What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  The door opens an inch, then pauses. She fancies she can hear breathing coming though the gap, from whoever is in the corridor beyond. Realises she’s listening to herself, short and shallow, all through the nose now, lips pressed tightly together. The world speeds up again before she can tell herself to move. Shapes barrelling towards her. She whirls and runs, feeling herself falling before the weight bearing down on her registers. A tangle of arms wrap around her legs. She pushes herself up on her palms, kicking out. Feels her slipper connect and something, someone, grunts in pain. Looks back and sees a man, face hidden behind a balaclava, scrabbling at her legs, pulling himself towards her.

  Natasha doesn’t see the blow until it’s too late. The punch catches her on the cheek and her vision explodes into a thousand fireflies as her head collides with the wall. A coppery taste fills her mouth. Pressure on the back of her neck pushes her face into the carpet, nose grinding into the floor, mouth full of shagpile. Hands grab her wrists, yanking them behind her, and something is being wrapped around them. She is flipped over onto her back. Her eyes are watering from the impact against the wall, and she tries to blink away the blurriness. To decide if she’s seeing double, or if there are in fact two masked men looking down at her.

  She hears them talking despite the ringing in her ears. Two voices, two men. One of them speaks low, grumbling, complaining about her teeth splitting his knuckle. It comes from the bigger of the two men. She doesn’t mean to speak out loud, just in her head, but she hears her own voice betray her.

  ‘Why?’ It doesn’t even sound like her voice, thick and slurred.

  His head whips down to look at her. He stares at her for an eternity, but doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need him to. Knows she’s in more trouble than she can handle, no matter what their reasons. He reaches under her armpits and drags her up into a sitting position, back to the wall. He mutters something to the shorter man, and disappears off towards her bathroom. The short man looks like he’s leering at her through the mask, coming in close, into her personal space. She can’t see the face, but the look in his eyes gives her goosebumps.

  Natasha figures if they wanted to kill her she’d be dead by now, but she can’t bring herself to wait around to see what they want. She has no plan but moves anyway, knowing there might not be a better chance. She lurches forwards, slamming her head into his groin with all the power she can muster. Pain sets off depth charges somewhere in her brain, and she can’t help but screw her eyes shut. She pushes back against the wall and up to her feet, stumbles past him as he crumples to his knees. She could weep with relief when she sees the front door still slightly open, and nudges it wider with her shoulder, blundering out into the corridor and pinballing off the far wall.

  She hears shouts coming from back inside but doesn’t look behind her. Doesn’t waste time fumbling for the elevator button with her hands still tied, and charges through the door to the stairs. Her momentum carries her shoulder first into a wall, but she stops short of plunging down the stairs. Her chest is tight, and she wonders if this is what it feels like to have asthma. To have to fight for every breath. Halfway down and she hears the door above her burst open. Knows they’re coming for her. She reaches the bottom. Shit! The door opens inwards. She spins round and gropes blindly for the handle. She sees the first man, the bigger one, round the corner of the stairwell above her, and the scream that’s been building inside her since they burst into her flat rips out, echoing up every flight of stairs as she turns and runs out into the lobby.

  Where are her fucking neighbours when she needs them? Never so much as look her in the eye, let alone say hello, but what she’d give to see one of their miserable faces right now. The door to the street is like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Her heart feels ready to explode, like she’s finishing a marathon, although she can’t have travelled more than a hundred yards all told. She veers over to the left, pressing the release button with the side of her head that doesn’t feel caved in. Click. Shoulder pressed to the door, she still expects to feel a hand around her neck any moment, yet the acoustics are deceptive, and his heavy footsteps are thundering all around her, but the chill night breeze hits her face, whispers that everything will be alright.

  Natasha screams again as the man bounds through the door after her, and she lurches towards the street. Almost trips over her own feet and bowls into the back end of a yellow Ford Cortina. She looks along to her right, towards the shop on the corner, but it’s closed. No cosy glow warming the pavement at this time of night. Her head spins like she’s just got off the waltzer at the fairground. She turns to look the other way, and stops. Light fills her world, like a sun exploding, and she’s weightless. Floating. Free.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It seemed like an eternity to Porter since Styles had put the call in, the minutes oozing by. He caught himself nibbling at the jagged edge of his thumbnail, something he hadn’t done since he was a kid, and folded his arms to avoid further temptation. Thirty years in the making, and it would all come down to thirty seconds. Even just thinking about it, Porter felt his pulse quicken, fists clench.

  He felt Styles knock against his arm, looked across and saw his partner gesturing towards the gate. He had been so fixated on the building itself that he hadn’t noticed a dark saloon glide up to the gate. He didn’t need to see into the car to know who was driving.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well this just got interesting,’ said Styles.

  Porter flicked a glance at him, then looked back at the black Mercedes again. ‘Because of course it was all a bit mundane up until now.’ He leant forward, raising the binoculars and nudging them into focus on the driver’s side window. Locke. What the hell was he doing here? Sure, he owned the place, but this couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  ‘So now what?’ asked Styles.

  Porter thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘We wait for the others, then we go in. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘We could wait till Bolton leaves, and move in on him wherever he ends up? Just playing devil’s advocate for a second, though, what will Campbell say if we go storming in and—’

  Porter shook his head. ‘We have to have them both there, or Anderson might wriggle out of it. As long as Locke doesn’t get in the way, or do anything stupid, he can keep for another day. Not even Campbell will have a problem with that.’

  He hoped Styles believed his words more than he did himself. If there was even the slightest hint of the operation being anything but perfect, he knew from experience that Campbell would be quick to point the finger. He would be the natural target, but at this point all he cared about was hauling Bolton in. He’d deal with any bullshit Campbell cared to throw at him when all this was over.

  The Mercedes pulled up by the main entrance, and Locke climbed out. He disappeared inside without so much as a glance over his shoulder. Home turf confidence. Porter shook his head softly. Not just confidence. Arrogance. The way his money and connections flowed around him like a cloak, deflecting suspicion onto people like Bolton. Not that Bolton didn’t deserve all that came his way, and then some, but at least he was what he appeared to be. Locke was all facade, and Porter wondered what he’d be like if he was ever cornered. Wondered if he would regress to his East London roots without the trappings of wealth to protect him.

  He sensed movement in his rear-view mirror, and saw four cars pull in behind. He was relieved to see one of them carried the team of authorised firearms officers. He got out to meet them halfway, and recognised the faces of most of the ten men that came towards him, but the one that stood out was Jon Whittaker. His expression as he approached Porter was inscrutable, his face pale and drawn. Porter felt for him. He wouldn’t know where to start in that situation. All Hollywood movie bullshit aside, your partner was meant to be a rock, someone who would back you no matter what. To find out that yours had betrayed your trust and, even worse, had sabotaged an investigation that got another
officer killed, was beyond the pale.

  He nodded at him as Whittaker approached with the others, gathering around Porter in a semicircle. He quickly filled them in on what he knew and what he and Styles had observed. Styles had made the call to Whittaker direct rather than use an open frequency. They couldn’t take the chance that Anderson was listening in. Whittaker had given a quick and dirty update to a disbelieving Campbell and Milburn before gathering all available officers and joining Porter by the warehouse.

  ‘OK, it’s a secure site, and that counts in our favour. There’s a perimeter fence like this’ – he tapped the rigid steel fence posts – ‘all the way round, front and back. We send the van through first, and when I say through, I mean through. Locke’s in there as well. He turned up just before you lads. He gets a pass this time, so be careful we don’t give him any excuse to spit his dummy and call the deputy commissioner.’

  He looked around and could see the excitement mingled with anticipation in the eyes of his audience.

  ‘Just the AFOs first. We go through the barrier, pull back and leave the van blocking off the exit, then get your arses down here. The rest of you pile into the cars and we hit them like a fucking tsunami. No need for heroes, though. Stay in pairs when we get in, and let the AFOs clear the rooms first. We’ve got enough men here so if he won’t come quietly call in your location and the rest of us will come running. Questions?’

  A full round of headshakes, no words spoken.

  ‘Right.’ He checked his watch. Three minutes to noon. ‘Let’s give them a couple of minutes to get comfy, then we’ll get the show on the road.’

  Porter reached forward and touched Whittaker lightly on the arm as the other man moved back towards his car. Whittaker flinched and snapped his head around. Porter leant in, speaking softly so the others couldn’t hear.

  ‘This isn’t on you, Jon. None of us saw it.’

  ‘I know, guv, but thanks.’ Whittaker gave a sad smile. That wouldn’t be the last version of that he’d hear, a condolence of sorts. No matter how this played out, he was losing his partner. Correction: he’d lost him a while back. He just hadn’t known it.

  Anderson fidgeted in the hard plastic seat outside Patchett’s office, where he’d been banished, while Bolton and Patchett stayed inside to talk. He spilt over the sides and the raised ridges dug into his thighs. It was barely noon but his stomach was gurgling its case for an early lunch. He heard Bolton’s voice through the door, low like an idling car engine, followed by Locke’s softer replies. He wondered how long they expected him to wait around like this, surprised he hadn’t had a call from anyone checking his whereabouts from the station.

  A glance at his watch. Five more minutes and he would head off. To hell with the consequences. He was still a copper and coppers deserved respect, even from the likes of Alexander Locke and James Bolton. The thought of a token victory, not waiting for another summons, of liberating his arse from the invasive rim of the plastic seat: decision made.

  He stood, rubbing away the grooves the seat had scored into him, and headed back out to his car. The clouds hung low, smothering the city, squeezing colour from the day. The breeze kissed his forehead cooling the beads of sweat. He offered up a silent prayer in hope that the next six days wouldn’t be like the last few, each stretching out longer than the last. He had cut a few corners over the years, but always with good intent. Six days then he was home free. Six days until he could leave all this behind. A man as resourceful as James Bolton could hide for eighteen years if he wanted. As long as he stayed out of jail for eighteen days, Anderson couldn’t give a damn what he did next. He planned to be on a golf course in Florida with nothing more to worry about except whether a gator ate his ball.

  He started the engine, but left it in neutral, fiddling with the volume on the CD player as the opening riff from ‘Hotel California’ drifted through the speakers, fingers dancing against the wheel. The timing was almost comical as he checked his rear-view mirror to reverse. Don Henley had just struck the last iconic beat of the drums to signal the end of the intro when they rounded the corner.

  His lips got as far as mouthing what the fu—before his brain caught up. It processed the scene like a series of stills. The slight tilt of the van as it rounded the corner at speed. The three cars following the same swerving path, like Formula One drivers hugging the racing line. The split-second delay between seeing the barrier snap like it was made of papier mâché and the sound reaching his ears, a sharp report like a starter’s pistol. It kick-started his survival instinct, and jerked him out of spectator mode.

  His first inclination was to look for an exit. Twisting in his seat, fence to the left and right, protector turned captor. No way past the oncoming vehicles. No way forwards.

  Fuck! Not like this.

  His six days shrank down to six seconds, before he would be out of options, unceremoniously hauled from his car, face pressed to the warm bonnet, cuffs biting into wrists. He threw the door open, leaving the engine running, and bowled back through the door. He had one chance and one chance only. He had to reach the office before they did. Behind him, above the rumble of the Honda’s engine, and the whine of the approaching motorcade, Don Henley sang on, blissfully unaware of events.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘When will you be back?’ asked Patchett.

  ‘A month, maybe two,’ said Bolton, the decision made yesterday, long before Anderson’s call. Bolton had argued against it. He had never run from anything or anyone in his life, and the idea of starting now incensed him. He looked across to where his boss sat in the corner, but Locke’s eyes were fixed on his phone, and Bolton’s half-scowl was wasted. Locke, smooth talker and pragmatist that he was, had won him over. He would stay at a villa Locke owned outside the town of Ponta Delgada, the largest town on São Miguel Island, which in turn was the largest island of the Azores. He had spent a week there three years ago at Locke’s invitation, so he knew he would want for nothing. Locke looked after his own.

  ‘How can I reach you if I need you?’ asked Patchett.

  ‘You don’t. You need anything, you call Mr Stenner. He’ll have a way to reach me.’

  ‘You need me to do anything while you’re gone?’

  Bolton thought for a second and nodded. ‘The other locations, I need you to show your face once a week. As far as anyone knows I’m off on a business trip, that’s all. They find out anything else, I know it’s come from you, and you and I will have a little chat when I get back.’

  Patchett shuddered. He’d seen what a little chat with Bolton could constitute, and would do everything he could to never be involved in one.

  ‘Yep, no worries. Done.’

  Locke stood up, walking towards the window that looked out to the side of the building. ‘If you two are quite finished your chit-chat, we have other pressing matters to attend to. Our friend Detective Porter, for one. I think—’

  He stopped, mid-sentence. All three men glanced towards the door – a thud from beyond it, loud steps echoing. It burst open a second later, and Anderson filled the frame, sweat on his head like condensation, soaking through his shirt in a patch just above the upmost curve of his gut. Bolton stared at him, saw something in his eyes that reminded him of a cornered animal.

  ‘I’ll call you when we’re done, Mr Anderson, and as you can see,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘we’re not done.’

  Anderson was breathing heavily. Even a short dash like the twenty yards back into the building took its toll. ‘James Bolton,’ he said, sucking in a deep breath. No going back now. Last roll of the dice. ‘You’re under arrest for the murders or Michael Gibson and Owen Carter, and the attempted murder of Eve Simmons.’

  Bolton stared at him impassively. ‘We’re still a few months short of April Fools’, Detective.’

  Anderson’s nerve almost failed him, but he continued. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in cour
t. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Bolton shook his head slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching with half a smile. He looked to Locke. The older man shrugged, folding his arms. Bolton turned to Patchett now, a flick of his head towards Anderson.

  Patchett was on his feet now, moving towards Anderson. The detective stepped in to meet him. He might have left his physical prime back in the mists of time that were the nineties, but some things were automatic, hardwired, and he moved with a speed that surprised even him, powered by adrenaline with a healthy dose of fear. Patchett aimed a punch at his head. Anderson slapped it off course with his right hand, reaching his left underneath and around to fasten on Patchett’s wrist. Patchett paused for a beat, taken aback at the failure to land his blow. Anderson saw his chance and took it, driving a stiff jab with his now free right hand, connecting with Patchett’s nose. Cartilage popped as the nose flattened unceremoniously against the cheek. Anderson was no Floyd Mayweather, but with his considerable weight behind it, the impact was still jarring.

  He had no plan as such, so when Patchett stumbled backwards and toppled towards the wall, he felt a moment of elation. Arresting Bolton was the one hope he had. His line to his colleagues would be that he suspected they had a leak based on the fictitious claim of Mike Gibson as the inside man. He’d say he took it upon himself to infiltrate Locke’s organisation, not knowing who in the force he could trust. He would pin his hopes on Bolton being old-school and keeping his mouth shut on everything, including him, and deal with whatever retribution Locke might try to mete out at a later stage.

  He knew it was weak, but it was his only play. Deny, deny and deny again. Everything he’d received was in cash, untraceable, and that was under a board in his mother’s attic. Ride out the storm, and maybe, just maybe, he could walk away from this.