Killing for Keeps: A Kate Daniels Mystery (Kate Daniels Mysteries) Page 5

  10

  Terry’s wife lived around the corner, so Kate went there first. When April Allen refused to let her in, she was forced to convey the sad news across the threshold before the door slammed in her face, followed by a mouthful of abuse from inside the house. Raising her hand to knock again, Kate thought better of it. She’d informed the next of kin. Job done. After the morning she’d put in, she wasn’t waiting around for afters.

  With a pressing appointment at the morgue and, if she were being honest, unable to face another death message, she called Hank and asked him to head over to John’s place and break the news to his girlfriend, Vicky Masters. He was more than happy to take the weight off Kate and they agreed to rendezvous back at the office when he was done.

  They met in the canteen an hour and a half later, both drained, in need of a break and a recap on the morning’s events. There were no fresh developments from either crime-scene investigators or house-to-house. In the incident room, the Murder Investigation Team were treading water. Bored and with little to keep them ticking over, Hank gave Kate grief for driving off without him, asking how she’d got on at the morgue.

  ‘The usual,’ she said flatly. ‘You fare any better than me?’

  He shook his head. ‘Vicky Masters wouldn’t talk to me. She was in a hell of a state when I got there—’

  Kate flashed him a look. ‘She already knew?’

  ‘Oh, she knew all right.’ He pointed at the machine. ‘You want a coffee or something?’

  ‘From that?’ Kate grimaced. ‘I’d rather stick pins in my eyes. I’m sorry, Hank. Theresa must have called Vicky right after I left.’

  He pressed for hot chocolate. ‘You never said anything about John to Terry’s wife, did you?’

  ‘Hardly. Anyway, she saw me off before I had a chance to pass on our condolences.’ She gestured to a seat near the window. They moved towards it, took a moment to unwind, both feeling punchy.

  Trying to work out where to go next, Kate looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day – sunny and not a cloud in the sky – but all she could see was a strip of tarmac smeared with congealed blood and bits of skin.

  ‘So much for zoning it out,’ she whispered under her breath.

  Hank narrowed his eyes. ‘Boss?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, an idea occurring. ‘You know, it may not have been Theresa who told Vicky that John was dead.’

  ‘Makes you say that?’

  ‘Maybe whoever did the killing is bragging about it.’

  ‘To scare the shit out of everyone?’

  ‘You saw the state of the victims. You’d have to be barking to inform on them. Anyone brave or stupid enough would know they’d get the same treatment from the perpetrators. We need to find them or there’s going to be a bloodbath.’ Kate paused a moment, considering her options. ‘If Theresa doesn’t know where her sons were last night and their partners won’t say, that only leaves us one option.’

  Hank put down his plastic beaker. ‘Which is?’

  Kate hesitated – time to go off-piste.

  11

  When on unofficial business, Kate liked to do things the old-fashioned way. No names, no pack drill. No mobile phones. No company. She’d known the man she was looking for since she was a DS on the drugs squad several years ago. Communication devices were not his thing – never had been. The only way to get hold of him was by visiting his haunts: the pubs, the betting shops or greyhound stadium.

  Moving through the crowded pub towards the bar, she scanned the room casually. No sign. She checked her watch: three-thirty. Less than ten hours into a double murder case, she didn’t have time to piss about. But, seeing as she was already there, she decided to give it a few minutes to see if her man surfaced.

  Pulling up a bar stool, she sat down, ordering a gin and tonic with a twist of lime she had no intention of drinking. The barman smiled as he set her glass down and moved off to serve someone else. Acting as though she was in no particular hurry, Kate pulled a copy of the Journal newspaper towards her and stuck her head in it.

  The words were a blur. She couldn’t stop thinking about the mother of her two victims.

  If Theresa Allen was to be believed, and Kate had no reason to suspect otherwise, she had done her utmost to bring up her sons in difficult circumstances. The fact that she’d failed miserably was immaterial. John and Terry were inherently dishonest. Despite her assertion that they were nonviolent, the DCI knew different. They were like their late father. Anyone who got in their way ended up being leaned on heavily – and they didn’t make the same mistake again.

  Kate pushed the paper away and pictured the scene back at the incident room. An information-gathering exercise would be well underway. She’d asked for a full history of the Allen family. Her team would be liaising with their Scottish counterparts to discover the circumstances surrounding their move south of the border. Would it have made a difference had they done it sooner? Jo would tell her it would. It was a child’s formative years that were so important. By the time they reached adolescence, it was already too late.

  What a bloody waste.

  Pulling out her phone, Kate texted Carmichael, asking if she’d come up with anything that might throw light on what the two men had done to deserve such vicious treatment. Almost immediately, she received a text back: Negative.

  Kate replied: Keep on it.

  As she pocketed her phone, she glanced up at the mirrored tiles behind the bar and caught sight of the man she was looking for exiting the gents. A flash of recognition crossed his face as their eyes met. He gave a nod, almost imperceptible, a signal that he’d seen her. He didn’t look happy. No wonder; he knew she was there to give him grief.

  Wishing she could down the lot, Kate took a small sip of her gin and placed the glass back down on the counter. When she looked up, the man she’d made contact with had gone. That didn’t concern her. They had an arrangement that if he saw her hanging around he would make his way to the Cumberland Arms. That would be where he’d gone . . .

  She hoped.

  She gave it a moment longer, then set off to find him. It was breezy outside, busy with pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be hurrying on a mission, as if their lives depended on them getting from A to B as quickly as possible. Hers too was urgent. As she made her way to the rendezvous point, she thought about her use of informants over the years, a practice widespread in every police force. In the fight against organized crime, snouts came in handy. Kate was a true believer; she knew from experience that trading favours solved crimes. The introduction of regulations had complicated matters. Informants now had to be registered, placed on ‘Form A’, money and the possibility of a reduced sentence the only carrots officers were allowed to dangle in exchange for information.

  That was the official line.

  Problem: Towner was unregistered.

  The only form he’d appear on was a charge sheet – assuming he failed to deliver. But that was the least of Kate’s worries. If she got caught not playing by the rules it would be a disciplinary offence.

  C’est la vie – she had a double murder to solve.

  The Cumberland Arms was a popular, arty pub tucked away on James Place Street near Byker Bridge, a few minutes’ drive from the city centre. Towner – not his real name – was sitting outside at a picnic bench, a fresh pint in front of him and something cool and non-alcoholic for her. Kate put on her sunglasses as she approached his table. She straddled the bench, held up her drink.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ he grunted. ‘You owe me seven quid.’

  Same ol’ Towner.

  Setting her glass down, Kate slipped a twenty beneath his pint. Cast her eyes over him. She hadn’t seen him for almost three years. They had met around the turn of the century. He’d come begging her to turn a blind eye to his sister’s misdemeanours; in exchange he’d offered information on a major drugs deal that was about to go down. With a little gentle persuasion, he’d come
good ever since.

  He was thirty-eight years old going on fifty. Prolonged heavy drinking and smoking had aged him appreciably since last they met. His hair was grey and thinning, his skin an unhealthy yellow, his eyes bloodshot, his fingers stained brown with nicotine. But the only body parts she was interested in were his ears.

  ‘I need your help, Towner.’

  He glanced at the money. ‘It’ll cost you more than that.’

  A group of girls were flirting with the young guys on the next table down, egging them on to get another round in and join them later at the Quayside. They looked joyful and healthy, the complete reverse of the forlorn individual facing Kate.

  ‘How’s Margie?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  Kate wasn’t surprised. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Like you care.’

  It was fair comment. Apart from being a druggie, his sister had been a prolific thief who’d steal her granny’s eyes and come back for the sockets if she needed money. Kate had been well aware that Margie was beyond help when she made a deal with her brother all those years ago. Towner liked his drink but was anti anything to do with drugs on account of what it had done to his sister. That worked to the DCI’s advantage. His information had resulted in a drugs bust preventing hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of cocaine hitting the streets. It also led to a commendation for a young DS before she was twenty-four years old.

  ‘I want information on the Allen family,’ she said.

  Towner almost choked on his beer. ‘I know nowt. And if I did, I wouldn’t be telling you about it or I’d be joining our Margie downstairs.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ Her tone was softer when she spoke again. ‘I would have thought you of all people would be celebrating today. The Allen boys were never on your Christmas card list.’

  The comment was designed to provoke a reaction. It worked. She could tell from the expression on his face that he already knew about the two deaths that had brought her here. He wouldn’t be sorry to hear of either man’s demise. He despised the Allen brothers, John in particular; according to Towner, he’d been the one who got Margie into hard drugs in the first place.

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked.

  She almost laughed.

  ‘Not your style, is it? You need a backbone for that kind of thing.’ She eyeballed him across the table, her best don’t-mess-with-me stare. ‘I know what you’re up to, Towner. I’ve been keeping my eye on you. If you want to stay out of custody, you need to start talking to me. Fast.’

  ‘You know shit,’ he said.

  ‘I know you and your mates are thieving lead. I saw a movie of the three of you doing it a couple of months back. We detectives talk to each other y’know. I shopped the wasters you hang out with but kept my mouth shut about you. I don’t have any lead on my roof so I’m not bloody interested. But if you don’t come across for me now, my memory of who else was on that church roof is sure to come flooding back. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ he said.

  ‘Glad we understand each other. Have another drink, then go home to that shit-pit of yours and have a good long think. When you’ve done that, use the phone.’ She placed an unregistered mobile on the picnic table. ‘Ring the incident room at Market Street. Ask for me and no one else. Got it? This is big. You’ve got twenty-four hours. I want to hear from you, Towner.’

  ‘And if you don’t . . . ?’

  Kate smiled. ‘You’re getting locked up.’

  He saw off his pint, scooped the note and the phone off the table, and walked.

  12

  On the way back to the incident room, Hank rang. There was more news from the RVI. A wheelchair had been found abandoned in a linen cupboard with copious amounts of blood on the backrest that may or may not belong to Terry Allen. The chair had been collected by crime-scene investigators and sent for forensic examination.

  Hank had more . . .

  ‘What did we do before everyone and his dog installed CCTV?’ Despite the fact that he’d been hauled from his bed too early, he sounded upbeat. He always got excited when the cards fell his way. ‘John Allen was captured on camera leaving the hospital via the fire exit of a maintenance tunnel, a minute and a half after the main entrance video equipment was tampered with. It’s him, no doubt about it. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you for yonks.’

  Kate sidestepped the question as another call came in.

  Tim Stanton was calling from the morgue.

  She put Hank on hold to answer. ‘What’s up, Tim?’

  ‘I thought you should know: Terry Allen had substantial bruising – weeks, rather than hours old – as well as several broken ribs. Looks like someone gave him a right going-over and came back for more. The injuries would have required treatment by a physician.’

  ‘Interesting. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll drop by later on.’ Kate hung up and went back to her call. ‘Hank, you still there?’

  ‘Where else would I be?’

  ‘Still at the hospital I meant, Wally.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Make your way to A & E.’ Kate indicated to turn left. ‘I’ll meet you there in five.’

  She was actually there in three. Abandoning her car in a bay marked EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY she put a police notice on the dash and made her way inside. As luck would have it, Senior House Officer Valerie Armstrong was working a split shift and was back on duty. Even though she’d been up half the night, she looked amazing. Kate felt like she might contaminate her just by standing there, with images of death and torture scrolling through her head involuntarily, as they had done all day.

  Pushing them away, she forced herself to focus on the doctor. Listing Terry Allen’s injuries as Stanton had described them, she disclosed her victim’s ID, asking the SHO to check the hospital records to see if he’d been treated in the recent past. The doctor’s colour rose. For a moment, Kate thought she was about to refuse her request, but she was wrong. The man’s identity had triggered a memory in the doctor’s subconscious that took a while to surface and was only now clicking into place.

  ‘I remember him,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve treated him before?’

  Hank slipped into the room from the corridor.

  ‘Yes,’ Valerie said. ‘If he’s the man I think he is—’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ Kate didn’t understand. ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier?’

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Hank asked.

  Ignoring him, the house officer kept her focus on the DCI. ‘Because I didn’t know who he was.’

  ‘How could you not?’ Kate asked. ‘If you were the one who found him—’

  ‘Don’t fight, ladies.’ Hank was grinning. ‘I can’t stand the sight of blood.’

  ‘Because he was unrecognizable from the man I saw this morning.’ The doctor explained: ‘He was badly beaten. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how much the face swells when traumatized. I thought there was something familiar about him. Now I know why. If it was the same man, it was weeks ago and he was very poorly.’

  ‘I see.’ Kate ran a hand through her hair. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a very long shift, for both of us.’

  ‘No apology necessary. Do you have a date of birth?’

  Kate reeled off Allen’s details. Picking up the internal phone, the SHO dialled a number, asking for hospital notes on Terence Allen, and then hung up. While they waited, Kate filled Gormley in. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. A receptionist entered carrying a thin manila file.

  Valerie waited for her to clear the room before opening it. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘It is him. He was admitted in the early hours of Friday the thirteenth of July. As I said before, he was in an awful state. I suspected concussion. He was treated, but discharged himself a few hours later – against my advice.’

  ‘Did he say how he came by his injuries?’ Kate asked.

  The docto
r slid the medical record across the table, pointing at a handwritten note on the bottom, confirming it was hers, entered contemporaneously: Patient evasive and uncooperative – refused offer of police assistance.

  13

  The phone on Kate’s desk rang before she’d even sat down. She stopped chewing, glanced at a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, coffee in the other, and placed them down in order to answer.

  ‘DCI Daniels.’ Kate listened but no one spoke. Background traffic noise suggested the call was coming from a public phone box.

  Towner.

  For a moment, she thought he’d bottled it. Finally, he came on the line, telling her that he had information and was willing to trade it in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Fair enough. Kate never went back on her word. He sounded nervous, understandably so. Whoever was dishing out the torture wouldn’t think twice about seeing him off. He told her that Terry Allen had been given a right going-over last month. It was the first corroboration of what she already knew. Proof that he wasn’t lying.

  Her instincts had paid off.

  ‘So, he got jumped,’ she said. ‘Thugs have a tendency to make enemies occasionally. You know I need more than that. Where exactly did this take place?’

  ‘Grant’s.’

  ‘Nightclub?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Kate picked up her pen. ‘Who attacked him?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Stop wasting my time!’

  ‘I don’t, I swear.’ Towner hesitated. ‘Look, all I know is he’s been lying low ever since. Word on the street is, he was lucky to survive. The heavies doing the kicking backed off when his mates arrived mob-handed, tipped off by a hooker who’d seen it happen. The guys who got hold of him weren’t arsed about Terry. They were searching for John.’

  Yes! ‘Why?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘Which hooker?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Try harder.’

  No response.

  ‘Fine, enjoy the rest of your day. It’ll be your last in the sunshine—’