There was a long silence before Portbury slowly turned. The late afternoon sun was now pouring through the window, silhouetting him so that Walker couldn’t clearly see his features.
‘Was helping your wife worth murdering a man for?’
‘What are you talking about? We didn’t . . . Whitlock was already dead.’
‘Is that what you tell yourself?’
‘He was dead. There was no pulse.’
‘I know that. I’ve heard it all before. Did you know that fool Maddox emailed me last year? He wanted to meet up and I agreed. I wanted to hear it out of his own mouth, because you see – I always knew. I never took it on trust.’
‘You’re losing me. Knew what?’
‘If you’re honest, Marty – you know the answer to that.’ Portbury stepped forwards, and Walker could see now the cold expression on his face.
‘You’ve got to help me here, Stu. I’m not sure what you’re trying to say to me. What happened when you met up with Phil?’
‘I got him drunk – it wasn’t hard – and he told me the truth.’ He shook his head, and Walker saw the contempt in his eyes. ‘Pissed and grinning in the corner of a pub, he told me what really happened. Like it was all some funny anecdote from long ago.’
‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about; you know what happened. We told you everything.’
‘No, you didn’t. Whitlock was still alive when you left him up there. They lied to you – Maddox and Elder – so you’d agree to the plan. You all left him to burn. And guess what? Turns out he was married with a kid. A woman was widowed, and a boy left without a father, and for what? A chairlift for your wife? Some nice property? A fancy wedding? A fucking Maserati? You couldn’t even bring the body out to give them any closure.’
‘Wait, just wait,’ said Walker, struggling to absorb what he was hearing. ‘I swear I’ve always believed he was dead. There’s no way I would have gone ahead with it if he hadn’t been.’
Portbury came closer, almost nose to nose with Walker.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’
And Walker knew exactly what he meant. Of course he’d known. He’d always known, irrespective of what he’d been told by Maddox and Elder. It was a lie he’d been telling himself for over five years to justify what they’d done. Whitlock was still breathing – he could have been saved. It just made everything so much easier to believe he was already dead. Martin Walker was a thief and a murderer. He’d known alright, and buried it deep. Portbury was silent now, the sun still blazing behind him.
As time stood still, Walker remembered a fragment of a conversation from long ago. ‘What about Stu?’ Kaul had asked. ‘We deal him in. He’ll be fine with it. Why wouldn’t he be?’ Elder’s reply had been almost dismissive. Realisation dawned on Walker – there in those nine words, something terrible was born.
‘It was you . . . you killed Adesh and the others.’
‘No, Marty, I didn’t kill them. That’s on you,’ said Portbury, bringing his fist around and crashing it into the side of Walker’s head.
‘Stuart Portbury has insisted all along he never went into One Pacific Square the night it burnt, and that’s been corroborated by the other members of the team,’ said Finn.
‘So? We know he quit later with the rest of them. We also know he’s been able to support himself financially without much of an income. He’s knee-deep in this,’ said Paulsen.
‘Which I’m not disputing, but that’s not my point. He wasn’t there when the decision was made.’ He turned to Mei. ‘We may never truly know what happened up there. Maybe they subdued Erik, maybe he was unconscious but I don’t think he was dead, not when they found him. I think they killed him, or at least ensured he couldn’t escape, then stole the money he’d brought in to launder,’ said Finn.
‘But what did Stuart want from me? Why pretend to be a plumber?’
‘He went to One Pacific Square to help put out a blaze. When his crewmates came out of that building, they’d made him a thief and an accessory to murder – whether he liked it or not. I don’t think that sat right with him. As the years went by, he wanted to put a human face on the man they’d killed in his name. He looked into Erik Whitlock, discovered he was married with a son and became curious. I think he’s been the one sending you money. Literally paying you back,’ said Finn.
Paulsen was nodding slowly in agreement. ‘Why now?’ Finn had asked early in the investigation. Now it made sense – because that’s how long it took Portbury to find, meet and befriend Mei Tsukuda.
‘But he was so gentle. He was kind. I’m struggling to recognise him as the man you are describing,’ said Mei.
‘Don’t underestimate the power of guilt. It’s like a cancer. It eats you from the inside and can utterly consume you if you let it,’ said Paulsen. And it took her a moment to realise Finn’s attention was off Mei and now on her.
When Walker came around, the sun was still in his eyes and he couldn’t move. As he refocused, he saw it wasn’t the sun, but a round, white light fitting he was looking up at instead. He was lying in the bathtub of the hotel room’s small bathroom suite, fully clothed with his hands bound with what felt like plastic ties. He was wet as well, but knew immediately it wasn’t water soaking through his clothes. He was drenched in petrol. Portbury was sat on a chair by the sink watching him. He’d been waiting for him to wake, realised Walker. He wanted him alive when he did it.
‘For pity’s sake, Stu . . .’
‘Pity? Is that what you’re after?’
‘Please. Think about Christine at least. If you kill me, she’ll be on her own.’
‘How does the hypocrisy of that not choke your throat out? What about Whitlock’s widow? What about her son? What pity did you show them?’
‘I told you – I knew it was wrong. I should have been stronger. I should have stopped it.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? And that’s why you’re worse than the others, because you always did think you were better than us.’
‘Tell me something. When you’ve done this – then what are you going to do? Go back home tonight and get on with the rest of your life? How exactly is that different to what we did? Who’ll be the hypocrite then?’
Portbury laughed.
‘No, I won’t be doing that. I picked this hotel for a reason. When I’m done here this ends . . . in the only place it can end. And I am almost done here.’ He stood up and pulled out a worn, silver Zippo lighter from his pocket. Walker glanced up desperately at the ceiling.
‘Looking for the sprinklers, skipper?’ He pointed and Walker could see the sprinkler head was wrapped tightly in waterproof black duct tape.
‘Don’t think health and safety are going to like that. The fire investigation unit will have a field day, won’t they? Mind you, that bath is enamel-coated, so no need for me to hang around and watch this time . . .’
Portbury flicked the lighter and a burst of yellow-orange shot up and steadied itself. Walker instinctively thought of Christine, as he’d always done back in the day when he ran into a burning building. Portbury stepped forwards then casually flicked his wrist at him. There was a whooshing eruption of flame and Walker screamed in agony. Portbury picked up the holdall he’d brought with him and calmly sauntered out. Fire tore up the left-hand side of Walker’s body, and he could smell the sickly-sweet odour of his flesh burning. Whether it was through pain or a surge of adrenalin he didn’t know, but he pulled at the plastic ties with a burst of strength and felt them stretch. They were looser now and beginning to melt. He focused all the pain and rage on to his wrists, pulling at the ties, and this time they came apart. He instantly reached for the shower tap in front of him, clamping his burning hands down and turning it. The water shot down and he staggered up to greet it, only to scream again.
Chapter 54
It started not long after Godden stepped out of the prison van. Within minutes of entering the reception room at HMP Brazely, he’d understood how this was goin
g to go. Another prisoner waiting to be booked in was staring at him while they stood in line. Godden’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the tattoo of a severed clown’s head which adorned his neck. The man slowly leant forwards and spat in his face. Godden, determined not to be intimidated, wiped the gobbet off on to his hand then literally threw it back into clownman’s face. He didn’t bat an eyelid, but raised his arm instead. A meaty fist connected and Godden felt it smash into his nose. There was a salty taste at the back of his throat, and a long stream of blood started to pour from his nostrils. The prison officers with them pretended they hadn’t seen a thing.
That was a couple of hours ago. Word it seemed was already spreading that the new con on the block was police. The trusty who delivered his first taste of prison food spat in it as he left it at the cell door, shouting ‘I’m feeding the pig, lads!’ as he went. Spitting, it seemed, was the weapon of choice here.
‘They’ll probably smear shit on your bedding next,’ said Ed with his distinctive Brummie accent.
‘Probably,’ replied Godden.
Ed was his cellmate, and Peaky Blinders he was not. A burglar apparently, though judging by the level of twitching going on, an addict of some sort too. But to be fair to the man, anyone sharing a cell with the ex-cop would probably be twitching by now. Everything so far was straight out of the playbook, what you’d expect as a police officer on the wrong side of the bars. He’d been waiting for it, even if it began sooner than he’d been expecting.
What was worrying him far more was the spectre of Raymond Spinney. His reputation as a man who didn’t leave loose ends dangling wasn’t just tabloid gossip, it was borne out by the facts. Godden’s betrayal wasn’t going to be forgotten. It was just another problem to be solved. He’d been giving it thought ever since leaving Cedar House, and was already forming the early outline of a plan. Spinney was a pragmatist at heart; if you were of use to him then he’d protect you. Godden knew that from experience, and protection was exactly what he was going to need. His train of thought was interrupted by a bang on the cell door.
‘Oi piggy – we know you’re here – we’re going to cut you up, mate. Can you hear me? We’re going to fucking cut you up . . .’
Despite himself, Godden was rattled. Surely this would settle down. He was only on remand – he’d have a word with his brief tomorrow. Whoever the prison governor was here – some bleeding-heart, liberal slip of a girl from memory – he was damn sure they wouldn’t want the embarrassment of his death on their hands. There were too many people who’d want to see him in the dock for a start. In the meantime he’d work up a way of getting some leverage back with Spinney. The answer was somewhere in his head, he was sure of it – some scrap of information he’d picked up during their association. He lay back on the hard metal frame of his bed. At least he’d have plenty of time to think about it.
‘Everyone worries about getting stabbed in the showers. But they’ll try and chuck you down the stairs. You’ll have to watch yourself on the landings,’ said Ed.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Godden.
An hour or so later there was another bang on the door. Godden braced himself for another burst of invective, but this time it was one of the prison officers.
‘Shower time – let’s be having you both,’ said a gruff voice. Godden looked up suspiciously as he heard the door unlocking.
‘What, at five in the afternoon?’
‘You’re a new arrival – they always do that,’ said Ed unconvincingly.
The prison officer led the pair along the landing to the shower room, and pointed at the door. Godden looked at it warily, then reluctantly followed his cellmate in. There were four shower cubicles separated by waist height walls. They gave a little privacy but not much. The changing area was completely open and the door they’d come through possessed a window open to the wing which anybody passing could see through. Godden stripped and walked briskly into the first cubicle – better to just get this over and done with. He felt reassured that the prison officer was still standing outside on the landing. If it was Ed who’d been nominated to try something, then the poor fella was more likely to put his back out than inflict any serious damage. Godden turned on the tap and a blast of freezing cold water shot down.
‘Obviously,’ he muttered, fiddling with the tap which was making no discernible difference to the water’s temperature. Another figure entered the cubicle next to him, but when he looked it wasn’t Ed. A tall, well-built man with a shaven head was standing there instead.
‘Alright, pal,’ he said with a strong Liverpudlian accent as he turned his own tap on. The newcomer started to whistle tunelessly, and it took Godden a moment to recognise the melody over the noise of the water. When he did, his blood chilled and his mind filled in the lyrics like a macabre karaoke.
‘Who can rob at sunrise?
Sprinkle it with gold,
Cover it in diamonds and a miracle or two?
The Handyman. The Handyman can . . .’
Godden looked at the man and saw a grotesque smile vaguely reminiscent of a Halloween pumpkin grinning back at him. But it wasn’t the man’s face, it was the back of his head. He was looking over at the door, clearly double-checking they were alone. Of Ed there was no sign. Godden could see now the ‘smile’ was actually a deep lurid scar which stretched the entire width of his skull. The man turned round and flashed an actual smile at him. It wasn’t much more pleasant.
‘A mutual acquaintance asked me to say hello.’
It was then Godden noticed what he was holding; a prison-issue plastic knife, similar to the one he’d been given with his tray of food earlier. But he could see this one was different. It was altered, whittled down to a sharp point. There was a sudden jab and Godden saw blood spurt out from somewhere near his Adam’s apple, and his last ever thought was that Ed had been wrong about the showers.
Chapter 55
Stuart Portbury could remember when they’d first told him. They thought they’d been doing him a favour; that he was one of the team, one of them. He’d known something was up in the aftermath of Pacific Square. Most of the crews who’d attended needed extended downtime afterwards. It’d been ferocious; lives weren’t lost, but it was a major operation by the LFB. The men and women attending risked their lives over two days and a number sustained severe injuries. So, the reaction afterwards by his crewmates didn’t smell right. Elder and Kaul were full of private nods and winks while Phil Maddox, usually so uncomfortable when things became laddish, was also trying to get in on it. In the end, Gary and Adesh took him out for a drink.
‘How would you like to quit all this bollocks and go and live by the beach in Malibu instead, Stu? Well now you can . . .’ was Elder’s opening pitch. Then they’d told him what they’d done. The money, and the unknown man next to it they’d been too late to save. Too late to even retrieve. Yet somehow, they’d found the time to remove sack after sack of pounds sterling.
He’d wanted to be a police officer as a child, or a doctor. Someone who helped. His father drummed that into him, wanting him to be someone who contributed to society, not took from it. In the end he’d settled on the fire service. An honourable career, up until One Pacific Square – when the very people he’d served with dishonoured it. He’d read the tabloid coverage surrounding Erik Whitlock with interest, and a throwaway line in a paragraph covering his funeral changed everything. A single sentence which mentioned the wife and son he’d left behind. Portbury went into work that day and listened to Elder’s booming laugh, Maddox’s weasling self-interest, and watched Kaul going along with it all like a puppy. He’d felt sick. He’d looked at Martin Walker, a man he respected, and saw in his eyes that he knew. As time passed it troubled him more and more. The fate of the wife and son who’d been left behind. Eventually he started to dig, seeking answers of his own.
Mei Tsukuda, it’s fair to say, was nothing like his preconception of her. He found a graceful, honourable human being doing her best to raise her boy on her own
. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met anyone quite like her before. His feelings weren’t sexual; he possessed too much respect for Mei to reduce it to that. But he felt an overwhelming sense of obligation. It was an easy choice – the right choice – to give her his share of the money.
Initially he’d wanted to try and persuade his old crewmates to do the same. He felt sure once they knew the truth they’d want to. It was a few years since he’d seen any of them. They’d made a pact when they’d left the job to go their separate ways. The fewer lines which connected them, the less likely someone might find their way to the truth. After all, no one could even prove there’d ever been money in Pacific Square that night, let alone deduce which firefighters might have stumbled on to it. Elder, in his infinite wisdom, described it as the perfect crime. A ‘victimless crime’, he’d called it, and that might just have been the moment Portbury made his mind up.
Discreetly he’d checked up on them all and found out what they’d each done with their share. Elder and that obscene car of his, Maddox and his penthouse flat, Walker only caring about his wife, never mind the woman he’d left bereaved. Kaul took a bit of digging into, and initially Portbury thought he might be the only one whose decency was still intact. A little online snooping though revealed his wedding plans, and the disgusting cost of it all. Greed and self-interest in each case. They’d paid the price for it, he’d made sure of that. Now it was his turn.
He watched as the office workers started scurrying home for their evening commute, stared up and remembered. It all looked so different to how it did five years ago. He put the holdall he was carrying down, unzipped it and satisfied himself he’d brought everything he needed. It began in flames here, now it was time to end it the same way. At One Pacific Square.
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