Right now, he’d take his chances with an actual shark rather than be here. He and Milburn had clashed over the Alexander Locke case. Porter’s former boss at the time, Superintendent George Campbell, had been kicked off the force in disgrace over corruption charges soon after. Porter and Campbell had had their fair share of clashes, but Milburn had made it clear he tarred Porter with the same brush, suspected him of cutting corners and thought him liable to become the team problem child given half the chance.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Yes, Porter,’ said Milburn, rummaging in his jacket pocket. ‘Yes, I did.’
He produced a phone, tapped out a rhythm on it, and slid it across the desk. The kid who’d shot it had been at least fifty yards away, so when he’d zoomed in, things blurred a little around the edges, but even then there was no doubt as to what and who he was watching. Milburn had left the sound on, and the kid chattered away to his mate throughout.
‘Whoa, check it, bruv. Shit’s going down,’ a voice said, Porter presumed the cameraman; young, brash, with more than a hint of excitement at the possibility of violence.
‘Six on one,’ a second voice said. ‘That ain’t a fair fight.’
‘Bloke coming out might be tooled up.’
‘Hope so,’ came the second voice. ‘Might be able to flog this for a few quid to Sky News if he takes a few of them down.’
Porter clenched his jaw at how casually they hoped for it. Watching it back now felt wrong, all out of context with only an arrogant little wannabe gangster narrating. He saw himself square up to Patchett. Watched as his hand shot up. Saw himself being hustled away by Styles. Without Patchett’s taunts, it was only half a story, but even he had to admit it didn’t look great. The clip finished, freezing on a grainy still of Patchett being pushed towards the car.
‘Well?’ Milburn sounded like a schoolteacher. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘I know how it looks, sir, but—’
‘It looks like shit, Porter,’ Milburn cut across him. ‘It looks like an early Christmas present for his solicitor.’
‘With all due respect, sir, there was provocation on his part. This man was part of an organisation that almost killed Simmons. He—’
Milburn held up a palm to silence him. ‘And he’ll have his day in court for that, but lowering ourselves to their level isn’t acceptable. Not ever.’
Porter felt his cheeks flush, partly anger at Milburn, partly at himself for causing the situation in the first place. A dozen retorts swam around his head, but he knew Milburn would swat them all away, quoting conduct rules, chapter and verse. He made do with clenching his fists below the desk level, where Milburn couldn’t see, until his joints ached.
‘We’ve barely fought our way back from the whole Campbell debacle, and I will not’ – Milburn stabbed the desk with his finger to emphasise his point – ‘have anyone else drag us back down there.’
Porter imagined how it would feel to grab Milburn the same way he’d done with Patchett. To be up close, in his face, spell it out to him as if he was a five-year-old child.
I’m not Campbell, his voice raged inside his head. I stopped Campbell. I exposed him for what he was. You swept the whole bloody mess under the carpet. Not me. I. Am. Not. Campbell.
Porter’s anger simmered below the surface, hot, molten, but Milburn seemed oblivious. The superintendent sat back in his chair, one arm across his chest, the other raised up, a finger tapping against his lips in a shushing gesture. Porter met his stare, holding it as the silence dragged out.
‘So here’s what we’re going to do,’ said Milburn finally. ‘You’re off the case, not that there’s much left of it anyway. You’ll hand over to Clayton and Schofield.’
Porter opened his mouth to protest, but Milburn beat him to it.
‘This isn’t up for discussion, Porter. You’ll do it, and do it today.’
Porter sat back, arms crossed. With Patchett back in custody, Milburn was right, it was almost a done deal, but that wasn’t the point; it was his case. After what he went through to bring down Locke and his mini-empire, he deserved to see it through. Milburn wasn’t finished.
‘As you know, I’ve been leading on the inquiry into Superintendent Campbell’s conduct, reviewing people’s files to see who else was involved with him. Spotted in there that you’d lost your wife a while back. That can’t have been easy.’ Milburn’s face softened for a second. ‘Apparently, you turned down the offer of sessions with a counsellor after it happened.’
The reference to Holly, even without using her name, was like a slap across the cheek, and Porter sat in stunned silence. Where the hell was Milburn going with this?
‘I appreciate that can’t have been easy, especially with nobody ever being arrested for it.’
Holly had been on her way back from a parents’ evening at the school she worked at, when a car had lost control and mounted the pavement. Hit and run. She’d lasted three days in A&E, the longest three of Porter’s life. He blinked as an image of her flashed to mind. Her face a mixed palette of bruises, purple and black. Eyes closed, arms by her side. Even now it made his breath catch, swallowing hard before a lump could form.
‘I’m not saying that’s the cause of this’ – Milburn gestured towards the phone – ‘but whatever’s going on inside here,’ he said, pointing to his own head, ‘it needs putting right. I can’t have my officers snapping like that. I know you took what happened to Simmons personally as well, so you’re to make an appointment this week to see Occupational Health, and to attend as many sessions as they see fit.’
‘Sir, that’s really not necessary,’ Porter protested.
‘That’s for them to decide, not you. Damage limitation, Porter, for the force and for you.’ The order in which Milburn prioritised his two points wasn’t lost on Porter. Protect the good name of the police force first, its officers second. ‘The press has picked up on it and been hounding us for a comment. If Patchett tries to sue, this will help in mitigation and, who knows, it might actually do you some good. Call her today, that’s an order.’
Porter felt the pressure building in his head. Going against a direct order from Milburn was as good as saying he was done. Milburn pulled his phone back across the desk, shaking his head as he looked at the image still on the screen.
‘That’s all, Porter. You can go now.’
Porter stood up, not trusting himself to say anything else for fear he’d tell Milburn what he really thought of him right now. He left the office without another word and headed downstairs for some fresh air. His job was hard enough without being shackled like this. Forced to give up his case, and waste God knows how many hours with a stranger trying to pick through his thoughts and tell him that he wasn’t over Holly. That talking about it would help. That he needed to move on.
The idea of being over her scared him almost as much as the prospect of talking to anyone about it. The thought that she could be relegated to a footnote. Besides, things like that were private. Not to be shared. He didn’t need to sit in a stuffy room and tell a counsellor that he thought about her every day, dreamt about her most nights, to know he hadn’t put it behind him.
He stepped out into a morning heat that felt oppressive, heavy, like a heavy blanket draped over the city. Rush hour was over, but traffic still zipped past at a fair pace on the Marylebone flyover off to his right. He hustled over the road towards Edgware Road Tube station, glancing at the pub next door, The Green. A couple of die-hard regulars stood outside, cigarettes in hand, putting the world to rights over the first drink of the day. Porter angled off to the right, past the station, the right-hand side of it an explosion of green amongst the otherwise grey buildings. He’d read somewhere that the wall, consisting of over ten thousand plants, was meant to trap pollution. Whether it did or didn’t, it was just nice to have a flash of colour amongst the grey buildings.
Five minutes. Just enough time to get Milburn out of his system, then he’d head back
inside. The superintendent could force him to go to the sessions, but he couldn’t make him say anything in them. He slowed his walk to an amble. Closed his eyes. Breathed in deep as he walked past the curtain of green on the wall. So tired. Not just a lack of sleep, but tired of people like Milburn. Tired of the sort of bullshit that stopped him doing his job. Of people who hadn’t set foot from out behind a desk for years and had forgotten what it was like to be a detective, rather than a politician.
Porter wondered, not for the first time, whether he had the strength to do it all; do his job, stand up to the bureaucracy, come to terms with a world that didn’t include Holly. If he wasn’t a detective, what else could he be? His phone buzzed deep in a jacket pocket, and he rolled his eyes. Milburn, probably, asking if he’d called the shrink yet. But when he pulled it out, the name on screen raised a smile. Anything not work-related would be welcome right now.
‘Morning, stranger. Long time no speak.’
He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, and the smile was gone inside five seconds.
The room Jen was in could be a broom cupboard or an airplane hangar for all she knew. The complete absence of light made figuring out any dimensions impossible. Darkness so absolute, all-encompassing. Would it run through her hands like wet sand if she tried to grab a fistful? She’d welcome the chance to find out, but her hands were fixed firmly in place, probably with whatever covered her mouth. Tape, maybe?
How long had she been here? More to the point, where the hell was here? All she could hear was her own breathing, ragged and rapid through snotty nostrils. She tried to control it, to slow it down. Her heartbeat thudded in tandem with her pulsing headache.
She swung her head left and right, looking for something she could latch on to, anything to break the monotony of inky blackness. Time oozed by like treacle. Minutes? Hours? Who knew? She closed her eyes again. Breathed in for five. Out for five. When she opened them again, she nearly dismissed what she saw as having screwed her eyes too tight, but she blinked a few times to make certain. Sure enough, a horizontal line of light seemed to hover in front of her. Other lines, fainter, but definitely there, ran vertically up from either end. A doorway?
A metallic rasp, a key in a lock, perhaps, and the darkness was burnt away as the door opened. Jen turned her head, wincing as the light flooded in. She opened her eyes; the shape of the doorway had burnt into her retinas, reappearing with every blink. She heard footsteps, a scraping like nails on a blackboard – chair legs, maybe? She kept her head bowed down, away from the glare that stung her eyes.
A click, and overhead a strip light spluttered into life. The footsteps stopped. Her breathing sped up again, tape sucking in against her lips, nostrils flared.
‘Hello, Jennifer,’ said a man’s voice. Vaguely familiar. No accent that she could place. ‘You and I have quite a bit to talk about.’
She chanced a glance towards him, eyes still recovering. A blurred shape moved in front of her, towards her. Fingers scrabbled at the edge of the tape on her mouth. Ripping it off in one smooth action, like a Band-Aid. Jen heard the scream. Listened to it for a few seconds before she realised it was coming from her. The worst part was that the man made no move to stop her. That meant he either knew nobody could hear her, or he just didn’t care. Either way, she wasn’t walking away from this, whatever this was.
‘When was the last time you spoke to her then?’ Porter asked, turning on his heel and heading back towards the station.
‘Yesterday morning, before I left for work,’ said Max.
‘And you’re sure she’s not just crashed out at a friend’s house?’
‘She would have called. You know what she’s like. She would have told me.’
Max was putting on a brave front, but Porter could tell he was worried, talking a little too fast, stumbling over his words, only slightly, but Porter had dealt with more worried relatives than he cared to remember over the years. Besides, Max was right – it was out of character for Jen, and Max wasn’t one to worry without reason. Porter had known him since school, Max being a couple of years below him, and boxed with him at the local gym. They still met for the occasional beer, and the less than occasional sparring session.
Like Porter, Max had joined the army straight out of university, serving five years to Porter’s nine. Porter had swapped one uniform for another when he joined the Metropolitan Police’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command, whereas Max had hung his up altogether. He was a staff photographer now for the Daily Express.
‘To be honest I feel daft even bothering you with it,’ Max went on, ‘but I’ve tried her folks, her mates, even the hospital, and I’m out of ideas.’
‘She still driving the Honda?’
‘Mm-hmm. She might have even just broken down somewhere, and her phone’s died; something stupid like that.’
‘OK, I’ll have a word with some of the lads on patrol this morning if you text me the reg plate. Ask them to keep an eye out.’
Porter heard a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Beers on me soon, yeah?’
‘No worries,’ Porter said, walking back past the Tube station. ‘I’ll call you if I hear anything.’
He disconnected the call, and before he’d managed to cross the road, Max’s text with Jen’s registration number came through. The little voice in his head whispered that this didn’t feel right. He’d known Jen for some time now. They’d all gone out for drinks a few times when Holly was still around, and she was as sensible-girl-next-door as they came. Max’s scenario of a broken-down car didn’t feel right, but then again, nobody liked to consider anything too bad right off the bat.
Porter knew from bitter experience that life didn’t always have a happy ending. He’d stood on too many doors, delivering bad news to unsuspecting families. Work had made him more realist than optimist. Bad things happened to good people all the time. There wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. Holly had been as gentle a soul as he’d ever met, but when a car had mounted the pavement, sending her spiralling over the bonnet, it had counted for nothing. Porter still remembered getting the call. The way his head spun, as if he’d just stepped off a ride at the fairground. Stomach feeling like it had been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop.
If he could find Jen, settle Max’s nerves, stop him from feeling even a hundredth of what he’d felt himself, it would trump all the other crap he had to deal with today.
‘It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine,’ he muttered to himself as he trotted back up the stairs towards the front door to the station. He almost believed it himself. Almost.
Max was full of restless energy, insides churning as if they were in a blender. He called in a favour from Callum Carr, a friend from the office, to cover for him for a few hours while he headed out to drive around a few of Jen’s usual haunts. She had mentioned needing to pop into the school for a few hours yesterday, but the car park was deserted when he drove past. Where the hell could she have gotten to? An image of the monitor from last night flashed to mind, the yellow lighthouse of the Beacon Estates logo shooting out a beam of golden light at the top of the page.
Max pulled over, typed the name into the browser on his phone and clicked to call the office number.
‘Good morning, Beacon Estates, Amy speaking. How can I help you?’ She sounded young, with sing-song sickly sweet enthusiasm that seeped down the line.
‘Hi, Amy, my name’s Max, Max Brennan. This might sound a little odd, but I’m wondering if my girlfriend called you folks up yesterday. Jennifer Hart? I think she may have called about a property that you guys just sold for my father, Gordon Jackson. Does that ring any bells?’
‘You’re in luck, Mr Brennan,’ she said. ‘It was me that spoke with Ms Hart yesterday. What was it I can help you with?’
‘I just need to know what she called about. Nobody’s seen her since yesterday, and I’m a little worried, so anything you can tell me would be a big help.’
The perky ton
e was dialled back a notch when she spoke again. ‘Oh, right, I erm, well I didn’t actually see her. I only spoke to her on the phone, so …’ The last syllable stretched out, warding off any follow-up.
‘Why did she call in the first place, though?’
‘She wanted your father’s forwarding address. Said he’d written it down for you, but you’d lost the Post-it he’d written it on, or something. Of course, I couldn’t just give that out, client confidentiality and all that, but I said I’d pass on a message.’
‘And?’ said Max, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘What was the message?’
‘Just to say she’d lost his mobile number,’ she said, with an undisguised undertone of yeah, right, ‘and to ask if she could meet him for a coffee. She gave me her number to pass on to him.’
Silence. Max pictured her at her desk, fingers splayed out as she painted her nails, a hundred more important things to do than talk to some bloke firing questions at her that didn’t involve buying or selling property.
‘And did he?’ Max asked.
‘Did he what?’
‘Meet her for a coffee?’
Jesus, she probably thinks you’re a stalker, he thought.
‘I have no idea, sorry, Mr Brennan. I left your dad a voicemail, but I didn’t speak to him, or your girlfriend, after that.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Around twelve-ish. Maggie, one of the other girls, had just gone out for lunch, and Ms Hart’s call was one of the first I took. Rang off the hook for the next hour till Maggie came back.’
Max thanked her and left her his number in case she heard from either Jen or his dad. His next call was to a number he’d nearly deleted a few days back. Straight to voicemail, and he listened to his dad’s greeting apologising for not taking the call. A few days ago, even up until this morning, he didn’t care if he never heard his dad’s voice again. Listening to it now, he wondered if he and Jen had met up. Where had she gone afterwards? Did his dad know where she’d gone? Where she was?
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