Killing for Keeps: A Kate Daniels Mystery (Kate Daniels Mysteries)

by Mari Hannah

  A low voice on her radio: ‘Unit One: all clear outside. Nothing to report.’

  Kate felt sick. ‘Unit One, I need assistance. Get someone in here, now!’

  ‘Unit One: Affirmative.’

  Responding to her distress, Hank came on the radio: ‘Boss? You OK?’

  Another growl. She couldn’t speak.

  ‘Kate, where are you?’ Hank sounded stressed to death. For a moment, the house was silent. Kate could hear her own heartbeat. In her head, she imagined officers all around the house stopping dead in their tracks, waiting for her response, each and every one of them alert to the potential danger within. ‘Drawing room,’ she managed, her voice sounding higher than its normal pitch. ‘Beware of the dog.’

  Training her torch on her right hand she could see it was covered in blood. Beyond that, the beam of light caught the open eyes of a dead dog lying beside her, a bayonet sticking out of its neck.

  Hank thundered down the stairs with two TSG officers hard on his heels.

  ‘It’s still warm,’ Kate said, as he helped her to her feet.

  The all-clear was given. Even in the roof void and cellar there were no signs of life. Light flooded into the hallway as the shutters were opened. The noise that had petrified Kate had come from a second dog, its chilling growl reduced to a whimper. The animal, barely alive, was lying on its side with a stab wound to its chest, a bloody lump of steak hanging from its mouth, a stunt to distract it from attack. There was more fresh meat scattered around the room.

  Clever, Kate thought.

  Calling for assistance, she asked if the animal could be saved. The vet shook his head, said he’d take care of it. Saddened, but relieved that it would soon be out of its misery, Kate turned to the TSG officers.

  ‘Have you checked the garage?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘OK, come with me.’

  46

  Kate stepped out of the way to allow three of the tactical support group to enter the quadruple garage before her. With no power available, there was very little light in the windowless space as she followed them in. Despite the fact that it was only September, it was freezing in there. Fear hung in the air. She could tell by their cautious approach that her Strathclyde colleagues were nervous. There was no gung-ho entry, no shouting – no exchanges going on – merely officers going quietly and methodically about their business.

  The tension was almost palpable.

  For a moment, they stood in silence, their torches illuminating the back wall. A bank of metal shelving with tools of every kind, some that could do real damage: spanners and screwdrivers of every size, pliers, hacksaws, torque wrenches and claw hammers. Bolt cutters, a torturer’s best friend.

  Some tools were missing – a worrying thought.

  Parked nose-in, there were four vehicles in the vast space. Kate wondered why. If Finn O’Kane wasn’t home, how had he left? He was hardly the public transport type. She supposed he’d been picked up by an associate or taken a cab, or maybe the flash bastard had other toys to play with and these highly polished and pristine beauties were the ones he cherished the most. As a car enthusiast, she could understand that.

  Unless he hadn’t left.

  There was plenty of space to hide, in or out of vehicles. Officers worked quickly, taking the room in sections. One got down on the floor, shining his torch along the ground, checking the underside of the first vehicle he came to, a silver Porsche 911, and beyond to the far end of the building.

  A shake of his head as he stood up told her there was nothing there.

  Another team member had already checked the interior of the car, given the all-clear. He was examining the second vehicle, a red double cab Toyota Hilux. As he moved around to the rear end of the vehicle, he stopped dead in his tracks. Staring at the rubberized floor, he lifted his foot as if he’d stepped in something sticky.

  Kate followed his gaze. There was a dark patch beside his right boot, directly behind the rear bumper. Trying to work out if there was anything sinister there, he put a finger to his mouth and pointed at the tonneau cover. Kate selected a Stanley knife from the shelving unit and handed it to him.

  He slashed open the cover – the cargo area was empty.

  Shining his torch on to the floor, the officer crouched down. Kate looked on as he dipped a forefinger in the dark pool. Rubbing it together with his thumb, he brought his hand to his nose and gave it a sniff.

  ‘Oil,’ he said softly.

  Relieved, they moved on to the third vehicle, a black BMW 7 Series. Again, they found nothing untoward. That left only a black Range Rover, polished to perfection. Kate was beginning to hate Finn O’Kane, but her jealousy was fleeting. She was about to take a step forward when the officer in front of her tensed and glanced over his shoulder, an expression of revulsion on his face. Kate peered over his shoulder at the vehicle and saw that the front passenger window was open. An orange rattan strap fixed to something inside the vehicle was stretched to breaking point. On the other end of the strap was a hand attached to its owner, Finn O’Kane.

  Kate had found her target.

  With the search over and the place secure, Kate stood the TSG down so she could preserve the scene until the Glasgow Murder Investigation Team arrived. Only her own trusted DS was allowed in. As Kate waited for him to arrive, she stood for a moment, surveying the scene.

  Finn O’Kane’s arms were splayed out over the bonnet of the vehicle. His head had lolled to one side, blood seeping out beneath the gag in his mouth, eyes staring straight at her. The straps that secured him to the car were the ratchet-type, like the ones she used to tie down her motorcycle on ferries when she went abroad. Once tightened, the Glasgow gangster never stood a chance.

  Moving closer, she saw that there was liquid on the floor where Finn had pissed himself, the smell of shit where his bowels had emptied, vomit on the bonnet of his precious car. She didn’t need Forensics to tell her that the Range Rover hadn’t been driven at speed. It was obvious in her mind that it had been edged towards the wall, inch by inch, with the intention of delivering the maximum pain and distress to the victim. Two thousand eight hundred kilos of metal, an engine of four and a half litres, crushing Finn until his internal organs ruptured and his bones shattered. No wonder his final expression was one of pure terror.

  ‘Those who live by the sword,’ Hank said cruelly as he arrived by her side. ‘Lothian and Borders have been on the radio. They drew a blank. Craig O’Kane wasn’t at his Barnton flat.’ He looked at the body. ‘Someone enjoyed doing this.’

  Kate couldn’t agree more.

  What was wrong with these people?

  Something over her shoulder caught Hank’s eye.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ He pointed at the car. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Kate had been so engrossed with the methodology of the crime, she hadn’t examined the vehicle or noticed the bloody handprint on the driver’s side of the front windscreen, its fingers spread wide, as big as a shovel. The print was dead centre, not scuffed or smeared. It had been deliberately placed there – and not by Finn O’Kane.

  She looked at Hank, trying to process the find.

  Whoever had left the print there wanted his identity known, probably to scare the living daylights out of Finn’s brother, Craig. A message. No, a statement: This isn’t over . . . not by a long chalk. I’m coming after you.

  This was someone who wanted Finn O’Kane to suffer as John and Terry Allen had done. But who?

  McKenzie?

  Kate felt a wave of nausea as she remembered Robbo telling her there had been no contact from her close protection officer in Blanchland: It’s been a while since he checked in. McKenzie was agitated, slinging his weight around, giving Andy earache. Nothing he can’t handle . . .

  Andy!

  ‘Oh my God!’ Her voice caught in the back of her throat as she imagined something too awful to contemplate. Already she feared the worst. ‘Hank, get hold of Andy. Now!’

  47


  McKenzie had a good motive for killing Finn O’Kane. The question on Kate’s lips was this: was he still in Northumberland under close protection, or in Scotland gunning for Craig? It had been over four hours since Andy last reported in; ample time for McKenzie to drive to Scotland, murder Finn and make good his escape. It was in everyone’s interest to know where he was. Both forces needed to find him, fast.

  Right this minute, Andy was her priority.

  Please God, let him be OK.

  Following her withdrawal from the crime scene, Kate had travelled to Pitt Street police station with Hank and taken up residence in the office they had been allocated – a drab room no bigger than a broom cupboard. Hank was seated, Kate pacing up and down, the phone to her ear. Andy’s number had been ringing out for ages but still he hadn’t picked up. The DCI felt sick. She didn’t even want to consider the what-ifs. The Murder Investigation Team was her family. She’d be devastated to lose an officer – any officer – on or off duty.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ she muttered under her breath, imagination in overdrive.

  Already she was blaming herself for putting Andy at risk, asking herself if she should or could have done things differently, bearing in mind McKenzie’s reputation as a hard man. Although she was trying not to panic, she couldn’t shake off the image of a coffin draped with the Northumbria force flag, a police helmet on top, a guard of honour in full dress uniform lining the route to Newcastle crematorium. She’d attended too many funerals. They were acutely distressing, occasions that no officer would ever wish to repeat.

  Like Kate, Hank had also been trying to raise Andy, desperate to find out if he was in one piece or lying in a ditch somewhere with his head caved in or shot by his own firearm. He made another call. She didn’t need to ask to whom. This time he was trying Andy’s home again, in case he’d suddenly been taken ill. If so, he could well have made alternative arrangements for the protection of McKenzie and Theresa. Perhaps he’d left a message to that effect, but for some reason it hadn’t yet filtered through to Robson in the incident room.

  Kate wasn’t buying that. Andy was as strong as an ox. He’d never taken a day’s sick leave in all the time he’d been in the Murder Investigation Team. Besides, he was a stickler for keeping in touch with base.

  Hank shook his head, left another message and hung up.

  For a while they sat in silence. The murder investigation launched by DCI Trewitt into Finn O’Kane’s death was not their problem. O’Kane had been killed in the Strathclyde force area and it was nothing to do with them. All the Northumbria detectives needed was samples from his body for use as evidence in their own murder enquiry. Short of giving statements to the SIO, Kate and Hank were free to leave.

  ‘Try the office again,’ Kate said.

  Hank dialled the number and got the same response. Andy was still unaccounted for.

  Kate glanced at her watch. Two-fifteen. Robson hadn’t heard from Andy since ten this morning. Assuming for one minute that he’d been overpowered by the man he was supposed to be protecting, he might be tied up, making it impossible for him to call in. If McKenzie was in a state of high anxiety earlier in the day, had he been planning something all along? It would certainly explain his agitation.

  Kate stopped pacing and sat down, trying to separate fact from speculation.

  As if reading her mind, Gormley told her, ‘He’ll be fine.’ But there was no conviction in his voice. He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. ‘You know what prigs are like under safe house conditions. They’re happy enough at the start, getting their food delivered, DVDs on demand, but it doesn’t take long for them to go off on one. Remember that guy a few years back, went totally apeshit, screaming to be let out?’ His laughter was forced.

  ‘Yes, Hank, I remember him. Stop trying to cheer me up. I don’t give a toss about McKenzie. I just want Andy back.’

  ‘Pound to a penny, he’s in a pub somewhere supping a pint with his charges—’

  ‘So why’s he not picking up? Answer me that.’ Decision made, she stood up. ‘Come on, we’re going home.’

  ‘You’re joking. We can’t!’

  ‘Why? Why can’t we?’

  ‘Trewitt wants your input at his briefing. I thought you said—’

  ‘I changed my mind.’ Pulling on her jacket, Kate opened her briefcase and scooped all her paperwork into it. As she charged out of the office, Hank tagged along, trying to convince her to stay: Trewitt wouldn’t be happy. They would find Andy safe and well. There was bound to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for his absence. She rounded on him. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m just saying—’

  ‘Andy knows the rules, Hank. Give me one good reason why he’s failed to obey them, why he’s not made contact with me, you, or the team.’

  Her mobile rang, stopping the row as they got in the car. Robson had been dispatched to McKenzie’s rental property and Lisa Carmichael had insisted on accompanying him. The news wasn’t good. The place was empty. No sign of Brown, McKenzie or Theresa Allen. The only saving grace was that Andy and Lisa had found no sign of anything untoward either. The village of Blanchland was as peaceful as ever.

  Kate fired off question after question in quick succession, most of which Robson had already answered. She needed to be sure he’d covered all the bases. ‘Is the place secure?’

  ‘Yes, all locked up.’

  ‘Any signs of a disturbance?’

  ‘No, thankfully.’

  ‘Did you speak to the neighbours?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘No one heard any fighting or shouting?’

  ‘No. That’s good, isn’t it?’ He was trying to make her feel better. ‘No one has seen hide nor hair of them. Or Price, for that matter. I can’t get hold of him either.’

  ‘Jesus! Break the door down and get your arse inside.’ She waited for what seemed like an age. Heard a loud clash as either a battering ram or Robson’s shoulder hit the door. She imagined him checking the interior of the tiny cottage, the chair where McKenzie had taken the piss last time she’d seen him. Robson was talking her through his search. He sent Lisa to search the rest of the ground floor, and then Kate heard his feet thundering on the stairs . . . and then everything went quiet. ‘Robbo?’ Nothing. ‘Robbo?’

  Still nothing.

  The line was dead.

  Kate called him back.

  He picked up immediately. ‘Sorry, I lost the signal. Everything appears normal here, boss.’

  Her relief came out in a loud sigh. ‘Put Lisa on.’

  Carmichael came on the line. Although Lisa was strong, gutsy and a fabulous asset to the Murder Investigation Team, Kate didn’t want to ask her outright how she was coping. She knew only too well that any sympathy from her would result in floods of tears from the young officer. She and Andy were inseparable. He was her friend as well as her colleague. She knew better than anyone that it was completely out of character for him to go AWOL.

  Kate had to work hard to sound upbeat and calm. ‘Lisa, is Andy’s car there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s round the side. First thing I checked.’ Her answer came out like a croak. She cleared her throat but couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice: ‘Something’s happened, I know it has.’

  ‘Lisa, listen to me. We will find him.’ Kate took a deep breath, trying to keep her own heartache at bay. Her place was with her team, not here, a hundred and fifty miles away. She knew she should say more, but how could she tell Lisa to keep faith when she was fast losing all hope?

  She ended the call, feeling that she’d let Lisa down. She’d let them all down, especially Andy.

  Kate drove to the hotel like a woman possessed. Passing through the crowded reception area, she headed straight for the lift. When it reached her floor, she practically ran to her room. Hurriedly, she packed her gear, left a brief message for Trewitt and then joined Hank in the foyer downstairs.

  By ten past three, they had checked out and were o
n their way to Newcastle.

  Weather-wise, it was a perfect afternoon for motoring. Not wet. Not sunny. Just cool and dull. Not that Kate felt much like driving. Right now, she wasn’t moving. One of the dual carriageways close to the hotel was blocked off in readiness for the Great Scottish Run. It was causing a bottleneck of mammoth proportions, frustrating everyone, her especially.

  It took the best part of ten minutes to clear the car park, another ten before she managed to exit the main roundabout. Checking her directions, she waited for a gap in the traffic and followed the signpost for Glasgow airport (M8), Kilmarnock (M77), Carlisle and Cambuslang (M74). Once clear of the logjam, she floored the accelerator, her speed climbing . . . sixty . . . seventy . . . eight-five miles an hour.

  Aware that Hank was watching the speedometer, she kept her eyes on the road, closing on an Audi TT, its driver hogging the outside lane, one of those I’m-doing-the-national-speed-limit types that got right up her nose on a regular basis. The stupid sod wouldn’t move over and let her by.

  She flashed her headlights but still he didn’t move.

  Hank urged her to back off, but she took no notice. Instead, she turned on her blue light. Technically, the situation didn’t warrant it, but Andy’s plight was a true emergency in her eyes – and still the git in the TT didn’t move over. She undertook the car, glaring at him as she came alongside. The driver was oblivious, hadn’t even known she was there.

  Kate drove on.

  If McKenzie harmed one red hair on Andy’s head she’d make it her business to hunt him down. In the meantime, all she could do was be patient and wait for news. Even if there was a shout for assistance, she was too far away to be a first responder. Despite her faith in her team, it didn’t come easy, trusting others to do their jobs and deal with the situation until she returned.