End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  Something bobbed back to the surface in Styles’s head. ‘You said before, Mr Henderson, that you’d told him to be careful who he went after. Was there anyone in particular you meant?’

  Brian Henderson huffed out a loud breath. ‘How long have you got?’ he asked, folding his arms and shaking his head. ‘He thought I didn’t know about the death threats, being as we’re not as clued up on the internet, but I’m not totally stupid. I told him as much when I confronted him about them, but he laughed it off. Called them keyboard warriors, whatever the hell that means.’

  The sharp intake of breath from Mrs Henderson told Porter that this was the first she was hearing about it. He pressed on before she could interrupt.

  ‘What kind of threat? Who from?’

  Brian shook his head. ‘Threats I said, not threat. There was more than one.’

  ‘What can you tell me about them? Were they letters, emails, online posts?’

  ‘I can do better than tell you,’ Brian said, pulling out his phone. ‘I’ll show you. Took screenshots in case the lying bastards tried to delete them or deny it. I was going to go to the police, but Ross, he talked me out of it.’

  ‘Talked you out of it?’ Angela Henderson finally found her voice again. ‘How could you let him talk you out if it?’ Her words came out shriller with every syllable.

  ‘You know as well as I do, he always got his own way.’

  ‘Mr Henderson,’ Styles butted in before it became a full-scale domestic. ‘You said you could show me?’

  Brian Henderson scrolled through a ream of pictures on his phone, stabbing a finger at one, and spun the screen around to face Styles. A vaguely familiar set of eyes stared back at him. Took three or four seconds of puzzling over it, a memory finally slotting into place like a game of Tetris. A face he’d seen all too recently.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Porter pulled up short of the street light that cast a cone of diluted yellow by the main gates. Way past closing time, but that had never kept him out before. A quick glance either way along the road as he locked his car. No traffic, no nosy neighbourhood watch. Plenty of people on the other side of the metal railings, but they wouldn’t be grassing him up any time soon. The cemetery was boxed in on three sides by thick hedges, with a half-height wall and railings running the length of the front.

  On a previous visit, Porter had spotted a couple of teenagers acting suspiciously along the east side. He’d gone to approach them, but they’d both scarpered, vanishing straight into the foliage from what he could see. On closer inspection, there was a gap in the far corner, where two hedgerows met. They’d looked like they’d ran head first into it. Porter, on the other hand, had to turn sideways and breathe in.

  He’d used it a dozen times or so since then, when work stopped him from visiting Holly during more sociable hours. The last of the groundskeepers were long gone. Just Porter and a thousand ghosts. Only one that he was here to visit with though.

  Before he and Evie became an item, he was a regular here, visiting every few days. Not even his mum and dad knew how often he’d come to speak with her. These last three or four months though, the visits had tailed off. Not a conscious thing, just that when you started to share your life with somebody new, to spend time with them, other things had to give. He felt between a rock and a hard place. It was unfair to Evie to cling too tightly to the past. Disrespectful to Holly to let it go completely.

  He’d come to what he thought of as a happy medium lately. Until today. This afternoon’s revelation had set his mind spinning. He picked his way through rows of headstones, lined up like a macabre game of Guess Who?, full moon spotlighting his way, but he knew the route off by heart anyway.

  The flowers he’d brought last time had wilted, withered heads drooped from the colander-topped vases either side of her plot.

  ‘I know, I know, I could at least have had a shave,’ he said, speaking softly. ‘Makes me look more rugged though, eh?’

  He set about swapping out old for new, slotting in the new bunch of blooms he’d bought at a twenty-four-hour garage on the way here. The old ones went into a plastic bag, to be disposed of later. He stayed squatting, one hand resting on cool granite, partly for balance, but mainly to be close.

  ‘They found him, Hol. Well, one of ’em anyway. I know I promised you I’d move on, but … I don’t think I know how.’

  Porter felt the emotion balling in his throat, part sadness, but mainly anger. Now that his frustrations finally had a face, he was just supposed to look the other way. He could practically hear Holly’s voice in his head, telling him to do exactly that. He’d built a new life, the foundations of one at least. One he thought he could be happy in. It wasn’t rocket science. If he went after Kamau, and the Triple H outfit, he’d be on his own. No way would he get any official help, bearing in mind he’d already been told to back off by Milburn and Pittman. Styles would help if he asked. Porter knew he would out of blind loyalty. He couldn’t have a wrecked career on his conscience though, so that wasn’t an option.

  ‘What do I do, Hol? What the fuck do I do?’

  He knew what he couldn’t do. He couldn’t sit there and wait for Pittman to slither around at a snail’s pace. A vague outline of an idea started to form. Not perfect, but a start. Something to play around with. To shape as he went.

  Porter’s knees cracked like party poppers as he stood up. He pressed two fingers to his lips, transferred the kiss to the top of Holly’s headstone, then turned and headed for the hidden exit, working through the first stages of a plan. Coming here always seemed to give him a clarity of thought that he couldn’t find elsewhere. Whether that was the proximity to Holly, or just the peace and quiet, was open to debate. Either way, if he was honest with himself, he’d made his decision before he came here. It had been made the second Milburn dropped the news.

  SKY NEWS BULLETIN

  Monday morning

  ‘I’m Asim Bashara, and these are your morning headlines. Emotions are still high in the wake of the brutal murder of Ross Henderson yesterday at the hands of suspected terrorists. Mr Henderson was killed live on Facebook at the old magistrates’ court in Greenwich. We at Sky have taken the decision not to show the footage due to the graphic nature. Reports say this is the work of the Brotherhood of the Prophet, although that’s yet to be confirmed. Police Commissioner Agatha Wallace has urged the public to stay calm, but not everyone is heeding that advice. We go live now to our correspondent Amy Fitzwilliam outside Greenwich Magistrates’ Court. Amy.’

  ‘Thank you, Asim. You join me here for what is a tense standoff between police and protestors. The English Welfare Party are out in force, unsurprisingly calling for a drastic overhaul of immigration laws. On the other side of the police line, members of the local Islamic Centre have come out as a community to distance themselves from any extremist involvement, with the local imam calling for cooler heads to prevail, saying that the community needs to come together at times like this. With me is Sally Ashbrooke, leader of the British Independence Party. Mrs Ashbrooke, troubling times following yesterday’s brutal events. What are your thoughts on what’s transpired, and what action the police and the Prime Minister should be taking?’

  ‘Firstly, let me offer my condolences to Mr Henderson’s family. Nobody deserves to die like that, much less in such a public fashion. I think sadly though, that this is the sum total of successive governments’ mistakes coming home to roost. The Prime Minister’s open-door policy to the world, without a proper system of checks and balances, plus his refusal to contribute to the international task force fighting the Brotherhood, is as good as an open invitation to extremists, that not only are our doors open, but that we won’t lift a finger to stop you doing whatever you want, to whomever you want.’

  ‘Can the Prime Minister honestly be blamed for the actions of a determined and resourceful group like the Brotherhood?’

  ‘Absolutely. If he isn’t able to guarantee the safety of the British people, then he needs to step
aside and let somebody else do the job.’

  ‘Latest polls have you ten points behind the Tories but only a point off taking the second spot from Labour. If you were to find yourself in Downing Street after the next election, what message would you be giving to the British people in a situation like this?’

  ‘I’d tell them that every single one of us has a part to play in defending our country. It starts with placing their trust, and their vote, in a party committed to making the tough decisions needed to keep us safe. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating we implement the kind of extreme measures that the EWP would see us have and kick hundreds of thousands of people out of the UK, but something needs to change. If the public see fit to place me in office next year, I will personally oversee a full review of our immigration system and commit to a net zero figure by the end of my first term.’

  ‘Net zero migration? That’s a bold statement to make, Mrs Ashbrooke. What makes you think you could control in four years what others have failed to do in decades?’

  ‘It’s well documented that my youngest boy was killed in the line of duty. He, and thousands like him, put their lives on the line so we don’t have to. His battleground was Afghanistan, mine is Westminster, but make no mistake, we’re fighting the same fight. To keep the British people safe, to help them thrive and to build a country that we can be proud to leave to our children.’

  ‘Sally Ashbrooke, thank you. Emotions running high on both sides of the … sorry, what was that … Asim, I’m afraid we’re being asked to move back by the police. Members of the EWP faction have begun throwing bottles into the contingent from the Islamic Centre. Things are definitely heating up. Back to you in the studio.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘How likely are any repeat attacks?’ a journalist from The Sun shouted to be heard over the clamour of questions.

  Same angle, different words. Asked and answered, thought Porter. This was one of the parts of the job he hated. Why he had no desire to rise any further up the ranks. The politics, and endless press feeding frenzies, only served to make life more difficult in his view, more to wade through, like pouring treacle on ants.

  ‘As I said before,’ said Roger Milburn, holding up a palm to quieten his audience. ‘This is still at a very early stage. Nobody has formally claimed responsibility yet, but we don’t currently have reason to believe that there is an imminent threat.’

  ‘Apart from the threats they made after they hacked his head off?’ another reporter piped up from the back.

  ‘This is a highly unusual case,’ Milburn carried on, not missing a beat, ‘in that many people had the misfortune to witness the crime take place, and we urge anyone affected by that to reach out for professional support and counselling if they need it. I wouldn’t normally hold a conference this early on, but due to the public nature of the murder, we wanted to reassure the people of London that we are putting additional measures in place to ensure their safety.’

  Milburn ran through a list of numbers, extra boots on the ground, pennies in the overtime coffers, Counter Terrorism on board as part of the team and finished by introducing Porter as the man leading day to day, while stressing the fact that he remained in overall command as SIO, as if that was ever in doubt. No way would a political animal like Milburn pass up the chance to be the face of a case with as much exposure as this would no doubt have. Play the hero if it went their way, palm off the blame if it didn’t, most likely Porter’s way.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have time for this morning, but as soon as there’s more to share, I’ll let you know. Thank you.’

  Milburn ignored the verbal volleys of the impatient audience. Give them an inch to print and they wanted a whole page. Porter followed him off the raised podium and out into the corridor beyond.

  ‘That should hold them for now,’ said Milburn, looking far more pleased with himself than he had cause to be. It had been a non-event. Nothing of any substance shared that they hadn’t already seen in way too much detail from yesterday’s live stream. ‘What time are you briefing your team?’

  ‘Now, sir. You’re welcome to join if—’

  ‘Sir!’

  A woman’s voice from the other end of the corridor, brusque, urgent. Taylor Bell hustled towards them, serious, all business.

  ‘Ah, DI Bell, perfect timing. You’ll be able to help Porter at his briefing, give your views on this Brotherhood bunch.’

  ‘About that, sir, we may have a problem.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’ Milburn asked. ‘We’ve not had another murder, have we?’

  Porter fancied the concern on Milburn’s face was just as likely to be worry at the fact that he’d just told a room full of journalists that the city was a safe place, rather than for anyone else who might have been hurt.

  ‘Another one? No, not that I know of anyway. That’s just it though, sir. I think we’ve got it wrong. Yesterday’s attack, I don’t think it was the Brotherhood. I think someone’s playing us.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘So, you’re saying it isn’t terrorists then, boss?’ Sucheka asked, her face mirroring the confusion around the briefing room.

  ‘I’m not saying it couldn’t be, just that there’s enough to cast doubt. DI Bell, can you talk us through what you shared with me downstairs?’

  Taylor Bell hopped off her perch on the edge of a nearby desk and walked out in front of the group.

  ‘You’ve all seen the footage?’ she asked. Nods and grimaces all round. ‘So, you’ve all seen their motif, the fractured crescent moon and star. Sometimes things seem too good to be true, and that’s what I think we have here.’

  ‘What makes you think they weren’t who they say they are?’ Dee Williams asked.

  ‘Two things. First,’ she said, holding up a finger, ‘the absolute lack of any chatter from our network about any UK-based activity. Syria, Afghan, sure, but nothing here. We’re not infallible, but we have access to what the Yanks have, and that includes them claiming to have someone inside the Brotherhood. We’ve reached out to them to confirm or deny, but that could take a day or two.’

  ‘A lot could happen in a few days if we’re wrong,’ Tessier grumbled from the back.

  ‘You’re right,’ Bell conceded, ‘it could. Second thing though, these guys have a plan and they stick with it. They don’t tend to deviate. They don’t usually feel the need to wear a uniform,’ she said, tapping a screenshot taken from the footage that was taped to a whiteboard.

  ‘So, we’re gonna look past them because they changed their branding?’ asked DC Glenn Waters.

  ‘That’s the point though, they don’t need a bloody brand identity. They kill people, they take credit for it by shouting about it to anyone who’ll listen. They’re not like us, with badges or warrant cards to flash.’

  ‘They haven’t though, have they? Taken credit I mean?’ asked Sucheka.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Bell said cryptically. ‘Twenty minutes ago, two tweets were sent from an account professing to represent the Brotherhood, claiming that Henderson was killed in retaliation for the death in custody of one of their own. This has the same hashtags they’ve used in the past and the same profile pic of the moon and stars. First one is in Arabic, second one in English, but both basically saying the same thing. Problem is that we don’t think it was written by a native Arabic speaker.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Styles asked.

  Bell reached behind her, grabbing several sheets of paper, screenshots of the tweets, and holding them up like show and tell.

  ‘Two reasons. Firstly, grammatical errors. See here and here,’ she pointed at the Arabic first, then to the corresponding part of the English version. ‘Normally, these announcements are worded very formally. The wording they’ve used here though is more of a slang equivalent. Also, there are a several mistakes, the kind you might make if it wasn’t your native language.’

  ‘They recruit though, right?’ Styles said. ‘Could be someone who just isn’
t as fluent?’

  ‘Second reason,’ Bell said, shaking her head, ‘is this comment here.’ She pointed to the third one down, left in Arabic from a user with no profile picture. ‘This account belongs to a known Brotherhood member. Roughly translates to say “Whatever your reason for joining our cause, you are no stranger but a true friend.”’

  ‘So why would they be a stranger to begin with, if they were members?’ Styles said, nodding to himself as it sunk in.

  ‘Not cast iron by any means,’ interjected Porter, ‘but enough to mean we look elsewhere until DI Bell hears back from the Americans.’

  ‘Speaking of elsewhere,’ said Styles, ‘I had an interesting chat with Mr and Mrs Henderson last night, and if what you’re saying about the Brotherhood is true, then I’ve got another name to throw into the mix. Roland Thomas.’

  Porter was none the wiser, nor it seemed was anyone else judging from the blank looks all around.

  ‘You all met him last night.’

  ‘This isn’t twenty questions, Nick. Spit it out,’ said Porter.

  ‘Thomas is the guy who was trying to flirt with DI Bell last night. You know the one who looked like he’d just smelt a bad fart.’

  ‘Ah, yes. How can I forget him? Face only a mother could love. What about him?’

  ‘Turns out he’d made threats online. Henderson Senior has a screenshot from Facebook showing comments from Thomas about how Ross should be treated like any other traitor, and that they should bring back hanging. Had a quick look at his online profiles and he’s EWP through and through.’

  ‘And he just happened to be a hundred yards away from the very man he thought should be swinging from a noose?’

  ‘There’s more threats in the comments on YouTube too. Quite a few actually. Pick of the bunch says that if Ross wanted to be a martyr so bad, he’d be happy to help arrange it.’