Killing for Keeps (24 page)

K
ate stopped dead at Passport Control, unable to believe her eyes. In recent years, her job had been made more difficult by the lifting of border controls. This state of
affairs was a bloody joke. Every immigration booth – and there were several – was abandoned. Not a police officer in sight, let alone anyone from Customs or Immigration.

Her tone was sarcastic. ‘No one stopped them coming in then?’

Hank had no words.

Taking the escalator to the ground floor, they followed the signs to the exit, bypassing baggage claim areas on their right, having opted for hand luggage only to ensure a quick getaway. The
drunken Geordies were pissed already, one female practically incapable of walking. It made Kate ashamed to be a Brit. The woman deserved the label ‘lager lout’, a term often used by
other Europeans to describe the worst of her countrymen – or, in this case, women.

Before leaving the airport, Kate took the till receipts Vicky had given them from her bag, programming the address of the restaurant into her iPhone, intending to use the device as a satnav.
Just as she was doing that, her phone rang in her hand. It was Lisa Carmichael and she sounded really excited.

‘Vicky’s sister still has that photo,’ she said.

‘Good job, Lisa.’ Kate high-fived Hank. ‘Send it to my phone.’

‘It’s on its way. Have a good trip.’

‘Thanks. Call me if you get anything else.’

Hanging up, Kate started the engine. Turning left towards the E15/A70, she followed the signs for Murcia. Already complaining about the heat in the car, Hank opened the window, then closed it
again, realizing the aircon – such as it was – would be rendered useless if he left it down. The vehicle was a Seat Mii, rented from Avis. A friendly Spanish agent had offered an
additional driver for ten euros a day plus taxes. Despite the fact that the car was a glorified golf trolley, Hank urged Kate to accept.

She declined, telling him that they were on basic expenses. She couldn’t justify the extra money. It wasn’t the real reason. Neither was it that she didn’t trust his driving.
She simply preferred to be in control of the vehicle while driving on the wrong side of the road. He stopped whining only when she pointed out that he could sleep while she drove or drink within
reason to give the appearance they were a couple of tourists looking for a place to buy in the sun – a legend they had hurriedly agreed upon as they waited for their flight at Newcastle
International airport.

Before leaving the UK, Hank had questioned the rationale behind her decision to follow what could only be described as a long shot. And now he was having another go, asking what they were doing
there. ‘All we’ve got is a couple of credit card receipts and a photo of a holiday home, of which there will be thousands.’

Adjusting her sunglasses, Kate glanced at the speedo, reminding herself it was shown in kilometres per hour and not miles. ‘Trust me, I have a theory,’ she said.

‘Which is?’

‘Vicky told me that John took frequent golf trips to this area—’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong, Hank . . . he went nowhere near a golf course. Lisa contacted every club on the Costa Blanca and no one appears to know him. If he had been a regular, someone would have remembered
him. I’ve got mates who visit every year. The welcome they get is amazing. Even the waiters recognize them. Some know them by name.’

‘They’re women,’ Hank grunted. ‘That’s different.’

‘No, whatever the gender, golfing is a closed community. Socializing in the bar afterwards is all part and parcel of the trip. People notice you.’ Kate could tell he wasn’t
convinced. ‘They do! Hoteliers and their staff are trained to retain that kind of information. It makes returning guests feel important. Feeds their egos. John Allen would soak it up.
He’d expect it. In fact, he’d demand it. He liked the ladies too, remember? He’d hardly miss an opportunity to get his leg over while Vicky was at home in the UK, unlikely to find
him out.’

‘He was probably using an assumed name,’ Hank suggested.

‘Why would he if the trip was kosher? He travelled on his own passport and made trips twice or three times a year. Men only. No wives allowed. I think he was meeting his dad, not playing
golf. That restaurant receipt may be all we have, but it’s a kicking-off point and needs investigating.’

‘Makes you think he didn’t stop for a meal en route to somewhere else?’

‘Two nights running?’

They exchanged a look.

Hank went quiet.

Within minutes he was hanging like a bat from his seat belt again. Kate drove on, wondering if narcolepsy was hereditary. Hank could sleep at a moment’s notice, like soldiers are trained
to do. Didn’t matter what was going on around him, he could switch off. Another reason she preferred to drive. Not that he’d ever fallen asleep at the wheel – she wasn’t
taking any chances.

Kate liked Spain but there was little to recommend the area she was driving through. Baking under a relentless sun, it was too brown and scorched for her liking, a stark contrast to the beauty
of the lush green Northumberland she was used to. It didn’t surprise her that a few days ago, four hundred plus kilometres south-west of here, forest wildfires had damaged large areas around
Marbella. In this country, a discarded cigarette had the potential to destroy great swathes of landscape. Fortunately, the recent fires were under control, unlike the signage overkill on both sides
of the road.

The giant advertisements offended her eyes.
How could the authorities allow it?

A blast of a horn from an impatient local woke her from her daydream. ‘Yeah yeah,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Gimme a break, I only just got here.’

‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Hank spoke through a yawn, stretching his arms above his head.

‘Not far. If this idiot behind would just stop pushing me around.’

Another yawn. ‘Show him a clean pair.’

‘In this? Do me a favour, I could walk quicker.’

Kate took the AP7 motorway towards Cartagena and then the Torrevieja Notre C90. They were heading for Ciudad Quesada, inland from the coast, approximately fourteen clicks north of Torrevieja,
ten minutes from the beautiful Orihuela coast. Not that they would be seeing much of that, unless Brian Allen had managed to bag himself a frontline apartment they weren’t aware of,
pretending to be like any other expat planning to spend his retirement in the sun. Mr Invisible.

A
stone archway led into the village. It was late afternoon when Kate drove through it, checking out the territory on either side of the road. It was a busy town, a small one,
the main street consisting of souvenir shops, banks, cafes and restaurant bars.

Blink and you’d miss it.

Out the other end, the surrounding area was a collection of small urbanizations. Under a stunning blue sky, neither detective spoke as they drove up and down palm-fringed avenues of high-walled
villas, getting a feel for the place. The properties were mostly white, cream or mustard, many with bars at the windows, tiled patios and roof terraces.

Brian could be watching them and they would never know it.

If he lived here, he could come and go with impunity.

In the Avenida de Malaga, Kate stopped the car.

To her left, a chain-link fence surrounded an area of rough, weedy ground, strewn with litter. It looked incongruous among the smart properties on either side of it. What was it? Another
building plot? A bit of land earmarked for a park? Where the hell do the kids play, Kate wondered. In the centre of the field, a middle-aged man was having a smoke while exercising a mangy dog.
Stepping from the car on to a pavement you could fry an egg on, she glanced at her watch – 5:10 p.m. – then sent Hank to speak to the dog-walker, telling him she’d meet him at the
car in an hour. They separated.

I
t was 6:20 p.m. by the time she reappeared. The streets she’d been combing all looked the same, the houses no different. She’d lost her bearings for a time and had
to backtrack. Hank’s face was bright red, a mixture of physical exertion and exposure to intense heat he wasn’t used to – no hat, eye protection or suntan lotion. Beads of
perspiration stood up on his forehead. Rivers of the stuff had run down the side of his face, wetting his shirt collar.

He was bushed.

Having lucked out, they got in the car with heavy hearts.

The water bottle was empty. ‘Fancy a pint?’ Kate asked.

Hank made a silly face. A big kid being told he was getting an ice cream.

She did a U-turn and drove the way she’d come. Parking at the southern tip of Quesada, they walked down the main street towards the town’s archway entry, less than a ten-minute walk
end to end. And still there was no let-up in the heat.

The sky was deep blue with the faintest wispy clouds Kate suspected held no rain. On a shady corner, she stood checking out the bars across the road. One in particular caught her eye, The Old
Don Carlos, an Irish tavern mentioned by one of the people she’d spoken to that afternoon. According to her source, an English-speaking Norwegian, the bar was popular with visitors, a good
place to start searching for Brian Allen.

Leading Hank by the arm, Kate crossed the street to an outside table that afforded some shade. There must have been forty customers there, many of them sitting in full sun, their skin in danger
of a silent killer.

Crazy.

She ordered an Americano, a big bottle of water, and a pint of local beer for Hank. When it came, he struck up a conversation with the barman, making up a story that he was searching for a
father and son he’d lost touch with, showing him the photo of John and Brian obtained from Theresa. Clearly, she wasn’t interested in saving Brian’s skin after the trauma
he’d put her through. Either that or she thought he’d suffer the same fate as their sons, his arrest and detention better than a cruel death at the hands of Craig O’Kane.

‘
No señor! Lo sentimos
.’ The apology was all the barman could muster.

Hank tipped him and he walked away.

When they had finished their drinks, they took the ten-minute drive to Guardamar. Finding Brian was something that might take several days. Lisa had booked them into a hotel on the western edge
of the town, her reason being that a couple wanting to buy a property would probably head for accommodation with a sea view. Hoping the coastline would remind her of Northumberland, Kate got
horribly lost on the way there and had to double back for a second attempt.

Hank was getting frustrated. ‘Do you even know what the hotel looks like?’

‘No, I don’t!’ Kate snapped, turning round for the umpteenth time. ‘I’ll find it. And in case you’re wondering, I’m not sharing beds. So if Lisa
didn’t book a twin room, you’re on the floor.’ She spotted a high-rise building at the end of the street. Although in a privileged spot, fringed by dunes and golden sand, the
sight of the hotel made her shudder as she drove up. The three-star duck-egg blue building represented all she disliked about package holidays. It was a monstrosity similar to many hotels on the
Costa Blanca, a frontline concrete structure with nothing to recommend it. Like the skyscrapers in crowded resorts such as Benidorm, it was her idea of hell.

‘Oh God, Hank! Tell me that’s not it.’

A sign proclaimed:
Parking Exclusivo Clientes.

Kate drove to a spot under the trees, grabbed her bag from the back seat, slammed the door shut and led Hank inside. The interior of the building did nothing to allay her fears. Basic
didn’t quite cover the description. Thankfully they were given a twin room with two queen-sized beds and clean linen. She made a mental note to have words with Carmichael. The young detective
needed educating in the finer things in life.

Thank God they weren’t booked in for dinner.

At sundown, after a shower and a change of clothes, Kate decided to stake out the restaurant where John had eaten on his last trip abroad. It pleased Hank no end that they were going out for a
meal. After a day of travel and trawling round in the baking heat, he was hungry and exhausted.

They arrived at Antica Italia ten minutes later.

The restaurant was situated on the first floor of a little terrace of bars off a main road, about half a mile away from Quesada. Parking the car near the entrance, they mounted the steps. It was
pleasant inside with subtle lighting, decorative statues, a long bar on the right as they walked in.

A friendly member of staff offered them the pick of available tables.

Kate noticed a flight of stairs that led out the rear. The door she was looking at opened. A waiter entered carrying fresh supplies for the bar. As the door closed behind him, she caught sight
of a stockroom.
A delivery entrance – and a bloody good escape route
. The nearest table to the stairs was where John and Brian Allen would’ve chosen to eat their meal. It had
an excellent view of the front door and they wouldn’t immediately be seen by anyone using the delivery entrance.

She chose that same table.

Italian food came a close second to Indian cuisine in the detectives’ culinary choices. They ordered bruschetta to start. She decided on risotto with wild porcini mushrooms, Hank opting
for the chef’s special –
Bistecca di Manzo ai tre Pepi
– sirloin in light brandy cream and peppercorn sauce. By the time they reached the crêpe Suzette, the arse on
the next table was beginning to annoy them. Like Billy-no-mates he was sitting alone, trying too hard to be friendly, asking where they were from and why they were there.

That was all they needed.

Hank put his hand on Kate’s, stroking it affectionately.

‘Wedding anniversary . . .’ He smiled at the guy. ‘Fifteen years, I really don’t know how she puts up with me.’

Hiding behind her napkin, Kate stifled a grin.

Without stopping to draw breath, the man offered his congratulations, telling them he’d been living in Quesada for over five years with his third wife, who was twenty years his junior. The
lucky lady was indisposed this evening, whatever that meant. Probably bored stiff, Kate thought, wishing he’d drink up and sling his hook.

‘Big fish, little sea,’ Hank whispered, loud enough for the guy to hear.

His rudeness did the trick. The man never spoke again.

Ten minutes later, he paid the bill and left.

‘So why didn’t you question him, darling?’ Hank asked.

‘Why do you think?’ Kate told him to drop the lovey-dovey routine. ‘He’s a loudmouth, the type to blab to his mates. If Brian Allen
is
here, we can’t
afford to tip him off.’

She called their waiter across.

He didn’t recall John or Brian from the picture she showed him. All she got was a European shrug and a few words of apology. Taking the picture from her, the waiter consulted with other
bar staff and came back none the wiser. He returned the photo to her, then walked away speaking in Spanish to another man who’d arrived on the scene, making Kate feel uncomfortable because
she didn’t know what they were saying.

Wishing she’d paid more attention to languages at school, she began to wonder if she’d bitten off more than she could chew. She studied Hank, her cheek propped up on her right fist.
‘Someone must know them. They must. Vicky said John wasn’t very adventurous. He was the type to keep going to the same place again and again if he liked it. He came here twice on
consecutive days and it wasn’t to impress a woman, I can tell you that.’

‘Eh?’ Hank looked around. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s hardly flash.’

‘It’s hardly Maccy D’s either. I like it!’

‘I do too. What I’m saying is, it’s not seafront, overlooking a marina or in a posh golf hotel. It’s on a main road in the middle of a gigantic housing complex catering
for retired expats and holidaymakers. The Italian flag we saw on the roof as we drove up is a catchall for passing traffic. You could see it for miles. Trust me, other than the occasional hungry
motorist, the clientele will all live around here. It’s nice enough. I can’t see anyone going out of their way to get here, though, can you?’

Hank put down his beer, unsure of where she was heading. ‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m just making an observation. John Allen either came here to do business or he was meeting his dad. I happen to think it was the latter and that they were staying nearby –
two blokes who couldn’t be arsed to cook. The till receipts suggest they filled up, had a few beers and left. They are timed at nine and ten p.m. respectively. Does that sound like a romantic
interlude to you?’

‘Unless they couldn’t wait to get their kit off and hit the sack . . .’ Gormley grabbed her hand. ‘Like you and me. I can’t wait to get you back to our
room.’

She laughed. ‘You crazy sod. Drink up, we’re out of here.’