Porter sat in the room he and Styles had commandeered as their incident room, staring at the neatly stacked boxes. The storyboard listing all the missing men had to come down today, packed away to gather dust. He wished now that he hadn’t sent Styles home early. Could do this in half the time if he was still around, but it didn’t hurt to throw him back Emma’s way, keep her sweet bearing in mind the concession she’d made.
He worked through a name at a time, popping magnets off the board and stacking the headshots neatly into boxes, as if anyone would care. They’d probably never be opened again until it came time to bin them. The grubby rag just smeared his notes against the whiteboard. It’d need wetting to do the job properly.
Porter was so lost in the tedium of filing, sorting and stacking, he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until they were practically behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Benayoun with Max in tow, visitor’s pass around his neck and brightly wrapped object in his hand.
‘You come to make a confession?’ said Porter.
‘Found him loitering out by the front, trying to call you, guv,’ said Benayoun.
Porter glanced at his phone. ‘Ah, it’s on silent. Sorry.’
‘Just thought I’d swing by and give you a little thank you gift,’ Max said, holding out what was clearly a bottle of something wrapped up. ‘Jen and I are heading off for a few days. Fresh air, change of scenery and all that jazz.’
Porter took the gift. Turned it end over end. Heard a soft glug as he did.
‘Is it a football?’
Benayoun rolled her eyes, leaving the two of them alone in the room.
‘You nearly done for the day? Time for a quick pint?’ said Max.
‘Why the hell not. Rest of this can wait till tomorrow.’
Porter picked up the last few sheets on his desk and dropped them into the box marked David Marsh. The flipchart was still intact, although the whiteboard only had two pictures left on; Alan Bowles, with his column still scrawled below, and another sitting above a grey swirl of what used to be black marker pen. He looked up, saw Max staring at the faces, moving towards the board and sliding one of the pictures out from under its magnet.
‘Just leave ’em, mate. I’ll sort everything tomorrow.’
‘Just getting them back in the right order for you,’ said Max, peeling one from the flipchart and replacing it with the one he held. ‘Doesn’t help if you’ve got the guest of honour in the wrong seat.’
Porter gave a confused half-smile. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Baxter. You had him over there on the other board.’
‘Uh-uh, he’s already there,’ said Porter, pointing at the picture Max had just removed.
‘Him?’ Max held up the picture in his right hand. ‘What you on about? This is him,’ he said, dropping one hand and raising the other like a ground controller signalling planes on a runway. ‘They’re similar, but I won’t forget this face in a hurry.’ He wafted the picture from the whiteboard like a referee showing the red card. ‘I’m telling you, this … this is Baxter.’
‘Can’t be,’ said Porter, looking from one picture to the other. ‘Makes no sense, can’t be.’
‘Who’s this guy, then, Jake?’ Max held up the picture that had been stuck next to Alan Bowles.
Porter walked over, took the pictures from Max and slapped them down on the table.
‘We got a positive ID, Max. DNA match against samples we took from his flat. There’s no real room for error there.’ He stabbed a finger at the picture on the left. ‘That’s James Bannister. He was another client from AMT. Had the same contact as your dad as well, but he wasn’t one of the bodies on ice. He’s still missing.’
‘And I’m telling you, this is the man who had me tied to a chair.’ Max folded his arms, daring Porter to call him out on it again.
‘Max, you’d been through the mill that night. Don’t forget you took a fairly heavy shot to the head. There’s every chance you—’
‘Don’t go there, Jake. I know what I saw.’ Max was animated now, pacing past Porter, stopping only to point at the picture to punctuate his words. ‘That’s him. His hair was shorter, but that’s him. One hundred per cent.’
Porter looked long and hard at the pictures. Two faces cut from the same cloth. Truth be told, Porter hadn’t really paid much attention to any of the pictures in the last few weeks, especially Bannister’s. It hadn’t been on their original list from the laptop recovered at Harold Mayes’s house. There hadn’t been anything conclusive to even put him in the same boat as the others. He focused on Baxter instead. Only met the man once. The man in the picture was clean shaven, whereas the man on the doorstep had had a chin full of stubble.
He switched to Bannister’s picture again. He looked familiar as well. They all had. Another one of the reasons why they’d been picked. He closed his eyes, thinking back to Baxter’s doorstep, seeing the face again. He sensed Max by his shoulder, heard his breathing. Stood like that a few seconds more, until it hit him, connecting like a good body shot. That feeling in his stomach like he’d just driven fast over a hump in the road.
His eyes snapped open and he picked up Bannister’s picture, staring at the face. Not into the eyes this time, but just above. The eyebrow, a thin but visible scar line running through it. His fingers relaxed their grip and the picture fell edge first to the ground. He turned to face Max, felt his face redden.
‘Oh, shit.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
One week earlier
He grabbed at the handle. Pulled with all his might until the crank snapped. Wouldn’t do to give his passenger a chance to wind the window up, not now the water had started pouring in. Seatbelt next. He tugged at it. Firmly in place, and with the damage he’d done to the catch there was little chance of the driver freeing himself even if he did come round.
Quick check of the shoreline and bridge up ahead. Deserted. No witnesses. No one to play hero and dive in after the car. Perfect. He looked across, stared at Joseph Baxter’s body in the driver’s seat. Watched as the water rose up his legs. No reaction.
Baxter’s nose looked like it had been rotated a full three-sixty, thanks to a pre-river slam into the steering wheel. A necessary piece of improv to match the damage Max had managed to inflict on his own face. Truth be told, it was a small mercy for Baxter. He had been petrified enough being led from the boot after being tossed around during the escape. It was practically doing the guy a favour to let him sleep through these final moments. Once he was sparked out, it had been a simple case of shifting from park into drive, pushing Baxter’s foot down on the accelerator and crashing through the old railings.
He took three deep breaths, water creeping up his chest, towards his chin, and he placed a hand over Baxter’s. The front of the car tilted downwards, slowly at first, picking up pace until it went under completely. It was almost impossible to see past the dashboard under the surface, and he had to be sure that Baxter was going nowhere. A slow ten count, then he grabbed the sealed bag by his feet and pulled himself through the window and up to the surface.
Quick glance around. No prying eyes. He swam around the bend of the creek and hauled himself out of the water onto an old wooden pier. Five minutes later, wet clothes were stuffed into a bin liner, swapped for a dry set from a waterproof bag he’d dragged out of the car with him. The discarded clothes would end up in a bin a safe distance away. He pulled a cap down low, shading his eyes, and walked calmly down Glaisher Street, and round onto the main road. The first two police cars had pulled up by the river, lights strobing over the water. A figure stood apart from the others, over by the railings, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He recognised Detective Porter. Took a moment to drink it in, watching the man who had come close to stopping him for good.
He checked his watch. Just over ten minutes since he had clambered onto the bank. No surviving that. They’d have their body; the epilogue to their story. Baxter had had to die in a way that left no room for doubt. The o
thers had mostly met their fate in bathtubs, but Baxter’s lungs needed to be full of river water when they sliced him open at autopsy.
He had laughed when Max called him by Baxter’s name at the storage unit. Even if they managed to strip away the layers, figure it all out, he’d be long gone. He looked down at the pavement as he walked, hiding his broken nose from any passers-by.
Careful. Always careful.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
One week later
The dealer studied the two men left in the game. The gentleman to his left was marginal chip leader, an honour that had swung back and forth several times in the last half hour. Somewhere in his mid forties. Haircut bordering on military. He was a man of few words, eyes barely leaving the cards. A conservative player, only playing hands where he had something worth fighting for.
His opponent was at least two decades older, with a shock of white hair and a goatee beard Colonel Sanders would have been proud of. The dealer had worked a Texas Hold ’Em table for years, seen thousands of players come and go, and fancied himself as a pretty good judge of character. His money was on the older guy. He’d played his hands to perfection most of the night. Unhurried checks, casual raises.
The younger man had been staring at the neat row of five cards, face up, for over a minute now. Both black sevens, jack of hearts, four of spades and ace of clubs as the river card. The younger man had declined to bet, checking all the way through. The colonel had goaded him into action with a few small raises, but had made his move, pushing half his chip stack in when the ace had appeared.
The dealer sized them both up. His guess was that the colonel had made his full house; sevens and aces, hitting on the last card. Smart move from the young man was to fold.
‘All in.’
It was little more than a whisper, and the dealer wasn’t certain he’d heard right, but sure enough, the man placed both palms around his stack and pushed them into the centre of the table. The dealer looked at the colonel, saw a twinkle of triumph. He’d called it right. Old age and treachery had won out against youth.
‘I’ll call,’ said the colonel, in a voice rough around the edges from a lifetime of cigars, and toppled his stacks over into the middle.
‘On your backs, please, gentlemen,’ said the dealer, noticing for the first time a ring of spectators chattering like magpies, gathered to watch what must surely be the final hand.
The colonel was still smiling as he flipped his cards over. Two aces for the full house. The smile morphed into something else when he saw the two red sevens the younger man had been sitting on all along. He had slow played four of a kind, crafty bastard. Only played strong hands all night, then dragged his heels with the best hand of the game.
The colonel shook his head as the young man reached forwards, raking his chips in like pulling earth into a hole. No sign of emotion, though, no punching the air, barely even a smile as he shook hands with the colonel. He was a cold one alright.
He could tell from the look the dealer gave him, that they all gave him, they thought it was a lucky hand. Might have been a riskier move if he hadn’t sussed the older guy’s tell an hour ago. Just hadn’t seemed worth exploiting until it was all or nothing.
He sniffed again, daren’t blow it, though. Still tender to the touch, let alone to risk a full blast into a hankie. The yellow-brown saffron shadows of bruising bordered on jaundiced.
He cashed in his chips, headed up to his room on the tenth floor. Of course, it wasn’t booked in his name. Today he was Brian McDermott. Tomorrow, well, he’d just wait and see what that would bring. He helped himself to an overpriced whisky from the minibar, switched the lights off again and stood cloaked in shadow, looking out over the Vegas strip. It looked like someone had vomited neon, bright lights drawing in the punters like moths.
A hundred casinos, thousands of new faces every day, blurring into one teeming mass of people. No one knowing or caring about who they rubbed shoulders with. James Bannister smiled in the darkness. Saw a warped version of it reflected back at him. He’d fit in here just fine.
EPILOGUE
Porter glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until his hearing started. He still had time. Traffic was mercifully light as he drove along Marylebone High Street. One side was swathed in scaffolding like it was getting wrapped up for the winter. The other, still exposed, a row of shops, topped by four storeys of apartments. Million-pound properties within a stone’s throw of charity shops. Porter wondered how many of those residents’ cast-offs found their way into any of them. Precious few.
He slowed to a crawl as he spotted the blue shop front a hundred yards ahead. Anywhere round here would do, even if he had to make a few trips. A white van pulled out fifty yards ahead. Perfect. He swung into the space and jumped out, opening the rear door carefully. A few of the black bags had fallen against it, and he reached in, pulling them out, stacking a neat pile on the pavement.
Six in total. More in the boot, but he’d come back for them. He grabbed the nearest two, one in each hand, tops tied like bunny ears twisting around his fingers. Three in each hand and he was good to go. Halfway to the shop he realised he’d left the car unlocked. It’d keep till he went back for the next lot.
The window of Cancer Research was an Aladdin’s cave of books and handbags, guarded by a pair of mannequins in last season’s jackets. The lad behind the counter reminded him of his school dinner lady. Sixty-something, with flushed face and a neck like a turkey, liable to reach out and pinch both cheeks like a favourite auntie. She gave him a warm smile as he approached the counter, turning sideways to make sure his bags didn’t send any clothes rails flying.
‘Got some clothes to donate. There’s a few more bags in the car.’
She bustled around the counter, taking the bags from him one at a time, muttering thank yous as each one was passed over.
‘Having a bit of a clear-out, are we?’ she asked.
‘They’re my wife’s. She passed away,’ he said, surprised at how calm he felt admitting that to a stranger. It had felt like a taboo subject for so long.
Her face folded into a network of concerned creases, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d tried to hug him after she took the last bag. He made the second trip, checking his watch again, although part of him wanted to be late just to stick two fingers up to the bureaucracy of it all. He took another round of sympathies mixed with gratitude and made his excuses, leaving her to sift through the contents of the bags.
He had told himself he could always do this another day, always keep the bags in the car, but now that he’d left them behind, it felt right. It was time. It had been time for longer than he was willing to admit. One last thing before his hearing. A quick WhatsApp tapped out. He could see it was delivered almost instantly, but the two ticks stayed grey. Unread, for now.
He jumped back into his car and took a shortcut along Crawford Street and onto Edgware Road, heading back to the station. What’s the worst they could do to him? Kick him out? Doubtful. He hadn’t actually harmed Patchett, and he’d seen colleagues get off with slaps on wrists for worse. One thing was for sure: he needed some time to himself after this. These last few years had been tough, and not just because of Holly. The corruption scandal around his previous CO, George Campbell, had cast an unfair shadow on him, and Milburn’s political games weren’t what he’d signed up to take part in. He had no intention of leaving, more just a case of needing to work out how to deal with this shit on his own terms. Besides, he thought, what else would he do even if he did spit his dummy out?
He managed to make it up to the conference room on the fourth floor without bumping into anyone. Final time check. Two minutes early. Porter walked over to the window, looked out over Edgware Road, at the dozens of people lucky enough to be heading home to loved ones, most of whom would never have to contend with the underbelly of the city. For most, London was a diverse Petri dish where anyone and anything could thrive, given the right conditions. He’d seen the best and w
orst of it in the last two years, but it was his, warts and all, and he wasn’t about to walk away from it any time soon.
The purr of a silenced text message. He pulled the phone out. Two new messages. The first was from Styles, making him smile.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
The second turned the smile into a full-blown grin. The one he had been waiting for.
Two o’clock is perfect. George Street – Costa? x
The kiss Evie Simmons tagged on the end was probably nothing. Lots of women did these days, according to Styles. Could be nothing. Might be everything.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There’s a big part of me still finding it surreal that I’m a published author, and marvels at the notion that anyone is interested in stuff I basically make up. There’s so much more that goes into bringing a book to life than I ever truly appreciated though, and the author lumping together a first draft is just the first step on a long road, so a few thank yous are most definitely in order.
Thanks to my agent, Jo, for all her advice, input and guidance in navigating what are still relatively unchartered waters. Thanks also to Amy for flying the flag in Jo’s absence, and to Jessica and Mirette for finding Porter & Styles a home outside of the UK too. To all at A & B – Susie, Daniel, Kelly, Lesley, Christina and Kirsten – the finished product is that much better for having you all on my side to polish it up, and help it magically appear on bookshelves. DCI John Bent of Northumbria Police was kind enough to steer me right on a number of matters of procedure, and make it sound as if I know what I’m talking about. Any mistakes left in there after all of these fine people have contributed are all on me. Shout out to Fiona Sharp in the Durham branch of Waterstones for all her support and welcoming me into the local crime book club, all of whom have made me feel right at home. Thank you to each and every reader who took a chance on an author they’d never heard of with What Falls Between the Cracks, and for the reviews, emails and banter on social media.
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