Killing for Keeps (28 page)

B
efore the day was out, confirmation had come through from hotel staff that the man in room 210 hadn’t moved, at least not during the day. His room-service bill was
hefty. He’d eaten well and regularly, drinking only the finest wine. He’d made no calls from the hotel phone. Hadn’t signed on for any broadband connection or ordered any
newspapers. He’d accessed a number of adult movies on his TV, all between the hours of midday and eight o’clock in the evening, one of which Hank had also viewed.

‘It was good too.’ He made a smiley face. ‘Any chance expenses will cover—’

‘None,’ Kate cut in. ‘You want porn, spend your own money on it.’

‘We could share!’

‘Behave!’

His pet lip made her laugh.

They were sitting on a semi-circular settee in hotel reception savouring a cool drink. Apart from one guest who sat typing on a mobile tablet, they had the space to themselves. Everyone else was
out enjoying the sunshine, keeping fit – something Kate wished she was doing too.

Hank nodded towards the reception desk where three very smart clerks stood waiting. ‘How did you get on with them?’

‘I spoke to the manager. Nice man. He’s keen to cooperate. Even keener to avoid any embarrassment or, God forbid, threatening development that might upset or injure a hair on the
head of one of his guests. Can’t say I blame him. He has a reputation to uphold. His upmarket clientele won’t take kindly to rubbing shoulders with a tooled-up Glaswegian
thug.’

‘Don’t suppose they will. So what’s the plan?’

Kate thought for a moment. ‘The way I see it, O’Kane is slipping out at night in search of Brian, watching the course during the day hoping to spot him.’

‘Good luck to him. We’ve not managed it.’

‘Yeah, that’s what bothers me. It’s unlikely O’Kane will find him from the comfort of his room. Like us, he needs to move around. Ask questions. Flash the cash. I think
he’s out at night doing just that. Probably has a few hours’ kip when he gets in, then amuses himself until he can go out again. I need to examine his room, but his curtains are drawn
and I can’t see in. That’s where you come in.’

D
ressed as a hotel maintenance man, Hank knocked at the door of room 210. There was a spyhole in the panel facing him. Wondering if anyone was on the other end of it checking
him out, he knocked again. When there was no reply, he used his master key to access the room, calling out as he pushed open the door.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

Cocking his head to one side, Hank listened. He scanned the room without making it obvious he was doing so. In his peripheral left vision was a cupboard big enough to hide in. Directly ahead,
net curtains were drawn across patio doors obscuring his view of the balcony. O’Kane could be out there, waiting.

Improbable.

Kate would spot him.

Hank had timed his entry into the room knowing his boss would be outside.

‘Hello,’ he called out. ‘Sir?’

As he waited for a response, his eyes homed in on a bag on the floor . . . a light tan Hidesign leather holdall, exactly like the one Lisa described O’Kane carrying when captured on CCTV
at the easyJet check-in desk while his boarding pass was being processed at Glasgow airport. As quickly as his spirits rose, Hank’s enthusiasm plummeted. On the table above the bag, an open
laptop pointed in his direction, a red light blinking above the centre of the screen.

Surveillance camera.

The fact that the owner could pinpoint exactly where he was in the room from a remote device spooked Hank a little. He was glad of the Kevlar Kate insisted he wear underneath his overalls.
Despite the weight of the protective vest, and the fact that it made him leak like a colander, it would give him half a chance of survival should O’Kane charge at him with a knife or pull a
gun.

Although he’d rather not be there, Hank had no choice but to carry on pretending he was part of the hotel staff who’d come to fix a leak. Double doors led into the spacious bathroom.
He rounded the bed, which was rumpled and unmade. Putting an ear to the bathroom door, he knocked gently. ‘Excuse me, sir? I have to check your bathroom. There’s been a complaint from
the floor below. Hello? Sir, are you in there?’ Sliding the doors open, Hank poked his head in, his heart hammering in his chest.

Silence.

A second sliding door led to the WC. The shower curtain over the bath was closed. Taking a lungful of breath, Hank checked the shower first, then slid the toilet door open. Nothing. He
unbuttoned his overalls, pulled out his penis and had a pee to justify opening the door. Fortunately, due to the copious amounts of water he’d consumed throughout the day – something he
never drank at home – he had a full bladder. The sound of urine splashing into the pan below left nothing to the imagination should O’Kane be listening in.

Kate certainly was.

With a wry smile on his face, Hank flushed the loo, washed his hands in the left of two sinks and dried them on his work overalls.

He relaxed.

If O’Kane had been hiding out in the room he’d have known about it by now. Getting down on his knees, Hank opened up his toolbox and proceeded to take the bath panel off. It came
away easily. Whistling as he worked, he fiddled around for about ten minutes and then pretended to call a colleague on the bathroom phone, telling him he’d tightened up the dripping pipe,
asking him to check that the leak was fixed in the room below.

Thanking the dialling tone, he hung up and packed his tools away.

When he was ready to leave, he took a few hairs from the shower tray, placed them in an evidence bag and put them in his pocket. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Giving his ear a scratch, he spoke into his sleeve. ‘Where are you?’

Kate’s voice came through his earpiece: ‘Service room. Far end of the corridor.’

‘Target not present,’ he said.

Seconds later, he reached her.

Kate looked at him expectantly as he walked in. ‘Are you sure it was his room?’

‘Hundred per cent. Unless someone else has the exact same bag he carried through Glasgow airport
and
all he packed was one change of clothes and a toothbrush. He forgot his
cologne. The room reeks of alcohol and stale sweat. I think we’ve been rumbled anyhow. He’s got a webcam watching the door. Pound to a penny it’ll be linked to his iPhone.
It’ll go beep. He’ll clock me entering his room and do a runner. I carried on with the facade of fixing a leak, but I doubt he’ll buy it. All we can do is wait.’

Kate rubbed her face. O’Kane was clever.

They both knew he was long gone.

T
hey spent a couple more days lying in wait, but in the end Hank’s suspicions were confirmed. O’Kane had disappeared into the ether, leaving no trace. There had
been no further activity in room 210, no room service, no movies ordered nor bill paid. That came as no surprise to Kate. Even dressed as a maintenance man, her DS looked like a policeman.

The only sensible option open to the DCI was to move in and seize what she could. When she did so, there was nothing of interest. The Hidesign bag contained a change of clothes and toiletries,
nothing more. There was a pair of shorts and a crumpled T-shirt hung up on the bathroom door. Chavez’s men took away a toothbrush and comb for DNA analysis. They didn’t need it. No one
was under any illusions as to whom the items belonged.

With no clue as to where O’Kane might be, local police made enquiries along the Mar Menor. With one hundred and fifty kilometres to cover, it was like looking for a needle in the
proverbial haystack. Chavez didn’t complain. As part of Operation Captura, he was as keen to apprehend Kate’s target as she was. Besides, it was well worth a shout. Even in September,
that stretch of coastline was rarely busy. It was very Spanish there, not home from home for the English like the main resort areas.

While his men checked all the obvious places, Kate and Hank stayed close to La Manga. All morning, they had scoured Mar de Cristal, named after the crystal-clear waters on that part of the
coast.

Looking out over shimmering waters, Kate turned her attention to the La Manga strip on the horizon to her right, a beautiful sight, especially so accompanied by the sounds of a flamenco guitar
drifting from the garden of a small cafe across the promenade behind her. The tranquillity of the lagoon and warmth of the sun on her bare arms did nothing to calm her frustration.

‘We lost him,’ she said, without turning her head. ‘We bloody lost him!’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ Hank muttered something under his breath. He wanted to call a halt to the search. He didn’t verbalize it. He didn’t have to. Kate got his message loud
and clear. What’s more, she was beginning to think he had a point.

‘I’m thirsty,’ he said. ‘Won’t be long. You want anything?’

Shaking her head, Kate watched him go into the cafe, shoulders slumped in resignation. With all the walking they had done in the past few days, he’d lost even more weight. His long shorts
were practically hanging off his arse. Despite the fact that Bright had given them more time abroad, increasing the budget exponentially, her DS was keen to get home to his family.

They both were – except in her case the family didn’t exist.

Aware of someone standing beside her, Kate turned around and came face-to-face with an attractive woman of indeterminate age. She had a fit body, fair hair, a pale complexion and beautiful blue
eyes under a wide-brimmed hat. The man by her side was a little older and a lot more suntanned. Two small dogs lay at his feet.

‘First visit?’ the woman asked.

Kate nodded, her eyes scanning the strip.

‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’

‘Stunning,’ Kate agreed.

‘Did you know La Manga’s literal translation is “sleeve”?’

‘Really?’ the DCI tried to sound interested. ‘I didn’t know that.’

She listened as the woman talked about the place she now called home. The ‘strip’, twenty-odd kilometres across, seven wide, separated the Mediterranean from the Mar Menor, the
largest lagoon in Europe, a massive one hundred and thirty square kilometres in area.

‘Have you been in yet?’ the woman asked.

‘Not yet.’ Kate told her she had a fear of water and couldn’t swim.

‘Then it’s perfect for you. The year-round bathing temperature is eighteen degrees. It’s almost as buoyant as the Dead Sea. It’s shallow too, only twenty-one feet at its
deepest point. Do yourself a favour and try it.’ Smiling, she held out her hand. ‘I’m Shelley.’ She pointed to her right. ‘This is my partner, Tony.’

‘Pleased to meet you both.’ Kate shook hands with them. ‘You come here a lot?’

‘Yes, we live up the road.’

‘Where you from?’ Tony asked. He had a soft Irish accent. His whole persona screamed laid back. This was someone for whom relaxation was a way of life. He had no idea Kate was
hunting a killer. Two even. Why should he? He was better off thinking he’d found his little bit of heaven on earth.

Perhaps he had.

He raised a quizzical eye. ‘Durham?’ he guessed.

‘Next door, Northumberland,’ Kate replied. ‘My husband and I are thinking of buying a place around here. We wanted somewhere typically Spanish. A friend we lost touch with
years ago recommended it.’ She acted all melancholy, letting out an enormous sigh. ‘He went through an acrimonious divorce, sadly. I’m still in touch with his ex. Such a shame
their marriage should end that way; I always thought them to be a perfect match for one another. These things are never pleasant, are they?’

A flash of irritation crossed Shelley’s face. Kate suspected she’d been in the same boat once herself. Tony saw it too and quickly changed the subject.

‘This old friend?’ he asked. ‘He lives around here?’

‘He certainly used to,’ Kate said vaguely. Hank arrived by her side, drinking from a bottle of still water. She smiled at him with adoring eyes. ‘Darling, this is Shelley and
Tony. I was telling them about Brian, how we’d dearly love to find him before we go home.’

Hank proffered a hand, to Shelley first, then Tony. ‘You know Brian?’

‘Doubt it,’ Tony said. ‘Almost everyone we know around here is Spanish. What’s his last name?’

‘Allen,’ Kate said. ‘His ex-wife’s name is Theresa. They have two sons, John and Terry.’

Least they used to.

Tony shook his head. The names meant nothing to him. The screeching of birds made Kate look up. She shifted her gaze to Hank, an urgent question in her eyes.

‘What?’ he said.

‘The parakeets.’

‘What about them?’

‘They wouldn’t nest here if these places were empty, would they?’

‘They certainly pick their spots.’ Shelley answered before Hank could. ‘These birds aren’t stupid. This is the only place that’s open all year round, except
Christmas Day, the only certainty of finding food for their young.’ The woman turned, pointed towards the cafe he’d just come out of.

Tony agreed with her. Kate would have to get used to them or reconsider buying a home in Spain. Where there were palms and food, there were parakeets, impossible to avoid.

Kate had tuned him out.

She’d been transported to Quesada, was staring at a palm tree, taking photographs to send to Jo, the sound of Chavez yelling orders to his men reaching her from further down the street.
She pictured the avenue, many of the houses empty, the magnificent villa adjacent to the tree. An idyllic hideaway, had been her first impression. Not far off the mark, she was thinking now.
Someone lived there permanently
. She hadn’t found O’Kane but, if her hunch was right, she knew exactly where Brian was – and she couldn’t wait to get there.

‘W
ow!’ Hank’s mouth literally dropped open. ‘Mucho euros, I reckon. And a damned sight better than the pad a few doors down.’ He looked at Kate.
‘John Allen wasn’t as daft as we first thought. He gave Vicky a bum steer as to where he was staying which led us up the wrong garden path quite literally. This is something else.
Jesus! How much would a place like this cost?’

Kate didn’t answer. She was too busy scanning the extravagant property from the pavement. It was so well protected she couldn’t see in. A high stone-clad wall surrounded the house,
topped with spiked wrought-iron railings to deter unwanted visitors. Behind the electronic gate, there was a large garage with purple bougainvillea scrambling up the wall on either side. A ceramic
pot near the door held a white-flowered climber she couldn’t identify.

It was very like clematis.

The residence itself was well hidden from prying eyes. All Brian would have to do was stand on the roof terrace and he’d be able to see for miles. He was counter-surveillance savvy. If he
saw anyone hanging around, he’d be straight downstairs and into his car, fire the garage door open and away before anyone got wind of it. The place was like a fortress. Bin Laden hid in a
house like this behind a privacy wall. US Special Forces had to breach it by using explosives. Unfortunately, Kate had left her dynamite at home. Once more, she would have to rely on Spanish
officers to gain entry.

W
ithin the hour, assisted by Chavez, they managed to get inside. Hank whistled as they entered through the front door, arriving in an atrium so big you could drive a
double-decker bus through it. It had a high ceiling, a wrap-around balcony and ornate staircase leading up to the floor above. Upstairs and down, dark wooden doors led off in each direction.

The main living room was directly ahead, an airy space with lots of natural light flooding in through fold-back tinted-glass panels with a view over a formal lawn and swimming pool. It would be
right at home in
House & Garden
magazine.

‘This is more like it!’ Kate said.

Inside, the temperature was cool, helped by white marble floors. The room she was standing in was filled with the most wonderful furniture and local artwork on the walls – a real feast for
the eyes. Kate was mesmerized. She imagined sitting on the comfy sofa, doors open allowing the garden in, a glass of chilled wine, Joni playing softly on the iPod, Jo sitting on the floor at her
feet.

And candles . . .

Lots and lots of candles . . .

Magic.

There was no TV, she noticed. That particular item was hidden away next door in a movie den, a gigantic flat-screen television almost covering one wall. The room was even more sumptuously
furnished, with an open fire laid ready to put a match to. No expense spared. No windows to allow any light in here. Perfect for an evening’s viewing cuddled up on the sofa.

Switching on the TV, Kate noted that it was tuned to a Sky Sports channel.

Turning it off again, she wandered into the lounge area where Hank was carefully searching some drawers, finding something of interest if the expression on his face was anything to go by.

She thumbed in the direction of the door behind her. ‘Brian certainly has a penchant for the finer things in life. Check out the home cinema next door when you get a minute. To die for . .
. and I
wasn’t
being ironic.’ She pointed through the window. ‘John may not have liked golf, but his father certainly did. I could spend some time here, I can tell you.
And they say crime doesn’t pay.’

‘They were wrong.’ Hank pointed at the papers he’d found in the drawer, a wide grin forming on his lips. ‘I do like Brian. He seems to have morphed into Richey Edwards,
according to his utility bills.’

‘Wasn’t he the guitarist from the Manic Street Preachers?’

‘Yup. They disappeared around the same time. If my memory is correct, Richey was presumed dead not that long ago – two, maybe three years? Brian obviously shares my wicked sense of
humour. I think we’d get on.’

‘Why would he
do
that?’ Kate asked. ‘I can understand him using the name if he rated the guy. I can even see how he’d find it amusing to take the name of someone
else who had vanished, but he’d be mad to think people weren’t searching for Richey. You’d think he’d want to deflect attention, not court it.’

‘He’s a risk-taker,’ Hank said. ‘It’s what fires his jets. Besides, if Richey was alive he’d hardly be going by his real name, would he? I bet Brian only took
his name after he was officially presumed dead. He’ll have more than one alias. He’s probably changed his identity several times.’

He was right. It was a demonstration of the cheek of the man they were dealing with. Nothing fazed the Glasgow gangster. Kate’s eyes were drawn through the window. Beyond the turquoise
pool was a putting green so closely cut she’d be terrified to walk across it for fear of spoiling the lay of the grass. It was a piece of art. Brian obviously had help in the garden, in the
house too, Kate imagined. Perhaps his cleaner was the woman who’d gone into the paper shop in Quesada and spoken so hurriedly to the newsagent, warning him not to talk to her. Maybe she was
another of his conquests.

Kate sighed. ‘What is it with women who fall for shite?’

‘Eh?’ Hank chuckled.

‘Never mind.’

She wandered off, arriving in the kitchen on the west side of the house a few seconds later. In the refrigerator she found food and fresh milk. Well, nearly fresh. It was out of date by days,
not weeks. Something began to tap on the inside of her brain. She couldn’t get a handle on it but it was connected to her present location, she was sure of that. It refused to surface. Hank
joined her moments later and they toured the house together, eventually arriving in a carless garage.

There were no gardening tools, further evidence that hired help did all the donkey work. Kate noticed a BMW car kit bag, unzipped, a carton of polish sticking out the top. A man after her own
heart: a petrol-head. She thought about John and Terry’s pristine vehicles. They may not have lived with their father for years, but clearly they had his genes.

She examined the kit.

The products inside were hardly used.

‘Looks like Brian may be driving a new BMW, probably under three years old.’ She explained the theory behind that assumption. ‘Anything strike you as peculiar in
here?’

Hank didn’t think so.

She urged him to look harder.

His eyes were still searching, trying to figure out what he’d missed. ‘There are no tools here, if that’s what you’re getting at. Clearly he wasn’t into DIY.
Can’t say I blame him. I’m useless myself. Bores me rigid.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘C’mon, it’s too hot for guessing games.’ Hank yawned. ‘Give us a clue.’

‘There are no golf clubs here, no trolley. If Brian plays golf, there ought to be. Check the house again. While you’re at it, get Chavez’s men to inspect the sunroom in the
garden, any sheds, outbuildings – anywhere big enough to store large items.’ Kate’s eyes lit up as she remembered what had caught her attention on the way in to the house.
‘If I’m right, O’Kane was working on more than a hunch when he took off for La Manga.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ Hank yawned again, covering his gaping mouth with his right hand. ‘Sorry, my brain isn’t functioning. No wonder Pedro takes a siesta every day. It
would do my head in to work here permanently. Five minutes after I get up, I want to go back to bed. All the fresh air is killing me.’

Kate’s eyes found the front door. ‘I saw something on the way in – I think O’Kane saw it too.’

‘Which was . . . ?’

Hooking her forefinger, she gestured for him to follow.

They went outside, both shading their eyes as they left the dark interior and met the glare of the sun. Kate put on her shades. This was
the home of a golfer, for sure. She didn’t play much herself, but what was lying on a slab of rock near the garage made her heart beat a little faster, reminding her of a charity game
she’d felt obligated to play for the benefit of the force benevolent fund. ‘A good cause,’ was the way the Chief Constable put it, leaving her in no doubt that her attendance and
financial support were mandatory. How could she refuse? At the end of the competition, players banged their shoes on the concrete plinth outside the clubhouse to get rid of grass that had stuck to
the underneath. Circular tufts fell away from the studs – similar to those she was staring at.

Getting down on her honkers, she picked one up.

Even more exciting . . . little green shoots were poking out from the rings of turf. The rings were still soft and crumbly and therefore fairly recent. This side of the house was in full sun. If
they had been there long, they would have baked solid in the searing heat. Kate stared at them, a smile forming on her lips.

‘This is why O’Kane asked questions at the golf club, Kimosabe.’

Hank laughed out loud, impressed with her reasoning and cheerfulness.

She stood up. ‘I think Brian’s been putting it about here in Spain. As well as flashing the cash, he’s probably screwing Benitez. He must be good at it too. Can’t have
been easy getting a GP to sign off on his death and feed him insulin all these years.’

‘The guv’nor said he was charismatic, appealing to both sexes.’

‘Yeah, and everything Theresa said supports that view. I bet he’s charmed his way into the affections of several local women, including the one in the newsagent’s I told you
about. She was extremely agitated when she saw me asking questions. Some women like a bit of rough, even though, deep down, they know it’s probably not going to end well. Including, I
strongly suspect, a certain Neena Gil.’

‘You think she lied to us?’

‘Damn right I do. What better way for Brian to get rid of his nemesis than to have a girlfriend call the authorities and get him arrested? If it had worked out, it would have been a genius
stroke. He must’ve been laughing his socks off, knowing the police were on their way. As it turned out, we didn’t get there quick enough to lift him. But now we have an even bigger
problem: Brian knows we’re here in Spain. We walked into that one.’

Hank sniggered. ‘You can understand why Bright rated him.’

Kate was unimpressed. ‘He’s a thug, Hank.’

‘A smart one.’

‘We’re smarter.’

They raised their heads as a bird squawked above them.

‘You think he fed them?’ Hank asked.

She shrugged. Who knew? Maybe Brian had a heart after all.