End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  By the time the killer had finished, his victim had long since stopped twitching. The men either side moved away as the killer made his final stroke, head parting from body with a slight jerk, like snapping the top off a flower.

  ‘This is the beginning,’ said the killer, breathing heavier than before, holding the severed head out to the side by the hair like a trophy, before letting it fall to the ground, out of shot. ‘This is the beginning. There will be no end. Allahu Akbar.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Porter muttered under his breath as he paused it. ‘Where are we then? Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Styles said. ‘And not much in the way of information. I only found out the location on the way to pick you up. It’s the old Greenwich Magistrates’ Court on Blackheath Road.’

  ‘Didn’t they close that down?’

  ‘Yep, couple of years back. They still have a security guard who does the rounds there to keep the urbexers out.’

  ‘What the hell is an urbexer?’

  ‘Urban explorer,’ said Styles. ‘Quite popular apparently. People seek out old buildings, hospitals, prisons, factories. Sometimes to take pictures, sometimes just for the hell of it.’

  Porter wrinkled his nose, not exactly his idea of fun. ‘And what, we think the poor bugger getting his head hacked off was one of these Urbexers?’

  ‘No, we know who he is.’

  ‘Bloody hell, that was quick.’

  ‘That was the easy part. The live link Milburn sent me to watch was streaming from the guy’s Facebook page. Name’s Ross Henderson, but he goes by the name of Stormcloudz,’ said Styles, whacking plenty of emphasis on the final consonant. ‘He’s a gamer and political activist, and a popular one at that. More than ten million followers on YouTube.’

  ‘You mean to say ten million people watched that?’ said Porter in disbelief.

  ‘Not the full whack, but the viewing numbers were into the low seven figures when I was watching.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Porter muttered. Strangers watching were one thing, but what if the audience had included any of the guy’s friends or family? The very thought made him shudder.

  ‘What’s Milburn had to say?’

  ‘Other than to find you and get our arses over there, not much so far. You’ll have the pleasure of his company soon enough though. He’s meeting us at the scene.’

  That’d be right. Come out centre stage for the meaty ones. Milburn to a tee. Porter knew exactly why the super would want him on this. Distraction tactics 101. Throw him something big and keep him away from Holly’s case.

  The sun had just dipped below the skyline as they pulled up on Blackheath Road. The old courthouse was a faded, dirtied version of its early twentieth century classical glory. Flanked on either side by what looked like townhouses, the entrance a slate grey dome that resembled a squashed down copper’s helmet. Up on the roof, front and centre, a now bare flagpole, candle on top of an out-of-date cake.

  A cordon had been set up across the front of the entire building. Twin double doors either side of the main entrance, and walkways up to them, taped off like mini boxing rings. One lane of the road outside it was closed off too, one officer allowing traffic from either direction to alternate. A gallery of frustrated faces peered out as Porter walked past. All oblivious to the carnage carried out a stone’s throw from where their engines idled.

  Across the road, a growing gaggle of press shuffled restlessly in the Kwik Fit car park. Never ceased to amaze Porter how quickly they sniffed out a story. One familiar face amongst them already. Amy Fitzwilliam from Sky News. A hungry up-and-comer who he hadn’t had the best of experiences with so far. She was good at her job. Too good. She’d buzzed around the edges of his last big case, a missing seven-year-old and a trove of bodies dug up in a London park. Caused him no end of bother, breaking stories live at the scene, using information that the police hadn’t released. He saw her clock him and looked away as he and Styles approached the edge of the cordon.

  ‘Detective Porter!’

  He recognised her voice, glancing over even as he told himself not to react.

  ‘Detective Porter, is it true that this is the location Stormcloudz was broadcasting from? Are the men who attacked him still inside? Are they in custody?’

  He gave her a half-smile, nothing more, and turned his attention to the officer controlling access to the scene. Pointless exercise, hurling questions like that, spitting them out like an involuntary tic. Did any of them honestly expect him to just stroll over and spill his guts, sharing everything they had? Not that they had much at the minute.

  He and Styles signed in, walked into the lobby and suited up in disposable Tyvek all-in-one coveralls. The lobby floor was a work of art. Thousands of tiny mosaic tiles, enough to make his head hurt with the thought of how long it would have taken to lay. The wood panelling on the walls was identical to that he’d seen in the courtroom broadcast.

  They made their way through a series of short corridors, entering the courtroom from the side. Porter recognised the public gallery that the first masked man had stood in, off to his left. That meant the magistrate’s chair the poor bugger had been tied in was behind the door to the right. Even before he stepped through, the smell was unmistakable. A coppery taint in the air, thick, soupy, like an invisible smog.

  He followed Styles through the door, his view of the chair blocked by a pair of similarly suited figures with their backs to them. Porter took a moment to survey the rest of the room. A bizarre sense of déjà-vu washed over him. To have never set foot in here until now, but to have watched such a horrific sequence unfold in this room, gave it a surreal familiar quality. The phone that must have filmed every gory moment of it still sat clamped in a tripod on a table bang in the centre of the room.

  ‘Ah, I see you two finally decided to show up.’

  Porter looked over at the voice, recognising his superintendent, Roger Milburn, and his holier-than-thou tone that always sounded like he was speaking to an audience. Probably used it even when he was alone at home with his wife. Porter opened his mouth to make up an excuse as to where he’d been, but Milburn just waved him over.

  ‘Come on, come on. Clock’s ticking,’ he said, making no effort to hide his impatience.

  Porter worked his way around to the left, moving across a series of transparent raised anti-contamination stepping plates, so as not to smudge the blood spatter that decorated the floor. Didn’t need a scene of crime officer to work out who most or all of it came from, thanks to the live broadcast. Always a chance that one of the offenders had nicked themselves though. Paid to be thorough.

  The sight when he got past Milburn’s shoulder was every bit as bad as he’d feared. The headless body, still tethered at the wrists to the chair by cable ties, was slumped forward ten degrees or so at the waist. Stains of all shapes and sizes blotted jeans and T-shirt like one big Rorschach test, darker now, drying from red to a rusty brown. Porter made a conscious effort not to stare at the neck, stomach on spin cycle. Behind him, he heard Styles breathing loudly through his mouth.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Jake,’ the figure next to Milburn spoke, and Porter smiled as he recognised the voice. Kam Qureshi was one of the best they had when it came to forensics. He’d made a career plucking needles from haystacks. If there was anything to find in all this mess, he was the man Porter would want searching for it.

  ‘Hey, Kam. How you doing?’

  ‘Better than our friend here,’ Kam said, cocking a thumb towards the body. ‘I was just telling the super that solving a murder is going to be the least of our worries.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Porter asked, puzzled.

  ‘What he means, Porter, is that our victim here was more popular than Ed bloody Sheeran.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir, Sheeran’s got thirty million—’

  ‘Never mind that, Qureshi. This chap has – had – millions of followers online. Seems he spent most of his time whipping them up a
gainst people like the EWP.’

  Porter wasn’t massively political but had picked up enough about the English Welfare Party in the news to know they were the Marmite of English politics. They’d snatched the right-wing baton from UKIP, and from what Porter could see, took every opportunity to bellow out the rallying cry of Britain for the British, or a variation on a theme.

  ‘Bad enough that the EWP are gaining traction by hitching their wagon to the Brexit train,’ Milburn continued, ‘but that video is a right-winger’s wet dream. They’ll stuff that down the throat of anyone they can in the hope of dragging a few more into their camp.’

  ‘Nick said we’re still waiting for someone to stick their hand up and claim it?’

  ‘Strictly speaking yes, but Kam here thinks he’s got us a step ahead.’

  ‘How so?’ Porter asked, looking back at Kam.

  ‘If you watch the footage back, you can see they’ve all got some kind of badge on their suits.’

  ‘Take your word for it, Kam,’ said Porter, no desire to watch that back any more than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘I watched the footage a few times and took a screenshot. Bit blurry, but enough to get an idea. I’ll show you the picture when we get out of our posh frocks,’ he said, patting his paper-thin suit. ‘But for now, we’re looking at a crescent moon with a single star off to one side.’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling that should mean something to me?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Because it should,’ Porter said. ‘Couldn’t tell you if it has a particular name, but those symbols are linked to Islam. That, plus the main fella shouting Allahu Akabar was a bit of a clue.’

  ‘Gold star for Porter.’ Kam nodded his approval to the first point.

  ‘Jesus, the EWP will lap that up,’ Styles said, eyes flitting between the body and the blood on the floor.

  ‘Indeed they will, Sergeant, which is exactly why we need to make sure we’re on point when it comes to managing the information flow on this one. Speaking of which, I need to head back and prep a statement. Don’t leave until you’ve spoken with the chap from the Counter Terrorism Unit, Porter, then call me right after that. The guy they’re sending is called Taylor.’

  True to form, Milburn turned on his heel and left them to it. Never one to stand on ceremony or worry about social niceties like hello or goodbye.

  ‘Well, what a little ray of sunshine our illustrious leader manages to bring to proceedings,’ Porter muttered once Milburn was out of earshot. ‘What else have you got for us then, Kam?’

  Kam didn’t miss a beat. ‘I can give you an educated guess as to the cause of death.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Porter left Kam to it, and with Styles in tow, took the chance while still suited up to walk where the masked men had. The public gallery. The corridor behind the raised dais that the magistrates had sat at, leading to a cluster of holding cells. Tiny, spartan spaces that could make a man claustrophobic even with the door open. Pillar-box panes set into doors several inches thick. If only Ross Henderson could have made it back here. Maybe he could have shielded behind one of these.

  ‘Did we get eyes on our three masked marauders leaving the building?’ he asked Styles.

  ‘Not that we’ve found so far, boss. No eyewitnesses.’

  ‘For a crime witnessed by over a million people. That’s almost ironic enough for Alanis Morissette to write a song about.’

  ‘I spoke to the security company who look after this place though. The guard wasn’t due on site for another hour, so looks like it was all well timed.’

  ‘By Henderson, or the three blokes?’

  ‘I’m thinking both,’ Styles said. ‘Urbexing is basically trespass in a lot of cases, so Henderson needed to make sure he wasn’t spotted.’

  ‘Got to assume those three followed him here, then?’

  ‘You’d tell me off for using the A-word.’

  ‘Privileges of rank,’ Porter shot back.

  ‘Right, we need to get the rest of the team up to speed. See who you can get hold of.’

  ‘Just had a text off Sucheka when you were speaking to Milburn,’ Styles said. ‘She’s waiting outside with Williams and Tessier. Waters is on his way.’

  Porter grunted an approval. Styles came across as laidback at times. Any more he’d practically be as horizontal as a limbo dancer, but he had a knack of shuffling pieces into place without being asked.

  ‘Let’s get out there and crack on then. We can nab a few of the uniforms to knock on doors. Think it’s mainly residential east along Blackheath Road, but I spotted a couple of takeaways, a barber shop, that type of thing. Three masked men in bloody overalls can’t have exactly blended in.’

  ‘You’d think, but this is London. There’s just as much chance the three of them barged past people who had their heads buried in a smartphone.’

  ‘Wish everyone was as optimistic as you,’ Porter said. ‘Come on, let’s head out and nab the others.’

  They made their way back to the tiled lobby, shedding their suits like snakeskin, signing out of the crime scene. Porter exited through the wooden double doors back out to the street. He turned to Styles as he neared the line of police tape, colliding with whoever had just ducked past it. It would have been chest to chest, if they weren’t at least half a foot shorter than him. He looked down to see a smartly dressed redhead, hair shaped into a tight bob. She’d practically headbutted his chest. Couldn’t be more than five-two at a push. She wore a navy blue suit, shirt so white it could be from a Persil advert, with a join-the-dots cluster of freckles across her nose.

  She slapped one hand against his chest for balance, eyes batting out Morse code as surprise turned into what looked like recognition.

  ‘Detective Porter,’ she said, and he couldn’t work out if it was a question or a statement. Had he seen her out front with the rest of the press, waiting for the feeding frenzy when the body bag came out?

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait over the road with the others if you’re press.’

  She looked up at him with a half-smile, nose wrinkling in amusement. ‘I thought you’d be taller from watching your press conferences. Must have just been a high podium.’

  ‘Do we know each other?’ he asked, looking over to Styles, seeing no recognition in his face either.

  ‘We do now,’ she said, thrusting a hand up and out. ‘Detective Inspector Bell, Counter Terrorism.’

  ‘Oh,’ Porter said as he shook it. ‘Sorry, I was expecting Taylor.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone,’ she said, with a roll of the eyes. ‘That’s still me.’

  ‘Now you’ve really lost me.’

  ‘DI Taylor Bell,’ she said, pumping his hand up and down a second time. ‘If I had a quid for every time someone assumed I was a bloke—’

  ‘You’d have about three quid,’ Styles chipped in.

  ‘Oh, he’s funny,’ she said, flashing a full-beam smile his way, still addressing Porter. ‘He’s a keeper. So, if you’re Porter, that would make you DS Styles?’ She nodded at them in turn.

  ‘At your service,’ Styles said, with a tilt of his head.

  ‘Can I assume your super told you why he’s brought CTU in?’

  Porter nodded. ‘The symbols on their overalls, plus what they shouted, linking it to an Islamic group. Nobody’s taken credit for it yet though.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she said, very matter-of-fact.

  ‘The super only left a few minutes ago,’ Styles said. ‘Where’s your intel coming from?’

  ‘I know exactly who did this,’ said Bell. ‘You would too if you knew what to look for. And it’s worse than you think.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘You’re right in that the crescent moon and star combo is linked to the Islamic faith,’ Bell said, ‘except this one is a little different. There’s a crack running through the moon, puts it a little off-centre. That version isn’t so much Islam in general. There’s a particular radical offshoot
. Call themselves the Brotherhood of the Prophet. They use it as their badge—’

  Styles cut in. ‘I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones behind the bombing in Istanbul last year. That and they beheaded that journalist chap last year in Syria, so they’ve got form. This is going to have the EWP marching the streets, demanding deportations and God knows what else.’

  From what he’d seen of the EWP on the news, Porter fancied their propaganda machine would already be whirring away.

  ‘What else can you tell us about them?’ Porter asked.

  Bell gave him a serious look. ‘As far as UK-based operations go, not a great deal. All their high-profile activity has been overseas so far. We’ve picked up a few bits and pieces these last twelve months, tracked some chatter suggesting they had plans to recruit over here, but nothing concrete. No actual activity that we’ve been aware of.’

  ‘Where the hell do we start, then?’ Porter snapped frustration creeping into his tone.

  ‘This is still your case, Porter, for now,’ said Bell, palms held out in a cool-your-jets manner. ‘I’m just here to assist, but I can start by getting word to some of our undercover officers in a few other organisations, see if tongues are wagging in the dingy flats they seem to spend most of their time cooped up in.’

  Porter started to nod, opened his mouth to reply, then stopped for a second. ‘Wait a minute, what do you mean it’s my case for now?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ said Bell with a shrug. ‘Look, this isn’t some kind of pissing contest. My height means I haven’t got the angle for any kind of distance anyway. But all joking aside, you’re good at what you do, and so am I. I know how these people think, how they set up cells, how they communicate, who they like to target. It’s a murder, and a horrible one at that, but let’s be honest, we’re only hours in. The top brass will drop trousers and size up to decide who runs with this, but the smart money’s on me.’

  ‘Detective Porter!’ A voice came floating from over the road. All three of them turned, seeing the petite figure of Amy Fitzwilliam. ‘Are you ready to make a statement yet?’