What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  The clock read 17.05. A black Mercedes appeared at the top of the screen, taking three frames to pull up outside Taylor Fisheries. Two men exited the car. There was no mistaking Bolton. The only place he would blend in would be the gorilla cage at the zoo. Porter noted the second man getting out of the passenger side: Owen Carter.

  The two men disappeared inside and the car vanished soon after. The stop-start motion made for a painful viewing experience, and Porter motioned for Reid to skip forward to the action. He fixed his eyes on the window, waiting for the explosion of glass and splintered frame.

  When it came, it was like a magic trick. Carter hovering in the air one second, on the ground the next. Porter saw figures appear from the far right corner, advancing quickly towards the building. He swallowed hard as he recognised Simmons, keeping pace with Gibson; he leant forward, grabbing the mouse to pause it, as if that would stop what was to come.

  ‘Wait,’ said Reid. ‘Go back a bit. Nope, not that far … Here, let me.’

  Porter surrendered control of the mouse. Reid dragged the marker on the progress bar back a few millimetres, the image frozen with Carter on the ground.

  ‘There.’ He stabbed a finger towards the gaping hole that used to be the window. ‘Look there.’

  Porter stared at the darkness inside the window frame, at the amorphous blob, more grey than black, centred within it, but he could no more identify the person than he could stop Simmons’s charge. He knew it was Bolton, but knowing it and proving it were different things entirely. They could prove Bolton went into the building, now, though, that was something, and maybe even enough to get Campbell’s sign-off to bring him back in.

  Reid’s finger twitched again, the picture advanced to the next frame, and Porter froze, eyebrows arching upwards. The figure was leaning forward, looking out onto the road. He hadn’t noticed it on the first run-through; his attention had been fixed on Carter. It leant into the daylight, taking on shape, the unmistakable shape of James Bolton.

  ‘Well halle-fucking-lujah,’ said Porter, slapping Reid on the back hard enough to make his finger slip on the mouse button. The footage started rolling again. Simmons and Gibson, the Charge of the Light Brigade, but Porter was already halfway to the door.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Porter stood back from the desk and waited as Campbell watched the clip for a second time, pausing on the frame that showed Bolton looking out, surveying his handiwork. Campbell stared at it, leant in closer, sat back and sighed.

  ‘I’ll call Milburn. He’s not going to like it, but we have Bolton at the scene. We have him on record lying to us. Bring him in. Send a team to the woods as well. We’ve got enough to bring him in without the girl, but the more we have on him the more likely he is to give us Locke if we offer him a deal.’

  Campbell looked and sounded almost disappointed, but nothing could dampen Porter’s excitement, not even a selfish bastard like Campbell.

  ‘I’ll get right on it, sir.’

  He turned to leave, but Campbell wasn’t finished.

  ‘Don’t think this is over, Detective.’ Porter stopped, looked back at Campbell with a confused frown. ‘You crack on and get after Bolton now, but when this is all settled, you and I’ – he gestured from Porter to himself and back again – ‘will have a conversation about obeying orders from your commanding officer. More to the point, what happens when you don’t.’

  ‘Sir?’ Porter feigned ignorance, knowing full well what Campbell was getting at.

  ‘I made it clear that Mary Locke was off limits. I did make it clear, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I—’

  Campbell held up a hand. ‘No buts, Porter. Now, go on, do your job. This’ll keep till later. And remember, it’s Bolton we’re bringing in. There’s nothing but hearsay on Locke for now. Stay away from him.’

  Porter gritted his teeth, imagining how satisfying it would be to squash Campbell’s face up against the monitor, Bolton’s pixelated image still frozen on it. To show him close up just how good he was at his job. He’d face a dozen Campbells to put away one Bolton. Fuck him. Let Campbell do his worst. He tried to convey all this in a look. One long, gritty stare. But Campbell already had his head down, fixated on the case file on his desk, and Porter’s defiant look was wasted on him.

  Porter left without another word. Styles was grinning as Porter approached his desk.

  ‘Did our esteemed leader like what he saw?’

  ‘Ha!’ Porter gave a low sarcastic laugh. ‘I’m not so sure that he liked the fact that we were still chasing Bolton, but I told him that Reid was already looking at the camera when we were warned off. Not much he can say to that.’ He stopped short of sharing Campbell’s warning of the dressing-down looming once Bolton was in custody. He’d take one for the team and keep Styles out of it. No point in telling him. Styles would only try and take his share of the blame.

  ‘So we’re good to go?’ said Styles.

  ‘Yep. Let’s get cracking. There’s a million and one things to organise for tomorrow.’ He saw the confused look on Styles’s face and realised that in the excitement at the thought of arresting Bolton, he had missed a step out.

  ‘Campbell has given the thumbs up to try and find Natasha first. We’ll head to the woods first thing Monday. We’ve got him, though. No matter what we find or don’t find next week, we’ve got him.’

  Styles nodded. ‘What time do we start?’

  ‘First light.’

  ‘Does Mrs Locke know?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Nothing to know yet, but she’ll find out soon enough if we get lucky.’

  They both sat back in their seats at the same time, lapsing into silence, thinking about the conflicting emotions tomorrow could bring, equal parts hope and tension, searching the woods an inch at a time. Porter didn’t relish the prospect of raking through the leaves and mud all day, but every inch searched was an inch closer to bringing Natasha’s killer to justice, and for that he’d wade through a damn sight worse than woodland.

  The raindrops that evaded the canopy tickled Porter’s face. A ripe, fat one hit him smack in the middle of the forehead as he looked up. Pointless to wipe it away when he knew there would be more to follow. Yesterday and today, they had arrived at the woods around dawn. Two long days of expectation giving way to frustration.

  Campbell had insisted on meeting him here the first morning, but had made his excuses after an hour and hadn’t been back since. Something about a committee to attend and budgets to review. He’d be back sharp enough if they found something, though. Couldn’t have the rank and file claiming too much of the credit for an operation he’d sanctioned, however grudgingly.

  Porter found the snowdrops again at the first attempt, and they’d started from there, radiating outwards in a grid. He looked back at them now, still visible even at a distance. They stood out proudly, surrounded by mud the colour of discarded coffee grounds, their bowed heads a white blemish on a dark canvas. He’d naively thought they were more than just Mary Locke’s marker. That they were the X that marked the spot. No such luck, though. The dogs had breezed past them as if they weren’t even there.

  He looked around for Styles and saw him behind a line of trees, their trunks thin and straight like prison bars, walking slowly alongside the officer in charge of the ground-penetrating radar device that always reminded Porter of a chunky lawnmower. He felt the insect-like buzz of his phone. Voicemail from his mum. Why the hell had it not rung first? He tapped the screen to call her back, but the handset never made it to his ear.

  Styles was at least forty feet away and facing the other direction, so Porter couldn’t hear what he was saying to the officer beside him, but the body language told him all he needed to know. A hurried pat on the shoulder, head twisting left and right, searching for Porter, finding him, summoning him with an excited flapping of the hand.

  Porter picked his way through the tree roots that clawed at his feet, pushing aside the low hanging branches that whipped
back angrily at the space he left behind. By the time he reached Styles three others had beaten him there, and they stood around the GPR like vultures round carrion, looking expectantly at the ground. No carcass to pick at, just mud, churned up to the consistency of cake mix by the elements and heavy boots.

  Porter broke the silence. ‘Well? What have we got?’

  The officer with his hands resting on the GPR cleared his throat. ‘Something worth digging for, guv. Could just as easy be a bird under there, a dog even. More than likely will be, but we’ll soon see.’

  He dragged the GPR backwards, took a roll of police tape from his backpack and started marking out an area roughly six feet square. Porter took a step back, heard the buzz of an insect. No, not an insect. He looked down, realising his phone was still in his hand, his mum’s voice a faint tinny squawk as she tried to get his attention. He lifted it back up, took a step away from the circle and spoke without taking his eyes from the square of dirt inside the tape.

  ‘Hi, Mum … No, I haven’t listened to it yet … Yes, I knew I’d rung you back, but … No, listen, Mum, I’m going to have to call you back. Something’s come up.’

  He ended the call and leant against the nearest tree, watching as two officers began carefully scraping away the earth inside the taped perimeter. He’d seen paint dry faster, but knew they had to take it slowly for fear of missing something. They worked in relative silence, and apart from the occasional screech of a radio, the stillness of the trees made it seem that even they were holding their breath, waiting to see what would be uncovered.

  A little under ten minutes and two feet of soil later, Porter saw the officer closest to him stop, bending down to peer at something. Porter squinted, trying to make out what he was looking at, but all he could see was damp, spongy soil. The officer reached down, swiping a short bristled brush across a patch of ground by his foot. Porter’s toes bunched and uncurled inside his shoes, nervous energy that had to escape somewhere. His impatience got the better of him.

  ‘What have we got?’

  The officer straightened up, twisting round towards Porter, his feet staying planted in the mud. ‘It might not be her, guv, but it’s a someone, not a something.’

  Porter stepped closer and peered at the ground, and saw what he was talking about. A curved grey dome streaked with dirt. A single eye socket staring blindly up at him, the other still buried. Teeth, stained the same colour as the rest of the skull. He looked up at the faces around him, saw a few of them nodding gently. They’d have to run tests, of course. Prove it was her. Surely it had to be, though, didn’t it? He didn’t like to jump to conclusions, but to come looking for her, only to find someone else? That only made sense if Locke had used his wife to feed them false information, but if that was the case, who the hell would he want them to have found? Fuck that. It was her unless or until someone proved otherwise.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘She’s been down there too long already. Let’s get her out of here.’

  NATASHA – APRIL 1983

  Natasha closes her eyes as she inhales. Feels the sweet sting of smoke tickling the back of her throat. She tolerates Mary’s husband for her brother’s sake, but there’s only so much of his Lord of the Manor attitude she can stomach without a ciggy break. She has barely touched her Sunday roast before escaping into the back garden, but then again who can blame her? Alexander’s money can buy clothes fit to grace a catwalk, but doesn’t, it seems, stretch to cookery lessons. Mary tries, bless her, but her Yorkshire puddings are as tasty as papier mâché, beef so overcooked Natasha expected it to turn to ash when she touched it, and all doused in gravy the colour of muddy water.

  It’s the way he talks to her, she decides. That’s what rubs her patience raw like sandpaper. He talks to her like she’s on the payroll. Does the same with Mary, as well, but she just nods and accepts it. She decides there and then to make other plans for next weekend. Mary’s voice drifts through the open kitchen window, and Natasha retreats around the corner of the house, along the path towards the side gate. Her stepmum knows she smokes but Natasha can’t be bothered with the tired look of disapproval Mary wears every time a cigarette goes near her mouth.

  Another deep drag, but the quiet crackle of smouldering cigarette paper is drowned out by the low rumble of an engine from the front of the house. She hears a car door open and close, and footsteps stomp their way across the drive. The echoes of the bell reach her even here, and she hears voices. Blurred and indistinct, she can make out one word in three or four. She sidles closer to the gate, both voices now have owners. Alexander Locke is one. The other makes her eyes widen in surprise. James. Mixed emotions. She misses him a little. Her fling on the wrong side of the track. Sleeping with the help, so to speak. If she’s honest, she let it happen just to see Alexander’s reaction as much as anything. There was something deliciously naughty about being on the arm of a man that most people fear.

  She lets the smoke curl from her mouth of its own accord, almost afraid to blow it out in case they hear her. Ridiculous, she knows, but her chest tightens as she listens, words becoming clearer. She screws her eyes closed to concentrate, as if that will amplify their words, but she’s not sure she wants to hear any more. All she can think of is her father. Of what Alexander has just told James to do to his warehouse. To him if he doesn’t play ball. If he doesn’t sign the papers. She needs to warn him. Wonders what he’s done to piss off Alexander. She can’t face going back inside, but knows she has to. She can hardly stroll through the side gate with those two stood out front.

  Her hand is shaking as she stubs the cigarette out in the soil by her feet. Natasha folds her arms protectively across her chest and heads back inside. She mutters her thanks to Mary, musters a terse smile for her brother, Gavin. She doesn’t want to have to walk past the two men at the front door, and heads for the toilet, locks the door and mouths a silent scream to herself in the mirror.

  Oh my God! Oh my fucking God!

  What if James is heading straight there now? What if he gets there before she can warn her dad? There’s a payphone five minutes down the road. She’ll call him first, and the police second if needs be. Whatever it takes to stop this from happening.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Porter felt his mouth go dry as Will Leonard came through the door and headed over towards him. He’d cashed in some brownie points in persuading Leonard to rush the tests through, and studied the approaching face for a hint of the results, but Leonard gave nothing away.

  ‘Hey, Will,’ said Porter, trying to remain calm. ‘That was quick, even for you.’

  ‘Most people go for the flattery before they ask the favour.’

  Porter couldn’t bring himself to beat around the bush. ‘Well? Is it her?’

  Leonard nodded. ‘It’s her.’

  Porter clenched his fists. ‘I knew it. I knew it,’ he said, more to himself than anyone else. ‘Thanks, Will. I owe you.’

  ‘That you do. If only my credit was as good with my bank. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned and made a beeline for the door, Styles coming through it seconds after Leonard had exited, as if one man had just pulled off the greatest quick-change act ever. He saw the look on Porter’s face as he came closer.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s her. Let’s see if Anderson and Whittaker are about. Never hurts to have numbers with a man like Bolton.’

  They found Whittaker at his desk, mouth full of Mars bar and a smear of brown below his bottom lip. He crumpled the wrapper and hit the three-pointer in the bin against the wall.

  ‘Too bloody right I’m in,’ he said after Porter filled him in. ‘Anderson just nipped for a cuppa. I’ll give him a call and see you downstairs in five?’

  They talked tactics while they waited for Anderson and Whittaker. They circulated Bolton’s licence plate to all units on duty. They had his home and business addresses to split up and work through. At last, after all the frustrations of the last few days, Porter felt the familiar buz
z that only came with the business end of a case, when everything started to converge on one point, one person.

  He wasn’t at his home, and the unit that went to the Oyster Bay restaurant reported back that he wasn’t on the premises. Porter hadn’t expected it to be quite as straightforward as the first time, but he was pleasantly surprised when a call came over the radio to say his car had been spotted outside a health club he owned. Porter checked the address. They were a little over ten miles away, and agreed to meet in a pub car park around the corner.

  The traffic seemed to melt away. Porter wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he’d take any good omens at this point, and smiled to himself as he saw two unmarked cars already there, side by side, as they pulled up to the rendezvous point. The two officers who had called it in got out when they saw Porter’s car approach. He’d not worked any cases with them before but knew them by reputation. Sandford and Clarkson were plodders, not exactly setting the world alight, but dependable. Porter gave each of them a brief handshake as Anderson and Whittaker got out and joined them.

  ‘When did we last see him?’

  ‘No one’s actually seen him, but we spotted his car outside. We’ve had eyes on it since then and it’s not budged, so he’s in there somewhere.’

  ‘OK, follow my lead. You two stay on the front door when we go in. Styles and I will head inside and find him.’ He turned to Anderson. ‘Anderson, you and Jon take the back. We don’t want him bolting, but if he does you’ll be there to scoop him up. Any questions?’