What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  There had been a moment last week, back at Locke’s house. Only a fleeting one, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. What if Styles hadn’t doubled back around? What if Campbell had pulled the trigger? Would he have seen Holly again? He hadn’t wanted to die, that wasn’t it. He doubted he could explain it if anyone asked. Wasn’t even sure he understood it himself, but there had been something so alluring about the possibility.

  Should he mention it this afternoon to the counsellor? Probably not the kind of thing to bring up there. There was one place he could talk about that. One person he could tell. He checked his watch. He could make it to the cemetery and back in plenty of time. He couldn’t hear Holly, or touch her, but just being close to her, talking to her, always levelled him out in a way nothing else could.

  GEORGE – APRIL 1983

  It’s been three weeks since they ruled Nathan Barclay’s death a suicide. Twenty-one days, and no knock on George’s door to haul him into one of the boxy rooms for questioning. It’s as if it all happened to someone else, like an out of body experience, or like he watched it on TV.

  It feels all too real when he sleeps, though. The dreams are in technicolour with the volume cranked up to maximum. Tyres squealing. Acrid burning smell of rubber through his open window. The girl hitting the car like a bass drum. The taste of bile in his throat. He hasn’t managed more than a few hours’ sleep a night since it happened. Every time he sinks towards deep slumber, the dream slaps him awake. Maybe this is his penance? To be slowly chipped away at. To become so exhausted that he can’t get out of bed or sleep. Stuck in his own version of purgatory.

  He has vowed to never play another hand of cards again. Locke has promised his slate is wiped clean, but George was a fool to trust him. The envelope addressed to him that arrived today at the station is postmarked London. That tells him nothing. The list of names inside were already known to him; some of the most notorious drug dealers in the capital. Almost all of them. What wasn’t known were the times and dates next to each. New shipments coming in. Addresses they’ll be stored at.

  Despite what happened three weeks ago, he’s still a copper, and a good one at that. Knows what he should do with this information. Arrests like these would propel him up the ranks. They would also leave a gap in the market. A gap that a man like Alexander Locke would be well placed to exploit. Using this would make him Faust to Locke’s Mephistopheles.

  George weighs up the pros and cons. Decides that he needs some quick wins to atone for what he has done. He can deal with Locke later. He promises himself he’ll get out from under this. That it was all a matter of circumstance and bad timing. Tells himself he’s still a good person. That he hasn’t sold out. He almost manages to convince himself that’s true. Almost.

  EPILOGUE

  There was something infinitely sad about a badly attended funeral, one where you could count the mourners on one hand. Sadder still when that count included the priest. Even a chapel full of snivelling relatives would be better than this, Porter thought. It seemed almost cruel to bury Natasha a second time, so soon after she’d just been found, but at least this time was the real deal, not discarded in the woods like a piece of buried rubbish. A stiff breeze teased stray hairs from his forehead, sneaking its icy fingers down his shirt collar. He buttoned his coat right up to the neck and sunk his chin into the polo-neck-style ruff it made.

  Gavin Barclay stood beside his mother, hands clasped in front, staring at the polished coffin. A single white rose covered the brass plaque bearing her name. Neither of them said much other than a mumbled ‘thanks for coming’ since Porter arrived. What else do you say under the circumstances?

  The priest finished his eulogy, offering a few final words of comfort to Gavin before disappearing towards his own car. Gavin escorted Mary back to their car, then turned and came back towards Porter, holding out his hand. Porter gripped it, still trying to think of something worthy of the occasion to say, but Gavin saved him the trouble.

  ‘Thank you, Detective. For everything.’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Sorry I couldn’t have done more.’

  Gavin gave a dismissive gesture with his free hand. ‘Don’t be daft. You found out what happened to my sister. That’s what’s important. That she’s not left just lying there …’ His voice trailed off.

  Porter appreciated the sentiment but felt like a fraud accepting the thanks. Sure, they’d found her. Found those responsible for her death. But with Locke dead, and Campbell unlikely to see a courtroom any time soon, it left him feeling hollow. He left Gavin by the graveside and picked his way amongst the rows of headstones towards his car, some tilted like a game of Guess Who gone wrong. For all the visits he paid to Holly, cemeteries were still a series of contradictions he could never be comfortable around. Live mourners visiting long-dead relatives or friends. Slabs of cold marble and sombre granite contrasted with colourful splashes of flowers and even small toys.

  He passed a row of children’s graves, windmills turning lazy spirals in the breeze. Porter had only ever been to one child’s funeral before. A cousin he usually only saw at weddings and funerals had lost a baby boy to cot death, and he’d gone along as much out of family obligation as anything. He shuddered as he remembered looking at the tiny coffin being laid on a table at the front of the chapel. The smallest coffins, it seemed, were the heaviest to carry.

  He climbed into his car, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. Almost half past three. Shit! Could he still make it there by four? Probably not, but he had to try.

  Porter scanned the entrance as he crossed the car park, but the only person he could see was a man leaning on a Zimmer frame, one hand pinching the folds of his dressing gown closed, the other holding a half-smoked cigarette. He checked his watch again. Two minutes past. Had he missed her? He cursed himself for not gambling on the two amber lights en-route.

  The inner doors swished open, and the first thing Porter saw was the almost-white hair of the man pushing the wheelchair. Alan Simmons was looking down at his daughter, talking softly to her as he wheeled her through. Eve Simmons’s head was bowed forward, hair in a loose ponytail, stray strands wafting either side of her face as she left the safety of the doorway. With her light grey cargo pants and navy blue hoodie, she could just have easily been off for a jog in the park, although Porter guessed it’d still be a while before she was up to anything like that.

  They bore right, Alan Simmons positioning the chair next to a wooden bench, and started fishing in his pocket for car keys. Porter was practically next to her before she noticed him, squinting up as he approached. She still had a dressing over the wound on her face, but the swelling had all but subsided. The make-up she wore couldn’t quite hide the dark circles under her eyes. She’d been unconscious for a big chunk of the several weeks she’d been in hospital, but it had been anything but restful. He guessed she was a good half a stone lighter. There hadn’t been much on her to lose in the first place, and it made her look a little gaunt, but when she smiled in recognition, that didn’t seem to matter.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ he said, hands in pockets, making as if he just happened to be strolling past.

  ‘Afternoon, guv.’ A wisp of hair tickled her nose, and Simmons lifted a hand to tuck her it behind her ear.

  ‘Mr Simmons.’ Porter nodded a greeting to her dad.

  ‘Ah, Detective Porter. Hello again. We were just about to head home.’

  ‘Yes, sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wanted to pop by and make sure you were OK.’ He looked down at Simmons as he spoke.

  ‘No, no. I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Alan Simmons. ‘Actually, would you mind waiting with Evie while I grab the car?’ He held up the keys to emphasise his point.

  ‘Of course,’ said Porter, and Alan Simmons nodded his thanks, hurrying off in search of his car.

  Porter looked down at Simmons, feeling more than a little self-conscious towering over her, and took a seat on the bench next to her chair instead. ‘So I’ll s
ee you back at work tomorrow, then?’

  She touched a finger to the dressing on her face. ‘Think I might wait till I don’t scare the others, if that’s alright.’ She sounded so tired, and a little hoarse, but managed another smile.

  ‘I’d say you don’t look too bad, considering what you’ve gone through.’

  ‘Not too bad, eh? That’s the best compliment I’ve had in years.’

  They both chuckled at that one, then fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the smoker’s cough of Mr Zimmer Frame as he made his way back inside.

  ‘I heard about Bolton,’ she said finally. ‘Heard you were there when … well, when he died.’ Porter nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t feel sorry for him. Not even a little bit. Weird thing is I’m pissed off at him for dying. For not being able to look him in the eye now I’m out, and tell him he didn’t beat me. I’m still here, you know?’

  Porter grunted in agreement. ‘Yep. If anyone deserved to die, it was him, but yeah, I know what you mean. Feels like he cheated. Like he got away with everything. Same for Locke.’ He felt himself tensing up. It still annoyed him how things had ended, but he’d have to come to terms with that. To stop taking it personally. He turned to face her.

  ‘Seriously, though, Evie, it’s good to see you up and about. You had me – ah, I mean us – worried for a bit there.’ He reached out a hand, a gentle pat on the shoulder, almost without thinking. She turned her head to look over at him. Held his gaze. Silence again, but this one not so comfortable. Another few seconds and she looked down at her lap again, nodding, swallowing hard. Was she welling up?

  Alan Simmons rolled to a stop in front of them, and Porter removed his hand, standing up in the same instant. Alan Simmons came around the front of the car, opened the passenger door and reached both hands down to his daughter.

  ‘Would you mind, Detective?’ He nodded towards the bag draped over the handles of the wheelchair, and Porter obliged. He popped the boot and placed the bag inside. Simmons lowered herself slowly into the seat, and swung her legs inside before her dad closed the door. As Porter came back round, her window slid down.

  ‘Thanks for coming to see me off, guv.’ If she had been getting upset seconds ago he couldn’t tell now.

  ‘No worries,’ he said, taking a step back up onto the kerb. ‘Coffee’s on me when you get back.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said, clicking her seatbelt into place.

  Alan Simmons leant over from his side. ‘Thanks again, Detective.’ The window purred up as they pulled away, and Porter watched until they’d turned out of the car park and onto the main road. After all the shit that had happened in the last few weeks, it felt good to see her out of her hospital gown and on the road to recovery. It had been starting to feel like he’d playing against a stacked deck, but seeing her smiling, laughing, made today’s glass half full.

  His mind flicked back to the moment in the doorway, weeks ago. He instantly felt guilty. She’d almost died, and there he was wondering whether any of what she’d said or done smacked of ulterior motives. Last time he had visited Holly he’d talked to her about this. Not Evie in particular, but the notion of moving on enough so as to be open to possibilities. He was pretty sure that if she was able to, Holly would have laughed at him. Told him to man up and find someone. That everyone needs somebody. Somebody to care whether you came home at night. If only Natasha had been lucky enough to have a somebody like that, maybe none of this might have happened. Of course, Holly couldn’t speak. He’d looked around, as if expecting some kind of sign or acknowledgement, but there had been nothing. Only the whisper of the breeze tickling its way past the wind chime hanging on a nearby headstone.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Some people say writing can be a lonely business, and there are times when that’s true. But through it, I’ve met some awesome people, who’ve helped and encouraged me along the way, many of whom I’m now proud to call my friends. Whether you’re reading this as a fan of crime fiction, as an aspiring author, or a bit of both, get yourself along to author events and festivals. We might kill people (disclaimer – only in books) for a living, but crime writers are as friendly a bunch as you’ll find, and I always come away from them inspired to write. So, to the countless authors and fans I’ve met, spoken to, and had a drink with at these events, you’ve all played a small, if unwitting part, in pushing me forward to this point, and I thank you for it.

  Mari Hannah – I still owe you a drink or three for persuading me to go to Creative Thursday workshop at the Theakston’s Harrogate Crime Festival, not to mention all the advice since. Howard Linskey – thanks for the endless tips and encouragement over the last few years.

  Jo, Amy, Olivia and the rest of the team at The Blair Partnership – thank you for taking a chance on my scribblings, helping to polish the rough edges off my words, and finding me such a great publisher.

  Lesley and the team at Allison & Busby, thank you for believing in my books, and making the murky waters of getting published all the easier to navigate.

  Thanks also to The Literary Consultancy, and in particular Sanjida Kay, my allocated reader, who was given my MS to edit, prior to me submitting to any agents. Without your input, it might never have turned into the half-presentable jumble of words it’s become.

  Shoutout to my regular Waterstones coffee crew, helping each other put the world to rights, one latte at a time. Wouldn’t be right to mention them, and not do a plug for Newcastle Noir crime festival, where we all first met. It’s the brainchild of Jacky Collins, held in May, and keeps getting bigger and better every year (http://newcastlenoir.blogspot.co.uk).

  Mik Brown – my brother from another mother and regular partner in crime. If it wasn’t for us being so competitive with each other, I might not have dusted off what I’d started years ago and gotten this far. Your turn next – get that book finished. Oh, and I nearly forgot, you lost the game.

  Thanks also to my awesome in-laws, the Sages – Jude and Malc, plus brother-in-law Michael – for all the encouragement and support you give, and for putting up with a Geordie infiltrating your Spurs household. Hats off also to Tony Whaling, architect of my snazzy website, and photographer extraordinaire.

  No round of thank yous would be complete without mentioning my mam and dad, who quite literally made me the man I am today. They’ve always supported and encouraged me, no matter what, and I owe them more than I can ever do justice to with these few simple words.

  Last, but by no means least, a few words for Nic. My wife, best friend, soulmate, partner in crime and proofreader. You still married me in spite of my occasional untidiness, bouts of mischief, and my twisted sense of humour. Love you more than yesterday, but not half as much as I will tomorrow. To quote Edmund Blackadder, ‘Life without you would be like a broken pencil – pointless.’

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  BY ROBERT SCRAGG

  What Falls Between the Cracks

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ROBERT SCRAGG had a random mix of jobs before taking the dive into crime writing; he’s been a bookseller, pizza deliverer, Karate instructor and football coach. He lives in Tyne & Wear, is a founding member of the North East Noir crime writers group and is currently writing the second Porter and Styles novel.

  robertscragg.com

  @robert_scragg

  COPYRIGHT

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

&nb
sp; allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 by ROBERT SCRAGG

  Permission to reproduce extract from Blackadder

  granted by Richard Curtis

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-7490-2289-1