End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘I know it’s all kinds of weird. That was then, me before you. This …’ he said, waving a finger between the two of them, ‘is where I am now, but I can’t ignore what’s happened today. Just bear with me. Can you do that?’

  She looked up at him, smiling, nodding, any tension around the eyes gone now.

  ‘Go on, get yourself away. I’ll finish that off for you,’ she said, gesturing towards his beer, ‘and we can do something when you get back.’

  He angled past her, pulling the kitchen door closed behind him as he headed out, taking care when scooping up his keys so as not to jangle. He hadn’t lied about wanting fresh air, just hadn’t shared where he planned to sample it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nick Styles lay back against his sofa, legs tucked up and pressed together, making the angled platform on which Hannah Styles currently lay. Already, only seven days into fatherhood, anything that predated her arrival had a hazy hue to it, a part of his life he could never revisit, nor would he want to.

  He’d been smitten the moment he first held her and, barring a trip to the shops and picking up a takeaway, he’d been happily wrapped up in the bubble of his new family life. Emma sat at the other end of the sofa, head against the armrest at an angle that made him wince, mouth half open. The snore that came out alternated between hibernating hamster and wildebeest. Hannah didn’t so much as twitch, even when her mum hit base notes loud enough to measure on the Richter scale.

  He split his time between watching a muted recording of Match of the Day and glancing at his two ladies. Life felt pretty good right now. Could do with a few more hours sleep, but with Emma wanting to breastfeed, up God knows how many times during the night while he slept, he could hardly complain.

  He had just started to consider a stealthy retreat into the kitchen to snaffle a sly cheese toastie when his phone began to flash. Work. Not a name, just the main station number. Sod that for a game of soldiers. He was due back on duty the next day. Nothing that couldn’t wait until then. Styles started the painfully slow process of Operation Toastie. One hand slid behind Hannah’s head, the other reaching under, palm against her back, unfolding his legs at a glacial pace, careful movements that a bomb disposal technician would be proud of.

  As he edged towards the Moses basket, one tiny fist jerked out like she wanted to bump knuckles, but the eyes remained firmly closed. Lowering her in, he felt like a backwards version of Indiana Jones, returning the treasure to its pedestal.

  He made it two steps into the kitchen before his phone flashed again. Milburn this time. Styles toyed with ignoring it. Easy enough to say he’d been busy changing the baby and hadn’t seen it until later. On second thoughts, having seen Milburn dish out grief for far less, he tapped the screen to answer.

  ‘Is Porter still with you?’

  So much for any preamble, enquiring after the mum and baby, or anything else that might suggest the super even vaguely took an interest in his people’s personal lives.

  ‘No, he left about an hour ago. Everything OK, boss? He told me the news about Holly’s case. Anything I can help with?’ Styles asked, reasoning that if he could get a foot in the door, Porter might trust him to see things were done properly, rather than getting any ideas about sniffing around the case himself, like Styles knew he would. It’s what he would do himself if roles were reversed.

  ‘No, thank you, Sergeant. DI Pittman has it covered. Porter’s not answering my calls though, and I’ve got something else I need you two to pick up for me.’ The super paused, making Styles wonder if it was something delicate, needing to fly low on the radar. ‘Have you seen what I sent you yet?’

  Styles frowned. ‘No, what have you sent?’

  ‘Just check the email, find Porter, then call me back.’

  ‘Um, sure, boss,’ Styles said, more than a little confused, about to remind Milburn that he was on paternity leave until tomorrow, but his super had already ended the call.

  He opened his email to see Milburn’s message was a link to a Facebook page. The page had a striking cover picture. A 3D perspective of the UK, huge bank of clouds about to roll in from the east, forked fingers of lightning reaching out, striking the south coast. The banner across the top proclaimed it as the home of someone by the name of Stormcloudz. Made Styles picture a moody teenager trying to add attitude by slinging in a consonant that didn’t belong.

  What the hell was Milburn wanting him to do with this? He dragged a finger downwards, scrolling through the posts, but pressed back down, halting the slide of information as the very first entry made his eyes widen, mouthing a silent What the …? as he tapped to expand the video.

  The small red box in the top corner told him what he was watching wasn’t just a recording. It was live. This was happening right now. The young man sat in the high-backed chair, biting down on a cloth gag held in place with black tape, eyes rattling back and forward in sockets like ping pong balls. Cable ties looped around his wrists, pinning arms to the chair. He was bookended either side by two men in matching outfits. Boiler suits the colour of rich red Merlot, some kind of yellow graphic on the breast. Their faces were obscured by black balaclavas.

  Styles grabbed his iPad from the kitchen bench, opening up the same link, freeing his phone up to call Porter. Ten tinny speakerphone rings, then voicemail.

  Their captive looked mid twenties at a push, sandy hair flopping around his eyeline as he twisted his head, looking to either side of shot like watching a game of tennis on fast forward. His captors stood stone-still, arms crossed, against a backdrop of wood panelling. Where the hell were they? A mix of sad and angry emoticons bubbled up, floating off over the screen. Comments popped and scrolled down below. Reams of text exploded beneath the images.

  Enough’s enough

  Not funny

  You wanna stop, mate, I’ve called the coppers

  Slight wobble to the picture as the camera was slid back, widening the shot, the wannabe cameraman entering stage left. He wore the same boiler suit, face hidden. Half a dozen strides and he was up by the young man, a gloved hand resting on his captive’s shoulder. The mouth slit was so small, Styles couldn’t even see lips moving behind the black wool when he spoke.

  ‘For too long, Britain has been a club, wielded by America, against our people and our God. Like any other weapon, Britain can be broken. That starts today.’

  Styles pulled the kitchen door closed, not wanting to wake Emma or Hannah, turning up the volume a notch as he tried Porter again, but the result was the same. Milburn would do again for now.

  ‘Have you found him?’ Milburn questioned, curt as ever.

  ‘Not yet sir.’

  ‘Are you watching this?’ asked Milburn, a little more muted, as if not quite believing what they were seeing.

  ‘I am, sir. Do we know the who and where?’

  ‘No, we’re busy trying …’

  Milburn tailed off, and Styles tuned back into the diatribe coming from his phone, wondering what had distracted his super.

  The knife looked too big to be real. Not even a knife, more like a machete. The matt black blade blended against the dark wool of the balaclava as the man held it up, middle section of what must border on two feet of steel seeming to disappear like a magic trick.

  ‘This is the first, but not the last.’

  Styles saw the slight rise in the man’s shoulders, a deep breath, precursor to action. Jesus, was this really happening? The bookends each reached over, clamping the young man’s hands to the armrests. A half-step to his right, and he was behind the chair, one hand grabbing underneath the young man’s chin, the other bringing the blade around on the horizontal.

  The petrified captive strained against his bonds, eyes bulging, rolling, reminding Styles of a spooked horse. Styles watched as the blade neared his throat. Watched as his head was pulled back. Watched as the masked man started to saw. Couldn’t watch past that.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  If you looked up anticlimax in the dictionary, this i
s what Porter fancied it would look like. Almost four years since Holly had been taken from him. How many times had he imagined what he would say to anyone responsible? What he would do to them? Yet here he stood, looking at the face of a man who at very least knew who killed his wife, but could even be that man himself.

  Man? More like boy. Henry Kamau looked like he should still be at school. Actual age nineteen by all accounts. His head and most of the left side of his face were obscured by a surgical dressing. Foothills of dark swelling traced the edge of the gauze. The last time Porter had stood in a hospital ward, watching over someone like this, it had been Evie in the bed, more wires and cables bunched around her than an IED. He’d prayed for her recovery back then but couldn’t bring himself to utter the same words for the man before him now. The need to speak to Kamau, to ask him about that night, was a thing of substance, like jaws of a vice squeezing either side of his chest. Why had he run her down? Why had he not stopped? An educated guess at that last one was that his gang affiliation played a part. They recruited them young in Triple H. Chances are he had already been sucked into that life by the time it happened.

  Shuffling of feet from behind told him DI Isaiah Pittman had dragged his size tens back from the canteen. Porter had watched him leave earlier before approaching.

  ‘Figured I had at least five minutes to get in and out before you came back,’ Porter said.

  ‘They’ve got no bloody sandwiches. Can you believe it?’ he said, in a voice that reminded Porter of Frank Bruno, every word rumbling with bass. ‘Otherwise you’d have had your five.’ He paused a beat. ‘You don’t need me to tell you, but you shouldn’t be here, mate. If Milburn finds out …’

  ‘We’d best make sure he doesn’t, then, hadn’t we?’ Porter replied.

  ‘I didn’t mean … He ain’t gonna hear it from me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way. Just needed to see him for myself. What do we know about him so far?’ Porter nodded his head towards the unconscious Kamau.

  ‘Spoke with Kelso in Organised Crime. They think he’s been in tight with the Triple H gang since he was fifteen. No arrests until now though, so this was the first time he’s had prints taken.’

  ‘What did the doc say? How bad is he hurt?’

  ‘Hairline fracture to the skull. Had a bleed in the brain that they rushed him into theatre for soon as he got here.’

  ‘Take it he was unconscious when they found him?’

  ‘This is as talkative as he’s been,’ said Pittman, slurping a mouthful of coffee.

  ‘Anyone been in to see him? Family? Friends?’

  ‘Nope. Not sure what family he has, and can’t see any of his Triple H buddies popping by with flowers, can you?’

  ‘Who else is on it with you?’

  ‘I’ve got O’Connor, Ayla and Manfredo on door-to-door and taking statements. Guy who clocked him says there were at least two more, but they scarpered after this one hit the deck.’

  ‘What about Jackson Tyler? Who’s talking to him?’

  Pittman narrowed his eyes. ‘For a man who’s staying out of my way, you seem to know entirely too much about my case.’

  ‘I know Milburn doesn’t want me anywhere near it—’ Porter began.

  ‘I don’t want you anywhere near it,’ Pittman said, prodding a finger at his own chest for emphasis. ‘I know that’s gonna be hard, because of your wife and all, but that’s the way it has to be.’

  ‘All I’m asking is that you let me know as things develop. Don’t make me have to wait to see it on one of the super’s press conferences,’ said Porter.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Pittman said, almost reluctantly. ‘No promises mind. Milburn’s already said he wants this done right, and not just cos of the connection to you. Triple H boys have been on his shitlist for a good while now. When this one wakes up, if he wakes up, Milburn’s already given the thumbs up to offer him a deal to talk.’

  ‘He’s done what?’ Porter asked, unable and unwilling to keep a rasp of anger from his voice.

  ‘We let him walk on the burglary if he gives us the driver of your hit-and-run, plus dirt on Jackson Tyler. Enough to haul him in.’

  ‘Walk on the breaking and entering, but not on Holly?’ Porter asked, not liking what he saw on Pittman’s face.

  ‘Depends what we get. If he gives us the driver plus Tyler, he walks on the rest. If we don’t get Tyler, the rest sticks.’

  ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’ Porter felt anger fizz in his cheeks, heat on the back of his neck. ‘He either drove or helped cover it up. Either way, he does time with his prints in the car.’

  ‘Chances are he wasn’t the one who did it,’ Pittman said, softening his words. ‘His brief will argue his prints were from a previous trip. Walking on the B&E is our leverage.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Porter shot back. ‘There’s just as much chance he was the driver, panicked, wiped down the wheel but forgot about the bits he’d touched on the other side earlier and just ran off.’

  ‘Look, mate, get yourself away. He’s going nowhere for a good while yet,’ Pittman said, nodding at Kamau. ‘I’ll give you a shout after tomorrow morning’s briefing, let you know what the door-to-door turns up. How about that?’

  Porter knew Pittman by reputation more than from experience. There just wasn’t much of a rep either way, that was the problem. Pittman was just a plodder, and if even half of what he’d heard about Jackson Tyler was true, it would take more than the threat of a short stint inside for B&E to get someone to turn on him. That called for some lateral thinking. There had to be a pressure point somewhere, but he wasn’t convinced that Pittman was the man to find it and apply any. Still, Pittman was right. Nothing more to be gained from hanging around here. Not until Kamau woke up anyway.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  Pittman’s half-smile suggested he was far from convinced of Porter’s ability to keep out of his way. He’d be right to be suspicious. Porter had no intention of being a spectator. He had to do something, just hadn’t decided exactly what that something was yet. He’d sleep on it, metaphorically anyway. He wasn’t a great sleeper at the best of times, but his head felt like today’s news had gone into a blender with the switch jammed on. Evie would have questions. Milburn and Styles too. How was he feeling? What was he thinking? Wasn’t sure he had answers for himself, let alone others. Why couldn’t this have happened earlier? Why now, when he’d not long reached a place where the past felt like it was in its rightful place?

  He checked his watch as he came past reception. Head back home, take a walk somewhere with Evie, then work out his next steps. A figure unfolded itself from a slouch against the wall by the car park pay station, and he glanced over to see Nick Styles saunter over, hands in pockets.

  ‘Everything all right, boss?’ he said, looking borderline embarrassed to use such a cliché, knowing things were pretty bloody far from it.

  ‘All good. Just broke a nail but the doc fixed me up fine.’

  Styles grinned. Porter narrowed his eyes. How had Styles known where to find him? Surely Pittman hadn’t sold him out already?

  ‘Evie said you’d gone out to clear your head. Didn’t take a detective to figure out where you might be. It’s where I would have come.’

  Porter nodded, sliding his ticket into the parking machine and popping a few coins to cover it.

  ‘Just had to see him for myself, you know. He’s just a kid, looks like he should still be in school for Chrissake.’

  ‘He talking?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘There’s a chance he never will again. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m off home now. Get yourself away back to your ladies, and I’ll catch you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t just get dropped off here out of brotherly love,’ said Styles.

  ‘Milburn send you?’

  ‘Yeah, not because of who’s in there,’ he said, gesturing back at th
e hospital. ‘There’s a new case he needs us on.’

  ‘Tell him it can bloody well wait,’ Porter snorted. ‘You’re still on paternity, and I’m … well, let’s just say I’ve got a few things on my mind. There’s plenty of others on duty who can pick it up.’

  ‘We’re not exactly talking a missing cat here, boss. Here’ – he tapped his phone screen, reversing it, a video playing – ‘you’re gonna want to see this, and then you’ll probably wish that you hadn’t.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Porter watched for the second time as Styles drove. The footage was simultaneously sickening and oddly unreal. The first run-through had left him with a dry mouth and a feeling like he’d swallowed a cricket ball. His mind told him this couldn’t be real. Just a clever camera trick to shock. Get people talking and make it go viral. Styles wouldn’t have come out for that though. They had tasered the victim as he tried to escape. He’d been out cold as they strapped him to the chair, but he was painfully conscious now.

  It took the hooded figure a good sixty seconds of sawing. Porter tried not to fixate on that part of the screen, instead seeing the smaller details. The way the victim’s hands scrabbled and scratched at the armrest. Fingers jerked in an irregular dance, playing air-piano. His eyes pinballed in every direction, looking for an escape. The gag in his mouth soaked up most of the sound, but Porter could still hear something between a gargle and a choking noise seeping out. That, and an occasional grunt from his killer were all he could make out, surprisingly loud in the otherwise quiet car.

  Porter had never seen so much blood. The victim’s T-shirt, once white, had a red carpet running down the centre, spatter speckling either side. His attackers’ overalls by contrast, just looked damp in places, the already dark burgundy fabric stained darker by the spurts of blood. The killer centre stage looked to be largely shielded from any spray by the high-backed chair.