Manchester HQ. North was working a year or two back as a bodyguard for one of Lane’s business associates. Seems he branched out into contract killing. Not very successfully.’
‘Did he have any family?’
‘Survived by a mother and an older brother. No wife. No kids.’
It made Kate feel a little better to hear it. She’d been worrying about that. But still, a mother without a son. A man without a brother. And she was responsible.
‘I checked, by the way.’ Hanson glanced at Miller. ‘North was serving an eighteen-month sentence four years ago. He was locked up when Sarah and Melanie were killed.’
Miller closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. ‘Any concrete link to Lane? Something provable?’
‘I’ll keep looking but it’s unlikely they’ll have been that stupid.’
‘Do it anyway.’
Kate was still reeling but she couldn’t miss the hurt in Miller’s voice. She guessed he was probably haunted by the idea that the man who’d stolen his family from him was still out there, somewhere. She knew she would be.
‘Tell me the rules,’ she blurted, acting on a sudden impulse to distract him from his pain. ‘I’m ready for them now. I have to know what this is going to take.’
Chapter Fourteen
DS Jennifer Lloyd shunted the rusted bolt aside with the heel of her hand and shouldered the ill-fitting door, stepping out on to the flat roof of the National Crime Agency. It offered a spectacular view of St James’s Park and The Mall, but Lloyd headed in the opposite direction, leaning her forearms against the sooty masonry, looking over office buildings and rooftops towards the Thames, Waterloo station and beyond. London was a collision of murky greys and browns, splintered by the mirror-gleam flare of distant skyscrapers.
‘So this is where you sneak off to.’ Foster cupped a hand round her lighter and sparked a cigarette. ‘Young has a pool going. My money was on Commissioner Bennett’s office.’
‘Bad bet.’
‘Except your route up here takes you past Bennett’s office. Perfect for telling tales.’
Lloyd let the barb go, mostly because it was accurate.
‘About Young . . . ’ she began. ‘There’s a reason he’s pushing the theory that Connor Lane is behind whatever just happened on the Isle of Man.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Foster took a draw on her cigarette. ‘It’s because it’s the obvious theory to push.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Seriously? Lane has form for this. The only question is whether we can prove the link.’
‘Which we won’t.’
‘Way to build morale, Lloyd.’
‘I’m just saying what we all already know. Lane wouldn’t take a risk like this unless he was insulated from it.’
‘Just like four years ago.’
Lloyd hummed noncommittally and looked down twelve storeys to where a red double-decker was pulling into a bus stop. Commuters weaved along the pavements, checking phones, carrying coffee cups.
‘I read the file,’ Foster continued. ‘Think what you like about this team but I don’t just rely on hearsay. Young had his version. I wanted to make up my own mind.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did. And I agree with him.’
‘Based on the file.’
‘That’s right.’
Foster’s smoke was getting in Lloyd’s eyes. It was hard to tell if it was deliberate or not.
‘The thing is, the file was incomplete.’
‘I don’t think so. The name Nick Adams cropped up more than once.’
‘But not in one crucial respect.’
The file Foster was referring to was a report compiled by an outside investigation team that Lloyd had been part of four years ago. The team had been tasked with evaluating what, if any, mistakes had been made by the witness protection unit of Greater Manchester Police that might have contributed to the murders of Sarah and Melanie Adams. Nick Adams and his wife and daughter had been scheduled to be taken into witness protection on a temporary basis the morning after Sarah and Melanie were killed. The plan had been to relocate
‘Did he have any family?’
‘Survived by a mother and an older brother. No wife. No kids.’
It made Kate feel a little better to hear it. She’d been worrying about that. But still, a mother without a son. A man without a brother. And she was responsible.
‘I checked, by the way.’ Hanson glanced at Miller. ‘North was serving an eighteen-month sentence four years ago. He was locked up when Sarah and Melanie were killed.’
Miller closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. ‘Any concrete link to Lane? Something provable?’
‘I’ll keep looking but it’s unlikely they’ll have been that stupid.’
‘Do it anyway.’
Kate was still reeling but she couldn’t miss the hurt in Miller’s voice. She guessed he was probably haunted by the idea that the man who’d stolen his family from him was still out there, somewhere. She knew she would be.
‘Tell me the rules,’ she blurted, acting on a sudden impulse to distract him from his pain. ‘I’m ready for them now. I have to know what this is going to take.’
Chapter Fourteen
DS Jennifer Lloyd shunted the rusted bolt aside with the heel of her hand and shouldered the ill-fitting door, stepping out on to the flat roof of the National Crime Agency. It offered a spectacular view of St James’s Park and The Mall, but Lloyd headed in the opposite direction, leaning her forearms against the sooty masonry, looking over office buildings and rooftops towards the Thames, Waterloo station and beyond. London was a collision of murky greys and browns, splintered by the mirror-gleam flare of distant skyscrapers.
‘So this is where you sneak off to.’ Foster cupped a hand round her lighter and sparked a cigarette. ‘Young has a pool going. My money was on Commissioner Bennett’s office.’
‘Bad bet.’
‘Except your route up here takes you past Bennett’s office. Perfect for telling tales.’
Lloyd let the barb go, mostly because it was accurate.
‘About Young . . . ’ she began. ‘There’s a reason he’s pushing the theory that Connor Lane is behind whatever just happened on the Isle of Man.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Foster took a draw on her cigarette. ‘It’s because it’s the obvious theory to push.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Seriously? Lane has form for this. The only question is whether we can prove the link.’
‘Which we won’t.’
‘Way to build morale, Lloyd.’
‘I’m just saying what we all already know. Lane wouldn’t take a risk like this unless he was insulated from it.’
‘Just like four years ago.’
Lloyd hummed noncommittally and looked down twelve storeys to where a red double-decker was pulling into a bus stop. Commuters weaved along the pavements, checking phones, carrying coffee cups.
‘I read the file,’ Foster continued. ‘Think what you like about this team but I don’t just rely on hearsay. Young had his version. I wanted to make up my own mind.’
‘And did you?’
‘I did. And I agree with him.’
‘Based on the file.’
‘That’s right.’
Foster’s smoke was getting in Lloyd’s eyes. It was hard to tell if it was deliberate or not.
‘The thing is, the file was incomplete.’
‘I don’t think so. The name Nick Adams cropped up more than once.’
‘But not in one crucial respect.’
The file Foster was referring to was a report compiled by an outside investigation team that Lloyd had been part of four years ago. The team had been tasked with evaluating what, if any, mistakes had been made by the witness protection unit of Greater Manchester Police that might have contributed to the murders of Sarah and Melanie Adams. Nick Adams and his wife and daughter had been scheduled to be taken into witness protection on a temporary basis the morning after Sarah and Melanie were killed. The plan had been to relocate
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