Allen was to be believed, and Kate had no reason to suspect otherwise, she had done her utmost to bring up her sons in difficult circumstances. The fact that she’d failed
miserably was immaterial. John and Terry were inherently dishonest. Despite her assertion that they were nonviolent, the DCI knew different. They were like their late father. Anyone who got in
their way ended up being leaned on heavily – and they didn’t make the same mistake again.
Kate pushed the paper away and pictured the scene back at the incident room. An information-gathering exercise would be well underway. She’d asked for a full history of the Allen family.
Her team would be liaising with their Scottish counterparts to discover the circumstances surrounding their move south of the border. Would it have made a difference had they done it sooner? Jo
would tell her it would. It was a child’s formative years that were so important. By the time they reached adolescence, it was already too late.
What a bloody waste.
Pulling out her phone, Kate texted Carmichael, asking if she’d come up with anything that might throw light on what the two men had done to deserve such vicious treatment. Almost
immediately, she received a text back: Negative.
Kate replied: Keep on it.
As she pocketed her phone, she glanced up at the mirrored tiles behind the bar and caught sight of the man she was looking for exiting the gents. A flash of recognition crossed his face as their
eyes met. He gave a nod, almost imperceptible, a signal that he’d seen her. He didn’t look happy. No wonder; he knew she was there to give him grief.
Wishing she could down the lot, Kate took a small sip of her gin and placed the glass back down on the counter. When she looked up, the man she’d made contact with had gone. That
didn’t concern her. They had an arrangement that if he saw her hanging around he would make his way to the Cumberland Arms. That would be where he’d gone . . .
She hoped.
She gave it a moment longer, then set off to find him. It was breezy outside, busy with pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be hurrying on a mission, as if their lives depended on them getting
from A to B as quickly as possible. Hers too was urgent. As she made her way to the rendezvous point, she thought about her use of informants over the years, a practice widespread in every police
force. In the fight against organized crime, snouts came in handy. Kate was a true believer; she knew from experience that trading favours solved crimes. The introduction of regulations had
complicated matters. Informants now had to be registered, placed on ‘Form A’, money and the possibility of a reduced sentence the only carrots officers were allowed to dangle in
exchange for information.
That was the official line.
Problem:
Towner was unregistered.
The only form he’d appear on was a charge sheet – assuming he failed to deliver. But that was the least of Kate’s worries. If she got caught not playing by the rules it would
be a disciplinary offence.
C’est la vie
– she had a double murder to solve.
T he Cumberland Arms was a popular, arty pub tucked away on James Place Street near Byker Bridge, a few minutes’ drive from the city centre. Towner – not his real
name – was sitting outside at a picnic bench, a fresh pint in front of him and something cool and non-alcoholic for her. Kate put on her sunglasses as she approached his table. She straddled
the bench, held up her drink.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he grunted. ‘You owe me seven quid.’
Same ol’ Towner.
Setting her glass down, Kate slipped a twenty beneath his pint. Cast her eyes over him. She hadn’t seen him for almost three years. They had met around the turn of the century. He’d
come begging her to turn a blind eye to his sister’s misdemeanours; in exchange he’d offered information on a major drugs deal that was about to go down. With a little gentle
persuasion, he’d
miserably was immaterial. John and Terry were inherently dishonest. Despite her assertion that they were nonviolent, the DCI knew different. They were like their late father. Anyone who got in
their way ended up being leaned on heavily – and they didn’t make the same mistake again.
Kate pushed the paper away and pictured the scene back at the incident room. An information-gathering exercise would be well underway. She’d asked for a full history of the Allen family.
Her team would be liaising with their Scottish counterparts to discover the circumstances surrounding their move south of the border. Would it have made a difference had they done it sooner? Jo
would tell her it would. It was a child’s formative years that were so important. By the time they reached adolescence, it was already too late.
What a bloody waste.
Pulling out her phone, Kate texted Carmichael, asking if she’d come up with anything that might throw light on what the two men had done to deserve such vicious treatment. Almost
immediately, she received a text back: Negative.
Kate replied: Keep on it.
As she pocketed her phone, she glanced up at the mirrored tiles behind the bar and caught sight of the man she was looking for exiting the gents. A flash of recognition crossed his face as their
eyes met. He gave a nod, almost imperceptible, a signal that he’d seen her. He didn’t look happy. No wonder; he knew she was there to give him grief.
Wishing she could down the lot, Kate took a small sip of her gin and placed the glass back down on the counter. When she looked up, the man she’d made contact with had gone. That
didn’t concern her. They had an arrangement that if he saw her hanging around he would make his way to the Cumberland Arms. That would be where he’d gone . . .
She hoped.
She gave it a moment longer, then set off to find him. It was breezy outside, busy with pedestrians, all of whom seemed to be hurrying on a mission, as if their lives depended on them getting
from A to B as quickly as possible. Hers too was urgent. As she made her way to the rendezvous point, she thought about her use of informants over the years, a practice widespread in every police
force. In the fight against organized crime, snouts came in handy. Kate was a true believer; she knew from experience that trading favours solved crimes. The introduction of regulations had
complicated matters. Informants now had to be registered, placed on ‘Form A’, money and the possibility of a reduced sentence the only carrots officers were allowed to dangle in
exchange for information.
That was the official line.
Problem:
Towner was unregistered.
The only form he’d appear on was a charge sheet – assuming he failed to deliver. But that was the least of Kate’s worries. If she got caught not playing by the rules it would
be a disciplinary offence.
C’est la vie
– she had a double murder to solve.
T he Cumberland Arms was a popular, arty pub tucked away on James Place Street near Byker Bridge, a few minutes’ drive from the city centre. Towner – not his real
name – was sitting outside at a picnic bench, a fresh pint in front of him and something cool and non-alcoholic for her. Kate put on her sunglasses as she approached his table. She straddled
the bench, held up her drink.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he grunted. ‘You owe me seven quid.’
Same ol’ Towner.
Setting her glass down, Kate slipped a twenty beneath his pint. Cast her eyes over him. She hadn’t seen him for almost three years. They had met around the turn of the century. He’d
come begging her to turn a blind eye to his sister’s misdemeanours; in exchange he’d offered information on a major drugs deal that was about to go down. With a little gentle
persuasion, he’d
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