What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  ‘That’s a load of rubbish and you know it,’ Locke snapped, the sharp edges of his usually precise accent blurring around the edges. You can take the boy out of North London, thought Porter. ‘That’s your proof that I know anything about this mess? That I didn’t break down in tears?’

  Porter shrugged. ‘Looks like you need to convince your man here more than you need to convince me.’ He tipped his head towards Bolton. The big man hadn’t moved, head still swivelled, looking at his boss. Locke’s eyes flicked to Bolton and back again. Porter couldn’t see Bolton’s face, but he wagered it wasn’t exactly smiling right now. For the first time, Locke seemed uncertain of how to play the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, but Bolton beat him to it.

  ‘Now?’ he said, clearly looking at Locke, rather than Stenner at the far end of the boat. ‘Now, after all I’ve done for you?’ Bolton spoke through gritted teeth. ‘You try and sell me out over a girl? Over a fucking girl, and one I had nothing to do with? You know fine fucking well I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.’ His voice rose and fell again, like an engine revved.

  ‘What have I just said, James? He’s fishing. You of all people should be able to see through that.’ Locke raised a hand, wagging a finger to emphasise his point.

  Porter flinched as the first shot rang out, dropping to his knees instinctively. Another sharp crack followed right behind it, echoes merging, overlapping with a third. A fourth. What the fuck? Why are they shooting? Bolton was still facing away, and as much as Porter detested the man, shooting him with his back turned was unthinkable. It wasn’t until he saw Locke spin around, falling away from him to the floor of the boat, that his brain started to play catch-up. The gun in Bolton’s hand, still held low by his side, was pointing towards Locke. He had shot his boss, or shot at him at the very least. Porter thought Locke had been hit at least once, but couldn’t say for sure now that Locke was obscured from view where he’d fallen.

  Bolton whipped around, dropping to a crouch as he spun, moving faster than Porter would have believed possible for a man of his size. He’d almost completed the turn when Porter registered shots from either side of him. Everett and Kaye returning fire, shots popping like firecrackers in Porter’s ears. Bolton grimaced, the arm holding the gun dropping as the bullets slammed into him. His own momentum kept him spinning around, past what would have been his firing line at Porter, and he staggered to the left as he fell.

  Another noise cut through the ringing in Porter’s ears as the engines roared into life. He saw Stenner hunched over the controls, partially shielded from the gunfire by a Perspex windscreen that wrapped around the front and part way down the sides of the vessel. He saw twin holes punched into it, kaleidoscopic cracks surrounding both, but Porter couldn’t tell if Stenner had avoided the bullets that had made it through. The boat lurched forwards, taking with it what was left of Bolton’s balance, sending him toppling over the side with about as much grace as a drunk at last orders.

  The officers either side of Porter moved forwards in tandem, Everett squeezing off three more shots at the boat as it arced out into the river. Kaye kept his gun trained on the water where Bolton had landed with an explosive splash seconds before, the surface churned into a thick froth, the colour of the head on a pint of Guinness. Porter looked up towards the boat, a hundred feet away now and accelerating out of range. Still no sign of Locke. He saw Stenner glance over his shoulder, but his face was too far away to read the expression.

  Porter looked back to the water by the jetty as Bolton broke the surface, floating face down, arms spread wide. He checked that Kaye had him covered before turning his back on the river to take the rungs two at a time on the way down, Everett following close behind. Bolton bumped gently against one of the wooden jetty legs as Porter reached the edge. He leant forwards, tapping Bolton’s back twice and snapping his hand back, taking nothing for granted. No reaction. He reached under the nearest armpit and pulled upwards to flip him over.

  ‘Christ, he’s heavy.’ Porter grunted with the effort. ‘Give me a hand,’ he said over his shoulder to Everett. The two of them grabbed a handful of fabric, flipping Bolton over, and he dipped back below the surface for a second as he was turned onto his back. ‘Armpit each,’ Porter said briskly, and they spun him round so his feet pointed out into the river, snaking their arms under and around, clasping on to his shoulders.

  ‘On three?’ asked Everett, and Porter nodded. ‘One, two—’ The three was replaced by a groan as they both pulled up and backwards, inching Bolton onto the rough wooden boards. They angled him round to lie him lengthways, and Porter knelt beside him. He saw Bolton’s eyes move behind closed lids.

  ‘Jimmy? Jimmy? Can you hear me? Hang in there, we’ll get you patched up.’ But no sooner had Porter spoken the words than he saw the blood on his own hands as he went to wipe them dry on his trousers. He looked back at Bolton, scanning for the source. The wet folds of his coat were wrapped around him like dark wings, and Porter couldn’t see any tear in the fabric where a bullet might’ve entered. He remembered where he’d grabbed hold to pull him out of the river, and found what he was looking for. A ragged line of fabric at the neckline almost hid the wound. Porter carefully pulled the collar down an inch, wincing as he saw the trough of flesh that the bullet had carved out, blood still pumping out an angry red in contrast to Bolton’s clammy pale skin. He felt Bolton twitch as he let go, cloth rustling back into place over exposed muscle, and looked down to see his eyes open a fraction. Porter heard Kaye’s voice above him, calling for an ambulance, as well as calling in Locke and Stenner’s escape. He clamped a hand over Bolton’s neck to slow the bleeding, but it oozed between his fingers, and around the edges.

  ‘Jimmy?’ Porter leant in closer. ‘You said he sold you out. Talk to me. Tell me what happened.’

  A dozen possibilities bumped against each other in Porter’s mind, like driverless dodgem cars. He struggled to believe anything Bolton said on face value. Maybe he had just been trying to shoot his way out of a tight corner, safe in the assumption that he couldn’t talk his way out of the bodies back up at the warehouse? But why take a shot at Locke? Even if Bolton got banged up, Locke took care of his own. Bolton would have practically run whatever prison he ended up in. Unless … . unless there was something to Bolton’s claim of being stitched up? It had been Mary, though, that led them to Natasha, not Locke himself. But what if she had always known the truth, that her husband killed Natasha, and had been covering for him all these years?

  Bolton groaned, eyes half open now, darting round, unable to settle on anything, looking for a way out that wasn’t there. ‘Jimmy!’ Porter’s voice more urgent now. ‘What the fuck just happened?’

  Bolton’s chest heaved up and down, thirsty for air as if he’d been running. His voice was barely a whisper, the gentlest Porter had ever heard him speak. ‘Accident … . she was … didn’t … didn’t mean …’ His body tensed, eyes doing a last barrel roll, mouth open, framing his last word. Porter felt Bolton’s huge frame relax, tension melting out of his limbs as he gave up the fight. Porter stared at him, at the half-open mouth, wondering what might have come out of it if he’d had just a few more seconds. He checked for a pulse. Nothing.

  ‘Fuck.’

  He spat the word out as he stood up. He went to wipe his hand on his trousers again, the one that had been pressed to Bolton’s neck. His palm was a watery red as if he’d been hand-painting, and he knelt down towards the water, wafting his hand back and forward like a modern-day Macbeth. He stood up and looked back at Bolton. You got off easy, he thought, too easy. He looked out at the river, the white snail trail churned up by the boat all but faded. Locke. Whether he had anything to do with Natasha now or not, not even he could wriggle out of the mess at the warehouse.

  Porter told Kaye and Everett to stay with the body, and climbed the ladder. Where would Locke go? A man of his resources had likely planned for this day for years. Mary popped into his head. She was either Locke’s unwitting accom
plice for helping stitch up Bolton, or the big man’s enemy for betraying him. Either way, Porter needed to speak to her, and there was no time like the present.

  GEORGE – APRIL 1983

  George has fallen headfirst down the rabbit hole and wonders if there’s any way back. It’s all he can do to scrape himself up from the tarmac and follow them inside. The bigger of the two men is a few feet ahead, the girl draped over his shoulder. Her hands dangle down, swinging loosely to pat him on the back with every step climbed. He hadn’t even checked for a pulse before he scooped her up. Then again, with the angle she’s been twisted at, maybe it’s better if she doesn’t have one, for her sake. Picturing how she had fallen, rotated at the waist like a discarded Barbie doll, gives him palpitations.

  The smaller man brings up the rear, parking George’s car, checking the street one last time, shutting the door behind him as he joins them inside her flat. The masks are off now, but he wishes they’d stayed on. He has the distinct impression that these two aren’t a fan of policemen even under normal circumstances, and this evening is as far from normal as he’s ever known.

  He recognises the larger man as one of Locke’s men. George has seen him at a few of the poker games, though he’s never seen him play a hand. George doesn’t know his name, only remembers people referring to him as the Big Fella. He looks like his mother hewed him out of a quarry rather than gave birth to him. He doesn’t recognise the smaller man. The one with teeth like a Thames rat, eyes darting everywhere like flies looking for a place to land.

  Big Fella nods towards the living room. ‘Sit down, lad. We need to work this through.’

  He disappears along a hallway, returning moments later with worryingly empty shoulders. He turns away to talk to Rat Face, and George can hardly make out a word. He sees Rat Face shrug, gesturing down the hallway where the girl must be. The big man grumbles like an outboard motor ticking over but steps aside. Rat Face heads to the open-plan kitchen, does a silent eenie-meenie-minie-mo along a row of kitchen knives. Slides a cleaver from the block with too much enthusiasm for George’s liking. He scurries down the hallway and out of sight. George feels the sweat drying on his back. Smells his own vomit and feels his insides start to bubble like a witch’s cauldron again. He swallows it down and finds his voice.

  ‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’

  Big Fella sighs and shakes his head like a disappointed parent to a naughty child. ‘The question is what have you done to her, Sergeant?’

  George swallows hard. Asks the question but isn’t sure he can handle the answer. ‘Is she … Have I … have I killed her?’ He hears the fear in his voice but can no more put more steel into it than he can undo what’s happened.

  ‘She’s seen better days, George.’

  ‘Just bloody tell me!’ he shouts back at Big Fella, desperate to know.

  The big man narrows his eyes. ‘I suggest you keep your voice down, George. We wouldn’t want anyone coming to check out the noise, now, would we?’

  George gets to his feet, moves towards the hallway, but is propelled back into his seat by a palm the size of a dinner plate smashing into his nose. Eyes cloud with tears, and he tastes the coppery trickle running over his lips, dripping onto the carpet. He’s stunned into silence.

  ‘You’ve done enough, George. Nearly fucked this whole thing up, but I’m an accommodating man. We can still make this work for everyone. Apart from her, of course,’ he says, jerking his head in the direction of Rat Face’s disappearance.

  ‘What do you mean, make it work? Make it work how? I can’t be involved in this kind of shit. I’m a copper.’ This last part is practically a whine. He hates himself for it. Wonders if his nose is broken, or just banged up.

  Big Fella tuts, walking across and leaning over George where he sits. He blocks out the light like a solar eclipse. ‘That’s exactly why you’re going to do what we say, Georgie boy. If you want to stay a copper, that is. Mr Locke would prefer it if you did. Reckons you might come in handy.’

  George listens as Big Fella talks. His eyes widen, head shaking slowly side to side as Big Fella tells him how the rest of the evening is going to run. Tries to block out sounds coming from somewhere out of sight. A bedroom? A bathroom?

  Thunk … thunk.

  The sounds are muffled but still solid and heavy enough to make him wince with each beat. He closes his eyes. Sees the snapshot of Natasha again. Eyes and mouth, concentric circles of alarm. Feels the swooping lurch of his stomach as if it’s about to happen again. Knows it won’t be the last time, and wonders how long he’ll pay for what has happened tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Locke’s knuckles blanched where he pressed the damp cloth to his left bicep. The bullet had passed straight through. His arm had gone numb pretty quickly after the initial sting, but that was wearing off now, throbbing in time with the engines. They had weaved their way through a small armada of boats, but Locke was fairly sure none of them had paid enough attention to be able to place them if asked. In hindsight, Bolton shooting him had worked in his favour. Granted, he wouldn’t have felt that way if he’d been hit anywhere more serious, but he’d been struggling to conjure up an end to the standoff that didn’t end up with him in a cell, at least in the short term.

  He couldn’t work out how they had found the girl. Bolton had been right enough; of the men there that night, only three others knew exactly where they’d buried her. Bolton had served Locke well over the years, but he’d been making mistakes more and more lately. That mess at the Taylor Fisheries building had been a royal fuck-up. The latest and largest in a procession of fuck-ups. Grandstanding, pure and simple. He thought about Anderson. Dirty or not, they would never let Bolton get away with hurting a copper. If he’d been facing a few years for something minor, Locke was confident he could have bought Bolton’s silence. But faced with life inside, offered the earth to name Locke … no, it had worked out for the best, he told himself. If Bolton had done his job all those years ago, he would have found that fucking hand in the freezer, and none of this would have come to pass.

  ‘Boss?’ Stenner’s voice snapped him out of his daze. ‘You ready?’

  Daniel Stenner had finished winding the thick coil of rope around a wooden post, and winced in pain as he straightened up, reaching a hand out to steady himself on the side of the boat. Locke noticed for the first time since they fled the warehouse that Stenner was clutching his side, grimacing in pain. The dark stain on his blue shirt looked almost purple, blooming up from under his belt.

  ‘You’re hit,’ he said, and Stenner nodded weakly. ‘Give me that,’ said Locke, keeping his makeshift dressing in place and holding out the hand of his injured arm. Stenner looked blankly for a second, then realised what Locke was after. He pulled the pistol from the waistband of his jeans and handed it over. Locke tucked it into his own belt, gestured Stenner to lead the way onto dry land. Small brown waves slapped at the side of the boat as the wake bounced off the bank and caught up with them, and he put out a hand to steady himself. He heard a rumbling, looked up, realising where they were as a plane swooped down towards London City Airport.

  ‘Think I need to get myself to a doctor, boss,’ Stenner said quietly as they stepped out onto a jetty not dissimilar from the one they’d left behind less than ten minutes ago.

  ‘We’ll see you right, Mr Stenner, don’t you worry about that,’ said Locke, planning three steps ahead. He’d seen a fisherman up on the riverbank as they made their way towards the shore, and guessed he wouldn’t have carried all his kit there by hand. He might even have a phone, too. Transport was the first problem to solve. Once they were mobile, he needed to get to his house, to the duffle bag tucked away in his utility room. In it was everything he’d need to slip out of the country, for as long as it took to sort this mess out; maybe for good. He had no intention of making any detour past a hospital, but it served no purpose to tell Stenner that right now.

  He told Stenner to stay put, and made hi
s way up the steps. The fisherman was hunched forwards in a dark green camping seat, rod in hand like a giant garden gnome, and didn’t react to his approach until he was ten feet away.

  ‘Caught much?’ said Locke, hands clasped behind his back, fingers wrapped around the pistol grip.

  ‘Not a thing,’ said the man, glancing across briefly. Locke put him in his sixties, with a weather-beaten face that spoke of a life lived under the open sky.

  ‘Can’t win them all,’ said Locke, stopping five feet short of the chair. ‘If they’re not biting, I’ve got a favour to ask,’ he said, bringing the gun around as he spoke. It shook with the tiniest tremor. Fatigue. He was too old for this hands-on bullshit. ‘And I’d not think too long about your answer if I were you.’

  Three minutes later, the river and the fisherman, still shouting obscenities, were in the rear-view mirror of the forcibly borrowed Volvo. Stenner sat silently slumped in the passenger seat, face as grey as the upholstery. Locke dialled a number on the fisherman’s mobile phone from memory, flicking it on to speaker and placing it between his legs. It was answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘Mary? Darling? I need you to listen to me carefully.’

  ‘Alexander? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Listen and don’t talk. They’ve found Natasha. They know it wasn’t James. I’m coming home now, but we need to leave. Quickly.’

  ‘Leave? To go where?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter right now. I need you to be ready.’ The constant throb in his arm was like a second heartbeat, and every pothole the car hit sent fresh shockwaves of nausea through him.