Without a Trace

by Mari Hannah

  He gave a resigned nod.

  ‘Want me to drive?’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m good. How’s the hand?’

  It hurt like hell. ‘It’s a scratch.’

  They climbed into her car and drove off, merging with the motorway. Hank put his foot down, concentrating on the road. He went quiet. Kate had a feeling that he’d be thinking about Brian, rerunning the old case in his head. In Spain, things hadn’t gone according to plan. In order to find Brian, she’d decided that they must find Craig O’Kane, the Glasgow gangster who’d evaded capture time and again. And when Hank came close, the unimaginable happened.

  She cringed as a shot rang out in her head. Officer down. At the time, details were sketchy. The race to the Santa Lucia Hospital in Cartagena was the worst journey she’d ever taken, a Spanish police escort sweeping other road users out of the way. Sirens. Blue lights. No one would meet her eye or tell her if Hank was likely to survive. And then there was the guilt. The self-loathing. She’d sent Hank out alone that day. He’d come through it, just as her father and Jo had escaped death a week ago.

  She texted Brian from her police mobile:

  Let’s talk. Where?

  59

  Hank left Kate’s vehicle with words of advice echoing in his head, a warning from Kate: ‘Unarmed, you’re vulnerable.’ Yeah, like he didn’t know. He tried not to think of the what ifs and the maybes. He’d seen at first hand what Brian Allen was capable of, but figured that a man who’d saved him once had no reason to turn on him now. Kate thought so too, or she’d never have agreed to let them meet. Brian wanted something and was willing to trade information to get it.

  Tommy Patterson, the guy Kate had videoed in the baggage shed, might be the mole. He’d been charged and released on bail. If he was one of Brian’s associates, the thieving git might have spilled the beans on the not-so-overweight Geordie cop who’d been giving him grief.

  Hank discounted that.

  Brian would have no way of knowing that he was that cop, unless Patterson had captured his image while he was in and out of his cubby hole interviewing staff at Heathrow, over a hundred of them working in that particular section airside. It could equally have been Bakr, the guy Patterson hated with a passion, who was not among the three Kate had asked Torres to focus on.

  Hank would find out soon enough.

  He ducked under the chain-link fence someone had pulled back, a section big enough for him to crawl through. Using a torch to find his way around the abandoned industrial estate, he was expecting his progress to be fed in real time to the man he’d come to see.

  Sensitive to spies, Hank could feel eyes watching him.

  Cautiously, he peered into the disused building Brian had described to Kate in a text, stepping over junk put there to alert those inside to the unexpected arrival of anyone who might wander in unaware that it was being used as a rendezvous point. Despite what Kate had said, Hank had no misgivings about meeting Brian – it was her meeting him that the detective sergeant was keen to avoid. He’d begged her to find another way. She’d taken some convincing before finally accepting that, in order to remain undercover, she couldn’t afford to show her hand. She’d be regretting that now, stressing in the car, wondering what was going on, considering her next move, deciding what she’d tell Torres – a woman she’d described to him in minute detail.

  A good judge of character, Kate was probably right about her. Though Hank hadn’t met or spoken to Torres personally, he’d come across a few special agents during a state visit by US President George W. Bush to Prime Minister Tony Blair’s constituency in 2003, when Durham Constabulary, fearing protests against the Iraq War, drafted in Northumbria officers.

  Hank knew the type …

  No one needed to draw him a picture.

  The smell of urine at the entrance to the building was overwhelming. Broken glass crunched under his feet as he stepped inside, swinging his torch left and right over rusting machinery, an oil-stained floor, a few rags, an old mattress, an abandoned shoe. The place had been used by someone to doss down for sure, but not recently. They were long gone, probably driven out by Brian’s lackeys, warned not to return.

  A slit of flickering light ahead, a door hanging off its hinges. Leading where, Hank didn’t know, but he was in the right place. As he walked towards the light, he had no doubt that there would be a rear entrance – more than one in all probability – every eventuality covered, an easy escape route for Brian and his crew in case Kate remembered she was a police officer and sent in armed response to capture a fugitive she had a duty to arrest.

  No chance …

  The Glaswegian wasn’t the only heavyweight in town.

  As the door creaked open, Hank caught the whiff of an expensive cigar – Brian’s trademark. His description had been circulated on an intelligence bulletin sent to every force in the UK a couple of years ago; an ‘Armed & Extremely Dangerous – DO NOT Approach’ tag attached. Backup was a prerequisite in apprehending men like him: the dog section, armed response and tactical support.

  Having never seen the guy in real life, Hank wasn’t sure if this was him or one of his entourage. The closer he got, the less doubt there was in his mind. This was Brian Allen. He’d changed his appearance somewhat, probably had a new life, most definitely a fresh ID. The glasses were new and he’d changed his hair. It was worn long and tied in a ponytail. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Hank might have cracked a joke about his Francis Rossi impression.

  He loved Status Quo.

  The place was a shitpit: old mattresses, empty spirit bottles, roach ends, hypodermics. Closer still, a fire made of old wooden crates burning on the concrete floor. No one but Brian was visible.

  Hank didn’t look up to the second floor.

  The two men locked eyes. No words were exchanged. Hank was big. Brian was massive, almost a caricature of a Scottish gangster, hard eyes behind steel-framed specs, fit-looking for a man of his age. In his youth, one look from him would terrify the opposition.

  For a second, Hank was in a Spanish hotel room, the tinny sound of a phone disturbing his sleep, Brian’s voice in his ear: move from that room, she dies … Stay put and she lives. Do we have a deal?

  He did …

  Brian had been talking about Kate.

  Pushing the past away, Hank greeted the Glaswegian with a modest tip of the head, taking a few steps forward, eyeing the gun held loosely in his hand. This was no poxy imitation, designed to put the fear of God into an unsuspecting public unable to tell the difference; it was the real deal, most definitely loaded. Having faced a lethal weapon before, the sight of the firearm made Hank’s stomach churn. Gun-related crime was on the increase, especially in the capital, illegal firearms easy to come by if you knew where to source one. The black market was a growing industry, London topping the pole for firearms offences.

  Brian remembered the day he’d intervened in an attempt on Hank Gormley’s life. That scumbag O’Kane had shot him in full view of tourists forced to flee the scene. Hank had dropped like a stone, down and almost out, blood seeping from a chest wound, chaos all around: tourists going apeshit, screaming and running for their lives, their trip to foreign shores unforgettable in a way not described in their holiday brochures. When O’Kane raised his gun a second time and took aim, keen to finish the job, Brian had a call to make.

  Had he not acted, O’Kane would have pulled the trigger. Job done, he’d have walked away unperturbed. That split-second decision was costly, forcing Brian to shift his operation from Spain. A brief ‘adios amigos’ telephone conversation with Hank in the middle of the night leading him to believe that the two shared the same dry sense of humour, that had they not been on opposing sides, they might even have been friends. The undying impression he took from the call was that Hank was cool in a crisis. And so it proved as he approached across the warehouse floor …

  ‘Thanks to you, my wife still has a husband,’ he said. ‘I’d have brought some beers to celebrate, but
you’ve already been crowned a hero on social media, probably the only time in your life you’ve received good press.’

  ‘Aye, nearly bought me a fucking cape.’

  Hank laughed. Copper or not, he liked Brian.

  ‘How much did you see that day?’ the Glaswegian asked.

  ‘The wrong end of a gun barrel, O’Kane being dragged away. Didn’t know if he’d been hit and dropped the gun, or if the gun had gone off as your guys bundled him into a car.’

  ‘What did you tell Kate afterwards?’

  ‘Not a lot. Didn’t need to, it was all captured on CCTV. You think she gave a stuff about O’Kane? Whatever you were doing to him, she hoped it hurt like hell. What you did to her, she was less happy about. Waking a lady while she’s sleeping, tying her up, that’s not nice.’

  ‘She doesn’t scare easily, your guv’nor.’

  She was terrified, but Hank wasn’t about to stroke the ego of the man he was facing, much as he owed him. Kate had woken in the early hours to find Brian at the bottom of her bed, smoking a cigar. To ensure that he had her full attention, he’d secured her to the bedhead with heavy-duty cable ties, stark naked. She didn’t argue on account of the fact that he was armed. Hank wondered if it was the same gun he was holding now.

  Probably not.

  Somehow, fuck knows how, this hardman had knowledge of Kate’s association with Jo Soulsby, as well as the bad blood that existed between Kate and her old man, private stuff half the MIT weren’t party to until very recently. It was leverage, should Brian ever need to use it. Now Hank came to think of it, he probably knew everything about his own family, too. All very worrying.

  ‘How come you know so much about her?’ he asked.

  ‘Money talks.’

  Hank couldn’t argue with the cliché. There had been no smirk on Brian’s face as he said it. The comment was a statement of fact. He was a businessman with an eye on the opposition, tactics employed by every successful commercial enterprise. Being part of the criminal fraternity didn’t equal dim. Nikolaev’s wealth was testament to that.

  ‘Your DCI is gutsy,’ Brian said, ‘a mouth on her that would go down well at an Old Firm fixture.’

  Hank couldn’t help but smile at Brian’s reference to the Celtic–Rangers rivalry, often characterised by violence, slanging matches and bad language between the opposing football fans. He’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation.

  ‘Didn’t I say as much when we last spoke?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, you did, and you were right. She cracks me up, like Bright used to in the old days. He was a “shouty-mouth dynamo” too. Congrats, pal. You nailed her in three words.’ Brian paused a moment, studying Hank. ‘Would you really have traded places to save her skin?’

  ‘In a heartbeat.’

  ‘She must be quite a woman—’

  ‘Worth saving … most days.’

  ‘Well, if she’d have done her job, grabbed O’Kane and fucked off home, I wouldn’t have been forced to intervene—’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s how she sees it.’

  ‘She can please her arse. His death and your life was my gift to her—’

  ‘Isn’t it the case that you’d already made up your mind to finish him before he caught up with you? It was never going to end well, was it?’

  ‘Careful, Hank. That sounds like a self-defence plea …’ Brian held back the smile developing at the corner of his mouth. ‘Makes you so sure it was me who did the business anyhow?’

  ‘If it wasn’t, you gave the order.’

  ‘And I’d do it again. I told Kate where she could find O’Kane. That must count for something, even to the pigs. You need to work on your gratitude, pal.’

  Hank was poker-faced. ‘C’mon, Brian. I wasn’t born yesterday. You had your reasons for killing O’Kane. What better way to do it than in the defence of a polis, right? A hero, I heard. I hope it plays well for you in court when the Spaniards catch up with you, because they will. Be honest, you did it to get us off your back, and took Kate’s number as insurance—’

  ‘Looks like I’m busted. What are you going to do about it?’

  Hank raised both arms. ‘Not a damned thing.’

  ‘Thought not. Dereliction of duty is more Kate’s bag than yours—’

  ‘Fuck off! Unless you know something I don’t, you didn’t execute anyone on our patch. Police Scotland are investigating the murder of Finn O’Kane, and Craig is a matter for the Spanish authorities. Kate has enough on her plate without coming after you.’

  ‘I stand corrected … Still, she kept her big mouth shut, and I’m ready to return the favour. Like I told her at the time, my snouts are loyal. The best. Because of them, I have something she desperately needs—’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You threatened to kill her.’

  ‘Isn’t that a criminal offence?’

  ‘Last I looked.’

  ‘I was buying myself time, you divvi. I owe her. I’d never hurt her … unless I had to. There’s a deal to be done here.’

  Brian picked up a plank of wood and threw it on the fire, sending sparks flying across the dark warehouse. He pointed to a rusting, upturned barrel, a makeshift seat. ‘Why don’t you take the weight off while we have a wee chat?’ He got up, approached Hank, handing him a cigar, offering a light to go with it: Mr Polite. ‘You’re meddling in my business, Hank. We could fall out over it.’

  ‘What do you want, Brian?’

  ‘A meeting with Kate … for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Nice try.’ Hank shook his head, puffing out a cloud of smoke, eyeballing the Glaswegian. ‘That’s never going to happen.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘What’s your plan? You give her something and she rolls over? You underestimate her.’ Hank held Brian’s gaze. ‘And since when did you become a grass? I’d have thought that was beneath you.’

  ‘Doesn’t sit well, to be honest—’

  ‘Anyhow, Kate can’t help, sorry. She’s up north—’

  ‘Is she shite! You two are joined at the hip.’

  Hank didn’t respond.

  Brian made him wait for the killer punch. ‘I reckon she’s at the Casualty Bureau, bawling her eyes out. No reflection on her. This plane crash must’ve fucked with her head, Jo Soulsby being on the passenger list. I know stuff that’ll put your boss in the picture. Question is, will you deliver it, or do I have to go find her myself?’ The implied threat didn’t register in Hank’s eyes, but Brian wasn’t fooled. ‘Do you really want to be the one withholding crucial information?’ He paused. ‘No, I didn’t think so. She’ll listen to you, so why don’t you toddle off and talk to her while the offer is still on the table. If this is a goer, tell her to visit her favourite pub, sit by the pay phone and await instructions. She comes alone.’

  60

  In the fifteen minutes since Hank left to meet Brian, Kate had been sitting alone in the car, lights off, window open, eyes fixed on a derelict warehouse. As a diversion, she used her police mobile to call the hospital. Her father was making progress, out of bed and taking gentle exercise. Next she attempted to call Fiona to tell her that Jo had been located before she saw it in the press. Journalists would jump on a good news story once they realised that 0113 had a survivor, albeit not from the crash.

  The phone went straight to voicemail.

  Kate hesitated before leaving a brief message. Finally, she called Jo. There were so many things she wanted to say to her, but none came out of her mouth. She was worried sick, too concerned to discuss anything other than Hank’s venture into uncharted territory in pursuit of information that might ID those who’d brought down the flight, killing everyone on board.

  But first, a warning …

  ‘Be careful,’ Kate said. ‘This call may be monitored.’ Garcia hadn’t had his mitts on this device, but Kate was taking no chances. She didn’t mention who might be monitoring the call. Jo was very well aware tha
t Kate had dropped everything to travel to the capital in search of her. And that, once there, she’d continue to offer assistance to whoever asked for it. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that it was either the British Security Service or another high-profile group.

  ‘Noted,’ Jo said. ‘Are you OK?’

  Kate was definitely not OK.

  Brian might be keen to trade, but he was still a wanted man looking at life imprisonment if captured by the police. It was a volatile situation, Kate in two minds whether to follow him into that warehouse. A trigger-happy associate might open fire at the slightest wrong move: a detective’s hand slipped inside a breast pocket; a sudden noise in the background; the sight of one officer that might mean five, ten or twenty, tooled up and ready to use force.

  ‘Kate, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m worried about Hank.’

  ‘Why? You two haven’t fallen out over me, have you?’

  ‘He’s gone to meet an informant.’

  ‘So? He’s done it a hundred times—’

  ‘Yeah, but this one is unpredictable, with nothing left to lose.’ It was a heavy hint that Jo was guaranteed to understand. She was a pro, as switched on as any detective Kate had ever known.

  When she’d returned from Spain’s Costa Blanca two years ago, shaken up by events over there, including Brian’s part in it, Jo was the perfect sounding board. They had talked about him a lot, including the fact that he had ‘nothing left to lose’ and the guilt Kate was feeling over Hank’s near-death experience. As a highly trained and respected psychologist, Jo had tapped into that immediately, using her expertise to help Kate over it, offering unconditional support, good judgement and opinions that made her feel better …

  Marginally.

  She couldn’t repeat the process now, not over the phone, and had no doubt worked out who Hank had gone to meet.