What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  ‘You think he was holding back?’ asked Styles.

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Porter. ‘He looked nervous, but it is a long time ago, and people do feel naturally uncomfortable when we land out of the blue. Fancy a trip to see the other guy, Brookes, before we head back?’

  ‘Might as well,’ said Styles. ‘Can we grab a coffee on the way there, though? Caffeine withdrawal is kicking in.’ He held up a hand, exaggerated forced tremors making it practically vibrate. They pulled away without giving the warehouse another glance.

  A pair of seagulls swooped down into the almost empty car park, and began waging war over a half-eaten sandwich. The victor hopped closer to the warehouse with his prize, while the loser pecked at the crumbs left behind. The door opened so slowly that neither of them flinched, continuing to devour their respective spoils. Awad watched the sun glint off the rear windscreen as the two officers drove away. He lifted the mobile to his ear, feeling the familiar nervous fluttering in his stomach that he did every time he had called the number, and this time was no different.

  Alec Brookes lived in a modest first-floor flat on Keyes Road in Dartford. There had been no answer at first and they were about to give up when he ambled up the stairs carrying a Tesco carrier bag, loaf of bread peeking out, half squashed. Porter ran over the same explanation for their enquiries as he had given at the warehouse, and Brookes grunted an invite for them to follow him inside. He offered to put the kettle on, but they both held up the Starbucks cups that had been hiding in plain sight by their sides.

  ‘He was a good man,’ said Brookes, settling into an old brown leather sofa, with a cup of tea so pale it could pass for milk. ‘Always good to me.’ He had a puffiness around his eyes, the whites tinged with the slightest blush of pink. Porter wondered if he had not long been out of bed, or if he’d hit the bottle hard the night before. He glanced around the living room; the plate speckled with toast crumbs, the newspaper from the previous weekend, the ashtray filled with butts smoked right down to the filter. Doubtful that there was a Mrs Brookes.

  ‘What can you tell us about him, Mr Brookes?’ asked Styles.

  ‘He worked hard to build that business up after his dad died, I can tell you that. Even slept there a few nights when we had big shipments that needed to go out. He’d roll his sleeves up and sweat alongside the rest of us.’ Brookes had that faraway look in his eye now, the one somebody gets when they’re seeing past events as if they were present day.

  ‘Did you ever meet Natasha?’ asked Porter. ‘Did she ever come to the warehouse?’

  ‘Once.’ He nodded. ‘Couldn’t tell you when, exactly, but there was once. I think she was fresh back from a trip somewhere and she came to surprise him. Lovely girl.’ His voice trailed off and he sipped his tea to fill the silence.

  ‘What about when he lost the business, Mr Brookes? How did he seem when that happened?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Lose it?’ said Brookes with a sardonic chuckle. ‘That’s one way to put it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Styles.

  Brookes sat back against the couch and looked down at the cup resting on his leg. ‘Look, I need that job. I might not like the man, but he pays well, and … well, c’mon.’ He pinched a fold of wool by the collar of his faded blue jumper, pulling it out slightly from his chest. ‘I’m not exactly gonna find a job in an office wearing a suit any time soon, am I?’

  ‘I take it by “the man” you mean the current owner, Mr Locke?’

  ‘He didn’t lose it. It was nicked from him at that price, however you dress it up. Thirty years Mr Locke has owned that place now,’ said Brookes, the corners of his mouth turning down in distaste. ‘Thirty years and he’s barely even been to the site, let alone spared two words for anyone there.’ He shook his head. ‘Now, Mr Barclay, there was a proper gaffer.’

  ‘Mr Brookes, anything you say to us is in confidence. We’re not going to report back to anyone at Atlas, least of all Mr Locke. What can you tell us about when the business changed hands?’

  Brookes blew on his tea, watching the surface vibrate and the ripples break against the side of the cup. The seconds stretched out. He sighed, the decision made.

  ‘I know he was in bother, money-wise, you know? His dad had built that up from nothing. After he took over, we were busier than ever.’ He smiled, remembering the good times. ‘As much overtime as you could handle. My bookie saw most of that. Only ever saw Mr Locke there once before all that’ – he gestured with his hand – ‘stuff happened.’ His face hardened at the mention of Locke.

  ‘What happened when Mr Locke came by?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Wasn’t just him.’ Brookes shook his head. ‘Him and his boys turned up. Little ’n’ Large, we called ’em. Don’t get me wrong, they never laid a finger on him. Didn’t have to.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Styles.

  ‘They just stood and talked in his office. Whatever they said to him in there did the trick, though.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Scared the shit out of him, it did. Didn’t have to be a hotshot copper to work that one out. It was written all over his face. You ask me, he was persuaded to sell up.’ He made quotation marks with his fingers at the mention of persuasion, the gesture echoing the sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘When did that take place?’ asked Styles.

  ‘A week before he did himself in, maybe a day or two either way. Little ’n’ Large came back one more time, a couple of days after, but Mr Locke wasn’t with them that time.’

  ‘Little and Large? You mentioned them before, who are they?’

  ‘Mr Locke’s boys, James Bolton and Oliver Davies. They’d popped by a few times before to see Mr Barclay. They start showing up, not long before all that shit kicked off with that Bembenek fella, as it happens. Just seems like they turned up and bad things started to happen.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Mr Bembenek?’

  Brookes shrugged. ‘Just what they said in the papers. Never knew the fella myself.’

  ‘What about Mr Locke’s men you mentioned, Bolton and Davies?’

  ‘Never had much to do with them myself, but you hear things.’

  ‘Like what?’ prompted Porter.

  ‘Like they weren’t the kind of lads you want to get on the wrong side of. Mr Bolton comes around from time to time. He’s in charge of site security.’

  ‘Do you know anyone who’s gotten on their bad side?’ asked Styles.

  ‘Nah, like I say, I hear things, but it’s all “a mate of mine knows a guy who” type thing. Bolton was meant to be handy with his fists back in the day. Probably still is now, for all I know.’

  They carried on the verbal dance for a few more minutes, but Brookes had nothing more specific to tell them. They walked to the door, promising him that his name wouldn’t be mentioned in any conversations they had with anybody at Atlas. They shook hands and stepped out across the threshold.

  ‘I hope you find her,’ said Brookes. ‘Terrible thing, what happened to her dad. That’s enough for any young girl to handle, let alone getting into any bother herself.’

  Porter nodded. ‘I hope so too, Mr Brookes. Thanks for your help.’

  Alec Brookes retreated into his comfortable oasis of clutter. Porter and Styles trotted back down the stairs in silence. Brookes hadn’t given them anything solid, but a few of his comments had made Porter more than a little curious. Had Barclay gotten on the wrong side of Locke or his men, as Brookes had put it? Had he already been suicidal or was there something about the confrontation with Locke that had taken him to the edge and beyond? Most of all he longed to have been a fly on the wall over thirty years ago, and to know what had put the fear of God into Barclay that day. There were two men still alive who could answer that question, of course, but he didn’t expect Locke or Bolton would give up the information any time soon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time they got back to the station, Styles had an email from St Agnes’ with an attachment that had co
ntact details for the ten members of Natasha Barclay’s class that were active in the alumni network. They split the list down the middle and started calling.

  It was a little after three in the afternoon, and as expected they found themselves mainly talking to answerphones. They had agreed in advance on a suitably vague voicemail to leave, saying only that they needed to speak to the person in connection with a case that had a connection to St Agnes’, and left their desk numbers for them to return the call.

  They did manage one success each. Porter spoke to a Jonathan Stone, who was happy enough to answer his questions, and did remember Natasha, but said they had moved in different circles. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since they were eighteen, and had moved to Manchester after finishing university. He was no longer in touch with anyone else from school so Porter thanked him for his time and ended the call.

  Styles had a little more luck. He managed to speak to a woman called Rebecca Arnold, who used to be in the school swimming team with Natasha. They hadn’t been best friends but had been close enough to invite the other to birthdays and hang out after school on occasion. She was out of town, but gave Styles her train times for coming back if someone could meet her for a chat at the station.

  ‘It’s not much but it’s better than nothing, I suppose,’ said Porter when Styles was finished recounting the call. ‘Coffee while we decide what’s next?’

  Porter went to get the drinks while Styles called home. He was coming back through the cafeteria door, when he almost collided with two people striding down the corridor. Coffee sloshed against plastic lids. He looked up and saw Simmons and Gibson, equally as startled by his sudden appearance.

  ‘Shit, sorry, Evie.’ He caught himself, and hoped Gibson didn’t read anything into his use of her first name. ‘Mike.’ He nodded a greeting towards Gibson. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Gibson.

  Porter turned to face Simmons. ‘I came to see you this morning but you were still on your way in. Have you got a few minutes now?’

  ‘We’re just on our way to meet Owen Carter.’ She saw his blank look and added, ‘Our man in Atlas.’

  ‘Ah, OK. I’ll maybe catch you later, then.’

  ‘I need to pay a visit before we go, so you two catch up and I’ll see you down at the car,’ said Gibson, gesturing towards the gents’ toilet.

  Simmons shrugged. ‘OK, see you there.’

  Gibson trotted away, leaving the two of them sharing the awkward silence. Simmons broke it first.

  ‘We don’t have to do the Locke catch-up now if you’re busy,’ she said, pointing at the two cups he held.

  ‘These? No, no, these are just for me and Styles. I’ve got a few minutes now if you do? Here, have mine,’ he said, offering her one of the cups. ‘I can pop down and get another one later.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check for now. Besides, Nick’s a good guy but I wouldn’t want to come between him and his caffeine.’ There was that smile of hers again, framed by a dimple either side.

  ‘OK, well, how about you give me a shout when you guys get back?’

  ‘I’d better get going, but yeah, let’s catch up later.’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He moved to the side to let her past. ‘You can give me the rundown of how it goes out at Atlas as well.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ she said, with a cheeky grin. ‘Don’t worry, guv, just a figure of speech.’ She was past him and around the corner before he had a chance to reply.

  He watched her go, standing for a moment even after she had disappeared around the corner. Not a good idea, he told himself. She was a junior officer, and he had seen enough workplace flings go wrong to fill a whole season of The Jeremy Kyle Show.

  So we’re considering a fling now, are we?

  He felt like giving himself a slap, but with both hands holding hot coffee, that wouldn’t end well. He settled instead for a long, drawn-out sigh. He didn’t know what it would actually take to get him to the stage where he felt free to even think about letting himself get close to someone again. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to, but Styles was right about one thing: Holly wouldn’t want him to wallow like this, not for so long. She’d tell him to stop moping around and get back to living his life. Knowing it and doing it were two different things entirely.

  The sun hung low, lightly kissing the horizon. But for the dashboard showing the temperature outside to be a brisk 5ºC, it had all the hallmarks of a glorious Mediterranean-style evening, the kind that finds people outside enjoying a nice Chianti, or sipping a cold beer. The Atlas warehouse sat on a bend in the Thames, just along from Rainham Marshes nature reserve. Simmons had already promised herself a trip back to spend some time there when all this was over. Mike Gibson killed time during stakeouts by chattering endlessly, and one day he’d painted such a vivid picture of watching the peregrine falcons taking their prey on the wing that she’d googled it after work, and sat mesmerised by a video of one swooping down on a flock of pigeons like a kamikaze pilot, and the explosion of feathers that followed. It seemed incongruous that a place like that was just down the road from a row of warehouses where men like Bolton and Patchett plied their trade.

  Gibson nudged her, pointing as Owen Carter got out from his car and walked into the Atlas warehouse. They had parked two hundred yards away along Coldharbour Lane in their unmarked gunmetal grey BMW, with three identical units spaced around the site at a similar distance. Fifty yards further back, and parked facing the other way, was a faded red van. The logo on the side advertised C. J. Errington & Son, Plumbers, and housed the mobile listening post that would receive and relay the live feed from the hidden microphone Owen Carter had pinned underneath the collar of his coat. Last but not least, they had eyes on Patchett himself; a long range lens was trained on his office window from the rooftop of a neighbouring warehouse. They needed to see the exchange take place, as well as hear it, if they were going to hang him out to dry.

  Carter glanced back in their direction as he disappeared inside. The car was silent except for the thud of Carter’s footsteps on the hard concrete floor, relayed over the radio. The plan for tonight was simple in theory. Carter was due to collect his monthly delivery from Patchett, which he would then sell on through a handful of dealers he used. They would get Patchett bang to rights on tape, and that would give them enough ammunition for a tap on his home, office and mobile. Whether they could follow the same route up through Bolton and on to Locke was another matter, but she would settle for Patchett tonight and worry about the rest later.

  A low rumble sounded on the audio as Carter cleared his throat, followed by a squeak that sounded like a door opening.

  ‘Hiya, Andy, how’s tricks?’ Carter’s voice was clear as a bell.

  Gibson looked at Simmons and winked. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘I’m good. You’re late.’ Patchett’s voice was throaty, like gargling with gravel, a side effect of his forty-a-day habit.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Carter. ‘Traffic was a mare.’

  Simmons hoped that Carter didn’t look as nervous as he sounded.

  Patchett grunted in response. They made small talk for the next few minutes about the previous weekend’s football scores, and Carter asked Patchett about one of the other men from the warehouse who was nursing a broken leg after coming off worst in a collision with a forklift. Carter said something about the weather and Patchett cut him short, having reached his tolerance level for inane chatter.

  ‘Enough of that crap. How was business last month?’

  ‘Good, yeah, business was good,’ said Carter. ‘Sold out, in fact.’

  ‘Well?’ said Patchett expectantly. ‘What you got for me?’

  They had agreed to let Carter hand over the money from the previous month’s sales so as not to arouse suspicion. There was a series of rustling noises and a thud. In Simmons’s mind, Carter had dropped the brown envelope, heavy with cash, onto a surface, maybe Patchett’s desk.

&n
bsp; ‘Bravo team, what are we looking at?’ whispered Simmons into the silence. Bravo was the designated call sign for the team with the camera.

  ‘Patchett’s counting the money,’ the reply crackled back, sounding louder in her ears than it surely was in reality. ‘He’s just pulled a rucksack from under the desk.’

  They had briefed Carter at length this morning. Gibson had drilled into him exactly what they needed to see and hear to make it a clean operation. That list included seeing the merchandise during the exchange.

  ‘Carter’s opening the rucksack. He’s pulling something out.’ The few seconds of silence that followed were heavy with anticipation. ‘Bravo to all units, we have confirmed sighting of the product, repeat, confirmed sighting of the product.’

  Patchett’s voice cut over the top of Bravo unit. ‘What the hell are you doing? Put that shit away. Anyone could walk in.’

  ‘Soz, Andy, I’m half asleep. Been a long day.’ The sound of the bag being zipped up again, followed by a sigh that could have come from either of them.

  ‘It’s little mistakes like that that end up getting people in big trouble, man.’

  A loud tapping interrupted the conversation, and made Simmons jump. A woman’s voice came next.

  ‘Mr Patchett, he’s here. He just pulled up in the car park a moment ago.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s here? He’s early. He’s never early.’

  ‘Well, he’s here. He’s on his phone outside, and he sounds angry.’

  Simmons looked up towards the warehouse in a flash. Who the hell were they talking about?

  Shit, what did we miss?

  She had been so fixated on the conversation that she had been staring at the glowing LED lights of the radio. When she looked out of the windscreen, she had the ghost of the numbers still stamped in her retinas. They floated in front of her until she blinked repeatedly to banish them. A hulking figure paced back and forward in front of the building. Even from here, she could tell he was well over six feet. A bald pale head stood out in contrast to the black knee-length coat that whipped back and forth around his legs as he walked.