All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘We don’t mind them putting up stuff like this, but they all sign to say we can have access if we need it. Whatever he’s done, if it’s worth a visit from you chaps, I don’t think he’ll be chasing us for the cost of a new lock.’

  He stepped to one side, gesturing Styles to have the honours, staying close enough to peer in himself.

  ‘Thanks, Phil, I’ll take it from here,’ Styles said, seeing disappointment ripple over the big man’s face, his excitement done for the day.

  The gate swung open with a soft groan and he stepped inside, pushing it closed behind him. He stood still, listening, sweeping eyes across the allotment. A greenhouse in the north-west corner, a shed of similar size opposite. The whole thing was maybe ten metres square, big in comparison with the other plots, and filled with enough roses that Styles could be standing in an offshoot of Daniel Grantham’s garden.

  No sounds other than the fizzing of power cables overhead, and the dull hum of traffic back out on the road. Styles walked slowly up the centre, row upon row of roses flanking him. Brilliant whites, creamy yellows, slashes of crimson. He studied them, wondering if any were the exact varieties from the park. He walked over to the greenhouse, peering through dusty glass panes. A wooden trestle table ran the length of one side: stacks of plant pots, a trowel, a bundle of bamboo canes. Nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of life.

  He walked across to the shed next, noting the relatively new-looking padlock, tugging it against the clasp to be sure, then retreating back to where Phil Woods waited. He returned with the bolt cutters, and the padlock hit the ground with a solid thunk.

  Only now that the door was open did he notice there were no windows. No lights hanging anywhere by the looks of it, so he flicked the torch on his phone into life and shone it inside, sending shadows slithering away. Empty, apart from an old, well-used armchair in the near right corner, a slight bow in the centre of the cushion, shaped by years of pressure. He went to step inside, but stopped, foot hovering a few inches above the ground. Not only no windows, but no floor either. The whole shed sat on bare earth.

  Styles squatted down, holding the torch inches away from the ground, sweeping it back and forward, his other hand holding onto the doorframe to steady himself. The soil was packed down closest to the door, a strip around three feet wide, but beyond, the rest of it looked loose. Not dark and freshly turned, but drier, more greyish brown and crumbly, as if the remaining area had been dug up and refilled.

  Styles reacted before the thought even registered, shooting back to his feet, stepping back away from the door. It looked like a pre-dug flower bed, ready to plant.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Styles was slouched against the side of his car, tapping away on his phone, when Porter pulled up. Beyond him, he saw a line of police tape across the entrance to the allotments, a uniformed officer standing guard, clipboard in hand to sign people in and out of the scene.

  ‘How you doing? And Kat for that matter?’ Styles asked him as he climbed out.

  ‘Shit, and shittier. What have we found then?’

  ‘Enough,’ Styles said. ‘They’re still working their way around the rest of the allotment, but the shed …’ He trailed off, clearly bothered by what he was about to say. ‘They found another body buried there. A young girl, except this one is, ahm, it’s more recent. Few months tops.’

  ‘Libby?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. It’s a girl, so maybe. There’s more. A box behind the chair. Looks like he’s kept some of their things. A scarf with a name tag in: Shelley Downes, one of the girls we ID’d. A New York Yankees baseball cap with another name in we don’t have. Alex Southern. Dee’s checking the name out as we speak.’

  ‘Ah, shit,’ said Porter, turning away. As much as it seemed nailed on that they had their man, the new discovery dampened any enthusiasm, serving only to reinforce the danger Tom and James were in.

  ‘Kam’s in there now,’ Styles went on. ‘Reckons at first glance we’ve got the same varieties of rose as well. He’s got an interesting theory you need to hear.’

  Porter followed Styles into the allotments, signing into the scene, suiting up, and stopped short of Gibson’s plot when Kam Qureshi came out, pulling his mask down as he exited through the gates.

  ‘Ah, just on my way to see if you were here yet. Saves me the walk. Has he told you?’ he asked, nodding towards Styles.

  ‘Didn’t want to steal your thunder,’ Styles said.

  ‘This is partly speculation for now, but doesn’t hurt to share these things when you’re pretty sure you’re right,’ he said, ever the modest one. ‘I’ve done a few basic tests across a selected number of spots in the allotment. Sampled the soil and tested for a few things, nitrogen and phosphate in particular. Every sample tested high for both.’

  He looked from Porter to Styles and back again, shaking his head at the lack of reaction.

  ‘When a body decomposes, it releases large amounts of both into the soil. Normally that’d help kill off any plant life that dared to share the same space, but here’s the thing. After a year, sometimes a little longer, those same chemicals can make things grow like crazy. With the samples we took from the island, the soil the roses were planted in tested differently than samples a few feet out. I’m betting that if we compare that to the soil we’ve found here, it’ll match.’

  ‘You’re saying he used soil from here to bury the children?’ Porter asked, still not clicking to what was getting Kam so animated.

  ‘Yep. I think he buried them here first, waited for the bodies to release their nitrogen and phosphate, and used it as bloody fertiliser for his little garden.’

  Porter grimaced at the thought. Pictured Gibson shovelling soil into sacks, transporting it, soaked with the essence of his victims, across to the park. A thought hit him square on and full force. What if there had been no sighting of Libby in Victoria Park? What if Madeline Archer had decided to walk her dog somewhere else, and they’d never descended on that place, finishing up on the island? The boys would be home now with Kat. Can’t afford to think like that. It would paralyse him, and now more than ever he needed to be on point.

  ‘How soon before we know whether that’s Libby in the shed?’ he asked Kam.

  ‘Couple of days, unless you want to dig deep and expedite it,’ Kam said, rubbing two fingers against his thumb in the universal gesture.

  ‘Do it.’

  Kam nodded and excused himself to head back into the allotment. Porter stared after him, lost in thought, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I got this, boss,’ said Styles. ‘Go and see how Kat’s doing. I’ll call you the second we find anything.’

  ‘She’s fine. My folks are heading around there now, and …’

  ‘And that’s all the more reason you should be there, together,’ Styles said. ‘If it makes you feel better, come back after a few hours. You get to see your family, and I can pretend we really struggled without you, and how it’s not the same without you around. It’s win-win. Besides, you can get Kat to talk you through the last few days in more detail, see if there’s anything she remembers that might help.’

  Porter smiled, even in the middle of this whirlwind of a day, more in appreciation than humour. He clapped a hand against Styles’s upper arm.

  ‘You know what, I might actually do that. Just for an hour, mind. Doesn’t hurt to let you think you’re actually a decent copper now and again.’ Then, after a second, more straight-faced this time: ‘But seriously, mate, thanks.’

  Styles gave him an it’s nothing shrug, and Porter walked back to his car, wondering all the way if Tom and James had trodden this same path at any point today. He signed out on the clipboard, stripped off his Tyvek suit and headed back to his car. Time to stop being a copper for the next hour, and just be part of a family.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Walking away from his sister’s house, Porter felt drained. No other way to put it. His own worry for Tom and James was bad enough, but the
last hour with Kat had been a full-frontal emotional assault. Watching it play out on her face, permanently pink eyes from crying, hankie scrunched in one hand like a comforter. Staring at a new spot on the wall any time there was a lull in conversation, which made for large chunks as they all processed what was happening.

  His mum was putting on a brave face, Dad too, but it wasn’t too hard to see the fear if you looked, carved into every line and wrinkle. The question they didn’t want to ask out loud. Would they get to see their grandchildren again? Then there was him, just as afraid as they were, but they didn’t need to see that, not now. Alongside that, a rising sense of unsettling energy, the need to be out there doing something, even just driving around looking for Kat’s car. Stupid notion, he knew. The chances of finding that needle in the haystack of London on pure chance was astronomical. All the same, he couldn’t sit here into the evening. Just wasn’t wired that way. He called Styles for an update.

  ‘Kam said he’ll have the results by late morning or early afternoon. We’ve managed to keep the allotment away from the press for now, but wouldn’t surprise me if any of them follow the trail and start poking around.’

  ‘What about the stuff in the box, what was the name in the hat again?’

  ‘Alex Southern,’ Styles reminded him. ‘And Dee’s got a hit on that. Six-year-old boy. Went missing down in Brighton on a day out with his family three years ago.’

  ‘I’m heading back over there now. Should be with you in half an hour.’

  ‘No need. They’re done. Kam’s disappeared, and we’ve left two cars with a couple of plain-clothes in each, watching the road from both directions in case he heads back. Replaced the padlock as well. Obviously the second he tries his key he’ll know, but it’ll buy us a bit more time if he tries it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Need to pop home for a bit. Em’s been having a few twinges, so she’s getting nervous, but if Gibson pops up, I’ll be right back in. How are we going to play it when he calls tomorrow?’

  Porter huffed out a loud breath. ‘Honestly, haven’t worked that part out yet. There’s no way we can hand over the children, but can’t see him settling for anything less.’

  Even as he said it, a little voice whispered inside, saying if that trade got the boys home, it was worth every ounce of grief he’d get from Milburn, the press, anyone with a conscience. He shook it off, knowing that it could never happen. Maybe they could string him along, though. Sell him a dummy, trade bones, but not the bones. Would he honestly know the difference if Kam, Bella Jakobsdottir, anyone on that side of the fence, doctored a man-made skeleton, knocked about and dirtied to look the part? Some of the bodies they’d found still had connective tissue attached. Parchment-thin skin, strands of muscle. Surely they could mock that up?

  ‘Think all we can do for now is be set up for when he calls, and do what we can between now and then to get a step ahead, try and find him first.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call after I’ve checked in at home,’ Styles said. ‘If you’re still at the station, I can pop back and chip in.’

  ‘Appreciate that, mate. I need to pop home first and feed the cat in case it turns into an all-nighter. Don’t worry about calling if she needs you.’

  ‘I’ll call,’ said Styles. ‘This is about your family and, well, that’s as good as being my own, so go home, and I’ll see you later.’

  As much as Porter had meant what he said about Styles staying at home, he knew his partner had his back, and that he’d call, and probably come in even if Emma wasn’t keen.

  ‘We’ll see. Anyway, gotta go. Catch you later.’

  He hung up, checked his watch. Seven o’clock. Demetrious would almost certainly be waiting by the door, judging him with those big green pools for eyes. He wound his way back home, through the echoes of rush-hour traffic.

  Cars zipped past as he trudged up the short path to his front door, their headlights sending shadows grasping for his feet, then retreating in time with the vehicles. Then it was as if someone had hit a mute button. No more traffic, just the sound of key rasping in lock, and he headed inside. He’d told Styles an hour for his ETA back at the station, but as soon as he fed Demetrious, maybe grabbed a bottle of water, he might as well head straight back in. No sense hanging around here. Besides, he wasn’t about to relax any time soon.

  No sign of Demetrious as he wandered into the kitchen to grab a drink. Tom and James’s picture stared back at him from the fridge door, sucker-punching him with fresh waves of guilt. Porter grabbed a foil pouch from one of the cupboards, catching a fishy whiff when the top ripped off. He squeezed it into Demetrious’s bowl, tapping the plastic on the floor to lure him in.

  A bottle of water from the fridge next, maybe even a sandwich for the road. The kitchen blinds were still closed from this morning, and the fridge light cast a cold glow on the floor. Not much choice on the sandwich front. Looked like a toss-up between cheese or cheese.

  A flicker of shadow down by his feet. Demetrious on the hunt for dinner. Porter grabbed a chunk of cheddar and the tub of butter, turning towards the bench. He realised something was wrong around the same time the blade touched against his throat. The movement behind him not his cat. It hadn’t registered on a conscious level until now, but there’d been no sound. None of the usual impatient purring, a mini engine on permanent idle, that signalled the start of every meal. When the voice came from behind him, it was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Do what I say and it’ll all be fine.’

  The same words he’d heard on the phone hours earlier. Same voice. Graeme Gibson.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  ‘Can I turn around?’ Porter asked, heart pounding so hard it felt it might leave an imprint on his chest.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Gibson sounded tired, as if every word was a physical effort. Porter scanned the bench, looking for something, anything, he could use as a weapon. Why couldn’t he have been messy for once, have a few knives scattered on the worktop?

  ‘Are the boys alright?’

  ‘They’re fine. They’ll keep being fine as long as you do what needs to be done.’

  Porter focused on staying as relaxed as possible. Easier said than done. Someone in Gibson’s state of mind wouldn’t need much of an excuse to pull the blade across. He rested his palms on the bench, a show of hands to prove he was no threat, that Gibson held all the cards.

  ‘Where are they?’ Gibson asked. ‘Where are my children?’

  Porter almost asked which ones he meant, the actual ones, or his adopted ones from the park, but held off. He knew what Gibson was getting at. No point in winding him up. Probably a waste of time focusing on Ben and Marie Gibson too. He could show him news articles about the accident, but Gibson would call it fake news. Christ, he could probably take him to their graves and Gibson would probably accuse him of staging that as well.

  ‘They’re safe, Graeme. They’re at St Leonard’s Hospital.’

  ‘You’re going to take me to them, now, tonight. No one else, no backup, just you and me.’

  Porter felt a swoop in his gut, wondering if this had been the plan all along. Promises of a call tomorrow just for show. Either that, or could be that Gibson was losing what little grip he had, slipped his tether and drifting.

  ‘You know we can’t just walk in there and carry them out, right? I’m going to need to make a few calls first, get things ready, that way we—’

  Gibson’s knife hand twitched, an ounce of extra pressure. Not much, but enough to make him catch his breath, wondering if it had broken the skin yet.

  ‘No calls. Just you.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, Graeme,’ he said, his whole body stiffening. ‘We’re just talking here. There has to be a way through this, for the boys, for both of us.’

  ‘There is: just give me back my children,’ Gibson said, practically pleading.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Porter. ‘But if we’re going to get them, you’re going to have to let me turn aroun
d and get my car keys.’

  What the hell did Gibson think was going to happen? That he could march Porter in there at knifepoint, and they would just walk out with nine bodies? No sense thinking through logistics. All that mattered right here and now was that they weren’t leaving this kitchen on anything less than Gibson’s terms, and standing here, cut off from any backup, wasn’t going to get the boys back any faster.

  Porter’s eyes were fixed at a point on the tiled wall when something skittered across the kitchen counter.

  ‘Put this on.’

  He looked down, saw a cable tie, one end pushed through the locking mechanism to form the loop, but left loose like one oversized DIY handcuff. Porter hesitated, but only for a second. As he reached out, slipping his left hand through the loop, it registered that Gibson had made his first mistake. Porter would be incapacitated much more effectively with hands behind his back, but leaving him to put them on meant more freedom of movement. That, plus cable ties weren’t as inescapable as most people thought, too many believing what they saw on TV. Just needed the right opportunity, one without a knife at his neck. Porter put his other hand in, positioning the locking mechanism in the centre, reaching down and cinching it tight with his teeth.

  ‘Tighter,’ Gibson instructed.

  Porter did as he was told, to the point of plastic biting into his wrists, letting his hands fall in front of him when he was done. The pressure on his throat disappeared, and a hand on his shoulder spun him around.

  Gibson looked older than the picture Porter had seen, longer hair growing down over his ears, a little greyer around the temples. He had a sharp face, all angles and edges, and his eyes never seemed to rest on one thing for long, constantly searching. Porter glanced down at his hand, looking for the weapon. It hung in Gibson’s right hand, but the grip was tight enough to see his knuckles blanch from where Porter stood. It looked like a pruning saw, similar to one his mum had. Plastic handle, fine-toothed blade. Capable of cutting through branches as thick as his arm without too much effort, so no doubt as to the damage it could do to his throat. Dark spots speckled the blade. Rust, or worse? When he spoke, it was quiet, the kind of tone you’d use in a library.