Killing for Keeps (5 page)

T
erry’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.

T
hey 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
.

W
hen 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.

T
he 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.

O
n 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.’

S
he 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 doctor 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.