The Longest Goodbye

Book 3: Kate Daniels

by Mari Hannah

Genres: LGBT Gay; International Crime & Mystery; Police Procedurals

Synopsis

LIES COST LIVES
THE BRAND NEW KATE DANIELS THRILLER

Three years ago police officer Georgina Ioannau was murdered, her killers never brought to justice.
Now the prime suspects have been shot dead within hours of their return to the UK.
Has someone finally taken the law into their own hands?

Seeking out the truth will force Kate Daniels to confront her own past mistakes, and put her career, and her team's lives, on the line.

The gripping new Kate Daniels thriller about what happens when someone takes the law into their own hands from awardwinning crime writer Mari Hannah.

Release date: January 18, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 448

Sample

Before the phone rang, Kate Daniels’ shitty day was like any other in the murder incident room, until Pete Brooks came on the line. Normally cool in a crisis, the control room operator seemed rattled. There was a lot of background noise too. She knew instantly that a major operation was in full swing; a manhunt he called it: PolSA, a firearms team, dog section, the works.

Finally, he managed to get the news out.

‘Officer down, guv. Shot in the back.’

Kate felt sick.

An injury to any colleague, on or off duty, was a tragedy. This one was as serious as they came. Potentially life-changing. Kate’s stomach took a dive, convinced that he was about to tell her that the officer concerned was one of hers … before he told her that it wasn’t. The duty Senior Investigating Officer had been called out.

So why was Pete calling if she wasn’t required?

‘It’s Georgina, boss … I’m so sorry.’

He was sorry?

What the hell did that mean?

Sorry was something you said if you bumped into a stranger, accidentally knocking them sideways; sorry was a word people used when they had been unkind to a loved one and wanted to make nice; sorry was an overused coverall for bad behaviour, a throwaway comment that followed a minor mistake, a meaningless sentiment. Why was he sorry? He hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Paralysed by his words, Kate’s mind raced through all the possible outcomes, none of them good. Georgina had to live. She had to. That improbable hope died in her heart as the controller spoke again.

‘She didn’t make it, boss.’

Death is something we all face. It was a constant in Kate’s life, but Pete’s words took her breath away. Ceasing to exist was final. The end of the line. No going back. That’s it. End of. There was nothing else.

Racing to the scene with coordinates for Rothbury riverside, she called for an update. There was none. Forty-five minutes later, in an area flooded with police activity, she pulled up sharp, got out of her vehicle and climbed into full forensic kit. Terrified of what came next, she sucked in a breath, wiped her face with her hands, then slammed the tailgate of her Audi shut.

All eyes turned towards her.

A uniformed officer pointed her in the right direction. With a sense of urgency, she moved towards the River Coquet. Woods fringed the water’s edge, a pretty path she’d walked a million times with Georgina, though never for exercise.

They got enough of that at work.

Now she was running along the dirt track. It was then she saw it, if not the crime scene, a deposition sight, a white crime scene tent erected to keep prying eyes at bay, hers included. Lifting the tape surrounding the inner cordon, she was immediately confronted with a problem.

The SIO, DCI Gordon Curtis, tried to block her way. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Minding my own business.’

‘Get the hell out of my crime scene.’

Ignoring his request, Kate stepped aside.

He grabbed her arm.

She glanced at his hand, then at him, a hostile expression. ‘Get the fuck off or you’ll regret it.’ She shrugged herself free.

He didn’t try to stop her.

She approached the tent, her heart kicking a hole in her ribcage by the time she reached it. She stood there, adrenaline pumping, a cold sweat forming on her brow. She was in danger here. Professionally, not physically. Protocol dictated that she turn around and return to base.

She couldn’t do it …

She wouldn’t …

Some things were more important than regulations. Pure desperation was driving her to see for herself that those who’d found the body were not guilty of mistaken identity. Wanting it to be true didn’t make it so. An officer had been murdered. If not Georgina, then another colleague whose family would suffer.

The last few steps felt like a mile.

And still Kate clung to the hope that an error had been made.

Opening the flap of the tent, she stepped inside, in no doubt that she was breaking every rule. She was past caring. Even though she knew what to expect, it was a shock to view the body of a much-loved colleague lying face down on the ground, arms splayed out, a dark patch of blood across her back. Kate knew instantly that it was Georgina. She’d entered the wood, alone and unprotected, with no police-issue radio on which to call for help.

A sitting duck for anyone who’d do her harm.

The pathologist, Sue Morrisey, was on her knees, in the middle of her examination, recording her initial impressions that the SIO should’ve been there to witness. Pausing the audio device, she glanced over her shoulder, her blue eyes managing to convey sorrow and compassion non-verbally through the narrow slit between cap and mask. She looked at the body, then at Kate, an expression the detective chief inspector interpreted as confusion over who would oversee the investigation.

‘Are you taking over, Kate?’

‘No … I had to come.’

Morrisey’s nod was almost imperceptible. ‘I hate to ask, but would you mind helping me turn her over? Curtis stepped out. I don’t know why—’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be for police work, would it?’ Taking a pair of gloves from her pocket, Kate pulled them on.

‘Ready?’ Sue said.

Kate was not ready. How could she be? This was Georgina, daughter to Molly, wife to Nico, mother to Charlotte and Oscar, all of whom she knew personally, a family whose lives were about to implode.

For them and for Kate, life would never be the same.

On autopilot, her eyes scanned the scene to see what it would tell her, drifting to a point two yards from Georgina’s body – to something that did not belong to her. Kate imagined a female inspector, shocked and out of breath, crouching down, checking for signs of life, instinctively removing her hat before doing so, forgetting to collect it when the doc arrived. The hat lay upturned on the ground, the cap badge upside down, symbolising a fallen colleague.

It was the small things that got to you.

A tear fell from Kate’s eye.

She wiped it away.

‘Kate?’

‘Sorry …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Where do you want me?’

Sue noticed Kate’s chest rising and falling heavily, evidence that she was under immense stress, mentally unprepared to carry out her request. ‘Nowhere. I don’t know what I was thinking. Step out. I’d be grateful if you could find Curtis for me.’

‘No … please,’ Kate begged. ‘I’d rather it was me.’

‘Oh, Kate. Georgina would want that.’

It took all Kate’s resolve not to bawl. She wanted to gather Georgina up in her arms and take her home to her family, for no other reason than to avoid what was coming: a post-mortem, identification, trauma for all involved. Sue would be as gentle in her handling of Georgina’s lifeless body as any doctor would a live patient. Still, Kate the friend, not the detective, wanted to spare her that indignity.

Resuming her running commentary, and with Kate’s help, they rolled Georgina over, Morrisey noting that there were no other injuries on the body as far as she could tell … ‘There’s mud on her uniform trousers, a lot of it, ingrained, more than I’d expect to see if the victim had fallen, clear evidence that she’d been kneeling when shot.’

Kate was broken.

This wasn’t murder, it was an execution.

Three years later

Jackson’s emotions were all over the place as the vehicle he was travelling in approached the city centre. The journey south had been a blast: a short stop for a Big Mac, a crateful of Ouseburn Porter to wash it down with, a welcome home gift his mother called ‘Mobile Happy Hour’. Only in Newcastle would you find four grown-ups wearing Santa hats without a hint of embarrassment.

The miles had flown by.

As the car drove down the hill toward the Tyne, there was a lull in conversation. In the distance, the arch of the Millennium Bridge changed to the colour purple. Jackson’s gaze shifted to the slow-moving, inky black water beneath, the cityscape beyond reflected on the surface, a mirror image underlined by a thin slither of light from the underside of the pedestrian walkway. He’d never been able to put into words his attachment to his birthplace, except to say that a vice closed around his chest every time he left, a feeling that was even more profound when he returned. After a three-year absence, all he’d dreamt of for weeks was this moment.

He felt deeply touched being there.

Raising his mobile, he zoomed in, capturing the image of the iconic bridge, marking his return to home soil. The Quayside was rammed tonight, everyone having a lush time as they sang and danced drunkenly in both directions, from one of the many nightspots on either side of the river.

In a few minutes he’d be joining them.

‘Good to be home, son?’

The question had come from Jacob, the best chauffeur in the business, his mother’s driver for as long as Jackson could remember, ferrying him to and from school until he was old enough to go by himself. Unable to speak, he nodded at the sympathetic eyes looking at him through the rear-view mirror.

Picking up on what had become a friendly staring contest, his brother Lee gave Jackson’s arm a solid squeeze, slurring his words as he spoke. ‘Comin’ unstuck again, young ’un?’

Jackson looked away, embarrassed. ‘Does my head in every time.’

‘Hey! We’ve all been there, haven’t we, guys?’ Neither man in the front answered, or if they did, Lee didn’t seem to hear them. He was too busy yanking the ring-pulls off two more beers, shoving one in Jackson’s hand, clinking cans. ‘Get your crying over with. We’re local heroes going home, right?’ He put an arm around Jackson’s neck, pulling him into a tight hug that felt like an arm lock, adding his voice to Chris Rea’s ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ as it bled into the car from the radio.

Jackson pulled away.

Lee mumbled into the ear of the front seat passenger: ‘Get what I asked for?’

Tony hadn’t said a lot since their journey began. He’d allowed Jacob to entertain the brothers in the rear on what was and had been going on in the party city locals called The Toon. Jacob was comedy gold, Tony the exact opposite. He couldn’t crack a smile if his life depended on it.

His mother’s money man was hard to read, mild-mannered one minute, ruthless the next. Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved a folded envelope, passing it into the rear without a backward glance.

Lee handed it to Jackson.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘An early pressy, from me to you. And while we’re on the subject, I have another surprise for you. We’re not going back to Spain. When the New Year arrives, we’re staying put—’

‘But, I thought Mam said—’

Lee pointed at the envelope. ‘Get it open, man.’

Intrigued, with Lee breathing down his neck, Jackson slid a finger under the flap to get at the contents: two match-day tickets in the posh seats – Newcastle United home game at Christmas – every Geordie’s dream. When he looked up, the tears were back. As gifts go, this was right up there.

He fist-bumped his brother.

‘Game on!’ he said.

They practically fell out of the car when they reached Livello, a late-night cocktail bar that stayed open till three. The queue to get in snaked its way halfway down the street and round the corner. Lee stood a moment eyeing up the girls, most dressed in sparkly tops and short skirts, with bare legs and killer heels, some with tinsel in their hair. Unlike him, they seemed not to notice the plummeting temperature.

Doormen were allowing one out, one in, regardless of party size. It might cause a riot, but Lee was hoping they might make an exception. One of them was a good mate. Realising that his ride hadn’t moved off, he turned, knocking on the driver’s window. It wound down slowly, Jacob’s brown eyes staring up at him, awaiting instructions.

‘You guys can knock off,’ Lee said.

‘Not going to happen. Your old lady—’

‘Isn’t here. Go on, get lost, or I’ll tell her you called her that.’

‘Taxis will be non-existent later.’

‘Fair enough, but we’re not ten, so stop acting like we are. We’ve come all the way from Spain without a babysitter. Don’t know about Jay, but I have a reputation with the ladies to protect. I’m also hypothermic, so go find yourself a beer so we can get inside. We’ll text you when we’re ready to leave.’

The place had been humming all night. It felt good to hear the familiar twang of those who celebrated Christmas and those who didn’t. Jackson didn’t care either way, so long as everyone was having a good time. They were doing that with bells on.

Some would never see a turkey tomorrow.

Checking the time on his mobile, he sent Jacob a text to collect them. As he looked up, Lee was about to approach the bar for the umpteenth time, flashing his cash, one for the road, the third since midnight, the curfew their mother had set for them. Amazed that he was still on his pins, Jackson tugged at his sweat-soaked shirt, pulling him out of the queue, tapping his wrist.

‘It’s late. If we don’t get a move on, Mam and Dad will think we’re not coming.’

‘Yeah right …’ Lee’s voice, hoarse from singing and shouting, was lost as the deafening blast of Taio Cruz’ ‘Dynamite’ boomed out through speakers to the delight of everyone in the room. One girl who’d jumped on a table to dance was yanked off by a staff member. She threw her arms around his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek, so he wouldn’t eject her.

Jackson couldn’t hear himself think.

He raised his voice above the din. ‘What did you say?’

‘I SAID, they’ll be necking champagne. You think Mam would go to bed knowing her boys are in town?’

‘Stay then, I’m out of here.’

‘Nah, c’mon!’

Jackson headed for the exit to avoid a row. Surprisingly, Lee followed, without making a big deal of it. Lighting up once they got outside, he turned to face his brother, offering him a smoke. Jackson shook his head. Across the road, Jacob was waiting. Jackson gave him the nod to start the car. When he turned around, Lee was high-fiving a couple Jackson hadn’t seen before, wishing them all the best for New Year. The girl stepped back, raising her mobile to capture the moment. Lee draped an arm around his mate, a big smile for the camera.

Quick as a flash, Jackson stepped forward, placing a hand over the lens.

‘What the fuck?’ The girl gave him a hacky look.

‘No photos.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

She glanced at Lee. ‘Who is this tosser?’

Lee didn’t answer. As the couple moved off, he turned to face his brother.

Jackson glared at him. ‘Still think we can hang around?’

The journey was short and quiet. Tony had taken Lee’s advice and knocked off early. Jacob followed their mother’s instructions to the letter. His was a good job, one he couldn’t afford to lose with a wife and kids to feed. Two miles east of the city centre, in the suburb of Heaton, he pulled to the kerb, turning to face the brothers, his left arm hooked over his seat, waiting until they gave their full attention.

‘This is where you get out and walk,’ he said.

‘Walk?’ Lee said. ‘You’re ’aving a laugh. I can hardly stand.’

‘Two blocks down, turn right.’

Jacob gave them the name of a street and a house number. As soon as they got out and slammed the door, he took off at speed. Minutes later, following his directions, they arrived outside a typical two-up-two-down red-brick property at the end of a Victorian terrace, surrounded by a thick hedge and garden railings.

‘This is it,’ Jackson said.

‘Fantastic.’ Lee was being facetious.

It was not the fancy home they had left behind. Not even close. Their parents were slumming it, a temporary measure, they’d been told. Nowt to do with a cashflow problem. They were lucky bastards when it came to money. It never had been an issue growing up. They’d had the best it could buy – and then some.

They glanced up and down the road, before heading through the garden gate. The curtains of the property were drawn, coloured tree-lights visible through the thin material, a welcoming sight. Lee’s eyes sparkled in the darkness, his breath like a cloud in the cold night air. He’d never admit it – and couldn’t hide it – but he was as emotional about this homecoming as Jackson had been when they arrived on the Quayside.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s play Santa.’

‘Got their presents?’

‘Oh shit!’ Lee tapped his pockets frantically, laughing as panic flashed across his brother’s face. ‘Chill out, divvy. I’m winding you up. Know any good carols?’

‘Carol Thompson from my class … pure evil, bro.’

Lee grinned.

Jackson didn’t. ‘You’re not seriously expecting me to sing?’

‘C’mon!’ Lee nodded toward the door. ‘It’ll make her day.’

‘You choose then.’

A male voice came from behind. ‘Try “Silent Night”. It’s one of her favourites.’

The brothers turned, a split second of recognition.

Jackson didn’t hear the shot that killed him, didn’t feel the bullet that passed through his head from front to back, spraying his mother’s front door with brain matter. He was gone before he hit the deck.

Lee pulled a gun, returning fire.

Taking one in the chest, he joined his brother on the ground, unable to shift his body weight or reach for the weapon that had dropped on the ground. In his peripheral vision, Jay’s dead eyes stared at him, his neck at an odd angle, jammed against the front step. As warm blood seeped across Lee’s chest, pooling beneath him, he heard the door open, his mother’s piercing scream. Someone grabbed his feet. He was on the move, being dragged across frozen ground before blacking out.

Christine Bradshaw knew Jackson was dead before they got him inside. Throwing herself on the living room floor, she let out a sob, begging him to wake up, even though she knew he was beyond help. Beside him, her firstborn was unconscious, barely hanging on, his face grey. Over her shoulder, she screamed at his father.

‘Do something!’

Don Bradshaw rushed across the room. With tears streaming down his face, he got down on his knees. Pulling open Lee’s jacket, he yanked his bloody shirt up, exposing his injured chest. Despite a weak pulse, his son’s heart was pumping blood from a gunshot wound. His father watched it fade to a trickle, then stop. He froze, before a futile attempt to revive him.

Defeated, he sank back on his heels. ‘He’s … gone, Chris.’

‘You useless piece of shit!’ Her eyes were hateful.

He couldn’t look at her. ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ he said quietly.

‘They are NOT taking my boys away,’ she yelled. ‘Not like this. There’ll be a post-mortem. You want that, do you? It’ll be months before we get them back. The pigs would love that. If they want them, they’re going to have to come through me and that fucking door and get them.’

Don didn’t move, didn’t argue either.

Christine had seen him shellshocked before, but never like this. Dropping his head in his hands, he began to wail. Sensing her indifference, he looked up, sadness replaced by anger.

She could read him like a book.

He’d been slow to work out what she’d known from the moment the first shot was fired, what she was now ranting about. ‘It’s the middle of the night. It’s been three years since the kids set foot in the UK and they’re shot the moment they arrive home. One of our crew has talked – the question is, which one?’

‘Who would dare?’

‘I dunno, but they won’t live to spend the blood money.’ Christine glanced at the lifeless bodies on the floor. ‘Search their pockets.’

‘What for?’

‘Do it!’

He carried out her instructions, finding two tickets for the upcoming NUFC match in the pocket of Jackson’s jeans. In Lee’s jacket, he found a long box wrapped and with a blood-soaked label attached. In gold metallic ink, he could just make out the writing: Happy Christmas, Mam x

Christine wept as he handed it to her. Not for long. Realising that she’d not heard sirens, she nodded toward the window.

‘Check the street.’

Again, Don did as he was told, inching open the curtains. ‘Squad car. Two uniforms approaching next door. Time we left.’

‘I’m going nowhere without the kids.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘I said no!’ There was a bottle of whisky and shot glasses on the sideboard. Ignoring her bloodstained hands, she poured herself a stiff drink. Without offering him one, she downed it, then turned to face him.

‘Did you pick up Lee’s gun?’

Nodding, he pulled the weapon from the back of his pants. Turning it round, he held it out, the grip facing her. She didn’t take it. He knew why.

She wasn’t that dim.

‘Is it loaded?’

With her breathing down his neck, Don checked the weapon. The magazine was in. Keeping his finger off the trigger, he slid the lock back, checking the chamber. She saw brass. He made the gun safe.

‘Take it off.’

He stared at her. ‘What?’

‘The safety … take it off.’

‘Chris, you’re not going to do anything stupid—’

‘No, but you might.’

Kate Daniels’ temporary office was a far cry from the one she usually occupied at one end of the Major Incident Room. When Hank entered, she was on her feet, standing with her back to him, staring blankly out of the open window. Their guv’nor was five thousand miles away; an overdue, extended vacation, after spending a week rubbing shoulders with the LAPD, leaving his responsibilities as Northumbria’s head of CID in her capable hands. The knock-on effect was Hank acting as DI, taking her role in charge of the Murder Investigation Team.

In the distance, church bells struck the half hour.

Kate seemed not to notice them or the fact that she wasn’t alone. She was deep in thought, a spiral of smoke drifting from the cigarette she was holding in her left hand.

‘Kate? What the hell are you doing? You don’t smoke.’

‘I do now.’ She turned to face him. ‘It’s not been the best of days so far.’

‘If the fags don’t kill you, Bright will.’

‘He won’t know. I’ll bribe the cleaners.’

He pointed at the only thing on her desk. ‘What’s that?’

‘An acorn shell—’

‘Yeah, I got that. Why is it there?’

‘Jo gave it to me ages ago. It fell out of my coat pocket …’ Kate walked over to the desk, picked up the empty shell by its stalk and spun it in her fingers. ‘It’s symbolic. The only mighty oak growing round here is a pile of bloody paperwork that’ll take me three hundred years to process.’ She sat down, putting her feet up on their guv’nor’s desk.

Hank smiled. ‘Mission control suits you.’

‘Don’t take the piss. I never wanted the job.’

‘You won’t say that when your pay cheque arrives.’

‘Don’t need the money either. What’s happening?’

‘In the MIR? Not much, though you look ready to commit murder so that could change.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I miss having my ear bent.’ What he meant was, he missed her. As her bagman, they were inseparable. ‘The truth is the team are restless, as bored as you are. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s Christmas Eve. Can I send them home?’

She looked past him. ‘I think you spoke too soon.’

Hank turned to find DS Lisa Carmichael racing towards the door. Without knocking, she entered, so out of breath she might just have completed the Great North Run. His good humour vanished, along with any chance of knocking off early. He knew it was serious before she opened her mouth.

‘What’s up?’ he said.

‘Have you been smoking tabs?’ Carmichael screwed up her face. ‘It stinks in here.’

‘Since when did you care about health and safety?’

‘I don’t—’

‘So, what do you want?’

Lisa switched her focus to Kate. ‘Guv, I take it you saw the firearms incident on the log this morning?’

‘I did. What of it?’

‘An anonymous 999 caller reported three shots fired in quick succession. A shoot out is how she described it. Control traced the call to an East End address and sent a patrol out to see her. Officers got no reply at the door. Fearing for her safety, they gained entry through a rear window. They found her hiding in an upstairs bedroom, scared to death. Her name is Ella Stafford. She claims she heard shots and saw nowt. She’s terrified of the couple next door and wants no further involvement.’

Under Kate’s scrutiny, the newly qualified detective sergeant shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a look of panic on her face. It was unlike Carmichael to react this way. Under normal circumstances, nothing fazed her. Surprised by her rigid body language, Kate’s initial intrigue was now bordering on concern.

Whatever she was about to reveal was serious.

‘I take it the neighbours from hell are known to us?’ Kate took in Carmichael’s nod. ‘Do they have names?’

‘They do now,’ Carmichael said. ‘Don and Christine Bradshaw.’

Breathe. Breathe!

Blindsided by Carmichael’s revelation, Kate had gone to a very dark place. It hadn’t passed her by that today was the third anniversary of her friend and former colleague Georgina Ioannou’s murder, an ongoing investigation in which the Bradshaws’ offspring – Lee and Jackson – had quickly become the most likely suspects. Kate tried to pay attention, but the walls of her temporary office began to close in. Sucking in air, trying to remain calm, she got up and walked to the window where life went on as normal, today as it had then. Her despair over Georgina’s murder had never gone away. It never would. She was irreplaceable. Since the day Kate joined the job, she’d always been there as the voice of reason. Now she was gone, Kate was powerless to suppress the memory of that fateful day.

Get a grip.

Georgina had left an indelible mark on Kate. Even so, she’d buried her grief before the funeral, sealing it deep within her psyche, the only way she could cope with the horror of that day. In truth she was scared to let it out, afraid that if she did it would destroy her, weakening her resolve to carry on doing the job she and Georgina both loved. Had the roles been reversed, that’s what she’d have done too.

‘Kate?’

Hank’s voice brought her back into the room. She didn’t know how long she’d been standing at the open window, keeping him and Carmichael waiting. She turned to face them, on autopilot once more. ‘If someone took a potshot at the Bradshaws, payback for what their sons are alleged to have done, this shooting incident could blow up in our faces.’

‘Guv, this not what you think it is,’ Carmichael said.

‘Come on then, we need to be across it.’

‘After reassuring the witness, Ella Stafford, first responders found blood spatter on the Bradshaws’ door. There had been an unsuccessful attempt to wipe it away. There were also drag marks from the garden path into the house. Firearms were alerted. Ash Norham, the OIC, established that shots had been fired into and away from the house. A guy who lives across the road saw the whole thing.’

‘Are Don and Christine OK?’

‘They weren’t the victims.’

Carmichael’s panic now made sense to Kate. ‘Jackson or Lee?’

‘Both.’

‘And the shooter?’

‘No sign.’

‘Why am I only hearing about this now?’

Carmichael hesitated. ‘Neither the initial caller nor the eyewitness had a clue who lived there, so it didn’t immediately flag a link to fugitives on the run, not until Ash’s crew completed the usual checks. The tenant signed her name as Hazel Sharp, a smackhead who’s in the system as no fixed abode and heavily in debt to the Bradshaws. According to the landlord, she only moved in last month and paid her rent upfront, in cash, to the end of January.’

‘I happen to know she doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.’

‘It’s a cover address, guv. The Bradshaws were expecting company—’

‘A bit of forward planning, right on time for their kids to crawl from under their stone and sneak home before Santa came down the chimney,’ Hank said. ‘Shite like time off as much as we do.’ He glanced at Kate, a rhetorical question on his lips. ‘We’re not getting any now, am I right?’

She ignored him. ‘I still don’t understand why I wasn’t alerted sooner.’

‘A witness saw Don Bradshaw retrieve Lee’s weapon from the front garden,’ Carmichael said. ‘Aware that it was in his possession, and that he might well use it, Ash decided to hold off and call in a negotiator. There was a stand-off for almost five hours.’

‘Still, he knows the drill. The Bradshaw boys are suspects in a fatal shooting. There’s a warrant in place—’

‘Guv, there was no marker on the address—’

‘I don’t give a shit.’ Kate fired up her computer, waiting for the incident log to load, eyes on Carmichael, fingers tapping impatiently on the desk. ‘Images of the Bradshaw boys are pinned to noticeboards in every area command. Who do you think will be in the firing line when the press gets hold of this? If there are newspapers tomorrow, POLICE TAKE REVENGE will be the headline, Five-hour delay while the shooter disappears.’

Kate noticed Carmichael’s unrest.

‘What are you not telling us, Lisa?’

‘When Ash got in there, he found Lee and Jackson dead on the living room floor.’

‘Where they belong,’ Hank said.

Kate rounded on him. ‘Not funny—’

‘It’s what we’re all thinking.’

‘And some of us have the sense not to say it out loud. I’ll