Killing for Keeps (7 page)

‘I am well!’

Nothing wrong with a little pretence
.

‘Are you, really?’

Kate dropped her gaze.

‘I’m worried about you. Let me take care of you.’ Jo stroked Kate’s cheek with the back of her hand, eyes on fire. ‘Would it help to know that I have an ulterior
motive? I want you, desperately. Maybe we could start where we left off on Valentine’s night.’

Leaning her head back, Kate shut her eyes as the memory took hold: a rudely interrupted and sexually charged moment that had taken them both by surprise, an encounter that had seen them
scrambling into their clothes – just as things were getting intimate – in order to drive to a police station to rescue a friend whose daughter had gone missing.

Kate heard the glug of wine as it left the bottle. Even though her weekend was in ruins, she was spent, far too tired to object.

‘Maybe we could start tonight,’ Jo chuckled. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m well out of practice.’

Her voice sounded far away.

Jo picked up her glass and sunk back into the soft cushions of the sofa. Sliding her free arm round Kate’s shoulders, she sighed, expecting a kiss at least. There was no response. Her
former partner had surrendered to tiredness and fallen asleep.

T
urning over, Kate pulled her knees up to her chest and the covers over her head as dawn crept into the room. Even in her semi-conscious state, something wasn’t quite
right. Feeling the heat of breath on her hand, she tried to wave it away without success. Forcing her eyelids open didn’t work. She was drifting down and down into the comfort of sleep again.
When something wet touched her face, she tried to rub it off.

She was freezing, cold and frightened.

A shadow, dark and indistinct, moved closer. She saw blood, sticky and congealed, a gaping jaw, an empty eye socket, a silver belt buckle embedded in raw flesh. Waking with a start, sweaty and
confused by her surroundings, she shook her head, trying to dislodge the nightmare but the crime-scene images refused to budge. It would be a long time before she could rest easy, in bed or out of
it.

Reality kicked in as Nelson stuck his cute head on one side, a curious look on his face, his eyes never leaving her. She stuck out an arm to stroke him, receiving another lick in return. At some
point during the night, her shoes had been removed, a blanket lain across her. Jo’s living room was tidy now. No dirty glasses or empty bottles. No trace of the candles she’d seen last
night.
God!
She must’ve been out for the count if Jo had managed to clear that lot up while she was sleeping.

Drawing the cover back, she sat upright, rubbing her eyes. She’d slept but could feel no benefit from having done so. Combing her tangled hair with one hand, she tried straightening her
clothing with the other. It was a feeble effort. The creases were there to stay. It was gone six according to the carriage-clock on the mantelpiece.

Time to get a move on.

Hauling her aching bones off the sofa, Kate crept towards the living room door, intending to sneak away without waking Jo, but as she reached the hallway, the smell of fresh coffee hit her
senses. Little did she know that her host had been up for hours.

Kate found Jo in the kitchen, radio playing gently in the background. Dressed casually with hair scuffed back in a bun at the nape of her neck, muddy wellingtons on her feet; she’d already
walked the dog.

‘Morning . . .’ Kate gave her a peck on the cheek. Her voice was thick with sleep. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jo’s brow creased. ‘What on earth for?’

‘Everything . . .’ Repressing a full-on yawn, Kate pointed at her dishevelled state. ‘Bet you wish you had a shirt like this.’

‘Very attractive. I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’ There was a flash of mischief on Jo’s face.

‘Did I miss something?’ Kate asked.

‘You could say that. It’s not often women fall asleep in my arms.’

‘Damn! Couldn’t you have pinched me or something?’

They laughed and let the matter drop.

Kate glanced out of the window. It was tanking down, the plants in Jo’s tidy back yard receiving a thorough soaking. Pulling out a chair, Kate sat down at the kitchen table set for
breakfast: fruit, cereal, yoghurt, boiled eggs and homemade marmalade. Placing two thick slices of bread in a toaster, Jo lifted the left-hand hood off the Aga and slid it into place, laying out
new house rules as she waited for it to brown: no guests allowed to leave without first having something to eat. It was a fait accompli. No point arguing.

‘I took liberties with your car keys,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘Your overnight bag is upstairs and there are fresh towels in the bathroom.’ She pointed at
the toast. ‘I’ll keep this warm, if you like.’

O
n her drive into work, Kate tuned to Radio 4 and caught the news headlines at seven-thirty. Another gunman had been on the rampage in New York. People had been shot. One dead,
several injured. The person responsible had been taken out. Fifteen minutes later, Hank greeted her with a glance at his watch and a wry smile as she entered the incident room. It was unusual for
her not to beat the team in and he’d known where she was headed the night before. He’d played Cupid in the past, would like nothing better than to see his two favourite women settle
their differences and get back together.

Bending down as she passed his chair, she whispered: ‘For such a tough guy, you’re as soft as clarts.’

A wide grin spread across his face. ‘I rang you at home and got no answer.’

She pointed at his messy desk. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’

As he picked up the phone, chuckling to himself, Kate looked around her. She’d given DCs Brown and Carmichael permission to come in late after a surveillance operation at Grant’s,
but they were both at their desks. Like her, they looked washed out, the result of too little sleep. She’d make it up to them –
eventually
. Carmichael was busy with her
computer, a look of total concentration on her face.

Leaving her to it, Kate approached Brown instead.

‘Anything new to report, Andy?’

‘Maybe.’ He swivelled his chair to face her, his hopeful expression raising her expectations. ‘There was a bit of an atmosphere in Grant’s last night. Lots of speculation
about who’d collared Terry to get at John, who had the guts to rock them both off. Your anonymous caller was right about one thing: Terry hadn’t been seen for quite a while. It seems he
stuck his head above the parapet at just the wrong time.’

Ignoring another smirk from Hank, Kate asked, ‘What’s the SP on John?’

‘Also keeping his head down, though for different reasons. Rumour has it he’s been playing away from home with someone else’s missus. I heard the name Amanda mentioned.
Didn’t catch the rest. I was hiding in the bog at the time. Bastards walked away mid-conversation. Some people have no consideration. It might mean something. Or not.’

He’d done well.

Kate glanced at Carmichael, then back at Brown. ‘What’s Lisa doing?’

‘She’s going through the information we received from SOCA yesterday to see if the name Amanda is mentioned anywhere.’

Carmichael looked up. ‘Nothing so far, boss.’

‘Keep at it, Lisa. Andy, give Grant’s management a bell. Find out what archaic recording device they happen to have on the premises. Any update on Sky?’

Brown shook his head. ‘Lucked out there, sorry.’

That was disappointing, but Kate was delighted that the youngest members of her team were taking the initiative to trace John Allen’s mistress without waiting for her to action it. Maybe
she should come in late more often. Her mood changed as a horrible thought struck her. Towner’s monotone voice popped into her head, reminding her of the earlier assault upon Terry Allen:
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 the hooker who’d seen it happen.

According to officers on the outside team, Terry’s mates weren’t talking and there was little chance of them changing their minds. But was the same true of Sky? If she’d
witnessed the beating and was blabbing about it she was in grave danger. Kate needed to find her
– fast!

K
ate closed her office door, hoping for some quiet time. Reflection was difficult in the midst of a hectic incident room. She sat down at her desk. Avoiding her in-tray, she pulled a pad towards her and picked up her fountain pen, her mind swimming with competing actions – none making any strong connections in her head. She began jotting down notes:

• Sky – trace – question – protect?

• CCTV from Grant’s – if any exists.

• Talk to the WAGS – establish where John and Terry were meeting up.

• T – he must know Sky!

•
DNA results!!

Scrubbing out the last entry – it would be days before DNA results were available – she sat back, her frustration rising. The severed fingers found in the back of
the Mercedes van might well be
her
priority, not necessarily that of a national forensic science laboratory; she spent half her life waiting for others to do their jobs. But it was the
remaining finger on Terry’s hand that intrigued her the most. Why leave one finger intact? It had to be noteworthy and she added it to her list. She hadn’t seen the ring he’d been
wearing. It too was being forensically examined. More waiting. According to the property list, it was no ordinary wedding band either, but a seal ring with a family crest.

Flash bastard.

Kate had always wanted one of those.

She wondered if it had been bought or handed down the generations. Theresa Allen claimed that her husband’s death had had the opposite effect on his offspring to that which she desired.
Rather than forget him and his criminal ways, Terry and John had been hell-bent on emulating him. They had placed him on a pedestal, and done their best to live up to his formidable reputation as a
hard-nosed gangster.

Someone tapped on the door and it swung open.

Hank stuck his head in. ‘You OK?’

Kate nodded. ‘Sit down, take the weight off.’

‘Where next?’ he asked, the chair creaking under him.

‘I wish I knew. I could lean on Towner again but I want to gauge the temperature of the relatives first.’

‘John’s girlfriend might talk, now her meal ticket is gone.’

‘Jo thought so too. Vicky is younger than Terry’s wife, she could be more amenable.’

Hank agreed, but made the point that her age had nothing to do with it. As John hadn’t married her, Criminal Injuries Compensation wouldn’t recognize her, he explained. Besides,
Vicky had a criminal record of her own. Nothing sinister – petty theft and one count of possession of Class-C drugs – but enough to make her ineligible for a government-funded
payout.

‘And there’s her kid,’ Hank said. ‘Apparently, John never acknowledged the bairn. If that’s true, there’s every chance his family might cut her adrift to fend
for herself.’

‘The opposite could also be true,’ Kate ventured.

That threw him.

‘That baby is the only grandchild Theresa Allen will ever have,’ she told him. ‘Think about it: she’s a mother who’s lost her only children. Despite their wayward
lifestyle, she doted on them. It stands to reason she’d want to maintain a link with the next generation. I would, given the same set of circumstances.’

‘Good point.’

‘C’mon.’ Kate stood up. ‘We need to get going.’

As they passed through the incident room, Brown confirmed that CCTV footage was available from Grant’s. Kate asked Maxwell to retrieve it.

‘Lisa, go with him. Ask around. You see any prostitutes hanging around outside, bone them about Sky. If they give you anything, follow it up. Make damn sure you’re not followed
though. I suspect we’re not the only ones keen to make her acquaintance.’ Taking a twenty-pound note from her pocket, Kate handed it over. ‘Don’t part with that unless you
get any intel . . .’ She flicked her eyes towards Maxwell. ‘And keep him on a tight leash.’

Laughing, Maxwell promised to behave himself.

Instructing detectives on the phones to feed anything important through the Receiver, Kate asked DS Robson to deputize for her and left the building with Hank. They took her car, neither of them
relishing another row with bereaved partners. But what other choice did they have? They were desperate to pinpoint the movements of their victims in the hours leading up to their deaths. The
conversation was as pivotal as it was crucial. In any murder enquiry, building a sequence of events came second only to discovering the identity of a victim. If they could establish where the
brothers were before they died, they would find witnesses for sure.

‘What’s Theresa Allen like?’ Hank asked casually, a few minutes into their journey.

‘Personable,’ Kate said. ‘Considering she’s two kids short of a family.’

Accelerating as she crossed the Swing Bridge, Kate glanced to her left, taking in his concern. She could see he wasn’t happy. ‘Something bothering you? Because if there is, I’d
like to hear it.’

‘It might be nothing.’

‘Hank! Don’t do that!’ Shooting through a set of lights, Kate pushed her way into the left-hand lane and then slowed down as another set of lights turned red. ‘I’m
too tired to play guessing games. If you have something to say, I want to hear it.’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘I already don’t. Give!’

Hank wiped his face with his hand. ‘I just find it hard to imagine that a woman who’s lived with one of Glasgow’s biggest villains is now enjoying the good life in a penthouse
paid for through honest hard work. What does she do for a living, anyway?’

‘I have no idea. I never asked.’

‘Maybe you should have.’

‘Yeah,’ Kate scoffed. ‘Good idea! Mrs Allen, your sons are dead; mind telling me how you finance such a fancy lifestyle? You can’t blame the woman for the sins of her
kids, Hank. Anyway, you wouldn’t have said that if you’d seen her. She was wearing a blue linen suit and a string of bloody pearls. She looked like the president of the local
WI.’

There was no retort, amusing or otherwise.

For a moment, silence filled the car. Somewhere inside Kate’s head, alarm bells rang. Although very obliging, Theresa had lied about her boyfriend and been caught out. An unnecessary and
provable lie, though in truth she’d covered it up with a credible excuse.

Hank was talking again, suggesting that Theresa was more likely to have taken over the family business than turned the other cheek and gone against her boys, a clear dig at Kate’s
judgement. Unlike her, he didn’t have much faith in the powers of rehabilitation.

Kate’s mind went into overdrive. Yesterday, Theresa had come across as genuine, but that little lie and Hank’s warning shot had sown a seed of doubt she was now struggling with. What
if he was right and she was wrong? ‘It pays not to judge without even meeting the woman,’ she protested.

‘Then why are you looking so worried?’ Hank glanced her way.

‘You know your trouble?’

‘No, but I’m sure I’m about to find out.’

Biting her tongue, telling him to drop it, Kate pictured the male caller Theresa had sent away yesterday, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. When she told Hank about him, he damn near
exploded.