by Mari Hannah
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.
In 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.’
Kate 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.
Where 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 . . .
32
Within minutes, she was tearing across the Tyne Bridge heading south. Despite Towner’s warning to come alone, Hank was in the passenger seat in case they needed to bring him back. Kate had only once made the mistake of driving an offender somewhere on her own and nearly came to grief when the mad woman grabbed the steering wheel on the coast road at seventy miles an hour. She’d vowed never to do it again.
Turning left out of
Gateshead town centre she took the Felling bypass. Frustration getting the better of her, she glanced at her watch but then forced herself to ease off the accelerator rather than risk being flashed by speed cameras on a road notorious for catching drivers out. Hank yawned, settling back in his seat for the journey as she pressed on, passing a sign for South Shields, then turning right on to the A19 towards Sunderland and Teesside.
On a good day it would take an hour and a half to get to her destination, never mind find the premises her snout had chosen as a rendezvous. The miles flashed by in silence. They barely exchanged a word, and at one point Hank fell asleep. That was fine by her. It gave her time to think, an opportunity to calm down. She’d need her wits about her if Towner came across with vital information that might tip the enquiry on its head. As Jo had rightly pointed out, McKenzie and the O’Kanes were hard to handle. They weren’t about to put their hands in the air and come quietly.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Hank stirred in his seat, his eyes blinking open. Taking in their current position, he yawned, apologized for sending the zeds up for the best part of their journey. ‘You OK?’ he asked. ‘Want me to drive?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Looks like we’ll make it,’ she said.
‘Where’s the meeting place?’ He peered out of the window in search of a road sign.
‘Whitby.’
‘Where?’
She gave him an odd look. ‘North Yorkshire.’
‘Yeah, I’ve got a Geography O Level. I meant where in Whitby?’
‘I don’t know.’ She’d been to Botham’s many times with her mother. It was an institution in the seaside town, reputed to be the oldest surviving teashop of its kind in Britain. ‘Look up the postcode and plug it into the satnav on my phone, will you?’
Hank did as she asked and then called the office. Progress was mixed: Brown was still working with staff from the QC club. With the doorman-cum-bouncer’s help, he’d identified and traced more clubbers. That was good, but there was bad news too. Most were uncommunicative, claiming they’d been so pissed by midnight, they couldn’t remember their own names, let alone ID anyone making trouble. No one would admit to knowing the Allen brothers – hardly surprising, under the circumstances.
Pushing open the door, Kate and Hank stepped inside. Despite the fact that the tearoom was due to close in a little over twenty minutes, a line of customers were queuing at the counter to be served. Mounting the stairs to the restaurant was like entering another era. The place had the genteel atmosphere of a bygone age. A courteous young woman behind the till greeted them on the floor above. Kate told her they were meeting someone. The girl led them to a table near the window, taking their order for a pot of tea, much needed after their frantic search for Towner in Newcastle and the long drive south.
Problem was, the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
‘I hope he’s not playing silly buggers,’ Kate said under her breath.
Hank grimaced. ‘Why here and not in a pub?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Well, we’re not going to meet any riff-raff or angry gangsters here, are we?’
‘This him?’ Hank flicked his eyes to a customer arriving.
‘No, relax.’
‘What’s he look like?’
Before she had time to answer, Towner appeared at the top of the stairs, more nervous and bedraggled than usual. As soon as he clocked Hank, he ran. Kate gave chase, belting down the stairs after him, out through the open door and along the road. He’d run the wrong way; Towner was in no condition for an uphill marathon. Dodging in and out of pedestrians, the DCI closed the distance and seized him by the collar. She swung him round, uncomfortably aware that the pursuit had attracted attention. Not wanting anyone to call the law, she hissed in his ear:
‘Walk!’
Towner shrugged her off. ‘We had an arrangement,’ he reminded her. ‘Come alone or no deal. You’ve always insisted on that. You can’t change the fucking rules just because it suits you.’
‘Your fault!’ she said. ‘How the hell was I going to get here on time without someone to park up if I had to abandon my car? Now get walking.’
Towner set off. ‘Who was he anyway? Your minder?’
‘A colleague, you daft sod – who the hell d’you think? And he’s trustworthy, so if you ever need me and I’m not around, ask for DS Gormley and he’ll sort you out. He’s a good bloke. You two share the same dry sense of humour. You might have found that out if you’d stuck around.’
At the top of the street they turned right, heading for the sea. A few moments later, they sat down on a bench facing a vast expanse of shimmering water with nothing whatsoever on the horizon. It was a view that would normally lift the spirits, but neither Kate nor Towner were in the mood to sightsee. She wanted information. He wanted money. It didn’t take long for him to ask for it.
‘I’d like to help you out,’ he said, ‘But it’ll take a shedload of cash to make it worth my while. By the way, you can have this back.’ He handed her the mobile she’d given him. It was smashed to pieces. ‘I want out. This is too heavy for me.’
‘So tell me something I don’t already know. Three people are dead, Towner. I need you to help me before anyone else gets hurt.’
‘Like me, you mean?’ Glowering at her, he lit a cigarette.
Kate could see how spooked he was. He dropped his head into shaky hands, smoke drifting through his fingers, his nails bitten to the quick. Right this minute she could do with a fag herself, a large drink to go with it, a nice hot bath, scented candles and good music.
Like that was on the cards anytime soon!
‘I want you off my back, once’n for all,’ he mumbled.
‘Up to you,’ Kate said. ‘You come across for me this time, I might forget our alliance permanently.’
‘You mean it?’ He wiped a thin film of sweat from his upper lip.
‘Depends. You need to start talking to me. Christ’s sake, you have the chance to do some good for once. Please, Towner, I need your help to get this shit off the streets.’ Her plea went unanswered. Time to up the ante and stop buggering about. ‘OK, you had your chance. When I catch those bastards, I’ll make it my business to let them know the information came from you. How’s that sound?’
He glared at her. ‘I gave you nowt!’
Kate got to her feet. ‘They won’t know that.’
‘You can’t do that,’ he protested.
‘I’m a copper. We can’t afford ethics. Who’s Amanda?’
Towner’s expression was inscrutable.
‘I will make it worth your while.’ Taking fifty pounds from her wallet, Kate sat down, placing it on the bench between them, keeping her hand on top so it didn’t blow away. It was her own money, nothing she could claim back from the force on account of his unofficial status, but she didn’t care. It would be worth it to see the O’Kane brothers banged up.
‘I need an address,’ she said. ‘Tell me where Amanda lives or where I might find her. Then you can start talking about the O’Kanes.’
Towner said nothing.
Sliding the cash out from under her hand, he looked out to sea, letting out a big sigh. For a moment, she thought he’d come across. Then he bolted from the seat, taking her completely by surprise.
The sound of screeching brakes and the thump as the car hit him made her shudder.
A small crowd had gathered by the time she made it off the pavement. Barging her way through to the front, she knelt down beside him, her heart kicking a hole in her chest from the inside. He stared at her through fading eyes as bubbles of blood spilled out of the left side of his mouth, ran down his cheek, settling on the tarmac beneath him.
An elderly woman arrived on the scene. Punching numbers into a mobile phone, she lifted it to her ear, her eyes on Kate. The woman was sheet-white, having witnessed the accident from the other side of the main road.
‘He just ran,’ she said. ‘Do you know him?’
Kate shook her head.
&nbs
p; She was vaguely aware of a female voice asking for police and ambulance. The elderly witness was explaining their location, telling the operator what she’d seen. Traumatized and bloodied, Kate looked down at Towner, feeling guilty for having denied him. Then Hank’s voice came from left field: Poor sod! Anyone know him? Anyone see what happened? People were shaking their heads. The consensus of opinion was that Towner ran off the pavement into the path of an oncoming vehicle.
‘What an idiot!’ someone said. ‘The poor driver had no chance of avoiding him.’
‘Yeah, tragic.’ A young woman’s voice trailed off.
The sound of emergency vehicles could be heard in the distance. Towner stirred, tried to speak, something Kate couldn’t make out. She leaned forward, her ear to his mouth. She could almost feel his dying breath on her cheek as he repeated it.
‘What did he say?’ the elderly witness asked.
Kate lied: ‘He said his name was Alan Townsend.’
The woman pointed at the approaching ambulance. ‘I’ll let them know.’
Kate looked down at Towner, gave his hand a squeeze, reassuring him that help was imminent. What he’d actually said was ‘Amanda’. As she removed her hand, he grabbed at it, keeping a tight hold. ‘Across the street from Grant’s . . .’ He coughed, a spray of red spotting his chin. ‘Blue door.’
33
The large, steady hand on her shoulder was familiar. Hank pulled her back as the ambulance crew emerged with the stretcher, one medic shouting at the crowd to give them room to do their jobs. Kate glanced over her shoulder, feeling the weight of guilt eat away at her insides. She met the eyes of her DS. There were no accusations there, just an expression of total incredulity. He was talking to her but Towner’s words were louder . . .
I want you off my back once’n for all.
Kate was struggling to put one foot in front of the other as they left the scene. In her head, she pictured the medics checking for signs of life. They were wasting their time; the minute he’d uttered the words ‘blue door’ Towner was gone. She had her information, but at what cost?
Have I ever let you down?