All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘It’s alright, sir, I can manage both.’

  ‘Good, in that case you’d better go and crack on,’ he said, and with a flash of a cold smile, Porter was dismissed. Maartens followed him out into the corridor, and he drew level with Porter within a half-dozen steps.

  ‘That the last we’ll see of you down Creekmouth, then?’ he said, inching closer just outside of Porter’s personal space.

  ‘It’s all yours, Aaron.’

  Maartens sighed, took a half-step back and shook his head. ‘Simmons says you’re a good guy. I get that it’s hard when there’s kids involved, but I can’t have you busting in on the middle of my case again. I see you down there again, and my men have orders to keep you away. Understand?’

  Truth be told, Porter had no intention of heading back there. The trip to see Nuhić had been a one-bullet-in-the-gun type of effort. Either Nuhić would bite, or he wouldn’t. Porter had no leverage, nothing to press home.

  Maartens backed off another few steps, still facing Porter. ‘If you’d asked, we could have worked something out, you know. Let you go see him when the timing was better.’

  Better timing? A seven-year-old girl was missing, probably dead, and this dick was worried about timing.

  ‘That everything?’ Porter asked.

  Maartens gave a big toothy smile, like a shark, and backed away, turning to walk down the corridor without another word.

  Deep breath. Rise above it.

  Porter headed back to join Styles just in time to see him polish off his sandwich. Porter’s waited next to his coffee, both untouched after having been dragged straight in to see Milburn from their trip along the road.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘In a minute,’ Porter said. ‘I want to talk about Grantham first. Kam found traces of goatskin leather on some of the thorns from the island. What can you remember about them? Were they branded? Any damage, or marks?’

  Styles huffed out a loud breath. ‘Brown, more like normal leather on the hand part and suede style on the parts that cover your arms. Don’t remember any branding. You really think …’

  ‘That plus the flowers, it’s a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, but I don’t even know for sure they were his. He could say they belong to one of the staff, and he was borrowing them. Maybe they even share a pair? For all we know, every member of staff has a pair.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Porter, looking around his desk as he thought, as if the answer was on a stray Post-it waiting to be found. ‘We ask him to see them without a warrant, and we tip him off. No way we have enough for one, and if it is him he can get rid of them before we come back.’

  ‘We need more,’ Styles agreed.

  ‘Let’s get his car run through ANPR for starters, see if he’s been anywhere near the park or the victims we have IDs for.’

  ‘I’ll crack on with that while you grab your lunch. What about the customer and staff lists he sent through? Still worth checking?’

  Porter thought about it, but only for a second. ‘Yep, still needs following up.’

  It’d be a schoolboy error to do anything else. Wouldn’t do to let confirmation bias slip in, the tendency to favour information that fitted the prevailing theory you were chasing.

  ‘Pass it on to Dee or Gus. ANPR takes priority. If we find anything we can be back out there with a warrant. Kam reckons he’d be able to match the fibres to the glove if we get the right one, or at least match to the brand.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Styles, rising from his chair. ‘You didn’t tell me what Milburn said?’

  Porter gave Styles the headlines. Stick with the park case, keep the Hallforth case at arm’s length until further notice. Essentially give up on Libby. Not something Porter could bring himself to do, no matter what Milburn threatened. He’d find a way to keep both plates spinning.

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Whatever I have to.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Any chance of juggling both cases relied on momentum, generating it, capitalising on it. Porter couldn’t afford any downtime. Watching Styles vanish, presumably to find Dee or Gus, Porter tore off a chunk of his sandwich and called Marcus Hallforth. The younger man didn’t exactly sound overjoyed to hear who was calling, but Porter didn’t care. No sense in taking it personally. He was trying to find a young girl, not win a popularity contest.

  ‘We’re going to need you to come in again, Marcus. Got some more mugshots for you to look at.’

  ‘I did that already,’ Marcus grumbled.

  ‘Well, now I need you to do it again. Those were fairground employees. These are different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘These are people who worked with your dad.’

  Worked with. Made it sound like mates on a factory production line.

  ‘You mean the Slovakian guy? Nah, I ain’t having them thinking I’m a grass. I’ve heard the stories. Wouldn’t last five minutes.’

  ‘They’ll never even know you’ve pointed them out. All I need you to do is look at a few pictures, tell me if you saw any of them at the fairground that day.’

  Silence bar some background noise, traffic on the other end maybe.

  ‘Come on, Marcus. You’re her big brother. If someone doesn’t step up soon, I don’t know whether we’ll get any closer.’

  ‘Don’t see how it matters. Even if I see someone who was there, what does that prove?’

  ‘Nothing on its own, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Come on, Marcus, this has pretty much ground to a halt. If you don’t help me out, I don’t know if I’ll be able to kickstart it again.’

  Porter wasn’t above using a little emotional blackmail now and again, but Marcus was more hesitant than he’d expected.

  A few seconds’ pause. ‘Alright,’ he said finally. ‘I can come in after work. About seven o’clock?’

  Porter did some quick mental maths. He’d promised Kat, not to mention Tom and James, that he’d make their after-school football match. Five o’clock kick-off. Three quarters of an hour there, the same back. He could make the match, but he’d need to sack off the post-match pizza.

  ‘I’ll see you here for seven,’ he confirmed. The boys would be disappointed, but he’d make it up to them. He’d been threatening for ages to take them to a Spurs game, and they were away at Chelsea this weekend. As good a chance as any to make good on that promise, as long as nothing kicked off at work.

  Time for one extra roll of the dice while Styles was off doing his thing. He wasn’t done with Simon Hallforth just yet.

  Hallforth looked far from pleased to see Porter again. A quick glance, then he turned, stared up into the corner with a loud sniff but said nothing. The same solicitor sat by him, Steven Linton. Give the man a beard and red suit, and he had the build for Santa Claus. Hallforth looked positively dwarfed by him.

  ‘So, we’ve spoken to your ex-wife again, and your son, Marcus. Funny, but they both seem pretty sure you know Branislav Nuhić.’

  ‘Yeah? What a surprise. They would say that, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘So, they’re mistaken then?’

  ‘Course they’re bloody mistaken. I already told you I haven’t got a clue who you’re on about. That all you dragged me out of my cell for?’

  ‘Not quite, no.’ Porter was amused by Hallforth’s swagger. The little man puffing up his chest routine. He stopped deliberately short there, letting the silence rattle Hallforth’s temper up another notch.

  ‘Well, come on then?’ Simon snapped.

  ‘I do hope you haven’t called me in just to run over the same accusations my client has already denied, Detective?’

  ‘Course not, Mr Linton.’ Porter gave him a tight smile. ‘No, I actually had a chat with somebody else this morning, and your client’s name came up.’

  ‘And who would that be?’ Linton asked.

  ‘Whoever it is, they’re a lying bastard,’ Hallforth chipped in.

 
‘Really?’ Porter leant back, amused by the build-up. ‘You’d say that to Mr Nuhić’s face?’

  Hallforth’s face was a picture, frozen like a snapshot as the name seeped into his brain. Eyes widening as it hit home, fear washing over him, but quickly replaced by disbelief, and a mask that screamed bravado, no matter how fake.

  ‘Bullshit. As if he’d sit and chew the fat with you.’

  ‘Ah, so you do know him, then?’

  The mask fell for good this time, he and his solicitor turning to look at each other, Linton giving a disapproving shake of the head.

  ‘Alright, I’ve heard of him,’ Hallforth said, words rushing out now, ‘but that’s all.’

  ‘Let’s cut the shit, Simon,’ Porter said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. ‘I had a chat with him this morning, quite a long one actually, at his bakery over in Creekmouth.’

  Didn’t hurt to embellish a little. Wasn’t as if Hallforth or his solicitor could corroborate what was said at the bakery. Neither could Porter for that matter, but this wasn’t testimony in a court. He just needed to see what he could shake loose. If anyone within Nuhić’s crew had had a hand in Libby’s disappearance, scaring Simon into talking was his best bet. His only hope. No way would the Slovak give up any of his own men. They’d end up wearing concrete shoes in the Thames, or crammed into a barrel and dropped off a bridge.

  No smart-arsed comeback from Hallforth this time. Porter took a small amount of enjoyment from seeing him squirm. It wasn’t hard to second-guess the kind of thoughts running through his head now. Self-preservation. The best route to stay alive, never mind out of jail.

  ‘Now, he didn’t implicate you in any illegal activity. Couldn’t do that without throwing himself under the bus, and he isn’t going to do that, especially for the likes of you. He knows you’ve been arrested, though. Interesting that he’d keep tabs on you, if didn’t know each other quite well, and I’m guessing you’re not best mates, so I’m sticking with you two working together. Now,’ he said, leaning forwards, lowering his voice as if about to share a secret, ‘what do you think Mr Nuhić made of you being in here?’

  Linton leant in, whispered something in Hallforth’s ear. The little man grimaced, as if whatever had been suggested was as unpalatable, if not more, than where Porter was leading him. Porter waited him out. Watched as Hallforth wrestled with his choices.

  ‘Assaulting an officer, and possession with intent? You’ll be looking at a nice chunk of change inside. Five years at least, I reckon. If only you had something to trade up, you know, help reduce the sentence.’

  ‘He’ll kill me,’ said Hallforth quietly.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said he’ll kill me,’ he said again, more forceful this time. ‘Knowing him he’ll probably do it either way just to be safe. Jesus!’ Hallforth flopped back in his chair, hands running through his hair, down to cover his face, only for a second.

  ‘Help me and I’ll help you, Simon. Maybe your boss knows something about Libby, or at least knows who you might have pissed off enough to do something to her. It’s the best lead we have for her at the moment. Whatever you are, you’re still her dad. Worst case, if there’s nothing you can give us there, you can talk to my colleagues about his business. Help us take him off the streets, Simon.’

  Hallforth gave a bitter laugh, not an ounce of humour. ‘Feel like I’ve just landed in an episode of Line of Duty. Isn’t this the part where you say how you’ll protect me?’

  ‘We will,’ Porter urged. ‘He’s far more important at this stage than getting you banged up. Not just for Libby either.’

  Linton whispered into Hallforth’s ear again, and the smaller man listened, thought for a second, then nodded.

  ‘My client would want written agreement that all charges against him are dropped in exchange for his help, but making that request is in no way, shape or form an admission of prior knowledge of Mr Nuhić’s business.’

  ‘If it helps find Libby or take down Nuhić, we can look at that.’

  ‘Not “look at”, Detective. It has to be in place before he’ll talk any further about this.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak to the super first, but in principle, yes, we can do that.’

  However this played out, Porter wouldn’t want to swap places with Simon Hallforth. If Nuhić was every bit as bad as the stories, Hallforth was right; he’d probably try and kill him anyway, just on the off chance, regardless of whether he kept schtum and went to jail, or flipped and worked with them. Men like Nuhić had a long enough reach that you couldn’t be sure of safety even if you spent most of your day in a cell.

  Porter left the two men in the room to carry on their part of the conversation, promising to call Linton as soon as he’d spoken to Milburn. Gus Tessier was looking around the office, and when he clocked Porter, he gestured for him to head over.

  ‘What’s up, Gus?’

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know the latest on the contractors from the park. We’ve spoken to most of them now, and done all the background checks. Most of them are clean. One stands out, though.’ Tessier held up a sheet of paper that Porter hadn’t spotted him holding by his side. ‘Christopher Hargreaves. Did a short spell inside for exposing himself to a twelve-year-old boy at the school he worked at for kids with learning difficulties. He’s still on the sex offender register.’

  Porter scanned the info on Hargreaves as he listened. Fifty-three years old. Sentenced six years ago, to five months. Unlikely that he’d disclosed this to his employers at Nexon, or he’d surely not have been allowed to work in an environment where he’d come into contact with so many young children.

  ‘Have we spoken to him yet?’

  Tessier shook his head. ‘Literally just got the info five minutes ago. Just thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Good work, Gus. He goes to the top of the list for ones we still need to speak to, then. How many others left?’

  Tessier slid a second sheet out from behind the first, a printed email from someone in Nexon HR. Numbered with names, phone numbers and email addresses. Twenty-five of the thirty-four had been highlighted.

  ‘Those ones we’ve spoken to,’ said Tessier. ‘Ones not highlighted are still to do.’

  Porter scanned the list of names, staring hard at each one, as if some hidden info would be revealed. Halfway down the list, he heard footsteps behind, fast and purposeful, Styles’s voice coming from over his left shoulder.

  ‘Boss, you got a minute?’

  ‘Course, what’s up?’

  ‘It’s Daniel Grantham. When I asked him, he said he hadn’t been into London. He lied.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ‘Lied about what?’

  ‘We were talking about the park, and I asked him if he got into London much. He said he hadn’t been in since the start of last year, but his car pinged on ANPR near Stratford on three separate occasions. First was 18th August last year, second was 10th November, and the last one was 26th January.’

  Styles looked like a kid expecting praise from a parent. It took a few seconds, but Porter caught on.

  ‘Isn’t that …’

  ‘… the day Libby Hallforth disappeared? Yep.’

  The three of them shared the same look now, the one that said something previously stalled had been jump-started. No sense sitting on it. Might as well get out there and put him on the spot today. Porter checked his watch.

  ‘We heading, then?’ Styles asked, tilting his head towards the door.

  Porter had a sudden thought, checked his watch and scrambled to make plan B. No way he could get out to Kiln Green and back in time to see the boys play football. He pictured the disappointment on their faces, the disapproval on Kat’s, and made his decision.

  ‘You go. Take Gus with you.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Got somewhere I need to be this afternoon, plus meeting Marcus Hallforth later to look at some mugshots from Nuhić’s crew.’

  ‘As long as
that somewhere isn’t another trip to a bakery in Creekmouth,’ Styles said, only half-joking.

  ‘Not this time, I promise. You two go. Should be able to handle a pensioner between you no matter what he has to say. I’ll be back here by seven at the latest if you come back in, or you can give me a call after you’ve seen him if you need to head off.’

  He saw the relief on Styles’s face. It wouldn’t normally bother him to work evenings, but Porter had noticed they’d been fewer in number the further Emma went into her pregnancy.

  Styles and Tessier disappeared, leaving Porter to shut down his PC and head out to the car park. Even though rush hour was a little way off, traffic was already starting to thicken as roads became clogged arteries. He trundled up Edgware Road, over Regent’s Canal, part wishing he’d decided differently, part proud he’d picked family over work for once.

  The Grantham connection had already been too interesting to ignore, and would have pinged an alarm even just with the lie about travel, but the date of that third trip took a coincidence and ramped it up to the next level. The possibility that the two cases were linked, previously based on nothing more than a gut feel to do with victim age, had just become very real.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that it was nothing more than a lapse in memory, a blurring of time as Daniel Grantham got older. But the way Styles told it, he’d been very specific, saying that his son picked up any business trips into the city. That left option B, that he was indeed lying, but why?

  Porter beat the amber light coming past Kilburn High Road station, looking guiltily around as if he expected blue lights to flash and pull him over. A quick involuntary glance in the rear-view made him feel slightly less guilty when he saw a white van, two back, floor it to get through. He shook his head, taking back the moral high ground. He didn’t think much else of it for the next five minutes, noticing the van sitting three cars back now, chancing another set of lights that he’d made comfortably. Just a driver with a chip in their shoulder thinking they owned the roads, or something else entirely?