Without a Trace

by Mari Hannah

  This is what law enforcers were up against.

  Kate’s mobile rang: Robbo.

  ‘Boss, apologies for not coming back to you before now. I just wanted to let you know that no one has been asking after you specifically. I’ve spoken to everyone in the office, police and civilians, even the front desk, in case they took a call they couldn’t immediately transfer to the incident room—’

  ‘It’s not important now. Sorry, I should’ve cancelled my request – the narrative has changed, Robbo. I’m flat out here, and I know you are too.’

  ‘Bright told me we have a credible lead, but wouldn’t say where it came from.’

  ‘Nobody needs to know where it came from, including you. Take it as read. The important thing is that we have a linked incident that’s drug-related, possibly cartel-related. You said yourself, no one up north will talk. You need to find someone who will.’

  The line was open but Robbo didn’t respond. He was probably pissed off that she hadn’t shared the name of her informant.

  ‘Robbo?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  Kate detected resentment in his voice. ‘We’re not freezing you out, mate. I need you on your toes. The people we’re after prefer to solve their own problems. Nikolaev’s death is part of that. His objective was to get rid of the competition. We still don’t know who the competition is, but we have reason to believe that the head of a rival gang was on that plane.’ She remembered that he was an old pal of a DS in the drug squad. What Pete Brady didn’t know about the underworld wasn’t worth knowing. ‘Put the feelers out with Pete but give nothing away. Tap your informants. Call me if you find anything.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Time to bolster his flagging ego.

  ‘This is your chance to shine, Robbo.’

  ‘I won’t let you down, boss.’

  Kate disconnected, hoping he could handle an enquiry this wide-ranging. She couldn’t help noticing that Hank’s head was down. There were many foreign-sounding names on the passenger manifest. Before she took Robbo’s call, Hank had intimated that most of the 0113 passengers would be innocent travellers in transit, merely passing through JFK en route to somewhere else. Garcia agreed, pointed out that New York had the largest foreign-born population of any city in the world. He was the son of a Portuguese immigrant who’d arrived in the US when he was a child; Torres of Italian descent, like Esposito, the woman they’d had dealings with in Heathrow.

  The world was shrinking.

  Across the room, Torres was on the phone, feet up on her desk, the epitome of cool, despite the fact that the person on other end was giving her a hard time. It brought to mind Kate’s conversation with Bright. Internal politics was part of the job, something both women had to cope with. Kate was impressed with Torres’ professionalism. The SAC had clout. Based on nothing more than the say-so of a man whose identity she still didn’t know – and a few snippets of information that supported his theory from the MIT – she was trying to persuade a big cheese in Homeland Security that a preliminary criminal investigation, led by air accident investigators and UK police, rather than US special agents concerned with anti-terrorism, was the way to go.

  So far, she was holding her own.

  ‘Sir, as of this morning, the most senior detective from one of the largest police forces in the UK has officially linked 0113 to the murder of a billionaire in the north of England,’ she said. ‘The murder victim was Yulian Nikolaev, kingpin of a Russian drug-running syndicate. We have reason to believe that his successor may be getting ready to avenge his death. Let me be clear: at this stage I’m not asking for anyone to be stood down …’

  Just as well, Kate thought, because MI5 weren’t listening.

  Two days ago, Bright had flown to London, briefing top officials, including the Home Secretary, on the possibility that 0113 might not have anything to do with terrorism. His suggestion that it was part of a war between rival factions in the murky underworld was met with ridicule. Kate hoped, prayed, that she’d discover the truth of it, handing him the evidence that would prove him right.

  ‘No, I agree,’ Torres said. ‘It’s too early to make that call, but I’m prepared to accept that Detective Chief Inspector Daniels has stumbled upon vital intelligence that will take us closer to a resolution. Yes, that is correct. To run an enquiry on the scale outlined, I’m under no illusion that we require as much technical expertise as we can lay our hands on, from wherever we can get it. Yes, sir, thank you … yes, I’ll keep you updated as and when we have anything to report.’

  Kate began to relax.

  Torres hung up and threw down her pen. Cupping her hands behind her head, she took a breather. Though she remained convinced that the case was beginning to turn on its head, despite exhaustive enquiries on both sides of the Atlantic by Homeland Security agents and Northumbria detectives, things were not moving fast enough for her liking, or those of her superiors, a thought she verbalised in the strongest possible terms, frustration finally getting the better of someone normally so unflappable.

  Her eyes were on Kate. ‘I’m sticking my neck out here. We can’t work in a vacuum. You need to lean on your contact.’

  ‘Won’t do any good,’ Kate said. ‘If he had an ID, he’d have passed it on.’

  ‘It’s been a while since you two spoke.’

  Kate scooped her mobile off her desk, making out that she was checking the screen. Unbeknown to Torres, she’d called Brian several times, leaving messages to no avail. If she had a mind to, Kate could find their rendezvous, and knew the location of the warehouse where Brian met up with Hank, but she doubted it would yield results. If Brian was in danger, he was too clever to hide in a place he’d used before, a location where he might be found, by her or the people who might now be looking to kill him for speaking out.

  ‘I’ll make the call,’ Kate said.

  Torres hadn’t picked up on her anxiety. ‘Let’s back up a second. If Nikolaev struck first, he’ll have kept his hands clean, paying a hitman to do his dirty work for him. He or she might be the only one who knows the identity of his target.’

  ‘Find the hitman, find the target,’ Kate said.

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’ Garcia was being facetious, the first time he’d spoken up without being asked to. ‘I’ll make some calls, ma’am, but your shooter will be long gone, assuming he’s still breathing. For all we know, Nikolaev’s successor may have taken him out already. If he’s also dead, we’re screwed.’

  ‘It would explain why Nikolaev’s crew – the few we know of – are shitting themselves up north,’ Hank said. ‘With any luck, they’ll off each other and we can all go home.’

  Kate tried to lift them. ‘Take a break, you two. We’re good for this. If we can’t find the hitman, we keep searching until we find the target, however long it takes. No one on that flight is in a hurry, and their families want this done right …’ Her eyes found the giant aircraft-shaped seating plan pinned to the wall, complete with the names of passengers according to the seats they had booked. ‘I won’t rest until we crack this case.’

  Torres glanced at Kate. ‘What’s the latest intel?’

  ‘Northumbria MIT are flat out. Nikolaev’s crew aren’t about to implicate themselves in any criminal activity, much less the murder of a competitor, but according to the eyes and ears on the street, they’re growing increasingly nervous, and not necessarily about us. They’re hunkered down, expecting a further backlash.’ Kate made a judgement call. ‘Hank and I need to head home.’

  71

  They took the evening flight out of Heathrow, touching down in Newcastle ten minutes ahead of schedule at nine fifteen. It was pouring with rain, a chill in the air as they disembarked, not that either of them cared. Even walking across the tarmac towards the terminal building, the difference in air quality was noticeable. They were thrilled to be on home soil, a chance to review the investigation into Nikolaev’s murder in case Robbo had missed anything.

  As they waited
to reclaim their kit from the carousel, Kate thought about her time in the baggage shed. On the face of it, her undercover assignment hadn’t yielded much; a couple of arrests for pilfering, but flagging Patterson had ultimately led to Brian, who might yet prove to be instrumental in resolving the investigation into 0113.

  He’d since gone cold on her.

  Worrying.

  As she stood there watching luggage of all shapes and sizes slide through the strip curtain, the scrum of passengers sharpening elbows waiting to collect it, fragments of their conversation replayed in her head: What would you say if I told you that you’re looking in the wrong direction? You need to head home. You won’t find the answers to your air disaster here. Well, in the short term, Kate was home.

  What now?

  That question prompted others. How would she go about investigating Brian’s claims? Where would she begin to unravel the assassination of two high-profile figures, one a Russian citizen, the other as yet unidentified? Numbers of drug-related deaths in the US and UK were staggering, associated murders and sudden disappearances almost as bad. The drug squad had been on the blower to Hank, pointing out that Nikolaev had outfought several rivals in a bid for domination. He was alleged to have amassed a fortune from his trafficking exploits. His crew would be looking to continue in this vein. These people were scum. The North-East had the highest mortality rate from drug misuse. If the likes of Nikolaev had their way, that situation would remain.

  Then there was the ‘other’ problem …

  Since the assault by Brian’s young cohort, Kate had experienced a few memory issues. She’d not shared that with anyone, not even Hank, putting on the appearance that she was fully functional – a competent, seasoned professional going about her business – when it was far from the truth. All week, she’d had a sense that Brian had said more than she’d been able to recall, stuff she should’ve fed to Torres. That onerous thought brought with it a sense of foreboding and frustration, like she’d lost pieces of a jigsaw she was desperate to finish. Only when they were located would the complete picture emerge.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d felt like this. Finding missing fragments of information went with the territory – the only way was to trace, interview and eliminate suspects – but there was a fundamental difference between that and what Kate was experiencing now. She wasn’t grasping at something she didn’t know, but something she did.

  In her peripheral vision, Hank wandered off.

  Kate now wished she’d taken him with her when she went to meet Brian. Clichéd though it may be, two heads really were better than one. By nature, she was a practical person. If a problem presented itself, she felt compelled to solve it, even if it meant breaking protocol. In order to secure intelligence that might help Torres, she’d been forced to play by Brian’s rules, and now she was off her game.

  Coppers couldn’t afford that luxury, but she’d allowed her emotions to cloud her judgement as she had when she was looking for Jo. Kate had to put that behind her now and move on with a complex case that demanded her full attention. It must take priority over all else – and still that missing jigsaw piece refused to surface. Shutting her eyes, she replayed her conversation with Brian, walking herself through it, as she would in a cognitive interview with a suspect. She saw it like a video game, transporting her to that disused garage, a smoking cigar, a dusty floor, the inspection pits and her anxiety over what might already have been buried in them, her fear that one wrong move might see her run out of road. She recalled her surprise when Brian talked of a global feud between major players and her gut reaction to it.

  That was her sticking point …

  Try as she might, she couldn’t get past it.

  ‘Kate?’

  The monologue was still running. Then, at the precise moment that Hank called out to her a second time – louder now, in an attempt to gain her attention – the elusive information clicked into place, like a roulette ball coming to rest in a pocket bearing the same number as the square where her chips were placed.

  An idea arrived instantaneously.

  She swore under her breath.

  ‘Too slow.’ Hauling his bag onto his shoulder, Hank walked towards her, an exasperated expression on his face.

  For a split second, Kate was confused. ‘For what?’

  ‘Your holdall. It’s on the magic roundabout. It sailed right by. Didn’t you see it?’ He lifted a hand, fending off a reply. ‘Oh, I get it. Grunt work, right?’

  ‘Sorry, I was distracted.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ He shook his head. ‘Be honest, Kate. You’ve been out of it since we left London. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Keep it down, Hank. You sound like a disgruntled husband and I’ve got the remains of a black eye. Not a good combination, is it?’ Kate spied the holdall before it disappeared through the strip curtain again. ‘There’s no need to lose your rag, I’ll get it next time round. If you’re in such a hurry, get yourself away. Whatever you do, don’t wait on my account.’

  He did, impatiently, and not out of politeness.

  Kate was famous for not paying attention when she was mulling over a problem. In such circumstances, her lack of focus wasn’t unprecedented, but neither was it the action of someone dying to get home, as Hank was.

  He stared at her. ‘Go on then, tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I just remembered something Brian told me. It completely slipped my mind.’

  ‘Nothing ever slips your mind—’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking straight, was I? Tattoo Man was busy rearranging my teeth.’

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘Brian heard a rumour that something had gone horribly wrong. I don’t know what he meant by it. I’ll have to ask him.’

  72

  The question remained: how, despite rigorous scrutiny at Heathrow, a bomb had managed to circumvent airport security to take out 0113? Kate chewed on this thorny question as she followed Hank from the baggage area, held up by dawdling parents with frazzled toddlers riding on luggage trolleys. Up ahead, one small boy took off, flying into the arms of his grandfather, his golden curls reminding Kate of Jack Harper, who’d never see his grandparents again.

  The DCI swallowed the lump in her throat.

  The sight of Julie and Ryan Gormley waiting at the barrier for Hank lifted her; a happy family reunion – smiles and hugs all round – as if Kate’s 2ic was a hero returning from a long-running conflict overseas. Feeling like she too had been engaged in battle, Kate could relate. Battered and bruised from her encounter with Brian’s yob – but with her memory throwing up an all-important missed beat – she couldn’t wait to pick up the reins with the Murder Investigation Team.

  Having been warned that she was heading home to the North-East, the squad had been fully briefed to expect her first thing in the morning. From now on, detectives from across the force would be working round the clock. As soon as she clapped eyes on Kate, Julie’s mouth formed the letter O. She turned on her husband, giving him a piece of her mind for not having protected his ‘other’ wife. Some of the passengers who followed them out were looking very confused. Julie wasn’t joking. She saw less of Hank than Kate did.

  ‘Believe me, I tried,’ Hank said in his defence.

  ‘Not hard enough,’ his wife said. ‘Look at the state of her!’

  ‘It’s a bruise,’ Kate said.

  ‘Yeah, on your face, not his.’ Julie held up her car keys. ‘C’mon, we’ll drop you at home.’

  Not wanting to intrude on Hank’s homecoming, Kate refused a lift, opting to take a cab to Holly Avenue where she lived, a short distance north of Newcastle in the leafy suburb of Jesmond, a fifteen-minute ride from the airport. She could have taken the Metro but couldn’t be arsed to walk even the short distance from the station at the other end. She was exhausted, the emotional fallout of the past couple of weeks taking its toll.

  She’d simply hit a wall.

  As the taxi pulled to the
kerb, Kate noticed two things: a light on inside the house and Jo’s car parked directly opposite. This time Kate had money to pay the driver and couldn’t get out of the cab fast enough.

  As it sped off, she practically ran up the path to her front door.

  Fumbling her key in the lock, she pushed it open, the smell of food, rich and meaty, and the sound of Mary Lambert ‘She Keeps Me Warm’ drifting out from the kitchen, the door of which stood ajar. The lyrics alone were enough to make her weep. They spoke of a woman not being able to change, even if she tried, even if she wanted to; a story Kate could identify with – and some.

  Squeezing past her Yamaha motorcycle, Kate hung her coat on a peg, dumping her kit on the floor, ignoring a neat stack of mail on the table. Ruffling her hair as she moved along the hallway, she wondered how Jo had managed to get in when she no longer had a key. She’d given hers to Fiona on the eve of her trip to New York, a signal that her relationship with Kate had run its course.

  Thankfully she hadn’t travelled.

  At the kitchen doorway, Kate lingered a moment, watching Jo stirring the contents of a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon. This was her favourite room in the house: all clean lines, modern appliances, bamboo blinds that gave the place an oriental feel, subdued lighting, downlights only. Licking a splodge of sauce from her left forefinger, she wiped her hand on the back of her skinny jeans and picked up a glass half full of red wine. Taking a sip, she replaced it on the counter. She turned, sensing that she was not alone.

  As their eyes met, Jo’s face lit up.

  If Kate could bottle that moment as a keepsake, she would.

  Leaning against the kitchen counter, Jo couldn’t fail to see how choked Kate was to arrive home and find her cooking dinner. Homing in on Kate’s black eye, an exaggerated frown appeared on Jo’s face as she tried to lift Kate from her melancholy mood. ‘Ouch!’ she said. ‘Either that hurt when you got it or you’re still undercover and in disguise.’