by Mari Hannah
Dedication
For Oli
May you always feel that tingle
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Six Weeks Later
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for the Author
Also by Mari Hannah
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The third blow sent Terry Allen crashing to the floor, striking his head on the toilet bowl on the way down. He blacked out. For how long, he couldn’t be sure. When he came to, he didn’t know where he was, much less how he came to be there. It took a moment before he could focus, a moment longer to register what he was looking at: his broken watch stopped at 01:34, spent tab ends, discarded condoms, gum, the odd dead insect, a flash of red – the sole of a high-heeled shoe.
Grant’s club was heaving as usual, the seedier side of what Newcastle had to offer on a Friday night. Thumping music kicked its way through the walls into the gents. Just feet away, a punter was banging a local hooker up against the wall, too busy getting his end away to pay him any attention. There were some things worth turning a blind eye for. That tart for sure. She’d sell her soul for a line of coke. Terry had been there himself when his lass was in a strop and he was consigned to the spare room.
The music stopped suddenly and with it the vibration through the floor. The punter shagging the whore withdrew. Shoving her away, he told her to get lost in a voice Terry thought he recognized but couldn’t place. When she held out her hand for payment, the man cuffed her hard with the back of his hand, splitting her lip wide open. Giving him a mouthful, she got the same again, then scooped up her bag and disappeared.
Zipping up his flies, the man turned, a smirk crossing his ugly face as his gaze fell on Terry.
Terry closed his eyes, felt his stomach lurch. Now he remembered how he’d ended up on the floor and why it was so important to get the hell out of there. But his left cheek was stuck fast against cold tiles ingrained with muck. He was, quite literally, frozen to the spot, unable to summon the energy to fight. Despite an attempt to push them away, images scrolled through his mind, striking terror into him: pliers, hammers, blowtorches and chainsaws . . .
Friday the thirteenth was about to live up to its reputation.
Startled by the sound of splashing water, he turned his head to see where it was coming from. Not quick enough. A size-ten boot pressed down on his neck – a warning to stay put. Terry complied, senses on high alert. Then it began, as he knew it would, a blow to the back, delivered with such ferocity that he heard bones crack, the air forced from his lungs. As warm liquid made its way down the inside of his new Versace shirt, Terry braced himself. But it wasn’t blood trickling across his skin and pooling beneath him. He was being pissed on.
As the boot left his neck, a hand as big as a shovel grabbed him from behind. He was yanked to his feet and spun round, bringing him face-to-face with two pairs of the coldest eyes he’d ever seen: the O’Kane brothers – Glasgow’s finest – a pair with a penchant for torture. He could see they meant business.
Craig O’Kane leaned in close. ‘Give him up, Terry.’
Terry moistened his fat lip. ‘Fuck off.’
Spitting in Craig’s face was only inviting further punishment, but Terry had standards, a reputation to uphold. These heavies had just crossed an invisible line. There was no way he could let that go. He was scared. Undoubtedly. But he’d rather die than let them know he was in the least bit intimidated. Despite their obvious advantage over him, he feigned indifference.
Wiping Terry’s blood and snot from his face, Craig nodded to his brother.
Finn didn’t need telling twice. Raising a baseball bat high above his head, an evil glint in his eye, he brought it down hard on Terry’s shoulder. Then he paused for a moment, a broad smile on his face as he savoured the sight of his victim clutching himself in agony, before hitting him again.
Terry cried out as a succession of blows rained down on him, each one harder than the last. On the deck now, he curled up into a ball, using his good arm to protect his head from the worst of it, taking full-on kicks to the body from both men. He knew he’d be wasting his breath begging them to stop. There would be no mercy from these two. Craig and Finn O’Kane were hell-bent on getting what they came for. Despite the pain, Terry was equally determined they would go home empty-handed.
Suddenly the blows stopped, but there was no respite from the terror. Terry knew all too well the consequences of going up against the O’Kanes. He’d seen the damage they could do when riled, the hideous injuries they had inflicted on those stupid enough to get on the wrong side of them: shattered bones, amputations, burns – even blindness for one poor sod. Resisting them was suicide.
Terry shivered, listening to them panting after their exertions, wondering what was coming next.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t let his brother go the same way.
‘Get the bolt cutters,’ Finn said.
Six Weeks Later
1
David Prentice had been a security guard for over twenty-five years, nearly half his life. He’d worked on the Silverlink Industrial Estate the last ten. In all that time there had never been a single incident on his watch. Nights were a pain, but he wasn’t complaining. His line of work was, more or less, money for old rope. A piece of piss, in fact, allowing him time to study digital photography with the OU.
What was not to like?
Lifting his head from his prospectus, he took a long drag on his cigarette, rechecking his monitors. Perfect. Nothing to suggest he’d have to make the boring journey round th
e perimeter fence at five, no unusual sightings to report in the logbook. It was still. Quiet. He yawned. He’d be home and hosed by six-fifteen. Except . . .
Something wasn’t quite right.
Prentice peered again at the monitors. The last one he looked at showed a van straddling the main gate. It wasn’t there before. Pushing buttons on a keyboard, Prentice zoomed in on the vehicle, its driver’s door wide open – no sign of its owner. The van was parked on the access road, so technically not his problem, but it soon would be if the idiot who’d left it there didn’t get it shifted. Half an hour from now, delivery wagons were scheduled to arrive. Prentice imagined them backed up all the way to the coast road, waiting to get in.
Panicking, he rewound the footage.
A short while ago, he’d eaten his bait and taken a quick slash. He’d been out of his chair only a matter of minutes. In that time, two sets of headlights had approached the main gate at high speed: the mystery van and a light-coloured Range Rover following close behind. Prentice began to sweat as he viewed the screen. The two vehicles pulled up sharply. The van door flew open and a figure sprinted from one vehicle to the other. Before the door of the four-by-four was even closed, it was driven away at high speed, resulting in rear-wheel spin. It disappeared, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake.
What the hell was all that about?
Pulling on his uniform jacket, Prentice picked up his torch and went to investigate. As he walked to the exit, it occurred to him that what he’d seen might have been a diversionary tactic, a ruse to make him take his eye off the ball. The guy he’d seen running from the van and his accomplice could be parked around the back, ready to ram-raid the place. To be on the safe side, he returned to his office, rechecking his monitors, paying particular attention to the perimeter fence.
Satisfied that there was nothing untoward at the rear, he made his way outside. As he hurried towards the main gate, a distance of around a hundred metres, his eyes nervously scanned the delivery yard. It was a beautifully clear morning. Not yet light. Eerily quiet. No sign of anyone, suspicious or otherwise. His breathing slowed, returning to normal. Probably some daft kids messing around in a stolen vehicle. They had little discipline these days and fewer boundaries. What the parents were up to was anyone’s guess.
Digging inside his pocket, Prentice took out his master key, then thought better of it and put it back, deciding to remain on site, call the police and set the monkey on their backs, as his late wife used to say.
They’re paid a damn sight more than you.
Mrs P was right – they were.
Intent on getting away home on the dot of six, Prentice looked up, the flap-flap of the company flag above drawing his attention. The only other sound was the soft purr from the van’s engine as he neared the main gate. Switching on his torch, he aimed it at the open driver’s door. The vehicle was a newish Mercedes. Along the side panel, a sign spelled out a company name: HARDY’S ROOFERS. Beneath it, a website address and contact details were picked out in bold black lettering.
As he fumbled in his pocket for his mobile, Prentice decided it would be quicker and easier to contact the company direct rather than calling the law. The police would no doubt insist on a forensic examination and all sorts of other bollocks before the vehicle could be moved, leaving him stuck on site till lunchtime. Not to mention the shit he’d be in with his boss if he arrived to find the entrance blocked off.
The number rang out unanswered. He scanned the van again, moving the torch-beam to the rear wheels where something glistened, thick and shiny like oil, dripping on to the road below, pooling beneath the vehicle.
Oh Jesus!
Prentice ran.
2
It had been a hell of a night in the A & E department of the Royal Victoria Infirmary. Since midnight there had been a steady stream of walking wounded, as well as emergency admissions brought in by ambulance, some with blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, the whole works. At last count, a hundred-plus cases had been booked in: heart attacks, strokes, a small child rushed in with meningitis, casualties from multiple RTAs. Bursting at the seams, the department had coped – but only just. Then it all went quiet.
Totally spent, Senior House Officer Valerie Armstrong glanced around the waiting room, sipping cold tea she’d been given half an hour ago, relieved to have survived the general mayhem in the run-up to the August bank holiday weekend. Apart from one confused old man who’d just taken a seat, there wasn’t another punter in sight. The place looked as if it had been burgled: wheelchairs abandoned at the door, chairs tipped over, food wrappers and polystyrene cups discarded everywhere, a baby’s nappy dumped on the floor next to, of all things, an empty vodka bottle. She couldn’t remember a night like it.
Behind a thick glass screen to her left, the department’s twenty-year-old temporary receptionist looked done in. Louise was leaning on the counter, head propped up in the palm of her right hand, ID clipped to the pocket of a tight-fitting white shirt, a pretty silver chain around her neck.
Stifling a yawn, she took in the clock on the wall.
‘What time you due to knock off?’ she asked.
Valerie checked her watch. ‘’Bout an hour and a half,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to crash.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed an unattended patient lying on a trolley in the corridor, just his head showing above the covers. To be fair to Louise, he was only partially visible from where she was sitting. But still . . .
The SHO pointed at the trolley. ‘Whose patient?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Maybe Dr Suri’s . . . or Dr Templeton’s.’
She was blatantly guessing.
Valerie didn’t think much to either suggestion. Both doctors were long gone. She’d passed them in the corridor as she came back in after collecting her breakfast from her car. On call since midday, they’d had their coats on and were on the way out of the building.
‘No,’ she said. ‘They’ve gone off duty.’
‘Roger’s then?’ Another guess.
A staff nurse appeared, a manila folder under her arm, calling out to the old man. As the two shuffled off behind a brightly coloured curtain, Valerie glanced at a box on the wall where patient records were kept for those awaiting treatment. Curiously, it was empty. Her eyes shifted from the box to the man on the trolley, then back to Louise.
She tried not to sound cross. ‘Any idea how long he’s been waiting?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’ Louise looked worried.
Valerie attempted a smile of reassurance.
If in doubt, ask the patient.
She set off to do just that. But as she drew closer, her steps faltered, an inexplicable feeling of dread eating its way into her subconscious. Seized by panic, she stopped short of the trolley and glanced nervously over her shoulder at reception. Louise barely acknowledged her. Valerie’s gaze shifted back to the patient. Steeling herself, she stepped forward, placed index and middle fingers on his neck. His skin was cold to the touch. No pulse. No need to call for the crash team. He was as dead as a stone.
3
Dawn was breaking as Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels’ Audi Q5 sped off the coast road en route to Silverlink Industrial Estate, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley by her side. She was strangely apprehensive. Word from the control room had reached her only half an hour ago. The incident she was rushing towards was serious. As duty Senior Investigating Officer in Northumbria Police’s Murder Investigation Team, that was a given. However, something in the controller’s voice had raised her antennae, putting her on high alert for a case outside of the norm.
‘Sounds nasty,’ yawned Hank. He was barely awake.
‘Maybe the eyewitness got it wrong.’ Indicating left off the roundabout, Kate stopped at a red light, glancing at him as they waited to move off again. ‘You know what they’re like sometimes. In the dark they see things that aren’t there. Panic sets in and we get half a story.’
‘Maybe,’ Hank said hopefully.
The lights changed to green. Kate floored the accelerator, keen to reach her destination. But as she rounded the corner, she was met with a sight that forced her to slam on the brakes, bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt that nearly put them both through the windscreen.
‘Or maybe not,’ she said drily, her eyes glued to the road ahead.
The crime scene was bigger than either of them could have imagined. Blue lights flashed at either end of an access road empty of civilians but crawling with police personnel. Traffic officers had blocked off the grey strip of tarmac for as far as the eye could see. Arc lights were being erected and forensic officers in white suits were walking the line, placing tread plates every metre or so, a process that was ongoing.
Without another word passing between them, Kate and Hank got out of the car, ducking under crime-scene tape that warned others not to cross. As they neared a grey Mercedes van – the focus of everyone’s attention – they saw Home Office pathologist Tim Stanton on his knees in full forensic kit, the hood of which was pulled tight around his head to ensure no contamination of evidence.
He looked up, a pained expression on his face.
From where Kate was standing, it was impossible to tell what he’d been looking at. But his eyes held a warning: This is not something either of you want to see. Receiving his unspoken message, Kate sent Hank to find the witness who had called the incident in. Only after he’d disappeared did she step forward, all the while hoping that her imagination was conjuring up worse images than she was about to view.
She was wrong.
Her heart rate increased as her tired eyes travelled down the side of the van to a place near the rear offside wheel. Despite the urge to look away, she knew she couldn’t. No matter how gruesome a spectacle, she was paid to investigate murder. She couldn’t afford to buckle. Still, she found it hard to make sense of what her eyes were transmitting to her brain, even harder to quell the silent scream inside her.
Suspended from the underside of the roofer’s van was the naked torso of a white male – or what was left of it – a mangled mess of bloody flesh, missing limbs, a gaping jaw . . .
