‘You’re sure? I can ask him to leave if he’s bothering you.’
‘It’s alright,’ she said, with a sad smile that spoke of countless times like this in the past.
‘Ally!’
Louder this time, not just a knock, more like a fist bashing against the door.
‘Open the bloody door.’
Any hint of sincerity was gone. Now he just sounded annoyed, entitled to enter. Porter went to stand, but Ally waved him down again, finger to her lips. He sank back down, respecting her wishes for now, but started a silent ten count. Any more than that and he’d do what needed to be done.
‘If you won’t listen to me, then turn on your bloody telly,’ he shouted in between bursts of banging. ‘There’s a body. They’re saying it’s her.’
Porter had heard enough, and pushed up from the couch. He opened the door so quickly that Simon Hallforth, who had been just about to knock, swung his fist through the space where the door had been.
‘Mr Hallforth, I’m going to need to you take a step back, a deep breath, and calm down. Whatever they’re saying on the news hasn’t come from us. It’s speculation.’
Simon recovered from the surprise of a face other than his wife’s in a heartbeat.
‘Ally!’ he shouted past Porter, then went to step around him to get inside.
Porter leant across, blocking the doorway, putting a hand out to stop him.
‘Like I said, sir, I need—’
‘Yeah, yeah, and I need to get inside my flat,’ Simon said, trying his luck on the other side.
‘From what I hear, it’s not your flat any more,’ Porter said, blunt and to the point.
Simon stepped back, giving Porter a confused once up and down. ‘If it’s a load of rubbish, then what the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
‘It’s true we had a call saying someone had seen Libby, but we haven’t been able to confirm anything much more than that right now.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, and Porter saw a malicious glint in his eyes. ‘You might not have, but someone sure as hell has.’
Porter was about to politely, professionally, give him the party line again, when he heard a choking sob from inside the flat. He pointed a finger at Simon.
‘Stay here, please.’
He edged back inside, turning to keep one eye on the doorway, glancing back into the living room. Ally Hallforth swayed ever so gently, like a tree in a soft breeze. Both hands cupped over her mouth. Porter followed her gaze. Saw the tickertape scrolling along the bottom of the television screen.
Police find human remains in search for Libby Hallforth. Sources confirm it’s the body of a young girl.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nick Styles squirmed as stray beads of sweat worked their way down his back. Crime scene suits were paper-thin, but wearing one over a suit, coupling the extra insulation together with being on his feet for the last few hours helping scour the grounds of Victoria Park, wasn’t exactly his idea of a perfect day.
Emma had called four times at last count. Could he pick up some eggs on the way home? Had Porter said whether he and Simmons could make it for dinner? Would he have time to build the cot-bed this weekend? All innocent enough, but he knew her well enough to pick up on the little comments here and there. She’d had a nervousness about her for a while now, ever since Styles had been injured last year by a member of an organised crime gang he and Porter had taken down. Those feelings had multiplied like bacteria in a petri dish when she’d become pregnant. She’d even tried to convince him to move jobs. Not leave the force, just a sideways step into a less risky role. They’d talked it through, but agreed eventually that he should stay put. Now, he was pretty sure she’d swung back the other way again. A discussion for another day.
Across the clearing, a team of four CSIs, suited and booted in white, shuffled around each other. One bagged soil samples. Another snapped pictures of everything, from the clearing itself, the rose bushes that lined a chunk of the perimeter, down to the hole by their feet. It was much larger now, carefully excavated. The remaining two waited until the snapping was finished, capturing everything in situ, before reaching in, one of them carefully lifting out the skull. He held it in both hands, like some kind of precious artefact, slipping it into a plastic evidence bag that his colleague held open.
Styles continued to watch as bone after bone followed, a grisly collection to be reassembled, a gruesome jigsaw waiting to be pieced back together.
‘Anything you can tell me from that lot?’ Styles asked the CSI closest to him. ‘Best guess on how long, and male or female?’
‘Literally best guess for now, so don’t hold me to anything, but I’d say whoever this is has been here for a year, maybe more. Pretty sure it’s female, though,’ he said, and pointed to one of the evidence bags. ‘This is the pelvic bone. See here, the pelvic inlet is a tiny bit more of a rounded shape than you’d see if it was male. It’s only a slight difference at this age though, and can be hard to spot in many of them, but I’d say I’m about eighty per cent on it right now. The lab should be able to confirm it for you though. If I’m right, I’d say we’re looking at a young female, probably no older than ten.’
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already considered the possibility, but hearing it confirmed that the remains fitted Libby’s profile cast a shadow over his mood. In the absence of anyone talking, above the rustling of suits, crinkling of plastic bags and scraping footsteps, he heard another noise. He couldn’t quite place it at first, but it sounded electronic, like a series of tinny beeps. He pulled out his phone. Nothing. He looked over at the CSIs, but none of them were holding or even reaching for any kind of device.
He skirted the edge of the clearing, angling his head, holding his breath as he waited to hear if it would be repeated. Nothing. He stepped into the treeline, branches whipping back into place behind him. No movement to suggest anyone else was out here. They had a man at the boat hire shack now, so it was doubtful that anyone else could have nabbed a boat and rowed over without being noticed.
Five seconds passed. Ten. Still nothing. Must have been hearing things. He shook his head and turned back towards the clearing. A flicker of light from a tree off to his right, blazing bright, like a camera flash, but gone the instant he took a step forward. Styles took a pace back, wincing as the same beam of light hit his eye. He took a quick scan around, but still nothing, save for the CSIs ten feet back through the trees.
He stepped carefully through the undergrowth, closing the distance, and that’s when he saw it, wedged into a fork in a tree branch. A phone, some model of Samsung, perched six feet up, pointing in the general direction of the clearing. Styles reached up a gloved hand, taking it between thumb and forefinger, and turned it to face him.
The screen was on, a blur of green as he plucked it from its perch. His own face loomed large onscreen, peering out at him as he bent down, squinting to see against the reflection from what sunlight filtered through the canopy. In the top right corner, a smaller window, a woman’s face, distracted, looking off to one side.
‘What the bloody hell is this?’ Styles said.
Amy Fitzwilliam’s head whipped around, eyes wide in surprise, but only for a second. Shock gave way to an apologetic smile.
‘Detective Styles, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Can’t thank you enough for finding my phone. Whereabouts had I dropped it?’
‘Six feet up a tree,’ he said, no attempt to disguise his annoyance. ‘Mind telling me what it’s doing here?’
Rhetorical question. He already knew. Her own personal CCTV. She must have set it up before Porter found her creeping around earlier. He wished now he’d paid more attention to its position, to get a better idea of exactly what she’d seen. Porter would hit the roof when he heard. And that’d be mild compared to what Milburn would have to say, depending on what she might have heard. No sense stressing over what you can’t control, he thought. Might not even have captured anything.
‘So, I hear it’s de
finitely a young girl you found out there then?’ she asked, innocent, like butter wouldn’t melt.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Porter watched in horror as Amy Fitzwilliam gave her latest update. Behind her, the island showed no signs of life in the fading light. A reputable outlet like Sky wouldn’t run with something like that as pure speculation. They had to have gotten the information from somewhere, even if it was utter rubbish. From where, though, or from who? And if it was true, if they had confirmed the remains to be those of a young female, why was the first he was hearing about it on national bloody television?
Simon Hallforth had edged inside the living room while Porter made sure Ally was alright. Her head bobbed up at the sound of him clearing his throat over by the door.
‘You OK, Al?’ Simon said in a timid voice.
‘Do I bloody well look OK?’ she snapped at him. ‘Get out, just get out. You’ve done enough harm already.’ For once he seemed lost for words, and she didn’t give him time to recover. ‘This is my flat now, and you’ – she spat out the word – ‘are not welcome. This is all your fault. Get out, get out, get out.’
Her voice rose higher each time, words blurred by tears, merging, coming out in a single breath.
Porter put an arm around her shoulder. ‘I think it’s best if you left now, Mr Hallforth.’ Simon looked gobsmacked at the prospect of being ordered out of what used to be his home, but channelled any hurt he was feeling into anger, staring Porter out for a few seconds, then storming off down the corridor.
‘Fucking incompetent coppers, and I’m the one getting grief.’
The door slammed behind him. Ally Hallforth shook as she sobbed, a mixture of grief and anger robbing her of the ability to speak. After a full minute, she peeled away from Porter.
‘I’m sorry, Detective. He doesn’t take well to being told what to do.’ She wiped tear tracks from her cheeks with the heel of each palm. ‘My God, I’m a mess.’
He grabbed a box of hankies from the coffee table, passed her one and waited while she ran it under each eye. It came away black with mascara from both.
‘I can’t believe my baby’s gone,’ she said, staring at the floor, speaking as much to herself as to him.
‘Let me make a few calls, Mrs Hallforth. It’s true, we did find human remains,’ he said, pausing to let that sink in, ‘but I only left the park an hour ago. There’s no way we’ve gotten a positive ID in that time, let alone shared anything with the press.’
‘Why would they say that on TV, then? They must have got it from somewhere.’
He shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know, but I’m going to find out, I promise you that. Is there someone I can call to come and keep you company? I could arrange for a family liaison officer to come around?’
She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I’d rather just be on my own for a bit, I think. What happens now?’
‘Now I’ll speak to my colleagues and see where the reporters are getting their information from. If you change your mind about being on your own, let me know.’
He promised to call her as soon as he found out anything, and took the lift back down to his car. As soon as he was outside he called Styles.
‘Have you seen the news?’ he asked, no introductions.
‘No, I’m still at the park, boss, but I can imagine.’
‘What do you mean?’
Styles filled him in on the makeshift CCTV that the reporter had set up. Porter had seen journalists get creative before, but this took it to a new level. Any anger was tinged with a tiny bit of admiration. Thinking on your feet, on an island full of police officers, bang in the middle of a crime scene, suggested the kind of calmness under pressure you saw in journalists who spent their careers in warzones. Wouldn’t stop him from lodging a complaint with her boss, though.
Parts of the investigation would be straightforward, with binary yes or no answers. It either was Libby they had found or it wasn’t. If it was, what a shitty way for her parents to find out, especially if Fitzwilliam had managed to get actual footage. If it wasn’t, then some other poor bugger had just had their daughter exhumed on camera. The press could be a useful tool in policing if the boundaries were set and stuck to. This had been irresponsible journalism, but it’d be the police, not the press, that people would be raising eyebrows at in tomorrow’s tabloids.
‘How did it go with Mrs Hallforth?’ Styles asked.
‘Oh, it was a barrel of laughs. She hadn’t even seen the news when I got there, then the husband turned up and started shouting about it through the door.’
Styles groaned. ‘You thinking we take another look at him if this is Libby?’
‘I think we’d be daft not to,’ said Porter. ‘Once we know however long she’s been there, whoever she is, we can see what we can get from the perimeter, any shops with CCTV, ANPR along the roads.’
It’d be a big job, he thought. They’d have a fairly wide time window to search through, hundreds of hours of footage, most of it probably not great quality, and that’s if it still existed. Many places would delete it after a few months.
‘What about the mum and brother?’
‘Let’s see who she is first, but yeah we’ll need to go back to basics. Victoria Park is way outside the original search perimeter. It’s gonna mean long days whoever we’ve found.’
‘What’s the plan then, boss?’
Porter looked at his watch. Just gone 8 p.m. ‘Today, not much else we can do really. First thing tomorrow we look for every camera that covers any approach to the park, exits and entrances especially. Make sure the place is sealed off for the night once the CSIs are done. I want a couple of volunteers for overtime as well, for tonight at least. Wouldn’t surprise me if that bloody journo tried a late-night boat ride back over.’
‘Might not be willing volunteers, but I’ll sort it,’ said Styles.
‘Get yourself away home once you have,’ Porter said. ‘I’ve got a feeling we’ve got a long few days coming up. I’ll see you bright and early back at the station.’
‘Ah, yeah, before I forget, it’ll be around ten by the time I get in if that’s still OK?’
‘If what’s still OK?’ Porter asked, none the wiser.
‘Emma’s got a midwife appointment,’ said Styles, bordering on apologetic. ‘Mentioned it a few weeks back when we booked it.’
Porter had a vague recollection of an appointment, but there had been a few, and they blurred into one another.
‘Oh yeah, of course. No worries, I’ll just see you when you get in then. Oh, one more thing,’ he added, ‘get a patrol car to pop round and check up on Ally Hallforth, will you? She was pretty shook up when I left her, and I want to make sure her ex doesn’t come back around and harass her as soon as I’ve gone.’
Styles promised to add that to his list. Porter ended the call and started his engine. No sign of Simon Hallforth, but with the light fading fast, shadows were pooling around the base of the tower. Plenty of dark corners for him to be lurking in, waiting for Porter to drive off. He squinted, peering into the gloom, seeing only a handful of optimistic kids chasing after a dirty grey football on Wanstead Flats behind the tower block. The enterprising junior car-park attendants who’d tried to fleece him on the way in were nowhere to be seen.
He pulled slowly away from the kerb, thinking through his options. It wasn’t too late to call Evie back, tell her he was done for the day. Her place was closer than his from here. Worse ways to spend an evening, that’s for sure. What if she was still at the station, though? He pressed a button on the steering wheel to kickstart the voice-activated dialling, but hit the cancel button part-way through the prompt. What about the bloody cat? He hadn’t left enough food out back home if he stayed over at Evie’s. Demetrious had enough attitude about him already without pissing him off by depriving him of dinner.
Porter wound his way home through thinning traffic. It had taken a while for it to feel like home after Holly died. For almost two years, he hadn’t been able to
bring himself to get rid of her things. Clothes, make-up, shoes, jewellery. A hundred odds and ends that she’d never use or wear again, but they’d been all he had left.
Evie hadn’t chased after him. Not really. She’d made it obvious she was interested, but had let him make the decision in his own time. It wouldn’t have worked any other way. The first date, a coffee, had felt surreal, like he was a kid again, not sure what to say or how to behave. Those that followed, drinks in pubs far enough away from the station that they wouldn’t be spotted or bothered, had eased him into the idea of being with someone else. She hadn’t pushed him, letting him take his time to come to the realisation that being with someone else didn’t mean he had to forget about Holly.
Whether what they had was strong enough to stand any kind of stress-test, they’d have to play that by ear. For now, though, it felt good. Having someone who understood the job, the pressures that came with it. Highs and lows. Someone he could relax around, and not have to worry about placating them if he took a call at three in the morning that meant he had to jump out of a warm bed.
His brain cruised along in neutral most of the way home, carried along in that same current of thought. Home was a two-bed flat on Margaret Road in New Barnet that used to belong to Holly’s grandmother.
Even before he closed the door behind him, a low rumbling like an idling engine filtered through from the kitchen.
‘I know, I know. Sorry I’m late, D. You can call the RSPCA back and tell them to stand down,’ he said, as a pair of unblinking green eyes stared at him from the shadowy three-inch crack between door and frame.
Porter slipped off his jacket and followed his disgruntled flatmate into the kitchen. By the time he flicked the lights on, Demetrious had slunk over to the corner, staring expectantly from Porter to his bowl and back again. Porter had always been more of a dog person. It hadn’t been his decision to get a cat. Holly had turned up with him one day, rescued him from a local shelter, and Porter had moved one place down the pecking order. He couldn’t imagine not having him around now, though. Up until recently, with Evie now on the scene, he’d had more conversations outside of work with Demetrious than any other living being. Everything from venting about Milburn to Porter working through his case strategies out loud.
All That Is Buried Page 7