What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  He released his grip and backed away into the room, leaving Porter in the corridor, wondering what kind of justice he would give to the man driving the car that killed Holly, and whether James Bolton deserved any better.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Porter had promised Anderson and Whittaker they would be back at the station for 2 p.m. for both pairings to update each other before they went to Campbell and Milburn, but they weren’t at their desks when he and Styles walked back into the room. He checked in the two nearby interview rooms while Styles went to get coffee, but found them both empty.

  Porter spotted Constable Chris Reid, one of the younger officers, slouching back in a chair. Reid was in his early twenties, boundless energy for the job and a desperate desire to make a good impression on the more senior detectives. Porter explained the situation around the camera, and Reid nodded eagerly. Task successfully delegated, Porter went back to his desk to check his voicemail while he waited, and had just put the phone back in its cradle when Styles reappeared.

  ‘Forget your coffee?’

  Styles shook his head, and Porter could tell from his expression that something was bothering him.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Anderson and Whittaker are upstairs.’

  ‘I wondered where those lazy bastards were hiding.’

  Styles shook his head again. ‘Something’s going on. They’re in with Campbell and Milburn.’

  ‘Already? We’re not meant to brief them for another three hours.’

  ‘You think they’re sucking up to make sure their case gets priority?’

  ‘No idea, but whatever it is they can at least do it to our faces. C’mon.’

  Porter jumped up and followed Styles upstairs. They found the four men two floors up, in a meeting room usually reserved for the high and mighty rather than the rank and file. Anderson was the one talking as they approached, miming his thanks to the thick glass wall. Whittaker sat ramrod straight in his seat, looking a little unnerved. Campbell and Milburn sat at the opposite end of the table, listening intently as Anderson spoke, like two presiding judges.

  All four turned at the same time as Porter and Styles approached the door and knocked. Porter saw Campbell beckon him in with a wave of his hand. Anderson’s mouth was half-open as if paused mid-sentence as they turned to face the two detectives.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I thought we’d arranged our briefing for five,’ said Porter, opting for tact over terseness. The latter wouldn’t win him any brownie points with his superiors, so he kept any animosity towards Anderson in check for his own sake. ‘My apologies, we were out following up a few leads.’

  ‘Our briefing is at five, Detective, but we do need to speak to you now, as it happens,’ said Milburn. ‘Something has come up today that involves you, both of you. Please, take a seat.’

  Porter had never worked directly with or for Roger Milburn, but he knew him by reputation. Word was that he ran a tight ship, and didn’t tolerate anyone who didn’t give absolute loyalty to him and the team. Milburn reminded Porter of a politician more than a police officer. His smile, when it broke free, reminded Porter of a shark, all teeth on show but without any real warmth in the rest of the face. He looked at Anderson and Whittaker, searching their faces for any clue of what it might be about, but found none.

  They sat opposite the other two detectives, with the senior officers at the head of the table. He glanced again at Anderson and Whittaker, but they didn’t meet his eye.

  ‘Would you like us to go first, sir? I can give a quick update on where we’re at?’

  A flash of pearly white from Milburn. ‘We’ll get to that shortly, Detective. First of all, why don’t you tell us why you deliberately disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer.’

  There was no cordiality in his tone or his words. Porter’s head swam with possibilities, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Campbell jumped in before the first word could escape his mouth.

  ‘What we would like to know, Detective Porter, is why, after I specifically instructed you to leave Mr Locke out of the picture, you visited his house this morning?’ His tone was softer than that of his peer, but still with an unmistakable frosty edge.

  His question took Porter by surprise. He knew he was playing fast and loose with the rules by visiting Mrs Locke this morning, but they hadn’t told anyone where they were going, and had only left her a little over five hours ago. How the hell had it gotten back to Campbell so fast? He didn’t have time to consider the routes the information might have taken before Campbell became impatient and paraphrased his own question.

  ‘Well, Detectives, what were you doing at Mr Locke’s house this morning?’

  He addressed them both this time, but Porter answered before Styles felt compelled to. His partner was one of the most intelligent people he knew, but he was still wet around the ears when it came to dealing with office politics.

  ‘We were finishing up an interview with Mrs Locke, sir. We didn’t get the opportunity to finish it a few days ago, and needed to ask her a few more questions to get background on her stepdaughter.’

  ‘And by collecting background, you of course mean accusing one of her husband’s employees of being complicit in her disappearance?’

  Porter lowered his gaze for a second as he sifted through the possibilities. The only one that made sense was that Mrs Locke had called up and complained after they had left.

  ‘Sir, I don’t know what she said exactly, but we were very respectful, and as soon as she asked us to leave we—’

  ‘She didn’t say anything. He did, or should I say his solicitor did on his behalf, asking why we’re harassing his wife and accusing his staff without proper cause or foundation.’ His tone was no different to that he used in day-to-day conversation, but the way he enunciated reminded Porter of a schoolteacher.

  ‘I then had the pleasure of a call from Deputy Commissioner Nesbitt, asking why we’re aggressively pursuing a case with so little evidence, against a man of Locke’s standing. That puts me in a difficult position, Porter. I either back your play and look like a fool for doing so with insufficient evidence, or I tell him you operated against explicit instructions and look like I can’t command my own men. Which would you have me do? That’s a rhetorical one, by the way.’

  Campbell paused for breath and glanced at Milburn, who wore a relaxed smile, presumably thinking about his own stock rising as Campbell fought to defend his own name.

  ‘Sir, if I may?’ Porter hoped to mitigate whatever censure was coming by sharing his observations about the inconsistency at the crime scene, and the possibility of footage of the street. If he could convince them of the case against Bolton for Gibson and Simmons, he might be able to trump their desire to use the big man as part of the drugs case. The publicity that would come of jailing a cop killer was something surely even Campbell couldn’t pass up. Locke was all theirs as far as he was concerned but every instinct he had screamed out that Bolton was their man for both of his colleagues, as well as Natasha.

  ‘No, Detective, you may not.’ Milburn took over now. ‘While you and your partner have been harassing Mrs Locke, your friends here’ – he gestured towards Anderson and Whittaker – ‘have been doing some worthwhile police work.’

  Porter looked over at the two drugs squad detectives again. Whittaker was looking at an imaginary spot on the wall, an uneasy look on his face. Anderson, unless Porter was much mistaken, looked pleased with himself, betrayed by the corners of his mouth twitching like a tic.

  ‘Mr Locke and Mr Bolton met with them earlier when they visited Atlas. Mr Locke is astounded that he or any of his associates are suspects, and has offered us full access to his properties to inspect as we see fit, as a show of good faith. In addition, Mr Bolton has requested we check his phone records as a means of clearing his name. Turns out that based on the location of his phone, he had in fact left the premises and was seven miles away in a Chinese restaurant. That plus the statement from the manager means he�
�s clear. It means you do not touch him.’

  His last four words were spoken slowly for emphasis, as if for the benefit of a small child. Porter stared at him hard. The phone location meant nothing where a man like Bolton was concerned. He could have easily slipped it to someone else to drive it there for him. He employed the manager of the restaurant. It was paper thin, and Milburn knew that as well as he did, but it served to put Bolton off limits for the murders, and in play for the drugs. Milburn didn’t give a shit how Bolton went down, as long as he did, and as long as he and his team got the credit for it. Porter’s stomach knotted in anger. The fact he could sell out his own for personal gain put him almost on par with Locke as far as he was concerned, but he couldn’t let the animosity show. Milburn had the ability to make life difficult for him. Very difficult indeed.

  ‘Are we clear, Detectives?’ Milburn addressed the question to all four men.

  He heard the others murmur an acknowledgement, and tried not to speak through gritted teeth when he gave his own.

  ‘Good. I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of you the consequences for going your own way on this one.’

  A flash of shark-like teeth, and Milburn closed the notebook he had in front of him. ‘Let’s reconvene at five, then.’

  Short of placing Bolton at the scene from any camera footage, Porter knew he was fighting a losing battle, and bit his tongue. They stood up to leave when Milburn asked Anderson and Whittaker to stay behind for a few minutes. Porter didn’t bother looking back as he left. He knew Anderson would be gloating on the inside, and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing a hint of frustration. The job was hard enough at times when you only had the criminals to fight against. Internal enemies were something he could do without. He shot Styles a look to keep him quiet until they were safely back downstairs, and mentally prepared the rant that his partner would patiently sit through.

  Styles sat quietly and bore the brunt of Porter’s anger. The door to the small room was closed, but Porter still kept his voice down, knowing that the sound would carry, but also careful not to misdirect his anger towards his partner.

  ‘So what now? Do we toe the line? I’m guessing we have to?’

  ‘The only thing that might make a dent in their stubbornness is that camera footage,’ said Porter, sitting back in exasperation. ‘We place Bolton there and they can’t ignore him.’

  ‘Let’s hope Reid gets it sooner rather than later, then.’

  They both looked up at the same time to see Whittaker walk through the door. He saw the glare Porter shot him and immediately raised his hands, palms out in surrender.

  ‘Whoa there. I had nothing to do with that little ambush upstairs.’

  ‘I notice you say “I” and not “we”.’

  Whittaker gave a pained smile. ‘Let’s not go there. I know he can be a prickly bastard at times, but he’s my partner, and we’re all on the same side.’

  ‘Not all of us,’ muttered Styles.

  ‘Look, we didn’t ask Locke to call up. We were there when his wife called him. He was pissed. He hid it well, but he was pissed. Called Jasper up straight away and asked for a restraining order.’

  ‘He did what?’ Porter almost exploded with anger and incredulity.

  Whittaker shrugged. ‘I’m guessing Jasper advised against it for now, or we’d have heard about it upstairs.’

  Porter shook his head in disbelief. ‘He’s got some bloody nerve.’ He was about to launch into a rant about Locke, when it hit him. ‘So let me get this straight, Locke just happened to turn up at the same time you two paid a visit? I thought he hardly ever showed his face on-site.’

  ‘No idea. He and Bolton were in the office already when we got there.’

  ‘So what happened, then? I’m assuming they weren’t exactly overjoyed to see you there?’

  ‘Didn’t seem too fazed, to be honest. He’s either not our man, or he’s got some balls to put on a front like that.’

  ‘And he’s just going to let us stroll around wherever we want without a warrant? I can only assume he’s already cleaned house. What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Dunno, I wasn’t there. I went for a snoop around while Anderson stayed with him to make sure he couldn’t call anyone.’

  ‘And where’s Anderson now?’

  ‘Toilet, I think.’

  ‘So what did you find, then?’ asked Styles.

  Whittaker shook his head. ‘Nothing, but we’re going back with dogs this afternoon. They still think it’s the murders that we’re looking into for now, though.’

  ‘By which time they’ll have shifted anything that was there and thrown a shitload of bleach down to cover any scent,’ said Porter. ‘It’s like he’s one step ahead. He’s not daft. He knows it’s not about the murders. Why else would he be opening his doors up other than to throw us off the scent?’

  ‘How about you two, anyway?’ asked Whittaker. ‘What was it you were trying to tell those two upstairs?’

  Porter gave him a summary of their morning. Whittaker listened intently, eyes widening at the mention of a camera.

  ‘I never spotted it,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘How long before we can have a look?’

  ‘No idea. I’ll check with Reid in a minute.’

  ‘Be careful, Porter. I hear good things about you, but Milburn isn’t a man to get on the wrong side of. This one’s his platform for the next step up, and I wouldn’t want to be the one who fucks it up for him.’

  ‘Consider me well and truly warned.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Porter instantly felt bad. He hadn’t thought for a second that Milburn was delivering a warning as such, but the need to constantly look over his shoulder to see what his own people were doing was making him snappy. ‘Sorry, Jon. Do me a favour,’ he said, changing the subject to thaw the atmosphere. ‘Ask Anderson to give me a shout when you see him. I want to know more about how it went with Locke and Bolton while you were sniffing around.’

  ‘Sure thing, will do. See you at the funeral tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Yep, will do.’

  Whittaker left them alone, and Styles headed to the bathroom, promising to send Anderson Porter’s way if he was still there. Porter wandered back to his desk and sat down in his chair with a heavy thump. He was long overdue a holiday. He hadn’t done anything with his leave allocation since Holly, other than use a few days here and there to fix a few things around the house. He decided there and then, once these cases were clear he would take a few days. To hell with it, he would take a week. He’d strap his mountain bike to the back of the car, pack up his fishing gear and head to the Lake District. He closed his eyes and leant back in his seat. The decision made, it couldn’t come soon enough.

  He stood up again and walked to the window adjacent to his desk, touching each ear to a shoulder, smiling at the satisfying click of the vertebrae. The street below was a patchwork of shadow and light, an artistic collaboration of sunlight and cloud. He stared at the herd of cirrus clouds meandering across the sky, remembering playing the game with his mother as a kid: spot the face in the sky. The two on the left were narrow triangles that met at the apex, joined together to form a bow tie.

  He looked down and saw Anderson’s familiar bald head dodging between two parked cars, phone clamped to his ear. He lifted his hand to rap on the glass, but let it fall back to his side. There was no way Anderson would hear him with the noise of the street. Trust him to be scurrying off when he was needed.

  Porter picked up his phone and called Reid. The young officer answered on the third ring.

  ‘Where are we at getting that footage?’

  ‘Turns out it’s not a camera per se,’ said Reid. ‘It’s a meteorological monitoring unit. They have them all over the place these days.’

  ‘So we can tell if it was raining but not who was there?’ said Porter, sarcasm getting the better of him.

  ‘N-no, sir. There is something we can use,�
� Reid stammered, not knowing how to respond to his senior officer’s mocking comeback. ‘It doesn’t just monitor the weather. I checked and it’s part of a network of weather stations across the country called Weather Watch UK.’

  Reid paused to see if that rang any bells with Porter but heard only static on the line.

  ‘If you go to their website you can click on hundreds of stations across the country and see the weather at each location.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Porter. ‘Do you mean as in get a weather report, or we can see the weather, as in actually see it?’

  ‘Actually see it, sir.’

  Porter clenched his fist and thumped his desk twice in triumph. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time, Reid. How soon till we get it?’

  ‘Not till tomorrow, sir. A word of warning, though, it’s not going to be a continuous feed.’

  ‘You mean it’s not always on?’

  ‘I mean it takes a frame every three seconds, so it’ll be like watching a series of still photos, like old-fashioned CCTV.’

  ‘Reid, as long as it shows us the Taylor building, that won’t bother me one bit. I’ll take my chances. Good work.’

  He caught the tail end of a nervous thank you from Reid as he took the receiver away from his ear. He didn’t want to get his hopes up too much until he saw the footage, but it was about time something swung their way, and he allowed himself a cautious smile.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The rain that had fallen for most of the last twenty-four hours stopped just after breakfast in an act of celestial goodwill, and the clouds went from grubby lumps of dirty cotton wool to a cleaner, slightly off-white; nature’s own Fifty Shades of Grey. The road wound into the cemetery and splintered off into a hundred paths leading to a thousand tombstones.

  Porter had limited experience of funerals, and he was keen to keep it that way. Over a hundred mourners had gathered to pay their respects to Mike Gibson, including his wife and two sons. Porter had met her four or five times before on work nights out, enough that she recognised him through the blur of tears and gave him a weak smile when he arrived. He hadn’t known what to say to her as he walked past, so settled for a clichéd ‘Sorry for your loss.’ There wasn’t time for much more than that as a relative – Porter guessed her father, from his age – shepherded her towards the chapel, protective arm around her.