‘’Bout bloody time,’ Bell muttered.
Everything happened too fast. Truce broken in three words, but Porter was caught off guard, too slow to react. He could only watch as it unfolded in front of him. So much for a peaceful protest.
CHAPTER NINE
Rat-Face turned back to look at Bell. He kept walking, albeit it backwards now, shaking his head like a disappointed parent. A larger man to his left, chubby, not muscular, with a ruddy complexion and shaved head, made a hawking noise, dredging up whatever he could from his throat, reared his head back and spat. The large glob arced towards them, cresting, dropping like a stone right onto the crown of Bell’s head. Seemed like she darted forward at the moment of impact. Half a dozen steps closed the gap.
She grabbed his right wrist, pinning it high to his chest, stepping past to the left, planting her right foot behind his left. Momentum made up for the difference in size. Dipping and driving her shoulder into his chest, controlling the spin and fall, until he hit the ground with a meaty thud.
The front line of the retreating crowd stood stock-still, a few mouths hanging open in surprise, but as she whipped a set of handcuffs out to snap on, those that were closest moved forwards. Porter started towards her, but Tessier was nearest. Two steps moved him in front of Bell, like a giant chess-piece sliding into place. He held out a hand the size of a hardback novel.
‘You touch her, you’re next.’
A half-dozen of them had formed a semicircle a few feet back from where Bell had their fallen comrade pinned. Hands clenched and unclenched, faces set into hard lines. Porter moved to stand by Tessier’s right, and saw Styles and the others step up to strengthen the line.
‘Don’t sweat it, Davy,’ Rat-Face called out to the man on the ground. ‘We’ll have you back by bedtime.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Bell, looking up at him, face flushed, faintest hint of a smile. She was enjoying this, a little too much in Porter’s book. ‘Davy, is it? Well, Davy, I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer,’ she said, patting his back.
‘We’ll be taking your friend to Paddington Green police station,’ Porter said. ‘If you’re sorting his brief, that’s where he’ll be.’
‘Whatever you say, Officer,’ Rat-Face said, with an exaggerated bow. He backed away, giving a sharp whistle as he went, which seemed to spark the rest of them into action. A sea of scowls backed away, turning to head east down Blackheath Road.
As Bell stood up, pulling a tissue from her pocket to wipe off the saliva, Tessier crouched down, picking up the dough-faced would-be hero. Nothing to it, as if it were just the clothes and not the man inside them. Once upright, the man eyed Tessier with somewhere between contempt and relief, that he hadn’t been daft enough to try and get past him. A pair of uniformed constables ushered him away towards a waiting car.
‘You all right?’ Porter asked.
She arched an eyebrow in a why the hell would I not be? expression. ‘I’m good.’ She cast an eye down the road at the retreating bodies. ‘Friends of yours?’
Porter grunted a half-laugh, switching subject. ‘What did you make of the courtroom? Any thoughts?’
She brushed dirt from her sleeve, flicking away a few strands of hair that had caught on the side of her mouth. ‘Honestly, if this is the Brotherhood, then I’m worried. We all need to be worried. They make what ISIS did look tame.’
‘You say “if”. What makes you think it might not be?’ asked Styles, stepping up beside Porter.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, ‘they’ve got form for beheadings, bold statements, recording it all to scare the shit out of people on the news.’
‘But?’ Porter prompted.
‘But everything I’ve seen in the last twelve months says they’re not active in the UK.’
‘Intel can be wrong though.’
‘It can,’ she conceded, ‘but mine usually isn’t, not about the big stuff anyway.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Styles asked.
‘Same way I know I didn’t need your pet mountain there to step in and save me like a damsel in distress.’ She looked over at Tessier. ‘No offence.’ He just shrugged. ‘I’m good at what I do. No, scratch that, I’m bloody good at what I do. Don’t take this the wrong way, Detectives, but CTU is a different breed to what you do. You do a great job. You catch people who’ve done bad things, who’ve killed people. For me, if people are dead, I’ve already failed them. I stop the bad things from happening. I can’t afford to be wrong.’
Every word came out coated with conviction, something Porter could relate to, but there was an edge to them, like a child spitting a dummy.
‘All right,’ Porter said, keeping his tone more conciliatory than he felt, ‘if you’re telling us there’s a chance it might not be them, then how about sharing your thoughts on who it might be?’
‘I’m not saying it isn’t them. It’s not that they’re not active. God knows they’ve caused their fair share of harm around the world, but they’re a talkative bunch. In the build-up to each of their big attacks overseas in the last few years, they’ve been up on their soapbox before they act. Making demands, release of prisoners, withdrawal of troops, cease and desist on drone strikes, that kind of thing. Most of what they do is retaliation. They call their shots in advance. Not the details obviously, but the nation they’re targeting and why. That, and they tell the whole bloody world about it within the hour. I’ve not seen anything like that yet, have you?’
Porter shook his head. ‘Not yet. All due respect though, these guys pinned their colours to the mast with their wardrobe choices today, never mind what they said or did. Over a million people watched today, DI Bell.’
‘I know how it looks,’ she said with a hint of annoyance, ‘but it’s not just what they did that bothers me. It’s who they did it to.’
‘What do you mean?’ Styles questioned.
‘From what I’ve seen of Henderson, he’s as liberal as they come. Fair treatment for refugees, pro-withdrawal of troops from the Middle East. He’s basically shouting for what the Brotherhood want – to leave them be.’
Porter shrugged. ‘You said it yourself, they want the whole bloody world to know what they’re doing. Who better to pick than someone with as many followers as Henderson? Pretty much guarantees you an audience.’
She stared him out for a few seconds, soaking in the possibility, before dismissing it with a shake of her head.
‘Not convinced. Could just as easily be someone looking to make a name for themselves by piggybacking.’
‘Hey, I’m open to whatever the evidence points to, but unless you’ve got a credible alternative, they’re staying top of the list.’
She kept her eyes fixed on his, clearly not used to anyone doing anything with her opinion other than following to the letter. ‘Well then,’ she said finally, ‘I guess you’ve just set me my homework, haven’t you?’
Before he had a chance to reply, she strode off back towards the courthouse, leaving Porter shaking his head and Styles wearing a bemused grin.
‘Well, she was … interesting,’ Porter said. ‘Not so much a chip on her shoulder, as a full bag of spuds.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Styles said. ‘I kinda liked her.’
‘I’m on the fence,’ Porter replied. ‘She comes with top billing according to the super, but I’m going to need a little more convincing than “I’m never wrong”.’
The last part came out in a gruff voice, more of a crap Schwarzenegger impression than anything even vaguely approaching Taylor Bell.
‘Anyway, fun’s over,’ he said, turning to his assembled team. ‘Busy evening ahead. Let’s crack on. Nick, you come with me. We need to find out who his next of kin is and pay them a visit.’
That was going to be a shitty one. Talk about a rock and a hard place. He might be the one to have to break the news to them, on the slim chance they were amongst the few people on the internet who hadn’t watched the bl
oody thing live. Either that or try and get through to someone who had it on permanent repeat in their heads after seeing it.
‘Already got that, boss,’ said Styles. ‘Lives with his parents near Old Dagenham Park. Sent a Family Liaison over, so we shouldn’t be going in cold.’
Porter could empathise to a degree, at least with the notion of what, if not how. For him, it had been like feeling punch-drunk, to begin with anyway. Like taking a big shot to the head, hearing a rush of white noise like an untuned radio, borderline spaced out. Looking back now that night Holly was killed felt like it had happened to somebody else. Trying to imagine how seeing it happen would magnify that feeling, distort reality beyond repair, fired him back into that same headspace.
The two cases, both emotional overdoses, meshed in his head, coalescing, twin black holes tugging away what little energy he had left.
‘Actually can you do me a favour?’ he said to Styles, ‘Any chance you can handle that one yourself? Milburn wants me in at daft o’clock tomorrow, so I could do with hitting the sack. Long day coming.’
‘Um, yeah, no probs,’ said Styles, hands in pockets, looking expectantly at Porter, clearly hoping he would share what that something else was.
‘Thanks, Nick. Good to have you back, even if it is a day early. I’ll, ah, see you at the station in the morning then.’
‘No worries, boss.’
Porter saw the concern on Styles’s face as he walked past. His lacklustre smile clearly wasn’t fooling anyone. His phone buzzed as he reached the car. Evie again. He felt like a bit of a shit for doing it, but he tapped reject again. He’d call her on the way home later, but right now, he had somebody more important to talk to.
CHAPTER TEN
Styles commandeered one of the cars at the scene, and tapped Ross Henderson’s parents’ address into the satnav. Back over the Thames, and a bit less than half an hour at this time of day. As he drove, the occasional flash of footage from the courtroom popped into mind. It’d be a while before he forgot this one.
His phone chirped as he pulled up outside, Evie’s name flashing up.
‘Hey, Evie. Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, I was just wondering if you knew where Jake was. He went out to clear his head, but that was hours ago.’
So, Porter hadn’t told her about the case yet. Safe to assume she hadn’t seen the news either. Styles gave her the headlines, leaving out for now the fact he’d found Porter at the hospital. No need to worry her more than necessary.
‘Oh my God,’ she said when he finished. ‘I kind of want to watch it now, but I don’t.’
‘Your call, but it’ll stick with you for a long while if you do,’ he said. ‘I’d give it a miss if you can.’
‘Is he there with you now then?’
‘He’s on his way home. Said something about a stupidly early start with Milburn tomorrow.’
‘Oh, OK. Sorry to bother you then, Nick.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘He’s the one that bothers me. You’re like a breath of fresh air.’
That got a few seconds of laughter, before she got all serious again.
‘He doesn’t talk much about her, you know. Think he thinks it’d weird me out or something. Truth is it would probably help him if he did.’
‘He’s a deep one all right,’ Styles agreed.
‘Look after him for me, Nick.’
‘It’s my full-time job,’ he said, trying to keep things light, but there was no mistaking the shared concern for Porter.
He signed off with a promise to keep Porter out of trouble and stared out at the house.
Without a doubt, this was one of the worst parts of the job, intruding on people’s grief, asking questions when all many of them wanted to do was curl up and cry. He didn’t envy the Family Liaison Officers one bit.
He recognised the face that greeted him at the door. Aaron Bryant was one of the best FLO’s Styles had worked with. He had a knack for keeping people in the here and now, guiding them through their grief instead of watching them fall to pieces.
‘They’re in the kitchen,’ said Bryant. He had the kind of voice that wouldn’t be out of place on one of those mindfulness apps, soft and soothing.
‘They see it happen?’ he asked Bryant.
‘Thankfully no, but they’ve heard, thanks to relatives phoning up.’
Styles followed Bryant though an open door and into a small kitchen. A woman stood at the sink. Mrs Henderson, presumably, canary yellow Marigolds up to her elbows like gauntlets, scrubbing a cup hard enough to wear the floral print off the rim. She must have heard his footsteps on the tiles and turned around, putting on a brave face, but Styles couldn’t imagine a sadder smile. Late forties at a guess, the slightest hint of crow’s feet in an otherwise smooth face. There’d be a few new lines etched in before she’d come to terms with today’s events.
Her husband sat nursing a half-full mug of coffee. Had been for a while by the looks of the tell-tale ring when he tipped it up to take a sip. Brian Henderson looked a good ten years older than his wife, once dark hair now stippled with grey, long since receded like a one-way tide. His jaw worked side to side, as if trying to work something loose from his teeth. He made no attempt to get up, brain still in neutral, knowing but not understanding the news they received a few hours ago.
‘Mr and Mrs Henderson, this is Detective Sergeant Nick Styles. He’s one of the team heading up the investigation,’ Bryant said by way of introduction. Styles stepped forward, offering Brian Henderson a hand, that the other man took in a half-hearted grip.
‘So sorry for your loss, sir,’ Styles said, turning to repeat the sentiment to Angela Henderson.
‘Cup of tea, Detective?’ she asked, in a voice balanced at breaking point.
Styles didn’t want one, but saw it for the crutch that it was, keeping her occupied, stopping her from dwelling, and nodded his thanks, asking for milk, two sugars.
‘May I?’ he said, gesturing to a seat opposite Brian Henderson.
Brian nodded, said nothing and turned his attention back to his coffee.
‘I know you’re still hurting, and talking about it might be the last thing you want to do right now, but the more we know about your son, the better chance we have of figuring out what’s happened.’
‘Doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened,’ Brian muttered. ‘I told him. Warned him he needed to be careful who he went after, but he was a stubborn bugger.’
‘Just like his dad,’ said Angela, placing a cup in front of Styles. ‘He was passionate about what he did, Detective.’
‘He was passionate about getting his bloody face plastered all over the internet,’ snapped Brian, voice firmer, like he’d just been prodded awake.
‘What can either of you tell me about Ross, about his …’ Styles searched for the right word, ‘causes?’
‘I still can’t believe he could get that many people watching him,’ Angela said, joining them at the table with Bryant. ‘I mean a lot of what he does goes right over my head. The streaming, and followers and whatnot, but I do love to hear him talking. Always clever with his speeches, our Ross. Isn’t he, Brian?’
Styles noted the use of present tense, common where news like this was still fresh.
‘Oh, he had some strong political views, that’s for sure.’ Brian nodded. ‘I take it you’ve not caught them yet, then? The ones who did this?’
‘Not yet, sir, but it’s early days,’ said Styles, keen to keep the conversation on track. ‘This persona he used, Stormcloudz, where did that come from?’
Brian sat up a touch straighter as he answered. ‘He had a rough time in secondary school. He was good mates with two brothers from around the corner, the Chakrabartis. Thick as thieves the three of them were. Some of the local hard cases didn’t take kindly to it – a racial thing. Said he should hang out with his own kind.’ Henderson looked almost apologetic bringing up race, as if there was a chance Styles might take it personally. Styles had been on the
receiving end of his fair share of barbed race-related comments growing up here in London, his family originally from Barbados.
‘Made Ross’s life hell for a while.’ Brian Henderson’s knee bounced up and down as he talked, a mix of nervous energy and anger at old injustices. ‘Anyway, things got out of hand, and the three of them got jumped one night while they were out on their bikes. Ross needed stitches, so did the younger of the brothers. Dammit, why can’t I even remember their names now?’ he said, scratching his hand back and forward across his temple, trying to jar something free.
‘Dev and Prab,’ Angela offered, leaning over, taking his hand in hers, bringing both back to the tabletop.
‘That’s them,’ he said, nodding thanks. ‘Prab’s face was all busted up. Dev though, poor bugger, was on crutches for months. Took Ross a while to come out of his shell after that. The other lads were arrested, but it seemed to light a spark under our Ross. He hated bullies. Hated racist ones even more.’
‘That’s where that whole Stormcloudz thing started. Silly name, I know, but he was so proud of what he did,’ said Angela.
‘Had he received any threats recently as part of that?’ Styles asked.
‘If he did, he didn’t share them with us,’ said Angela.
‘Was there anybody else involved in his broadcasts, or did he work alone?’
‘There’s a group of them that help out,’ Brian said. ‘Mates of his. Jason McTeague and Elliot Kirk.’
‘Don’t suppose you know how I can get hold of them, do you?’
Angela shook her head. ‘We don’t have numbers for them, but they’ll be in Ross’s phone, if you have that? If not, Jason works at the Duke of Wellington pub around the corner, and Elliott is a teacher at Saint Aiden’s in Hornchurch.’
They had found a phone at the scene, presumably his as the background picture was the same logo as on his Facebook page, but Styles made a note of the two names. He’d make sure someone spoke to them tomorrow.
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