What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  Once he had the car to himself, Porter cast his mind back to what he’d witnessed at Locke’s house. He had seen countless different relationships from all walks of life in his time on the force. Tragedy could bring people together, reforge bonds that had been broken and give people the stage on which to showcase the strength of the human spirit. On the flip side, it shone a bright light into the dark corners, and stripped away the veneer to show some people for what they truly were.

  What he had seen in the living room had not fitted neatly into any of those usual boxes. Mary Locke’s reactions had seemed somewhat muted for a person who had just been told that their long-lost family member was at best seriously injured, with the inference being that in the worst case she had died from her injuries. He supposed that the passing of time and the far from strong relationship she’d described with Natasha could account for that, but he decided to shelve that train of thought for now and move on to Alexander Locke.

  His presence had all but gagged his wife, and his own reaction was bordering on apathy. The gentle squeeze of her hand could just as easily be interpreted as a silencing gesture as being one of comfort. He had closed down the questioning with an almost carbon copy of his wife’s previous exit strategy of an engagement to attend. The typical reaction of a person when faced with the sort of news they’d delivered is to ask a flood of questions, most of which Porter wouldn’t have been able to answer anyway, due to lack of information. The Lockes, though, had made Porter feel like his visit was more of an inconvenience.

  In amongst all these fresh questions, he knew one thing with unshakeable certainty. For whatever reason, Mary Locke was afraid of her husband. She had flinched when he took her hand, an almost imperceptible movement, but Porter had seen it. She had been timid enough when she had been alone, but with him in the room she was practically subservient. Domestic abuse takes many forms, physical and emotional, and he had seen no signs of the former, but would wager a hefty sum that she had experienced the latter. Wherever and whenever in the past it had happened, Mary Locke had learnt that life was easier if she played second fiddle to her husband. Porter hoped for her sake she hadn’t suffered too much in finding that out.

  Alexander Locke watched through the gap between curtain and wall as the two detectives got into their car and pulled away.

  ‘Mary?’

  No answer. Hiding upstairs, no doubt. No matter. She’d keep for now. He tapped a number from the list of saved favourites on his phone and counted the rings. Never more than three. Two rings later a low voice answered.

  ‘Boss.’ Short and sweet, unlike the man the voice belonged to.

  ‘James, I’m going to need you to meet me at the office.’

  ‘When?’ A man of few words, as ever.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘On my way. What’s up?’

  ‘Let’s talk when I see you. It can wait till then.’

  He ended the call, eyes still fixed on the space the car had occupied. It could wait half an hour. It had waited a damn sight longer than that already.

  Styles followed the waiter through a narrow slalom of tables to where Emma waited. She hadn’t seen him yet, and sat staring at the specials on the chalkboard, rolling the slender stem of her wine glass between finger and thumb. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he walked past the open kitchen and headfirst into a virtual wall of garlic mingled with fresh-baked pizza dough. Shouts of prego and grazie from the waiters rang out above the general hum of conversation as they glided through the gaps between chairs, plates perched precariously from wrist to elbow. Italian was more Emma’s thing. Food-wise for him, most things came a distant second to his mum’s cooking. Her Cou-Cou with fried fish, and the dozens of other recipes she plied him with whenever he went round, reminded him of summers visiting family back in Barbados when he was younger. His mum even had the original recipe book her own mother had insisted she took with her when she came to London, years before he was even born.

  He glanced at his watch. Five minutes early, and still she made him feel like he’d kept her waiting. She turned to face him as the waiter reached their table ahead of him, smile starting at her lips and spreading outwards, lighting up every inch of her face.

  Porter liked to remind him every so often that he was punching above his weight, and he had to agree. She hadn’t aged in the ten years they’d been together, not in his eyes at least, her dad’s Mediterranean blood showing through in the faintest tint of olive skin, and a laugh that bounced off every surface in the room. He smiled back, leaning down to kiss her, before folding himself into the seat opposite, legs knocking the underside of the table.

  ‘I’m bloody starving,’ he said, grabbing a piece of crusty bread, still warm to the touch. He tore a piece from the middle, rolling it into a loose ball and popping it in his mouth. She lifted the bottle of Chianti and poured him a healthy glassful.

  ‘How’s my favourite crime fighter?’ she asked, with only the barest hint of her Irish lilt left.

  ‘He’s good. Couldn’t tempt him to join us for dinner, though. Something about heading to his mam’s for tea.’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ Emma said, eyes rolling.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, darling,’ he said, putting his best Made in Chelsea voice on. ‘And you? How’s your day been?’

  ‘Long. I’ve been craving this since lunchtime,’ she said, waggling the half-empty glass towards him.

  Emma was an assistant manager at a branch of Zara in Watford. He knew she liked the job, but didn’t love it. She had often joked of giving it up to be a teacher, but had yet to pluck up the courage to do anything about it. When you stripped life down to its bare bones, Emma was all that mattered. Even if it meant tightening their belts for a while, he would push himself to breaking point and beyond if it meant she was happy.

  The waiter took their food order and topped up the carafe of water. Styles listened while she worked her way through a rambling tale about one of the girls who had called in sick so she could go and see Beyoncé at the O2, only to be rumbled after somebody tagged her in a picture on Facebook at the venue. He could happily let her witter away all evening without interrupting, just comfortably quiet in her company. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Porter when he lost Holly. He had been partners with Porter for almost a year when it happened. Styles had met her half a dozen times by then. Had seen how different Porter was when she was around. Visibly more relaxed. More at ease.

  As far as he was aware, Porter hadn’t talked about what happened, to him or anyone he knew of. He hadn’t even gone down the clichéd route of drowning his sorrows. Once the funeral was over, it was as if Porter had tucked it away in a box, along with the version of himself that Holly brought out, and filed it away. The man left behind looked similar, but not quite the same. Extra lines crept in around the edges that had nothing to do with laughter. He still joined in with general office banter, but his smile struggled to find its way to his eyes the way it used to.

  ‘How about you, my love?’ Emma asked once she’d finished the O2 saga. ‘Any luck tracking down your missing girl?’

  Styles shook his head. ‘Nope. No joy yet. We went to see her folks today. Well, her stepfolks, anyway. They’re an odd couple. Money to burn. Enough so that they make you feel like you should be grateful they’re even bothering to speak to you. Probably wallpaper their bedroom with spare fifty-pound notes. I’d love to be a fly on the wall, mind. She’s scared stiff of him. Clammed up when he came home.’

  ‘What did they say, then?’

  ‘Not a lot. Haven’t seen her for over thirty years. They don’t seem too bothered about that, though.’

  ‘What does Jake have to say about it?’ she asked, sitting back as the waiter appeared at her shoulder, producing matching plates of spaghetti carbonara.

  ‘Godere! Enjoy!’

  They both smiled their thanks, and Emma took a mouthful as Styles spoke. ‘He’s pretty sure the wife had more to say before her husband turn
ed up.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’ she asked, face softening into a concerned frown.

  ‘Same old Porter. Intense as ever. Wanted to charge after a suspect today and lost his rag a bit when he got reined back in.’ He twirled a bird’s nest of spaghetti around his fork and paused with it in mid-air. ‘On a positive note, he had Simmons from the drugs squad batting her eyelashes at him again today.’

  ‘Oh, Nick, just leave him be. He’ll be ready when he’s ready.’

  Styles grinned. ‘I know, I know. But a small nudge never hurt anyone.’

  ‘Unless they’re stood at the edge of a cliff,’ said Emma.

  Styles held a hand up. ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. I do the jokes in this relationship. Don’t mix up our roles. You’re the pretty one, and I’m the funny one.’

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, giving an exaggerated pout. He smiled again as they each loaded up a forkful of pasta, coated in creamy carbonara sauce. He knew she was right. Porter would find his own way back to normality, or something resembling it, when he was good and ready. Today’s flare-up of temper wasn’t the first time Styles had seen his partner let a case get to him more than it should. He wondered if it was the Lockes’ apparent lack of concern for Natasha that had set him on edge. It could just as easily be the thought of a young woman’s murder going unsolved. Just like Holly’s had.

  He had tried to get Porter to talk about it in the past, but the shutters came down, and his partner either clammed up or changed the subject. Maybe it was worth asking if he’d given any more thought to talking to one of the psychologists they had access to on the force. No, he should probably just do as Emma suggested and leave it for now. He looked across the table at her, feeling relief that he didn’t have to cope with what Porter had gone through. Was going through. He prayed he’d never have to find out for himself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Porter’s parents had lived in the same four-bed detached house in Pinner since before he was born. The sort of neighbourhood where hedges were trimmed to within an inch of their life on a weekly basis, and lawns looked like they’d been clipped with scissors and edged with a ruler. His mum was standing on the doorstep as he arrived, waving as the reverse lights on his sister’s pale blue Citroën people carrier lit up. Shit! With all that had happened earlier, he had forgotten that he’d promised to try and make it an hour earlier to see her and the kids. He flashed his lights as he pulled up alongside her in the driveway, winding down his window as he came level.

  ‘Hey, sis,’ he said, pulling what he hoped was a sufficiently sheepish grin.

  ‘Gotta go, Jake.’ She shrugged. ‘These two need feeding.’ She jerked her head towards the back seat. He climbed out and saw two pairs of excited eyes peering from the passenger side window, small hands rapping out an excited beat.

  ‘Hey, trouble one and trouble two,’ said Porter, tapping the window with his knuckles, making them flinch backwards. ‘Sorry, Kat. Got stuck with—’

  ‘A work thing,’ she finished for him. ‘I know, I know. It’s fine,’ she said with a roll of the eyes. She stabbed a finger out the window at him, her tone and eyes warning in equal measure. ‘But don’t you dare forget about tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? What’s happening tomorrow?’ he said, feigning ignorance. She narrowed her eyes, and tried to swat him with the back of her hand, but he stepped back. ‘Joking. Of course I won’t forget,’ he said, making a mental note to get cards and presents for the twins on his way home tonight in case he forgot between now and their party.

  Truth be told, he’d rather be forced to spend an hour naked in Trafalgar Square while tourists snapped his picture than sit through an hour-long party at the leisure centre. Sixty minutes of exquisite torturous small talk with the parents of the other kids, dodging the plastic balls hurled like missiles by five-year-old hooligans. Plan B was to turn up at Kat’s house in the morning and wish Tom and James happy birthday then, instead, and fall back on the clichéd excuse of work to cry off for the afternoon.

  ‘I’ll drop you a text in the morning to remind you just in case,’ she said as she started to reverse.

  The twins waved frantically at him, and he stood waving back at them until Kat finished backing all the way down the drive and disappeared behind the hedge. He wandered over to where his mum stood, arms folded. She and Kat were practically carbon copies of one another, separated by thirty years or so. The same high cheekbones and practically pointy nose. Thirty years. It struck him as he approached her that his mum was around the same age as Natasha would be now. He gave a slight shudder as he leant in to hug her.

  ‘Ooh, someone walk over your grave?’ she asked him.

  ‘Something like that. You alright, Mum? Sorry I’m a bit late.’

  ‘Well, you were born late, so I suppose I should be used to it by now.’

  He smiled, just like the first hundred times she’d cracked the joke, and followed her into the hallway, lined with a This Is Your Life array of photos. Everything from him in just a nappy, sat on the same doorstep he had just crossed over, to him in full uniform, fresh onto the force. He lingered for a fraction of a second as he passed his own wedding photo, and took off his jacket, hooking it over the newel post at the bottom of the staircase. The colour on the walls had changed a few times since he was a kid, but the smell of constant cooking was a given. Harriet Porter always had something on the go: bread in the oven, boiling fruit to make jam. Today smelt suspiciously of cauliflower, and Porter opted to breathe through his mouth.

  ‘What you got on the boil, Mum?’

  ‘Cauliflower soup. There’s plenty if you’re hungry?’

  ‘I ate at the office, thanks.’ He felt bad for lying, but he’d have felt worse with a belly full of pureed cauliflower.

  ‘The twins were disappointed not to see you.’

  Reading between the lines, she was the one disappointed that he hadn’t been there to spend any time with them. He shrugged apologetically, flicking the switch on the kettle.

  ‘You know how work can be, Mum. I’ll definitely be there for the party. Cuppa?’

  ‘You know they worship you, what with you being the exciting policeman uncle. It wouldn’t kill you to spend a bit more time with them. And with your sister,’ she added.

  She was right, of course. It wouldn’t kill him. It wasn’t easy, either. Not like it used to be. Not since Holly. They had been trying to start a family when she died. Only for three months, but trying all the same. She wanted two, a boy and a girl. Porter would have settled for whatever they were given.

  He and Kat had grown up close, but not in-each-other’s-pockets close. She had stood by him at the funeral. Alternated with Mum to have him round for dinner so he wasn’t alone with his thoughts every night. How could he tell her that seeing her and his brother-in-law, Tony, playing happy families with Tom and James sometimes gave him a hollow queasy feeling like someone had scooped out his insides, shaken them like a martini and poured them back in? As much as he loved them all, they were a flash-forward to what he and Holly could have been. Should have been. Kat would tell him not to be so stupid. And she’d mean it, too. That wouldn’t make it any less of a painful reminder.

  ‘I know, Mum. I know. Dad round?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  She shook her head. ‘He’s popped out to get a new lawnmower. Shouldn’t be long, though, if you’re not in a hurry to get anywhere.’

  ‘I’m done for the day,’ he said, plucking two cups from the cupboard, knowing that he was far from finished. He wouldn’t be heading back to the station, but the questions he still had after the visit to the Locke house were like ticks under his skin. If he could manage more than the five or six hours’ sleep he’d been getting by on, a clearer head might help make sense of what he’d learnt today, and what he still needed to find out. He felt tired, and not just from chasing a good night’s sleep. The effort of trying to be a good copper as well as a good son, brother, uncle, felt like it demanded more than he had in him to give
on days like today. He owed it to them to try. All of them. Natasha Barclay was on that list now as well. Each needing him to be something different for them.

  It was the ones missing from that list that weighed the heaviest. Husband. Father. Deep breath. Push it all inside. He’d deal with it later when he went home after Anderson’s leaving drinks. Alone.

  Porter stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Holly used to tell him he had ‘rugged good looks’. He knew she meant it as a compliment, but he always equated the words with the notion of something worn or weather-beaten. There were still very few lines on his face, but he was sure that most of them had appeared in the last eighteen months. He flicked the stray strand of hair that had crept towards his eyebrow back into place. A hasty shave had left matching blooms of red either side of his chin. He licked the tip of his finger and rubbed them away, but they were back within seconds. Better to let them clot and he would sort them out in the gents’ toilet when he arrived.

  It had been a long few days, and the couch plus TV combo had whispered sweet nothings in his ear while he ate a hurried dinner from a tray on his lap, but he had given his word that he would be there tonight. He opted for a plain black V-neck sweater, mainly because he wouldn’t have to iron it. His mum used to iron his dad’s socks, never mind the rest of the wardrobe. He was more of a ‘hang it up till you need it’ kind of guy. The faint creasing on every shirt in sight made him think of Holly. That was one habit that she had tried and failed to break him out of.

  He glanced over to his bedside table, eyes lingering on the picture from their wedding day. Facing each other, her with a hint of a smile, looking up into his eyes, both oblivious of the camera pointed at them. He’d come close to putting it in the drawer a few times. Looking at it brought back the sights and sounds of the day, bittersweet pleasure and pain in varying degrees.

  He heard a low throaty rumbling, and looked down to see Demetrious the cat weaving in and out of his legs.