What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  ‘But what … will … then we …’ Static sliced through her reply like an editor’s red pen, only one word in God knows how many surviving, until a beep told him the call had been lost altogether. He picked the phone up, roaring in frustration. He hit redial but the call failed. A second time. A third. He jammed the phone roughly into the cup holder. Locke hoped she’d be ready when he got back. This wasn’t the time to be dallying. For a man who had worked hard to project an image of strength for years, she was still a weak spot for him.

  He glanced at the clock. Forty minutes and he’d be home. Just a little while longer and he could rest. Exhaustion washed over him, tugging at his eyelids. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired. Feeling every year of his age, weary to the bone. One last call. A number he saved for special occasions.

  ‘Two seconds.’ Footsteps. A door closing. The voice came back on the line, a low hiss. ‘We can’t talk now. Later. Call me later.’

  ‘Later’s no good for me, George. It’s time to call in one final favour.’

  Styles yelped as his knee cracked against the passenger door with a heavy thunk. ‘Easy there, Lewis Hamilton. You’re not in your F1 car now, you know.’

  Porter ignored him, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He was approaching the turn into Locke’s street when he saw the dog patter off the pavement and onto the road. He slammed on the brakes, swerving away from the bemused animal. Its owner at the other end of the lead hit him with a glare that could shatter glass. With his cords and blazer, complete with handkerchief poking out of the top pocket, he could have been a distant cousin of Locke’s, with that same air of entitlement. You knew when you were in an area out of your price range when folks dressed up like that to walk their dogs.

  They drove through the already open gates of the Locke house, eyeing the Volvo parked outside with suspicion. The driver’s door stood open, and … wait … was that somebody in the passenger seat? Porter gestured for Styles to go left, covering any escape if they bolted, while he circled around towards the open door. After what had happened down by the river, he wasn’t taking any chances. He angled to get a clear line of sight into the car, and called out a warning.

  ‘Armed police. Keep your hands where we can see them.’ He wasn’t a big fan of guns, but wished he had one now. He hoped whoever it was bought the lie, whether they were armed themselves or not. The figure inside the car didn’t move. He called out a second time. ‘Armed police.’ He could see a pair of legs now, dark trousers disappearing into the footwell. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

  Porter looked over the roof at Styles, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Styles peered down into the car, but stood back up a second later.

  ‘Stenner,’ he said. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  Porter approached the car, stooping to peer inside. Stenner’s head had rolled towards the driver’s side, chin almost touching his chest, half-open eyes staring at nothing in particular. Porter saw the blood on Stenner’s hand before he noticed the stain on the dark shirt. He leant into the car, touching two fingers to Stenner’s neck. Nothing. Not even a flicker of a pulse.

  He straightened up again, shaking his head at Styles, and looked towards the house. The front door stood open, only six inches or so, but open nonetheless.

  ‘You call it in, then head down the side,’ he said to Styles. ‘I’ll take the front.’

  Styles nodded, putting his phone to his ear. Porter moved towards the house, feet crunching gravel like eggshells. He paused, peering into the half-light in the hallway. A sound came from somewhere inside the house. A chair leg scraping? Porter wasn’t sure. He glanced across, seeing Styles disappearing around the corner, and pushed the door open gently with two fingers. Should he shout out another warning to whoever was inside, presumably Locke? He stayed silent for now, weight shifted forwards, light on his toes, and slid inside.

  As with previous visits, the place was immaculate. Porter’s eye was drawn to the post at the bottom of the staircase, a dark suit jacket crumpled over it like dirty laundry. Another noise, muted, but quite clearly a cough. Porter took a guess as to its source, poking his head around the kitchen door, seeing nothing. Slow, soft steps, as if walking a tightrope, he edged forward. Another door in the far corner of the kitchen stood open. A scuff of shoe on tile came from beyond it, and Porter was so fixated on the door that he nearly walked past the gun sitting in plain view on the counter. He assumed that Stenner had been hit by a bullet fired from a police gun, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that Locke had turned this one on his own man for some reason.

  Porter reached down with two fingers and a thumb to pick it up, then thought better of it. If it had been used, he didn’t want to contaminate any fingerprints. Besides, he should be able to handle an old man like Locke without a weapon, and it wasn’t like Stenner was going to be sneaking up on him any time soon.

  Muttering and the sound of running water came from the other room. Porter couldn’t make out the words, or even confirm who it was, and made his way silently through the doorway. It was a utility room, washer and drier against the far wall, a window that looked out into the back garden. He wondered if Styles had made it that far yet. Locke stood with his back to Porter, bent over in front of an old-fashioned porcelain sink. A black canvas duffle sat on the bench next to him, zip open, but Porter couldn’t see inside from this angle. Locke had the shirt sleeve rolled up high on his left arm, and had wrapped enough gauze around it to border on mummification.

  ‘You’d be better off getting that seen to at a hospital, Mr Locke,’ said Porter. He thought back to the pistol on the bench, wondering for a second time if he should have picked it up as insurance. Locke wound the bandage twice more around, reaching for a black-handled pair of scissors by his bag.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Might be seen as a weapon. We don’t want anyone outside getting the wrong idea, now, do we?’ The lie came easy to him.

  Locke looked up, out of the window, searching for faces between the leaves outside. He drew his hand back away from the scissors, tucking the end of the bandage into the top for now. He turned around to face the doorway, and Porter swore he’d aged ten years since the river. Could be blood loss, could be shock, thought Porter.

  ‘Is this where you tell me you’ve got armed officers with itchy trigger fingers?’ he said, but there was little in the way of fight left in his voice.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t come here alone.’

  ‘James?’ Locke asked. There was something about the way he spoke; Porter couldn’t decide which answer would satisfy him more, and just shook his head. Locke looked down at his feet, and when he looked up again, there was a little more determination in his face. ‘Terrible thing if he hurt that poor girl,’ said Locke. ‘And those officers at the warehouse. Just doing their job.’ He shook his head like a parent disapproving of their child’s behaviour. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming.’

  Porter sneered. ‘Save it, Locke. We both know you’re not innocent in all this.’

  ‘And just what have I done, Detective? Apart from get shot by a man I trusted for years? What exactly do you think I’m guilty of?’

  ‘More than I’ll ever be able to prove,’ said Porter wistfully. ‘But not even you can walk away from the mess you left back there at Atlas without mud sticking. And that’s before we even get started on Natasha. I’ll make damn sure you take your fair share of blame for what happened to those officers today.’

  ‘We’ll never get to the bottom of what happened to her now James is dead, will we? You lot have seen to that.’

  ‘Jimmy seemed pretty adamant he had nothing to do with that. He seemed to think you might know more than he did. Now why would he think that?’ Porter asked, leaning back against the counter, folding his arms.

  ‘After what he did to those officers today, who knew what was going through his mind.’

  ‘That’s just it, though. If we’d taken him in for that he’d have gone down for life, no doubt about it. So wh
y get on his high horse about Natasha? What’s one more murder in the grand scheme of things?’

  Locke shrugged, screwing his eyes shut as the pain lanced through his arm with the movement. ‘No idea. Not my problem. So, you mentioned a hospital. Why don’t we head there, and I can call Mr Jasper on the way?’

  Porter ignored the request. ‘See, that’s where we disagree. I think it is your problem. There’s something that’s been bothering me about what we found at her flat. One thing that didn’t make sense.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ said Locke, his voice weary now.

  ‘We found blood on the carpet. Blood that didn’t match Natasha, but more importantly, it didn’t match James Bolton either.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what that tells us is that somebody else was in her apartment when her blood was spilt. Could be Olly Davies, could be someone else.’ Porter paused. ‘We haven’t taken a sample from you, yet, Mr Locke. Bolton was adamant he had nothing to do with her death. Looked pretty pissed off that I’d even suggested it, to be honest. No, what I’m wondering is what would show up if we tested you?’

  Locke coughed, wincing as a fresh jolt of pain washed over his face. ‘Do what you like. No matter how much you want to believe I was there, I wasn’t, and you can’t prove otherwise.’

  There was something in the way he said it, sounding so blasé that it made Porter pause. If not Locke, then who? Mary? No. What reason would she have had to lie about this? To hurt Natasha herself? He remembered what she had said about Ruislip Woods. The fourth man.

  ‘Who else was there that night? There were four of you. Bolton and Davies I know about. Who’s the mystery man?’

  Locke’s eyes widened, just for a second, but there it was. Porter knew he had hit the nail on the head, and went to push home the advantage while Locke was off balance, an idea landing front and centre in his mind. He went with it before he had a chance to think it through fully, but it felt right.

  ‘Know what I think? I think you’ve had a police officer on your payroll for quite some time. I think there’s no way you could have stayed one step ahead for as long as you have without a little birdie whispering in your ear every time we were looking in your direction.’

  Locke’s expression shifted, losing some of its defiance, and Porter finally started to feel pieces slotting into place.

  ‘When did Anderson first start working for you? How did you twist his arm? Was he just after extra cash, or did you actually have something on him?’

  Locke coughed again, but this one turned into a smile, despite the obvious pain. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, Detective? You might be meeting him again sooner than you think.’

  Porter saw Locke looking past him, and turned a fraction too late. The blow caught him just behind the ear, and he crumpled to the floor, back rebounding off the nearest cupboard door. Black spots danced in front of him, and he managed to plant a palm to halt his fall. The left side of his head burnt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. He pushed sideways with both feet, unsure if whoever had hit him was coming in with a follow-up shot. None came, though, and he looked up, blinking to clear his vision.

  Superintendent George Campbell stood over him, staring at the gun in his own hand like he wasn’t sure how it had gotten there. Porter stared into the barrel. Shit! It was the one from next door. Why had he not picked it up, moved it at the very least?

  ‘Impeccable timing, George,’ said Locke. ‘Let’s crack on, then, shall we? I’ve got a doctor waiting to patch me up.’

  Campbell looked confused. ‘Crack on? How the hell do we crack on from here? I need to think this through. Need to—’

  ‘George!’ Locke’s voice was like a cracked whip. ‘You need to step up. I need you to put a bullet in your man here, and get me the hell out of here.’

  ‘That wasn’t what we agreed. You said if I got you to whoever is going to stitch you up, then we’re done: I’m free and clear.’

  Locke nodded. ‘I’m a man of my word, George, but how exactly do you propose we make good on our plans with him wandering round my house?’ He pointed at Porter. ‘He’s not exactly going to sit here quietly and count to ten before he comes looking for us, is he?’

  Porter pushed his back against the cupboard, IKEA’s finest creaking as he did. Campbell extended the hand with the gun another few inches. ‘Stay put, Porter.’

  ‘Think about this, sir,’ said Porter, formal address feeling somehow wrong tripping off his tongue as he looked at Campbell, seeing the barrel twitching but never leaving his centre mass. It reminded Campbell that he was an officer, or at least Porter hoped it did. He touched a hand to the back of his head as he spoke, pushing against the mini egg that had already risen. ‘I called for backup before I came. None of us are walking out of here any time soon.’

  Campbell gave a little smile, like a child who has just outwitted an adult. ‘Nice try, Porter. I would have remembered something like that coming over the radio on the way here.’ He pressed the heel of his free palm to his forehead, wincing as if with a headache. ‘I just need to think.’

  ‘If that’s what you believe, sir.’ Porter persevered with the weak bluff, but he knew it wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Look, I don’t know what he has on you that’s put you here. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is doing what’s right. It’s never too late to fix things.’

  Campbell closed his eyes, shaking his head. Porter considered making a lunge for the gun, but his head hadn’t fully cleared and he wasn’t sure he could get the momentum from down on the floor.

  ‘Of course it’s too bloody late, you fool. It’s thirty years too late,’ Locke snapped. ‘Now pull that fucking trigger or I’ll come over there and do it myself, and you’ll be the next one staring down that bloody barrel.’

  Porter’s dry mouth and spinning head made for something close to a hangover, but Locke’s words worked like smelling salts. Thirty years too late? His eyes widened, hand coming away from his head, pointing at Campbell.

  ‘You were … thirty years ago … You were there. You were the fourth man she saw. You were there the night Natasha died.’ He realised his mistake as he said the words, even as he saw the truth of them in Campbell’s face.

  ‘She?’ Locke spat out. ‘She? That silly bitch put you up to this, didn’t she?’ He gritted his teeth, this time more in anger than pain. Porter hoped Mary Locke was anywhere other than in this house somewhere.

  Campbell’s arm sagged, gun bobbing gently until it pointed at his own feet. ‘She just ran out,’ he said, voice flat, eyes moistening. ‘I couldn’t stop in time … They just … She hit the other car so hard … I couldn’t …’

  ‘You?’ Porter gasped. ‘You killed her?’

  ‘I was trying to help her. Trying to warn her. It was my fault they were going after her in the first place.’ He looked over at Locke. ‘His thugs were already there. If only I’d kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened.’ He was practically babbling now, getting it all out, relieving himself of the weight he’d carried for thirty years. ‘She was only trying to protect her dad. His business.’

  ‘Going after her? Who was going after her? Bolton?’

  Campbell frowned. ‘Bolton? No, not Bolton. Oliver Davies and some other bloke. Woodley, I think they called him. Big bloke, used to do security at the poker games. Bolton didn’t turn up till later, at the woods. He sent Woodley off to sort my car out before we … before they … well … you know where they took her.’

  Porter’s head throbbed. The idea that Bolton might be innocent, of this at least, made his head spin faster.

  ‘You stupid arse,’ Locke shouted. ‘He had nothing. Still has nothing! Nothing he can prove, anyway. We can both get clear of this, still, George. Just keep your fucking mouth shut and—’

  He never finished the sentence. A shadow played on the door frame behind Campbell, a rustle of fabric. Porter instinctively angled his head a few degrees, trying to work out what it was. Styles was outside so
surely it couldn’t be him. Whether Campbell heard it too, or whether he reacted to Porter’s movement, he half turned to look over his shoulder. Porter moved without thinking, pushing up, reaching for the hand that held the gun, grabbing his wrist, slamming it against the door frame.

  The sound of the gunshot seemed to come at Porter from all sides, echoing in his ears even as he followed through with his charge. Campbell’s fingers opened, and the gun fell, hitting the edge of the bench, spinning to the floor with a clatter that barely registered. Porter folded Campbell’s wrist back on itself, one hand on his arm, forcing him down to the ground. Styles rushed in through the doorway. He must have doubled back, thought Porter. Thank God he did. Beneath him, Campbell had his eyes screwed tight, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, but the sound that came out was barely above a whimper.

  ‘Locke. Get Locke,’ said Porter, looking over his shoulder, but his view was obscured by the corner of the bench.

  Styles came to a halt by the sink, and Porter saw him look down at his feet. He adjusted his grip on Campbell, and leant backwards to get a better view. Locke sat upright, back against the cupboard door beneath the sink. His eyes were blank, mouth drooping at the corners as if he’d had a stroke. Porter saw the fresh splash of red on his shirt like a carnation in bloom, and knew instantly where the stray bullet had ended up.

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, opting to just close his eyes for a second in relief that he hadn’t been on the end of it. He looked down at Campbell again, no longer a threat. Just a pitiful man who had sold his soul years ago. Porter rolled off him and sat with his back to the wall, facing Locke.

  ‘You OK, boss?’ asked Styles.

  Porter shook his head. ‘I’m pretty fucking far from OK. I’m alive, though. That’ll have to do for now.’ He didn’t trust himself to stand up straight away, feeling his hands trembling as the adrenaline rush of the last minute exited stage right. Instead he sat fixed in a staring contest with Alexander Locke, wondering how close Campbell had come to squeezing the last ounce of pressure. Too close.