Killing for Keeps (23 page)

A
lmost two weeks into the enquiry and they were still no further forward in the search for Craig O’Kane. There had been no sightings whatsoever, in England or north of
the border. For all they knew, Brian might already have found Craig O’Kane and delivered his retribution. If, on the other hand, Craig was still alive, he might be the predator rather than
the prey, looking to avenge his younger brother’s death.

The words
blood bath
didn’t quite cover it.

The only new information available to the Murder Investigation Team had come from DS Robson. The silversmith who’d come forward in response to the appeal for information had since
identified Terry’s ring as his own handiwork. Although he couldn’t recall the man who’d commissioned it, he’d written it up in his order book as a twenty-first birthday
gift. The date corresponded to Terry’s coming of age and was not long before Brian Allen disappeared off the face of the earth.

Kate had always thought that the ring was a clue, some kind of sick message for John that the O’Kanes were coming for him. That theory only held up if Terry had told them where it came
from and what it meant to him. Whatever the story, she’d uncovered its significance too late. If she’d known Brian was alive before driving north to Glasgow, she could have put the
Strathclyde, Lothian and Borders forces on alert.

No one had been looking for a dead man.

There was a mountain of paperwork on Kate’s desk, most of it relating to Brian’s falsified death in 2005. John Allen had been with his father when he allegedly collapsed from a heart
attack and took his last breath. It was John who’d called the medic and obtained a death certificate. He’d even spoken to the British Consul, who in turn contacted the UK police to
inform Theresa. Then, bold as brass, John had repatriated the body for cremation at Newcastle’s West Road Crematorium.

Easy.

Particularly as there was nothing that would flag up the death as unusual. It wasn’t as if the ‘deceased’ was a fugitive on the run from the police, either in Spain, the UK or
anywhere else in Europe. Assuming anyone even bothered to check. For all intents and purposes, it was just another sudden death of a tourist on a golfing holiday. It wouldn’t surprise Kate to
learn that John had reclaimed the entire cost from his insurance, such was the audacity of the man.

She wondered how he’d pulled it off.

It was anyone’s guess whose body was actually in the coffin. She knew only that it was a middle-aged male. She felt sad for the dead man’s family; they might go on searching,
possibly for the rest of their lives, for a missing man who would never be found, dead or alive – his body reduced to dust nearly two thousand kilometres away from home in a city he’d
probably never even heard of.

Picking up some of the documentation pertaining to Brian Allen, she sifted it in her hands. For every Spanish form, there was a corresponding English translation.

It all appeared lawful . . .

It was anything but.

In the course of her enquiries, she’d spoken to a local registrar and also an undertaker about the procedures involved in repatriating a body from abroad. The corpse would be embalmed in
the country where death occurred, arriving in the UK in a zinc-lined casket for transfer to a burial coffin. Official forms had to be completed in the language of the dispatching nation and then
translated into English before a body could be released for shipment. To Kate’s surprise, no formal identification was required on this side of the water.

‘You take it at face value?’ she’d asked, incredulous.

‘Pretty much.’

‘No fingerprints taken, dental records . . . ?’

‘No,’ the expert witness said. ‘The casket arrives. The family takes the translated death certificate to the Registry Office. So long as the papers appear to be in order and
the district coroner sees no reason for further investigation, away we go.’

Kate couldn’t believe it was that simple.

Although Theresa Allen was a piece of work, the DCI felt sorry for her. The poor woman still had photographs of bouquets displayed in the crematorium garden after the service. Dozens and dozens
of them, all lined up along the pathway to be viewed by mourners after the ceremony.

What a sham.

K
ate put down the phone. The question of Brian’s death certificate had bothered her for days. Convinced that either the form itself was dodgy, or the doctor who’d
certified death was, she’d put out an action to Spanish police and had a long conversation with the enquiring officer. He concluded that the female GP was in the clear. She’d reported a
death certificate stolen a few months after Brian’s death, alleging it was removed from the back of a tear-off pad. She hadn’t noticed it was missing until she reached the end of the
book. Her signature had been falsified and she would not be facing charges.

Kate jumped as a shout went up in the incident room beyond her office door. Through the blinds she could see detectives on their feet, all smiles and pats on the back, Carmichael and Maxwell
among them – almost a group hug taking place. Hank emerged from the centre of the scrum, an expression of delight on his face as he high-fived Robson.

Seconds later the two arrived at her door.

‘We’re on,’ Hank said. ‘Trewitt’s team spotted Craig O’Kane on CCTV at Edinburgh airport at the easyJet check-in desk. He was travelling light, hand luggage
only – a light-tan Hidesign leather holdall. Flash bastard.’

Kate’s interest waned as Robson gave her the corresponding bad news . . .

‘The downside is, this was five past five yesterday morning, not today.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, boss. It seems O’Kane got the jump on us. He took the six
o’clock flight to Alicante.’

Kate was a little confused. Her suspect leaving the country was hardly a cause for celebration. Before she could ask why the victory-dance, two modest pieces of information fell into place.
Glancing at the papers spread out on her desk, she shuffled through them, eventually found what she was searching for . . . an A4 sheet.

She held it up. ‘This is the transit documentation for a zinc-lined casket. Alicante is the departure airport. Robbo, get on to Trewitt. Tell him I want CCTV checked for
all
Alicante flights from Scottish airports from Saturday lunchtime onwards.’

Gormley and Robson exchanged a look.

There was more.

Kate’s eyes darted between the two. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘Trewitt and his team aren’t as daft as I thought,’ Hank admitted sheepishly. ‘As soon as they clocked O’Kane, they repeated the action for Brian. He jumped on a
Jet2 flight bound for Alicante out of Edinburgh the day Finn died. Clever, eh? He kills Finn, then goes straight for his two-thirty flight after leaving his calling card on the car, knowing full
well that our heads were all turned the other way.’

Kate sat for a moment, considering.

‘If Craig’s looking for Brian, you and I need to follow the trail to Spain.’

T
hey were in seats 19a and 19b, too far from the front of the plane for Kate’s liking. From her aisle seat she had a good view of passengers entering through the forward
door that, sadly, was still gaping open.

She exhaled loudly.

No matter where she was off to, it seemed that there was always one tosser who managed to hold up her flight, postponing take-off and inconveniencing other passengers. She wondered how long the
captain would wait
this
time. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She knew from experience it would involve unloading the luggage to identify the one bag checked in by the
absentee, a missed flight slot – an unnecessary delay.

She was bored already.

The complaint was on the tip of her tongue.

Before she had a chance to voice it, a round of applause filled the cabin as a group of well-served middle-aged men and women welcomed the late passenger on board. The arrogant shit was smirking
as he walked down the aisle sporting the same stupid black D & G T-shirt others in his party were wearing. According to lettering on the back as he turned round, the group were bound for a
piss-up in Benidorm – a fortieth birthday party for one of their number.

No Dolce & Gabbana here.

Written beneath the iconic D & G image, were two words:
Drunken Geordies.

Kate ignored a growing desire to say something as he threw himself down in his seat, joking loudly to his sniggering mates. Tipping her head back, she tried to relax and found she couldn’t
get comfy. Hank’s bulk in the next seat gave her little room for manoeuvre. The seatback facing her was a foot away, an advertisement for cheap lager – Buy 2 cans of Stella and save
£1 or €1:50 – in her face. She had a feeling those bound for Benidorm would be taking full advantage.

Grateful that she wasn’t squashed into a window seat, the slope of the aircraft shell making her feel even more claustrophobic than she already did, Kate paid attention as cabin crew went
through their emergency routine, wondering what her chances were of ever getting a life jacket over her head in such a confined space, let alone being able to pass the straps around her waist and
clip them together as she was being instructed to do.

Once airborne, she considered the task facing her. As the SIO trying to solve three connected homicides in the Northumbria force area, she’d been given a free hand to conduct the
investigation in whichever way she chose by Naylor and Bright. That meant a lot, bearing in mind her recent failure to impress the latter.

Annoyed that Scottish ports had been checked too late to prevent Craig O’Kane from leaving the country, she was faced with the mammoth task of finding him. According to Spanish police,
he’d passed through airport security before a message filtered through to be on the lookout for him. Her best chance of finding him was to locate Brian Allen, and the only link to him had
come from hurried conversations last night with John Allen’s mother and girlfriend. Both had been surprisingly helpful.

Theresa had given her a photo of Brian taken weeks before she ‘buried’ him. Comparing it with images sent by Immigration directly to her phone, it was clear that his appearance
hadn’t changed much since faking his death in 2005. There was no sign of plastic surgery and not much evidence of the natural process of ageing. Seven years on, his hair was fairer. It
didn’t appear dyed. A little greyer round the temples perhaps, probably lightened by the sunny climate on the Continent. He’d also grown a beard.

An Oliver Reid lookalike, Kate thought, but tanned and toned,
a Glasgow hard man who could handle himself.
She’d know him anywhere.

Theresa had also supplied a photograph of Brian and John together. They were standing side by side, arms round each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. A happy father-and-son snap
Theresa wanted returned when Kate had finished with it. It was the only one she had of the two men together.

Hank’s voice broke her chain of thought. ‘You OK, boss?’

She glanced sideways. ‘I’m thirty thousand-odd feet above the ground, jammed into a tin tube and can’t hear myself think. Why wouldn’t I be OK?’

He chuckled. ‘You think we’ve got a hope in hell of finding him?’

‘O’Kane or Allen?’

‘Either,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘We’ll give it our best shot.’

‘They’ll be looking over their shoulder now, for sure.’

‘You reckon? I don’t think either of them will give a shit, Hank. If you can tie someone to a van and run him over, or crush him against the wall and leave irrefutable evidence that
it was you who did it, you must be some mad bastard. O’Kane and Allen deserve each other. They must be pretty certain they have the means to get away with cold-blooded murder.’

Hank made a face. ‘You make them sound so nice.’

‘Yeah, I’m dying to make their acquaintance.’

‘They’re not going to be best pleased to see us.’

‘If we ever find them.’

‘Why do you think Brian showed his hand?’

Kate gave him a pointed look. ‘You being funny?’

‘Not intentionally.’ He wasn’t. ‘He didn’t need to tip us off, so why do it?’

‘For the right price, people talk. He’ll be under the impression that Craig is as well connected as he used to be, perhaps with a journo or bent copper in his pocket, someone
who’d keep him up to date with any interesting developments. It was a terror tactic. Brian wanted him to know that he took out his brother and was coming after him.’

The man in the window seat had taken off his headphones.

Hank lowered his voice. ‘Then why piss off back to Spain with the job half done?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that. Maybe he was hoping to disappear into the ether again, lie low until the heat died down, then come for Craig when the case was lower on our priority
list.’ She pointed at the phone lying on the drop-down table in front of him. ‘Any news from Lisa?’

Hank picked it up, checked the display.

Carmichael was liaising with Spanish police. She’d promised to text any developments as and when they occurred and also interview Vicky again to see if there was any evidence available as
to John’s movements in Spain. If they had that, they might be able to track down his father. She’d already given them two till receipts she’d found in the pocket of a linen jacket
still hanging in John’s wardrobe. Both receipts were for a restaurant where he’d eaten while in the country six months ago.

As Hank accessed his messages, his expression gave him away.

Had they got lucky?

‘Tell me,’ Kate said.

‘Vicky remembers a photograph John sent of his holiday villa one time.’

Kate’s head went down. ‘How does that help us? She destroyed her phone.’

‘She forwarded it on to piss off her sister who she can’t stand the sight of. Depends if the sister saved it or not. Lisa’s checking it out and will be in touch if anything
comes of it.’

With her fingers tightly crossed, Kate glanced across the aisle as the plane tipped slightly, altering direction. Fluffy clouds below resembled whipped meringue. She wished she could lay her
tired body down on top of them, curl up and fall asleep until this unsavoury affair was over and done with.

She turned back to Hank. ‘Get some kip,’ she told him. ‘It’s going to be a long day.’

He didn’t need telling twice. Within seconds he was gone but, less than three minutes later, he was awake again, a transmission over the flight intercom dragging him from sleep: a chance
to win ten grand on a scratch card, a reminder that fragrances and gadgets were available should passengers wish to purchase them.

Kate wished the steward would shut up. She wanted rest, out of the tin tube, her feet back on terra firma.

Hank drifted off again.

Unable to rest, Kate opened the novel she’d brought along to pass the time –
Headhunters
by Norwegian author, Jo Nesbo – a tale in which the hunter becomes the hunted,
according to the blurb on the back. She wondered if that was what was going on in Spain. Was O’Kane hoping to get to Brian before he had a chance to get to him?

If so, he was playing a very dangerous game.

She glanced at her sleeping DS. Between them they had spent many years hunting down wrongdoers, a job that rarely took them out of the UK.
Thank God
. Kate preferred home turf. She hated
being constrained by the protocols of another police force. Not being a warranted officer was like operating in a straitjacket. It didn’t feel right. Hank, on the other hand, couldn’t
give a monkey’s. Working in someone else’s jurisdiction was fine with him, so long as it involved a stretch of sandy beach and a few pints of local beer at the end of the day. Not so
for her. Wherever they were headed was too far from the Tyne Bridge for her liking.