The barrier opened as if by magic when they walked towards it. The receptionist must have activated it. Porter glanced over, and she smiled in confirmation. The room could have catered for a whole task force, never mind three of them. A large oval table dominated the centre, sixteen leather chairs spaced around it. Every seat had a pad of paper, a brushed steel pen and an upturned glass on a paper coaster stamped with the Credit Suisse logo.
‘Please,’ said Leyson, pulling out the closest chair. ‘Take a seat.’ They followed his lead, a chorus of creaking leather. ‘How can I help you then, Detectives?’ Leyson unbuttoned his jacket, crossed right leg over left, and settled back into his chair. His poise and posture made Porter feel he was the interviewee, instead of the man here to ask the questions.
‘Your name cropped up in the course of an investigation, Mr Leyson, and we’re hoping you can help us understand why,’ said Porter. ‘Does the name Gordon Jackson mean anything to you?’
Porter studied him, watching a crinkle appear between Leyson’s eyebrows as he processed the name.
‘Sorry, Detective, can’t say that it does. Should it?’
Porter looked for any sign that the name had registered but found none.
‘That’s the point of the question, Mr Leyson. We don’t know if there’s a connection or not. What about Harold Mayes?’
Leyson thought it over for a few seconds. ‘Again, it doesn’t ring a bell. Can I ask who these gentlemen are?’
‘Afraid we can’t say too much at this stage, sir,’ said Porter, shaking his head. ‘Suffice to say your name has appeared, along with others, on a list that’s tied to Mr Mayes’s murder, and Mr Jackson’s disappearance.’
Leyson’s jaw dropped a little at the mention of murder, but he stayed silent.
‘Our first priority is to establish any connections between names on the list.’ He turned to Styles. ‘Let’s see the pictures.’
Styles took an envelope from inside his jacket and spread the contents on the table. Two six-by-four colour photos.
‘Do you recognise either of these men?’ Porter asked.
‘No,’ said Leyson, shaking his head, sounding a little less confident than a minute ago. He fiddled with the knot on his tie. ‘No, I’ve never seen them before. Who are they?’
‘This is Gordon Jackson,’ said Styles, pointing to the picture on the left, ‘and this is Harold Mayes. You sure you’ve never seen them before, maybe using another name?’
‘Positive, Detective. I’d tell you if I had.’ Leyson was sweating now, not much, but Porter spotted a few beads had popped out on his forehead. He seemed genuinely rattled, though. The kind of misplaced nervous you get when a police car screams up behind you in the fast lane, until you realise they just want to get past you.
‘How about any of the names on this list?’ Styles asked, pulling a sheet of paper from the same envelope, flattening it against the table with his palm, sliding it across to Leyson.
Leyson pulled it across with his fingertips, flicking his eyes up and down. Porter was convinced it was a strikeout, but Leyson tapped the page.
‘A couple look familiar,’ he said, stabbing a finger midway down. ‘Let me check something.’ He picked up his BlackBerry, flicking a thumb across the scroll button. ‘I do know a Joseph Baxter. Not sure if he’s the same one you’re after, but we met a while back at a networking event. Turned out he did a stint at Barclays after I left, and we know a few of the same people. I say know’ – he gave a nervous laugh – ‘more like despised. Nothing like some mutual loathing to stimulate conversation.’
‘And when was the last time you saw him?’ asked Porter.
‘Hmm.’ Leyson pondered over it. ‘I’d say about twelve months. We swapped business cards when we met at the AMT event, then he invited me to lunch a month or so later. He was less than complimentary about his current employer as I remember. I suspect he was working his way through his black book, looking for a new home. How’s he mixed up in this anyway?’
‘We can’t say at this stage, sir. What can you tell us about him, work life or personal?’
‘As I said, Detective, I barely know the man. Literally met him twice. Workwise he’s like most of us in this game. Doesn’t leave much room for personal life if you want to keep moving upwards. I don’t remember any mention of a wife. I do remember the whisky, though.’
‘Whisky?’ said Styles. ‘What about it?’
‘We bonded over a love for single malt. They had a fabulous selection at the AMT event.’ He glanced at his BlackBerry as it purred for attention but thought better of answering whoever it was just yet. ‘This one too,’ he said, pointing back at the list. ‘Christopher Errington. Pretty sure I met him at the same event, although not seen him since.’
‘You’re sure of the name, though?’ asked Styles.
‘Pretty sure, yes. If it’s the chap I’m thinking of, he’s a fellow Chelsea fan. We had a moan about never keeping a manager longer than a few seasons. Baxter was an Arsenal man, so we ganged up on him for a while.’
The fact that three of their names had met previously, however briefly, felt significant to Porter, even if he couldn’t pinpoint why just yet.
‘Do the names Max Brennan or Jennifer Hart mean anything to you?’ said Porter.
‘Sorry, no,’ said Leyson, checking his watch. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Detectives, but I really do need to get back to work.’
‘Appreciate your time, Mr Leyson,’ said Porter, holding out a business card as Styles gathered up the pictures. ‘If you think of anything else about any of these gentlemen, I’d appreciate it if you’d give us a call.’
‘Of course,’ said Leyson, rising to his feet, confidence returning now his ordeal was nearly at an end.
Porter was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned around. ‘One last question, Mr Leyson. AMT. You mentioned the name twice. Who, or what, are they?’
‘They’re headhunters. Placed me here, and I’m pretty sure they put Baxter at Barclays too. Everyone at that event was a client. Might be worth speaking to them. I had to fill out all sorts of personal information when I registered with them, so they might know where to reach the others.’
‘Thanks, we’ll follow up with them. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out how sensitive an investigation can be. I’d appreciate it if you can keep our chat today between the three of us.’
Leyson nodded enthusiastically, desperate to get away from them at this stage, no doubt. They retraced their steps back to the barriers, and Leyson offered his hand again. His cockiness was back.
‘You’ll be OK to see yourselves out from here?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Porter.
‘If you’ll excuse me, then,’ said Leyson, and scurried away into a waiting elevator, leaving Porter and Styles to make their own way out.
‘What did you make of him, then?’ he said to Styles when they were safely outside.
‘Typical City boy,’ said Styles. ‘I’d trust a Big Issue seller with my money before I picked him. Bit smarmy for my liking but seemed on the level. I think he told us the truth.’
‘Me too,’ said Porter. ‘It’s got to mean something, the fact that he knows two of the others. I just wish I knew what.’
The visit to KPMG was a lot quicker. The receptionist called upstairs, grunted a few times at whoever was speaking on the other end, then told them Baxter had taken a few days’ sick leave. Some kind of virus, but they expected him back on Monday. Porter promised to call and make an appointment next week, even though he had every intention of turning up unannounced again.
‘Back to the station, then?’ asked Styles as they climbed back into their car.
‘We could,’ Porter said, shooting a mischievous glance at Styles. ‘Or we could swing by Mr Baxter’s home address and see if he’s feeling any better?’
‘You’re all heart,’ said Styles, but his grin told Porter all he needed to know. ‘Why not. Lead on, Macduff.’
‘Not want
ing to be pedantic …’ said Porter.
‘But you will be,’ said Styles, a statement, not a question.
‘Seeing as you ask so nicely. You’re misquoting the Bard. Common mistake, but a misquote all the same. It’s actually “Lay on, Macduff”, but I’ll let you off this once.’
‘Lay on, lead on. You say toe-may-toe …’ Styles’s exaggerated American twang came out about as authentic as Dick Van Dyke’s cockney accent in Mary Poppins.
‘You’ll thank me one day when it pops up in a pub quiz,’ said Porter.
Buzzing, like an angry bee, from the cup holder. He looked down at his phone, saw Milburn’s name, toyed with answering but started the car instead. Styles reached a hand towards it, but Porter covered the phone with his own.
‘Leave it. I’ll see him when we get back to the station.’
Styles raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he drew his hand back. Porter pulled away from the kerb, and it wasn’t until the KPMG building was out of sight that either of them spoke.
‘Everything alright, guv?’ asked Styles.
Porter glanced at him, back to the road again. ‘Yeah, everything’s fine. Why?’
‘Just not like you to ignore the big man’s calls. You two had a lover’s tiff?’
‘Something like that,’ said Porter.
‘Can we skip the part where you tell me you’re fine, and get to what his problem is?’
Porter gripped the wheel hard, fingers wrapped around until nail met palm. To share, or not share? He made his decision.
‘The video clip. He thinks I’ve got issues, and wants me to see someone in OHU, a counsellor.’
‘Really? A counsellor cos of Patchett?’
Porter hesitated a beat. ‘That … and a few other things.’ He ran his tongue across his teeth, stalling, deciding how much he wanted to say.
It’s your partner, for Christ’s sake. Not the OHU.
‘Milburn thinks I should have spoken to someone after Holly,’ he said finally. ‘Reckons I’ve been bottling stuff up, that what happened to Evie pushed a few of the same buttons, you know, about someone you know getting hurt, and nobody getting banged up for it.’
He looked across, waiting for a reaction from Styles. Saw his partner give a few gentle nods but say nothing.
‘You’re agreeing with him? Has he spoken to you about it as well?’ Porter’s cheeks flushed at the thought of whispered conversations behind his back.
Styles whipped his head around. ‘Really, you think I’d be Milburn’s office gossip boy?’
Porter heard no trace of deceit in the words, and instantly felt bad for looking for any. ‘Course not. Sorry, it’s not you I’m pissed off at.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Styles.
‘Isn’t that supposed to be my line,’ said Porter.
Styles shook his head, smiled at the peace offering. ‘I will say one thing, though,’ he said. ‘And I’m not saying you need to speak to anyone, that’s your business, but you have been a bit off form these last few months. How you deal with stuff is your business.’ He held up a palm to stave off any comeback. ‘But if you ever need an ear to bend …’
No need to finish the sentence. Porter knew what he was getting at, even if he didn’t like admitting it to himself. He knew he’d been wrapped up in his own issues, drawing them around himself like a cloak. He’d never felt comfortable opening up with anyone, even Holly, although she’d had a way of teasing things out of him regardless.
‘Cheers. Honestly, I’m fine, but you’d be first choice if I do.’ And he meant it as well. Maybe it’d help to air it all over a beer one night. Maybe not. A decision for another day.
They crawled along with daytime traffic, roads clogged like a smoker’s arteries. Pedestrians scurrying off for midday meetings and early lunches, phones to ears, eyes fixed ahead. Things picked up once they got onto the A12, whisking past the huge doughnut-shaped London Stadium, and on up towards Stoke Newington.
Summerhouse Road was a tidy cul-de-sac. The properties might have been houses once upon a time, but they’d been carved into flats years ago. Basement windows peeked out from behind railings. Steps leading up to raised ground floor flats reminded Porter of New-York-style stoops, whitewashed bay windows jutting proudly out. A half-dozen willowy trees flanked the road at uneven intervals. Hardly what you’d call tree-lined, but that wouldn’t stop creative estate agents claiming exactly that. The road ended abruptly in a wall that looked like it hadn’t been whitewashed since Churchill was in Downing Street, branches from neighbouring Abney Park threatening to reach over and invade the street.
Baxter lived in the far left corner, at number seventeen. The curtains were drawn, downstairs as well as on the first floor. He ran a finger down the buttons of the intercom, jabbing at the one next to Baxter’s name.
‘Yes?’ A disembodied voice floated through the air.
‘Hi, I’m looking for Mr Joseph Baxter,’ said Porter, leaning towards the speaker as if it was hard of hearing.
‘Yeah, I’m Joseph Baxter. What can I do for you?’
‘Detectives Porter and Styles, Mr Baxter, with the Met Police. Your name has cropped up in the course of an investigation, and we’d like to ask you a few questions if you have a couple of minutes.’
Several seconds of silence, punctuated by a car horn from back on the main road. Porter was just about to press the button and ask again, when Baxter spoke.
‘Bear with me two minutes, Detective. I was just getting ready to go out. I’ll be right down.’
True to his word, Baxter opened the door minutes later and pulled it closed behind him. Porter gave him a once up and down. Three, maybe four days of stubble. Small scar running through the right eyebrow, giving him a slightly rakish look. Baxter wore a black overcoat, white shirt collar peeking out from underneath, pinstripe suit trousers and tan shoes that screamed designer label.
‘Sorry, couldn’t find my keys,’ he said, holding them up in apology. ‘What is it I can help you with?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down for a few minutes while we talk, if you’re feeling up to it?’
‘Feeling up to it?’ Baxter echoed.
‘Yes, your office said you were under the weather, that you’d taken a few days off.’
Baxter looked sheepish, glanced at his feet and sighed. ‘You’ve caught me out, Detectives,’ he said, holding his hands out, wrists together in a cuff me now gesture. ‘I’m actually on my way to a job interview with a rival firm. Wouldn’t exactly look good if I asked for time off for that, would it?’
‘Why don’t we step inside for a few minutes, sir, and then we can be on our way?’
‘I’m OK here if you are,’ said Baxter. ‘I’d invite you in, but my place is in a bit of a state, and I’m already running a little behind for my interview.’
Porter shrugged. ‘As I said, your name came up in connection to a current case, and we’re just trying to establish the nature of any connection. Does the name Gordon Jackson mean anything to you?’
Baxter’s brow creased like a ploughed field as he pondered the name. ‘No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘How about Harold Mayes?’
‘No idea,’ said Baxter, hands digging deep into his coat pockets. ‘Should I know them?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to work out, Mr Baxter,’ said Styles, reaching into his coat, coming out with the photos.
Baxter’s eyes flicked back and forwards between the two, but his face gave nothing away. ‘Can’t say that I do,’ he said finally. ‘Who are they?’
‘It’s the same two gentlemen. Just wanted to see if you knew them by another name. Their names, and yours, were found on a list at a crime scene, so we’d just like to understand how you’re connected.’
‘Does there have to be a connection?’ said Baxter.
‘If there’s one thing you learn in my line of work,’ said Porter, ‘it’s that very little turns out to be random. Where were you on Tuesday evening this week,
between five and seven?’
‘Tuesday? I was at the office until around eight, then went to the gym for an hour. What happened on Tuesday?’
‘Is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts, sir?’ said Porter, ignoring Baxter’s question.
‘I suppose you could check with the security guard on our front desk,’ said Baxter. ‘He’s probably got me on camera. Same at the gym too.’
Styles reached back into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper this time. ‘What about these names, Mr Baxter, any of them look familiar?’
‘Is this the list you mentioned?’
Styles nodded, handing him the sheet. Porter studied Baxter’s face, looking for a reaction, a tell, anything that might signal he recognised any of the names. Baxter’s lips moved, as if reading out the list. He touched a finger to the page, ran it down the names, shaking his head all the way to the bottom.
‘Sorry,’ he said, handing it back to Styles.
‘You’re sure?’ Styles asked.
‘Yep, I’ve usually got a pretty good memory for things like this, and none of them look familiar.’
‘Really?’ Porter said, surprised. ‘You’ve met one of them before, or at least he remembers meeting you.’ Something shifted behind Baxter’s eyes, but Porter couldn’t read it.
‘Did I?’ said Baxter.
‘Stuart Leyson,’ said Porter, nodding. ‘You met at an AMT event last year. He remembers talking to you about a mutual love of good whisky.’
Baxter rolled his eyes. ‘An AMT event? Anything’s possible, I suppose, but have you ever been to one of those networking bashes? It’s like career speed dating. I’ve been to a few. Met dozens of people at them.’
Porter could picture it now. A hundred suits crammed into a room, sizing each other up, throwing stories about deals they’d won into the conversation like a game of Top Trumps.
Baxter tilted his wrist, pulling back his sleeve to check his watch. ‘Are we nearly done, Detective?’ he asked Porter. ‘I don’t mind coming to the station another time to finish up, but I really do need to head off for my interview.’
Porter nodded, turning his body to face the park, leaving room for Baxter to pass by. ‘One last thing,’ he said, as Baxter walked between him and Styles. ‘Do the names Max Brennan or Jennifer Hart mean anything to you?’
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