All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Porter came up into a crouch, injured hand out to ward off, pushing forward. Whatever weapon the man had, whatever his motives, the boys were all that mattered. He lurched forwards, off-balance, desperate, but faltered when he saw what the man held. A phone. Porter couldn’t have been more confused if he’d pulled a rabbit out, magician style. Phone in one hand, the man held up a finger, telling him to wait. When he held the phone towards Porter, he could see a call connected, a number he didn’t recognise. He reached out, taking the phone, plucking it from the other man’s hand suspiciously, like it was wired to shock him.

  ‘Detective Porter, you are alright, yes?’

  It took Porter a moment to recognise the accented English, but when he did, it sent his mind into a fresh spin cycle.

  ‘Nuhić? What the hell?’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What did I do?’ The Slovak mirrored his words back at him. ‘I think I just saved your life.’

  ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘Now, now, Detective. Just right place, right time is all. My man happened to see you, called me and asked if he should help.’

  ‘And what, you told him to kill someone?’

  ‘Someone holding a knife over you, yes?’

  ‘I saw him, his van, yesterday. Twice.’

  ‘You must be mistaken, Detective. Why would he be following you?’

  ‘You tell me, you bastard.’

  ‘Hey, without me, without Józef there, you wouldn’t even be alive to call me names. You don’t want to say thank you? Fine, but a little respect wouldn’t kill you.’

  The inference in the words seemed clear: respect wouldn’t kill him, but there was plenty that would.

  ‘You want me to say thank you? For killing a man? My nephews are in that van. You could have killed all of us.’ Fresh waves of anger washed through him with every word.

  ‘Or I could have left your friend there to do it,’ Nuhić said simply.

  ‘You know I can’t just leave it at that,’ Porter said. ‘You killed him. He died, right in front of me.’

  ‘And you are alive. That will have to be enough. Would you be kind enough to put me on speakerphone for a moment?’

  Porter looked back at Nuhić’s man as he took the phone away from his ear, tapping to switch to speaker. A volley of Serbian rattled out. Porter might not understand it, but the man in front of him clearly did, nodding as he listened. When Nuhić finished speaking, he started a slow walk backwards, using one hand to move his jacket to reveal a handgun tucked into the waistband.

  ‘My man is leaving now, Detective. I wouldn’t try and stop him if I were you.’

  Porter clenched the phone tighter, wishing it were Nuhić’s neck. He took an instinctive half-step towards the retreating Józef, only to be met with a smug smile, one finger wagging a warning, the other hand patting the pistol grip that jutted above his belt. Porter read and reread the licence plate, committing it to memory, knowing it’d probably be stolen or fake. Józef climbing back into his van acted as a trigger for Porter. He ran towards Gibson’s van as the other pulled away, wrenching open the doors.

  The twins flinched as light flooded back in, not knowing what had happened outside, or who was clambering into the van.

  ‘It’s me, boys. It’s Uncle Jake. It’s alright. Everything’s going to be alright.’

  He put the phone down by the side, twisting back towards the entrance, grabbing Gibson’s secateurs and cutting the boys free. Tape came off their makeshift gags without too much fuss, but neither managed a word at first. They both flung themselves at him, nestled against his chest, trying to hide tear-stained faces.

  ‘They are OK, I take it?’

  Nuhić’s voice seemed louder in the confines of the van. Porter had assumed Nuhić had ended the call when his man left. Hadn’t thought to check, his only concern being to free the boys.

  ‘They’re OK,’ he replied.

  ‘Good, good,’ Nuhić replied. ‘So, you’re alive, they’re alive. In my book, that means you owe me, Detective, and one way or the other, I will collect.’

  The line went dead, screen fading. A problem for another day. He’d keep. All that mattered right now was that they were safe. Porter kept his arms around them. Didn’t want to let go, but the scene outside was still vividly fresh in his mind. He spoke softly, explaining to the boys that he had to go back outside. The prospect of staying back here alone, even for a minute or two longer, sparked panic in their eyes, and he agreed to let them out as long as they sat in the front of the van, well away from where Gibson lay in a broken heap.

  He shepherded them around the side, watching them slide across the driver’s seat, and headed around the front. The crimson halo pooling around Gibson’s head was the size of a dinner plate, his eyes closed and skin already a pale imitation of a few minutes ago. Porter touched two fingers to his neck, and almost lost his balance, rocking back in his heels as he felt the faint duh-dum duh-dum of a pulse. He was alive! Porter searched his pockets, found his own phone and dialled 999 first, then Kat.

  She arrived minutes before the ambulance, and the reunion, watching the boys piling out from the van when they saw her, was something Porter knew would stay with him for a long time to come.

  A blur of green and yellow burst into the edges of his vision as a pair of paramedics skidded to a halt next to Gibson, a second pair making a beeline for the twins. Kat looked aggrieved at having to let go of them, but she stepped back, letting the paramedics give the twins a once over. He hadn’t seen any physical damage, but the mental scars would take time and help to heal.

  One of the paramedics ignored Porter’s protests of being fine, and strapped his wrist and hand up, slipping a makeshift sling around his neck. He, Kat and the boys were ushered into one of the ambulances, leaving their colleagues working on stabilising Gibson before they moved him. Porter had little voices whispering into each ear, one hoping Gibson would pull through so he could stand trial for what he’d done, the other hoping he never woke up, fuelled by white-hot hatred for what the boys had been through.

  He called his parents en route, putting them on speaker so they could hear the twins, who remarkably seemed to be getting more animated already, almost like they were on an adventure. They promised to meet them at the hospital, and he took advantage of the downtime as they drove. Calling Styles was next, and his DS was silent as he rattled through what had transpired, albeit a less dramatic version, trying to keep the adrenaline levels down for the boys’ sake. Better they didn’t focus too much on what might have happened.

  ‘Jesus,’ Styles exhaled when he’d finished. ‘Poor buggers, tied up in the van all that time. Must have been terrified.’

  ‘They weren’t the only ones,’ Porter admitted.

  ‘I’ll come pick you up when they’re done,’ Styles offered.

  ‘It’s fine, I’ll just get a cab. Don’t want to get in Emma’s bad books for dragging you out this time of night.’

  ‘I’ve just pulled up outside your place,’ Styles said. ‘Thought you’d been drinking when you mentioned Holly, so I came to put you to bed. You left your front door open, you know.’

  Porter laughed. ‘Don’t suppose you want to do me a favour, then?’

  ‘Whatever you need?’

  ‘Make sure Demetrious hasn’t gotten out.’

  ‘I’m on it. Be with you in an hour, give or take.’

  Porter ended the call, leant back in his seat and closed his eyes, happy just to listen to the boys and Kat chattering away. Once at the hospital, they were whisked off into A&E, to be checked over again, more thoroughly this time. Porter was led away for an X-ray, leaving Kat and the boys in the capable hands of the hospital staff. He had to wait his turn, and took his place in amongst a handful of others. An elderly lady clutching her hand to her chest, accompanied by a younger lady, her daughter maybe. A young boy, still in full football kit, minus one so
ck to reveal a foot twice its normal size, already an impressive shade of purple-ish blue. His mum beside him, looking the more worried of the two.

  He looked around, realised he was the only one here by himself. Styles would be here soon, but that didn’t mean he had to be alone while he waited. He slipped out his phone and tapped to dial Evie Simmons. Times like this it was nice to have someone, even if they couldn’t do anything, but now, more than any time since they’d started dating, he just wanted to hear her voice.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Nick Styles took the corner into the hospital car park a little faster than he should, whipping into a space he saw someone vacate, not realising until he climbed out that another car had been patiently waiting for the same spot. No time for niceties, but he didn’t dare look back at the older lady who cursed after him as he trotted across the car park.

  He asked at reception and was directed into a private room where he saw Kat Porter and her twin boys. No sooner had he asked how they were doing than Porter came through the door, arm pinned across his chest in a sling.

  ‘How you doing, boss?’

  ‘Don’t think I’ll be learning piano any time soon,’ he said, and a chuckle spread around the room.

  ‘You got a minute?’ Styles asked, gesturing out to the corridor.

  They stepped outside, leaving Kat on the bed, Tom one side and James the other.

  ‘Didn’t want to bring him up in there,’ Styles said, ‘but I asked about Gibson on my way in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they’re not sure whether he’ll make it or not yet. He’s on his way to surgery. Internal bleeding, possible fractured skull.’

  ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke,’ Porter said.

  ‘You were a little vague on how he ended up on the pavement,’ said Styles.

  ‘Didn’t want to say too much in front of the kids,’ Porter said, ‘but we’ve got Branislav Nuhić to thank for that.’

  He talked Styles through the sequence of events, how he’d thought Gibson was set to finish him off. How Nuhić’s man had been the one he’d seen in the van, presumably keeping tabs to make sure their investigation didn’t come any closer to his business.

  ‘Hate to ask, boss, but if he hadn’t been there, did he have you? Gibson, I mean?’

  Porter considered this. Wanted to believe that he could have prevailed. Dodged whatever attack Gibson had launched, and overpowered him, but deep down he knew he was lucky to be sitting here, talking, breathing. That didn’t mean he felt indebted to Nuhić, not in the true sense of the word. Whatever debriefing Milburn subjected him to, he’d already decided to edit that part out, where Nuhić claimed to have a favour owed.

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. Probably did, yeah.’

  They lapsed into silence for a moment, letting that alternate universe dissolve, the one where Gibson wasn’t mowed down, where he had kept moving forward.

  ‘Did they say when you can all go home?’ Styles said, changing the subject.

  Porter shook his head, pointing to his injured hand. ‘Not yet. Pretty sure I’ve broken something, and they haven’t said about the boys yet. You can get yourself away if you like, though. Evie’s heading in. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she can run me home.’

  ‘I get it, three’s a crowd,’ Styles said, grinning. ‘Might leave via Gibson’s operating theatre, trip over a wire or two, see if any plugs pop out.’ He reached out, patting Porter on the arm. ‘Glad you’re in one piece, though, boss.’

  Porter winced, and Styles realised that he’d jolted the injured side without realising. No time to apologise, though, as a nurse busted around the corner, almost bumping into him, stopping short, and had to look up thanks to almost a foot’s height difference.

  ‘Detective Styles?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said, frowning, glancing from her to Porter and back again.

  ‘You need to come with me.’

  ‘Come where?’

  ‘To the maternity ward. Your wife’s just been admitted.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  A shaft of sunlight lanced through the gap between curtain and wall, making Porter blink fireflies away when he opened his eyes. Eve Simmons nestled into him, tucked neatly under his good arm. He looked down, feeling a smile creep across his face. Today would be a good day, he decided. A glance across at his bedside clock: five past six. No need to disturb her just yet. He had a ten o’clock with Superintendent Milburn, but could easily justify another hour’s worth of lie-in.

  When she’d turned up at the hospital last night, it had hit home that he really wasn’t alone any more. Someone cared about him, wanted to be there for him, look after him. He closed his eyes, drifting in and out for another hour, before slipping out of bed and getting dressed, and heading through to stick the kettle on. He fired off a text to Kat, checking what kind of night the boys had had. They’d been allowed home, with a referral to a counsellor to help come to terms with their ordeal. Three dots appeared almost instantly as she typed her reply. Probably hadn’t slept a wink herself.

  Took them a while to drift off but all good. Still out now.

  Hate to ask but need them to give a statement today or tomorrow latest. I can be there with you though.

  They agreed that he’d come and pick them at three, take them in and be there all the way through. Evie padded in before he’d managed to make his cuppa, wearing one of his hoodies that came down to miniskirt length. She circled her arms around him, nuzzling into his chest.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, looking up at him, pushing up on tiptoes, giving him the kind of slow kiss that seemed to go on for ever. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘I’m all good,’ he said, holding up his broken wrist. ‘You think the other kids at school will sign my cast?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sure they’ll draw much worse than their names on it if you ask them nicely.’ She took a half-step back, her smile replaced by a more serious look. ‘Glad you’re OK, though. It’s meant to be you that worries about me, not the other way around.’

  ‘I had him covered,’ Porter said, tapping his cast against the side of his head. ‘This is just a flesh wound.’

  She gave his chest a half-hearted shove, spinning away, back towards the bedroom. ‘Get dressed,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘I’m buying you breakfast. Any news from Nick, by the way?’

  ‘Shit, forgot to check.’ Porter rattled his cup back onto the counter, clicking into his messages. Sure enough, one unopened from Styles, timed at a few minutes after five this morning. He opened it and the screen filled with a tiny scrunched-up face.

  Em wants to have Holly as a middle name, but said I’d need to check in with you first!

  Porter stared at the tiny person that had just tilted Nick and Emma’s world on its axis. He nodded slowly, a faint smile as he headed into the bedroom to show Evie. He approved the name one hundred per cent. Knew Holly would have too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  ‘And this mystery man, this saviour of yours, you couldn’t persuade him to stick around?’ Milburn asked, sounding slightly dubious. ‘Regardless of which way things go with Gibson, we need to track them down. Can’t have people mowing each other down, even in situations like this.’

  There he goes again, thought Porter. All about the optics, not endorsing someone taking the law into their own hands, even when that action probably saved the life of an officer, not to mention his nephews.

  ‘I’m sure the CPS won’t throw the book at them, but we need to tie up the loose ends. Damn shame Gibson hasn’t woken up yet.’

  ‘I spoke to the hospital on the way in, sir. They say he’s stable now, just a case of waiting for swelling to go down in his brain, see how he goes after that.’

  ‘And he really expected you to waltz in there and bring him out a trolley-full of bodies? I knew the man was certifiable, but that’s a special kind of crazy.’

  Porter just shrugged, said nothing.

  ‘What about CCTV from th
e surrounding streets?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Already been checked.’

  ‘And forensics on his allotment and vehicle?’

  ‘Spoke with Kam Qureshi this morning. He’s confirmed the body in the allotment isn’t Libby Hallforth, so that case stays open. Initial findings show correlation between soil found at the allotment with soil the roses were planted in at the park. We’re pretty sure he buried them there for a while, let them decompose, then moved them to the park.’

  ‘I’ve seen some messed-up stuff in my time, but this is right up there with the worst of ’em,’ Milburn said. ‘And he thought he was what, protecting these children?’

  ‘That’s the gist of what he said, sir. That they looked like his kids, that they needed him to look after them.’

  Milburn shook his head. ‘Well, if he wakes up, we can hear it from the horse’s mouth, but for now, it’s a win for us. There’ll not be many like this,’ he said, giving Porter a knowing smile. ‘A double-figure win, no less.’

  A reference to the body count, of course. Milburn was happy on both counts. A murderer caught, and a boost to the solve rate. To Porter, the numbers involved were a source of infinite sadness, little to celebrate.

  He left Milburn to work on a statement for the press, heading out into a relatively quiet office. No Styles; he’d be away for a spell with Emma and the baby. The rest of his team was nowhere to be seen. Instead of sitting at his desk, he hovered by the window, looking down at people scurrying along Edgware Road. He hovered there, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, and knew where he had to be before news of Gibson’s capture splashed across every front page.