by Mari Hannah
‘I pushed him too far,’ she cried. Her words were almost inaudible, her explanation incoherent and jumbled as she tried to justify her actions. Hank still had his hand on her shoulder, steering her clear of onlookers flooding the scene to gawp at Towner’s crumpled shape lying in the middle of the road.
‘He ran of his own free will,’ Hank said. ‘I saw that much. You’re not a psychic. You couldn’t have predicted that, Kate. No one could.’
‘Yeah, well maybe I should have.’ Palming her forehead, she stopped walking and drew in a long breath. She studied her professional partner, desperation in her eyes. ‘I was seen, Hank! I was seen chasing him from the teashop, grabbing the silly bastard in the street. Jesus! I could lose my job over this. I’ve got to come clean. We have to go back.’
‘Are you serious?’ He swung her round as she tried to walk away, held on to her. ‘That’s bordering on professional suicide, and you know it. There’s nothing you can do for him. Let’s go.’ His eyes held a warning she couldn’t take in.
Incapable of straight thinking, she could only blurt, ‘I can’t!’
‘Yes, you can. Calm down and think about this for a minute.’ He pulled her away from other pedestrians, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘You go back and you’ll be suspended for months. You’ll never see SIO again. There’ll be an enquiry. You know how it works when you’re a copper – guilty or innocent, you’re shafted. Are you prepared to lose your rank and possibly your job over a piece of shit like Towner?’
‘It’s not as simple as—’
‘Yes, it is. You didn’t chase him. He ran away. You didn’t push him under the car. He. Ran. Away. You weren’t putting him under any pressure whatsoever.’
Kate couldn’t concentrate with him glaring at her like she’d gone completely mad.
‘Walk away,’ he said. ‘You went off-piste. No point losing your bottle now. For Christ’s sakes, get a grip!’
Hank was right about one thing – she hadn’t been in pursuit of Towner when he legged it. He’d jumped up and bolted before she knew what was happening, there was no way she could be held responsible.
So why did she feel that she was?
Towner was a weak individual. Vulnerable. Always had been. Someone she could push around at will in order to get results – a fact she’d frequently taken advantage of, over the years. Informants were how detectives got lucky, how they cracked cases, earned recognition, achieved promotion. Nevertheless, she feared what she was turning into for the good of the job.
Hank told her she was talking rubbish. Towner was a loser, destined for a sticky end. He had no one. No family to mourn his passing. No one who cared enough to make a complaint or demand an enquiry from the Independent Police Complaints Commission. He wouldn’t have told a soul that he knew her, for fear of losing street cred.
‘And now he can’t tell,’ he added. ‘So think yourself lucky. Jesus! He even gave you the phone back!’
‘If that’s supposed to make me feel good, it doesn’t.’
‘Well, it should.’ Hank strapped himself in. ‘We need to head back.’
Kate didn’t move.
‘We were never here,’ Hank said. ‘No one is going to come looking. Towner is an RTA statistic. All the witnesses said it was his fault—’
‘He held my hand, Hank!’
‘Exactly – you were there for him at the end when no one else was. You think he’d have told you about Amanda if he blamed you in any way?’
She hadn’t thought of that.
‘Drive,’ he said.
As she drove away, he held up his phone. ‘Do I make that call?’
Nodding, she put her foot down, putting as much distance between herself and Whitby as she could without attracting a speeding ticket. Hank phoned the office, asking Carmichael to check out the information on Amanda as discreetly as possible. Three-quarters of an hour later, Lisa rang back. Amanda was indeed living behind the blue door opposite Grant’s.
‘Shoot, Lisa.’ Kate put the phone on speaker. ‘Who is she and what did she have to say for herself?’
‘Last name Hitchins,’ Carmichael said. ‘Claims she broke up with John a few days before he died. Wanted him to leave Vicky. He refused, on account of the kid. John adored him, apparently, even though he wasn’t sure he was the father. And no, he didn’t call Amanda Thursday night. I checked her phone. She’s playing it straight, boss. Looks like you were right. It must’ve been McKenzie he was phoning. We might have some news on that, by the way. Neil has the gen. OK if I put him on?’
Unable to hide the disappointment in her voice, Kate told her to go ahead. Finding Amanda had seemed vitally important earlier in the day. The fact that she had no information that would take the enquiry any further was a bitter blow. Towner had died for nothing, and Kate couldn’t live with that.
Maxwell came on the line, forcing her to concentrate.
‘What you got for me, Neil?’
‘Call came in earlier from an off-duty copper, Dixie Price.’
‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘It won’t. He’s from Durham force. Claims he has good intel on McKenzie’s whereabouts. As you and Hank are out and about already, Robbo figured you might like to meet with him personally. He’s waiting to hear from you.’
Maxwell reeled off a number.
‘Did you check him out?’ Kate asked.
‘Yup. According to those in the know, he’s a good bloke. His supervision said if he has information you can be sure it’ll be kosher.’
34
Dixie Price lived deep in Catherine Cookson country in the exquisitely tranquil village of Blanchland. Situated on the Northumberland–Durham border, the conservation village was at the upper end of the Derwent Valley, not far from the reservoir of the same name. Built from the stone of a twelfth-century abbey, the village hadn’t changed in centuries. Daniels knew it well. Surrounded by woods and open countryside, it was a favourite stop-off for tourists. There was nothing there bar a post office, a shop, a public house, a church and tearoom – nothing like the one she’d fled from a matter of hours ago, leaving her tea untouched.
Poor Towner.
Hank was staring at her expectantly.
Kate couldn’t shake the image of the accident. ‘Sorry, I missed that.’
‘That’s because you weren’t listening.’ He made no attempt to hide his frustration, telling her to pull herself together and stop dwelling on Towner. He knew her so well. ‘I said we should meet Price over a meal at the Lord Crewe Arms. You look completely shagged out and I could do with some grub if we’re pushing on through.’
‘Fine. Whatever.’ Kate had no stomach for food.
‘Don’t look so sour-faced. I’m not like you,’ Hank grumbled. ‘I can’t survive on a lettuce leaf or a boiled egg.’ He pointed at the glove box. ‘You got anything decent to eat in there? Kit-Kat, bag of crisps, chicken tikka masala . . . ? I’m famished.’
Smiling, then crying, Kate could only shake her head. He was like a child over food and journey times. Are we nearly there yet? Wiping away a tear with her sleeve, she was so grateful to have him with her. He was still looking at her with pleading eyes when she remembered that the Lord Crewe had closed down for renovation. When she relayed that fact, he grumbled some more. She glanced at her watch. It was getting on for seven-thirty. In the sticks, nothing else would be open at this time of night. They would have to meet Price at his home address.
The rented cottage was set back off the main street, picture-postcard pretty with roses round the door, a little garden at the rear. Thick walls and stone floors made it feel cool inside. The décor was cosy: rugs on the floors, subdued lighting, sketches on the walls. Price was quite an artist in his spare time. With just a dog for company, there was little else to do in Blanchland.
Kate received a firm handshake.
The Durham officer had grey eyes, bushy eyebrows to match and an unusual streak the same colour running through short-cropped hair the colour of
sand. Introductions over, he offered them tea and something to eat, lightening Hank’s mood a little. Disappearing to the kitchen, he returned with a tray bearing tea and enough sandwiches to feed the whole of the Murder Investigation Team – and then some.
As he set it down, Hank didn’t stand on ceremony. He showed his appreciation by filling his plate, telling their host he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. As Hank got stuck in, Price explained why he was so keen to talk to them. He’d recognized Arthur McKenzie from the photo Naylor put out on an internal bulletin that very afternoon.
‘This is bloody great!’ Hank held up a half-eaten sandwich, wiping butter from his chin with his free hand. ‘You don’t need a lodger, do you, mate?’
Price grinned. ‘Dig in, I’ve eaten.’ He turned towards Kate. ‘Ma’am, please help yourself.’
Declining food, she accepted a mug of steaming hot tea. She wished Hank would shut up. He was asking Price how long he’d been in the Dog Section. The officer told him six years. He was due a transfer in a few weeks, finally making detective after years of trying, and couldn’t wait to bin the uniform. His dog had put his paws up last year after an injury acquired while on duty had put him out of action. It was then that Price had decided to reapply to join the CID – this time successfully.
Hank eyed the springer spaniel, who in turn eyed him – or rather the food in his hand. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Molly’s a bitch, aren’t you, girl?’
A tail wagged. Ignoring her handler, the dog inched closer to Hank.
‘Aren’t most police dogs male?’ Hank was clueless on such matters.
‘Hank!’ Losing patience, Kate glared at him. ‘Eat, will you, and let me get some answers, or we’ll be here all night.’ She turned to Price. ‘A member of my team said you saw McKenzie, is that correct?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘When was this?’
‘’Bout four o’clock. I was sitting in the White Monk and the bugger walked in, large as life. I finished my shift at two and called in for a bowl of soup on my way home. I know the owners, Tony and Viv, quite well. They feed me, and in return I keep an unofficial eye on the place when it’s closed, check that it’s secure, that type of thing. I’m a key-holder actually.’ Price got up, threw another log on the fire. He remained standing, his back to the fireplace, feet slightly apart, hands by his sides, almost to attention. ‘McKenzie ordered stuff to take out – rather a lot for one person, I would’ve said. That’s what drew my interest. When he turned around, I clocked him straight away. I didn’t follow him out in case he saw me. By the time I made it outside, he’d disappeared.’
‘And that’s going to help me how?’ Kate was beginning to lose the will to live.
‘He’s still in the village—’
‘Makes you say that?’ Hank stopped chewing, finally interested in doing some police work. ‘I thought you said he disappeared.’
‘Did he drive away or not?’ Kate queried.
‘No, he didn’t.’ Price told them that the population of Blanchland was less than a hundred and fifty. Strangers couldn’t hide for long. He’d initially thought McKenzie was passing through, except he hadn’t driven by. Price was clear about that. He’d kept his eyes on the road beyond the cafe window the whole time, he explained. ‘If you know the White Monk, you’ll know it’s strategically placed to see what’s coming and going. I guarantee no cars drove through the village either way. If they had, I’d have seen them.’
‘So how come we’re hearing about it now?’ Kate asked.
Price flushed slightly. ‘Your team said you weren’t answering your mobile. You or DS Gormley.’
‘We were tied up.’ Hank moved quickly on: ‘Couldn’t McKenzie have been eating his scran in his car?’
Price shook his head. ‘No, I made it my business to check parked cars in the vicinity before I called the incident room. To have vanished that quickly, he’d have to have gone into one of the houses in the village.’
‘Problem is, which one?’ Kate’s eyes scanned the quiet street outside, wondering if she’d already been seen arriving. ‘I don’t want to tip him off. Not that he’s done anything wrong; it’s what might be done to him that worries me.’ She refocused on Price. ‘The guys after him are serious shit from Glasgow.’
Price grinned.
He knew something she didn’t.
‘Only one house has been advertised “to let” in the past few weeks,’ he said. ‘And spookily it was rented by a couple who aren’t too friendly, by all accounts. I asked around, people I trust. You’re in business, ma’am.’
35
The village was silent. The street deserted. Price led the way along the road, pointing out a house at the end of a short terrace. Kate felt as if she was being watched from the houses round the square. There were no curtains twitching, but in villages like these, as Price had already pointed out, people were wary of strangers. Not surprising, given that the police presence would consist only of a drive-through every now and then to show the flag. Rural crime had rocketed since the recession hit. Prigs were having a field day, burgling at will, knowing they’d be long gone by the time the law showed up. Folks round here looked out for each other.
They had to: no bugger else would.
Kate glanced at Price, deciding what action to take. ‘Hank and I will take the front door. You take the back. If they do a runner, there’s not a lot we can do. If you can try and persuade them not to, I’d appreciate it. If we get in, we’ll text you, so you can stand down.’ She tapped Hank on the arm. ‘Ready?’
He gave a little nod.
Price set off around the side of the property. Kate gave him a few moments to get into position and then knocked at the front door. She couldn’t see anything through the window – or hear a sound – but she sensed someone inside. Whether they would answer or not was anyone’s guess.
More eyes on her back . . .
Seconds later, the door opened, the chain still on.
‘Remember me, Theresa?’ Kate peered in through the narrow opening. ‘Can we come in, only we don’t want to be standing on the doorstep in full view of the whole village, do we? You never know who else might be watching.’
The veiled threat worked.
Satisfied that there was no one else in the street, Theresa undid the chain and the door swung open. She stood back to let them in, glaring at them as they walked past her into the hallway. Dressed in jeans and an old T-shirt, she had no make-up on and seemed to have aged since Kate had last seen her, baggy eyes testament to a sleepless night. Kate shifted her gaze. McKenzie hadn’t moved from a fireside chair. He was fit, younger than his years. On the floor next to him was a full-sized and well-used baseball bat.
Hank pointed at it. ‘Been having a knock around in the garden, have we?’
McKenzie gave him a hard stare. He sent Theresa to fetch him a drink, the pink tinge to the whites of his eyes suggesting that it wasn’t the first that day – maybe a good thing that the bar across the road was closed. Theresa returned with a tumbler of neat whisky, the smell of food drifting in with her as she re-entered the room. There was no music on. No TV. No books or magazines scattered about.
These two weren’t relaxing, that was for sure.
‘Let’s not bugger about, eh?’ Kate identified herself and came straight to the point. ‘You appreciate that if I found you, other people could.’
McKenzie took a slug of his drink. ‘How did you find us?’
She gave him a pointed look. ‘I’m asking the questions.’
‘You make it sound like we’re in danger, Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Tell me about the O’Kanes.’
‘Who?’ McKenzie asked.
‘Cut the crap,’ Kate said. ‘You know who’s after you and so do we. I can see from your face that they mean business. Otherwise you wouldn’t be hiding away in the back of beyond now, would you?’
McKenzie dropped the attitude and made a plea for legitimacy. ‘I’m clean
since I got out of the pokey. If you bastards were doing your jobs properly, you’d know that. I’ve had my head down, setting up an antiques business. And before you ask, it’s genuine. Not that I expect a polis to believe that.’
‘He’s right,’ Theresa added. ‘What he did in the past stayed in the past.’
‘We’re glad to hear it,’ the DCI countered, her focus shifting from Theresa back to her boyfriend. ‘Whether that is truth or fantasy doesn’t concern us – that’s not why we’re here. You know exactly why we’re here. You also know who else is interested in your whereabouts and the reason for that. The O’Kanes think you killed their father.’ Kate pointed at Theresa. ‘Along with her ex.’
‘That had nothing to do with me!’ McKenzie protested.
‘Oh yeah?’ Kate said. ‘All Brian’s fault, was it? Easy to say, when he’s not around to defend himself. You should show more respect for the dead, sir.’
Theresa sat down on the arm of McKenzie’s chair, slipped her hand into his. ‘Arthur paid his dues for the things he did, and that wasn’t one of them.’
He pulled away. ‘Stop defending me, Theresa. These arseholes aren’t listening.’
The room fell quiet.
Swirling his whisky round his glass, McKenzie swigged it off. This was a man under pressure, no matter the impression he was trying to portray. Kate couldn’t imagine what Theresa Allen saw in him. Or why she still wanted to be with him after the horrendous events of the past few days. Her sons’ remains were lying in a freezer in the city morgue and Kate felt compelled to nail the bastards that put them there. She directed her next comment to McKenzie: ‘Whether you killed a rival or not, the O’Kanes are convinced you did. Either way, you’re on a loser.’
‘Making a run for it isn’t going to convince them of your innocence,’ Hank added. He looked at the DCI. ‘Strange how criminals never think they’ll get old, eh, boss? Not such a hard man these days, is he?’
‘I was concerned for Theresa,’ McKenzie bit back. ‘That’s why we did off.’
The detectives exchanged a look.