on her door. Besides, we’re practically best friends.’ The DCI was being facetious. ‘She gave us a pretty good insight into her relationship with John. She was highly suspicious of him. He often went off with his mates, leaving her alone for days on end. She was guarded in what she said, but I got the feeling she didn’t always believe he was where he said he was. She reckoned he was screwing around.’
‘Amanda,’ Andy suggested.
‘Probably.’ Kate so wanted to get a handle on her.
‘Possible motive? People have killed for a lot less.’
‘I agree, but usually in a fit of temper, not in the organized way our offenders have gone about it. In my humble opinion there’s more to this case than a pissed-off husband with his nose out of joint. Anyway, now it’s my turn. I saved the best ’til last, so listen carefully. Vicky Masters claims John and Terry were due to meet each other at the QC Club on Thursday night. That’s since been corroborated by April Allen, who saw no point in denying it once we had the information, so we have our first real lead.’
The news received a mixed reaction. Kate could see it in the eyes of her team. A nightclub was never a good hunting ground for information. On a Thursday night, any place of entertainment would be heaving, the clubs especially. Identification would be a ’mare. Detectives would have to trace and eliminate hundreds of witnesses – some pissed, others stoned – it didn’t get any worse than that. She wondered if her victims had been lured to the club or if a chance meeting had contributed to their deaths. Brown was asking for an address. The QC was relatively new. He couldn’t immediately place it.
‘Broad Chair, next to the Wig and Pen,’ Hank told him. ‘Directly opposite the Crown Court, side entrance. That, my friends, means more CCTV.’
There was an audible groan in the room. So far this case consisted of nothing else. It was a pain in the arse, but an obvious place to start. Kate began delegating jobs, directing squad members to keep at it. The QC Club was their absolute priority now. Every millisecond of the footage required forensic examination.
A telephone rang, stopping her in mid-flow.
Hank swiped it off the desk, identified himself, leaving the caller in no doubt that the interruption was unwelcome, that the team were in the throes of an important briefing and weren’t to be disturbed.
After listening to the response, he covered the handset and eyed Kate. ‘It’s Sam at the morgue.’
‘Something wrong?’ she asked.
‘No idea.’ He made a face. ‘She wants the organ grinder. Seems to think it’s urgent, though.’ He held out the phone, avoiding the eyes of amused colleagues.
Allowing him
his little joke, Kate took it from him, lifting it to her ear. ‘What is it, Sam?’
‘Apologies for interrupting, Inspector. I thought you’d like to know that Mrs Allen didn’t turn up to view her son’s body as arranged. I waited an hour and called her home, several times, but she’s not picking up. In my experience, that’s never happened before.’
‘Did you send a car round?’
‘I did – but the attending officer got no response. You don’t think something might have happened to her, do you? I have a really bad feeling about this.’
Kate’s stomach turned over. You’re not the only one.
19
Kate hung up, told the team she was heading out to Theresa Allen’s penthouse, and made straight for the door with Hank on her heels. On the way downstairs, he pointed out that there was a plausible explanation for the missed appointment: Theresa couldn’t face the grim task of seeing her son on a mortuary slab. But Kate could tell he wasn’t really buying that. And, it had to be said, neither was she.
‘Unless she’s topped herself,’ he added, getting in the car. ‘Or worse, she’s the next target. Or her new squeeze is.’
‘I hope none of the above is true.’ Kate really didn’t want to go there. The idea was alarming but credible. Taking off like a bullet from the station car park, she engaged a blue light as fears she didn’t even want to acknowledge grew louder in her head. Hank was still theorizing . . .
‘It’s possible that the man you saw in her apartment had gone there to kill her rather than to buy her afternoon tea. He might have changed his mind when he realized she already had company.’
‘Oh great.’ Kate shot him a look. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’
‘Just doing my job.’ Hank stopped talking.
The rest of the journey was a blur of pedestrians, traffic lights, slow-moving vehicles and nightmarish thoughts. Kate couldn’t stop her brain working overtime. Conjuring up images of raw flesh and blood, the aftermath of cruelty she’d tried and failed to forget, she imagined Theresa Allen’s tortured body on the floor of her penthouse, a thought that repulsed her all over again.