What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  She stood up, the clear message being that she expected them to do the same.

  ‘Of course,’ said Porter. ‘We don’t mean to keep you. One last thing, though,’ he said with a genial smile. ‘Your son, Gavin? Is he still in contact with his sister, and are there any other siblings?’

  He could have sworn she flinched when he asked the question. ‘Alexander and I couldn’t have any more children. Not since I, uh … we lost a child. A few years before all of this happened. A son. A few weeks before he was due to be born. There were complications, and I, uh … No. No other brothers or sisters. As for Gavin, he’s not mentioned it to me if she has been in touch, but you’d have to ask him.’

  ‘What about friends from school or other family members? Is there anyone that she was close to who might help us get in touch with her?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but like I said, we weren’t exactly close.’

  She was edging closer to the door leading to the hallway as she spoke. They took the hint and thanked her for her time. Styles asked her for the best way to reach her son, and jotted down the address and phone number she gave him for Gavin. They retraced their steps to the front door and Porter pulled a business card from his wallet.

  ‘Just in case you think of anything else after we leave,’ he said, handing it to her.

  Porter and Styles didn’t speak again until they were back in their car.

  ‘What did you make of that, then?’ Styles asked his partner.

  ‘I’ve seen a few people brick it when a copper turns up on their doorstep, but she looked like she was expecting us to slap the cuffs on her.’

  ‘Crimes against fashion?’ asked Styles, arching one eyebrow.

  ‘Her outfit probably cost the same as a full term at private school.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it looks good.’

  Porter tilted his head in agreement. ‘Let’s see if the brother is around to speak to, and I want to take a look at the file on the father’s suicide as well. You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Do you mean could the hurt he caused his family be actual harm, and he topped himself out of remorse?’

  Porter nodded grimly. ‘Wouldn’t be the strangest thing ever, and for his suicide to happen in the same week that she was last sighted, that’s a fair sized coincidence, don’t you think?’

  Styles nodded. ‘You think she knows more than she’s saying?’ he said, nodding towards the house.

  ‘I think there’s more she could have said but didn’t,’ said Porter. ‘Whether whatever she’s keeping back is relevant to wherever Natasha is or whether it’s just cos it’s events she’d rather forget, I don’t know. Did you see her when she said the part about him being a “good man”?’

  ‘No, I must have been writing something down then. Why?’

  ‘Just a little thing, but when she said it, she was shaking her head. It’s one of those gestures that tend to show a person doesn’t actually believe what they’re saying. Maybe he wasn’t quite the nice guy she’s making him out to be?’

  ‘Worth a look,’ said Styles. ‘Actually, speaking of things that are worth a look, do me a favour and pull over just around the corner.’

  ‘Why, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m curious to see if she actually comes out of the house any time soon. She said she was running late to meet her hubby, but we’ve been out a full two or three minutes and she’s not exactly flying out of the house to meet him.’

  Porter nodded his head in approval as he started the engine and pulled away.

  ‘Looks like some of my detective know-how might be rubbing off on you after all.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ said Styles. ‘I picked that one up from an episode of Scooby-Doo.’

  Porter shook his head but said nothing and conceded that one. He pulled the car around the corner and switched off the ignition. Five minutes passed and there was still no sign of the gate to the Locke house reopening.

  ‘Guess she’s had a change of heart about meeting the hubby after all,’ said Styles. ‘Fancy a bite to eat on the way back?’

  ‘Yep, but I’m choosing this time,’ said Porter. ‘That grotty little cafe you picked last time served me a gastro-bomb with a time delay fuse. I had half a mind to call Environmental Health.’

  He had one last glance in the rear-view mirror before pulling away. The conversation with Mary Locke had left him with an uneasy feeling. Most people’s reaction to hearing that there’d been an incident involving a loved one, and he used the term loosely here after the family history he’d learnt, was to ask if they were OK. The fact that he wouldn’t have been able to answer that either way was immaterial. Asking that question would be an unavoidable reflex for the majority of people. The reason that the minority, like Mary Locke, didn’t ask after their welfare tended to be because they already knew the answer, and that rarely worked out well for all concerned.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Styles called Gavin Barclay while Porter drove. Locke picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been expecting the call. Had Mary Locke called ahead to let him know they’d be in touch? Styles quickly gave him the same line Porter had spoken into Mary Locke’s intercom, and he said he could meet them for a coffee near his office, and gave a brief description of his appearance so they’d know him.

  The cafe he had chosen was in Farringdon, and they took a shortcut through the deserted Smithfield Market to get there. It always reminded Porter of an upturned ship’s hull, blue and white girders curving overhead. It was deserted at this time of day apart from a few others cutting through. Turn up after 8 a.m. and you’d missed the party. Ironic that meat was still sliced and diced today, on the same spot that saw the likes of William Wallace executed centuries ago. Porter wondered what Wallace would make of the tourists taking selfies outside, angling their cameras upwards to catch the sculptures of the dragons that guarded the entrance.

  When they arrived, Gavin Locke was already there. It wasn’t hard to spot him; he was hunched over a large coffee cup, both hands encircling it and his index fingers tapping out a nervous beat either side of the handle. His hair looked like it had been combed with a branch, and his waxy pale face made him look ten years too old. He wore a dark grey suit with the faintest of pinstripes running through it, and a conservative dark blue tie with no pattern. The combination of average urban office-wear and clean-shaven face was the uniform of countless city jobs. He stood up when they approached.

  ‘Mr Locke?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Locke gave a nervous smile, his eyes flitting between the two of them.

  Porter took the hand that Locke held out, and noted the clammy palm that met his. They introduced themselves and pulled out a chair each.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Locke,’ said Porter.

  Locke resumed the cradling of his cup. ‘So you want to talk about Natasha,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Porter nodded. ‘We need to speak to her, Mr Locke, and we’re hoping you can point us in the right direction. It doesn’t appear that she’s been home to her flat in some time. When was the last time you spoke to her?’

  ‘My mum didn’t tell you?’ he asked.

  Porter and Styles looked at each other, both noting the significance of the question. When Styles had called him there had been no mention of the fact they’d spoken to Mary Locke, or that she was the one who had given them his number. That meant she had indeed called him, and in all likelihood the call had been made as soon as they had left her house.

  ‘She didn’t think you’d had any recent contact with her but said we should ask you the question.’

  ‘I’ve not seen her since her twenty-first birthday.’ His eyes fixed on the dregs of coffee that lurked in the bottom of his cup as he spoke. ‘I was only six years old. It was that long ago I can’t even remember what the last thing she said to me was.’

  Porter waited and let a few seconds of silence settle over the tabl
e in case Locke planned to elaborate, but when nothing else was forthcoming he stepped back into the gap in conversation.

  ‘What about any other form of contact? Have you spoken to her on the phone since then? Swapped emails?’

  Locke gave a wry smile. ‘There was no such thing as email the last time I saw her, but no, in answer to your question, I’ve had no contact with her since then.’ He paused, then added, ‘Or should I say she’s had no contact with me.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Styles.

  ‘I mean she’s the one that disappeared off into the sunset. I know there was no Facebook or Twitter when she left, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard for her to find me if she wanted. I’ve searched for her online a few times over the years but never found any mention.’ He shook his head softly. ‘I know it must have been hard for her when Dad … did what he did. I was too young to really understand at the time. I guess she needed some space to work things out her way. I just didn’t realise it would last this long.’

  ‘Were Natasha and your dad close?’ Porter asked.

  Gavin shrugged. ‘Memories from that far back are fuzzy, but yeah, from what I remember.’

  ‘Any arguments, fallings out, that kind of thing?’

  Gavin frowned, silent for a moment. ‘Why would you ask that? What are you saying? That Dad had something to do with her disappearing?’

  ‘Just a routine question,’ said Porter, shaking his head. ‘We need to understand what was going on in her life back then. Whether she was happy, anything that might affect her so much that she felt the need to take off.’ As much as he had his suspicions about Nathan Barclay, sharing them with Gavin Locke wasn’t going to help him coax the answers he wanted. Not without anything to back them up, at least.

  ‘How about her relationship with your mum?’ asked Styles, changing direction.

  ‘Like I said, I was only six. What little I remember was OK, I guess. I don’t remember them not getting on for what that’s worth.’ He shrugged. ‘I know Mum had her good and bad days back then, and she spent a bit of time in hospital. I don’t know if she told you about Simon?’ Porter and Styles both looked blank, so he continued. ‘Simon would have been my little brother, but he died before he was born.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Styles. ‘She did tell us, but hadn’t used a name. Sorry.’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to visit her for a while afterwards. They kept her in for weeks. She’s had counselling for it off and on for years now. I can’t remember a hell of a lot else about it,’ he said with a sad smile. ‘My family isn’t great at talking about their feelings, Detective. My mum’s the best person to ask about how well they got on, but she’ll probably just tell you it was fine either way.’

  ‘What about other family, or friends?’ asked Porter, bringing it back to the present. ‘Is there anyone else she might have kept in touch with?’

  ‘Anyone that meant more to her than her own brother, you mean?’ he said with a trace of bitterness, stopping himself before any more of it spilt out. ‘Sorry. I just have a hard time understanding why she doesn’t want anything to do with me or my family. She has a nephew she’s never even met.’

  Porter steered him back on track and away from more introspection. ‘So is there anyone else who might know where she is, then, Mr Locke?’

  Gavin Locke shook his head. ‘No, not that I can think of. She was fifteen years older than me, so we didn’t exactly hang out together. I was the annoying little brother. All her friends from school went off to university, and she was long gone before any of them came home.’

  Was fifteen years older. Porter let Locke’s use of the past tense slide without comment. ‘What about her flat? Have you ever gone there to see if she’s returned home?’

  This brought a slight frown to Locke’s face. ‘That’s the thing, you see – until you called me and said something had happened at her flat, I didn’t even know she still had one round here.’

  ‘So you’ve never been to her place on Rainton Avenue?’ said Styles.

  ‘Why would I have been there if I’ve only just found out she lives there?’

  ‘We’re just trying to piece things together, Mr Locke,’ said Porter in a conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sure you can understand we need to be thorough, especially when nobody seems to have seen her for so long.’

  Gavin Locke sat back in his seat and let out a deep sigh.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologised again. ‘I think about her all the time; wonder where she is, if she’s OK, if she’s happy – that kind of thing. It’s been a while since I’ve actually spoken about her with anyone, though. I know you’re just doing your job, and if there’s any way I can help, I will.’

  ‘There is one thing,’ Porter ventured. ‘The incident that’s taken place at her flat; our guys have taken a number of samples, fingerprints and hair from a hairbrush, to run some DNA tests. It’d be really useful if we could work out which samples belong to Natasha. That way we can tell if anyone else has been inside her flat.’

  He was being economical with the truth, but it served no one’s best interests for him to disclose the contents of the freezer just yet, at least not until they knew for sure.

  Locke looked confused. ‘How can I help with that?’

  ‘As her brother, you’ll have a certain amount of DNA in common. If we can take a sample from you, we can match that against any that belongs to Natasha.’

  ‘Are you saying she’s in trouble? Could she be hurt?’

  ‘We really don’t know at this stage,’ said Porter. ‘But things like this will help us try to find her and work out what’s going on. If you’re OK to do that I’ll arrange for somebody to come either to your office or your house to do a cheek swab.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Locke, his voice softer now as his thoughts drifted away to where his big sister might be and what kind of trouble she might be in.

  He promised to come down to the station for the swab, preferring the anonymity it would give him as opposed to officers turning up at his home or office. They all left together and shook hands outside before heading off in different directions. Porter looked over his shoulder as they walked towards their car, making sure Locke was definitely out of earshot.

  ‘Stop me if you think otherwise,’ he began, ‘but I think we’re both fairly confident the cheek swab will match up to the sample from the hand.’

  ‘I’d lay money on it,’ agreed Styles.

  ‘So the question, then, is whether Ms Barclay bled out once she parted company with her hand, or whether whatever led to that sent her into hiding somewhere. We’re fairly sure it didn’t happen at the flat, so it’s pointless checking old records at local A & Es just yet.’

  Styles jumped in before Porter could continue. ‘Agreed. Realistically, without medical attention, we’re looking for a body rather than a scared woman in hiding. I say we find out more about the dad, and how he met his maker. If he had something to do with whatever happened to her, that could be what tipped him over the edge.’

  Porter nodded in agreement. ‘I’d like to read his note if it’s on file anywhere. I’d also like to know where he got his hands on the gun he used to kill himself.’

  As they wound their way back through traffic, Porter tried to make sense of what he knew so far. It was distasteful, but sadly all too common in his line of work, to come across parents that harmed their children, either physically or emotionally. If Nathan Barclay had indeed been responsible for severing his daughter’s hand, why would he place it in the freezer to preserve it before taking his own life? Was it as clichéd as him not being able to live with something he had done, but equally wanting to take responsibility for it, albeit making sure he wasn’t around to face the consequences of his actions? Porter always tried to see things from the perspective of those who perpetrated the crimes he investigated. It reminded him of a quote he’d once read from the Chinese general and author of The Art of War, Sun Tzu, who counselled people to ‘know thyself, know thy enemy’. The
idea of spending too much time trying to inhabit the same dark places as a man who would harm his own child, however, was far from Porter’s idea of fun. It was necessary sometimes, though, to let a case steer you towards that fine line that separated dark thought and darker deed from those of us who abide by the rules.

  He’d seen evil take on many faces, here on the streets of London, and on his tours of duty overseas with the army. In the here and now, his gut told him that face was taking the form of Nathan Barclay. Whether Mary or Gavin Locke had already known that to be the case remained to be seen.

  They went for the divide and conquer approach back at the station, Styles calling the coroner to get a copy of the report on Nathan Barclay, while Porter dug through the archives to unearth any information from the original investigation into Barclay’s death. Styles completed his task first and left the copy with Porter on his way out to meet his wife for dinner. He’d offered to stay and help review the file, but Porter waved him away.

  The coroner’s report held no surprises. Nathan Barclay had died from a single gunshot wound to the head. The bullet had come from an old Walther P38 that was found at the scene three feet from Barclay’s outstretched hand, with his prints on the grip. The body had been discovered in an office at a warehouse owned by Atlas Holdings when a security guard doing his rounds stumbled across it. There had been no other injuries and no evidence to suggest it had been anything other than the last act of a deeply troubled man. He had left a note at the scene, a handwritten sheet of lined A4 paper. Porter put the rest of the file down on his desk and studied the copy of the note.

  I’ve lost almost everything I hold dear and caused so much pain to those I love. It has to stop here, and I hope you understand this is the only way to make sure it does. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the father and husband that you all deserved. I tried, Natasha, God knows I tried. I’d give anything for a second chance but I know it’s too late.