End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘And there was me thinking after last night that he was such a gentle soul,’ Sucheka chipped in. ‘Worth a look.’

  ‘Consider him on the list of people we need a conversation with. Anything else, Nick?’

  Styles added the names of Ross Henderson’s two friends to the mix and filled them in on the background he got from the parents.

  ‘Those weren’t the only threats he received though,’ he said. ‘Ten million followers, pages and pages of comments across multiple platforms, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter. All his content was pretty emotive stuff, so they either loved him or hated him. If Roland Thomas doesn’t pan out, there’ll be plenty more to choose from.’

  ‘By the sounds of it, we’ll end up wallpapering the room with mugshots,’ said Waters.

  ‘Well volunteered, Glenn,’ said Porter.

  ‘Eh, volunteered for what?’ Waters looked confused.

  ‘Make a start on cataloguing comments and usernames.’

  Waters scowled, opened his mouth to talk his way out if it, but said nothing.

  ‘Kaja, Gus, anything from the door-to-door last night?’

  Sucheka shook her head. ‘No one saw a thing, boss, least not that they’re sharing with us.’

  ‘In that case, I want you on the two friends – Jason McTeague and Elliott Kirk. What was their role in this? If he was the face of Stormcloudz, what did they bring to the table? Nick, you and I take Roland Thomas. Any questions?’

  ‘Mind if I tag along?’

  He’d almost forgotten Bell was there, lost in rattling through what needed to be done.

  ‘If interviewing right-wing racists is your thing, you’re more than welcome, but I’m sure you’ve probably got more important things to do.’

  ‘Nope,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I could do with the fresh air, or I might faceplant in my coffee.’

  ‘Late night?’

  ‘Mine never finished.’

  Was there the tiniest emphasis on the first word? He couldn’t quite figure her out, whether he could trust her or not, or whether she had her own agenda, one that would drag a joint effort firmly into her court. Better then that he keep her close. Besides, the terrorism angle was still their number one pick in his eyes, and like it as not, she was the expert. Anything else hit today, and they’d need her around.

  Porter shrugged. ‘Ready to go in five.’

  He dismissed the others, watching as Bell headed back to the desk she’d been sat at, grabbing her jacket and phone. He could have refused but had the feeling she’d have made sure it cropped up in conversation with Milburn. This changed things though. He had plans for today that didn’t include Styles, let alone Bell.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Roland Thomas worked as a mechanic at a garage near Dartford. A bored-looking woman glanced up from her magazine, desk cluttered with enough Post-its and scribbled receipts to give a clean freak like Porter’s mum palpitations just by looking at it. She squinted through jam-jar glasses as she scrutinised his warrant card, as if searching for small print that wasn’t there.

  ‘Roly’s doing a job in bay six.’

  Porter looked around the warehouse-style building. Must be at least a dozen cars, some up on ramps, some with bonnets propped up like open mouths, only the bottom half of an overalled mechanic visible. No huge flashing number six to guide him.

  ‘Third from the end,’ the woman said, sounding put out that she had to take yet more time away from her precious magazine.

  ‘She should work for the Samaritans with a caring attitude like that,’ said Bell, getting a chuckle from Styles as they made their way past a row of cars.

  Roland Thomas was preoccupied with whatever he was fixing, mostly hidden from view in a pit sunk into the garage floor, as they stopped short of the vehicle he was working under.

  ‘Mr Thomas,’ said Porter. ‘Can we borrow you for a minute?’

  Thomas peered out, a sly smile of recognition crinkling his face.

  ‘Come to apologise for the heavy-handed behaviour last night, have we?’

  He clambered out, wiping greasy palms down overalls that looked as if they hadn’t been within a hundred feet of a washing machine in years. He folded his arms across his chest, and Porter saw the tattoo poking out from a rolled-up sleeve.

  ‘You like the ink?’ Thomas asked, clocking Porter’s interest. He pulled the sleeve up further, flashing the rest of the artwork. A pale shield with an inverted sword running through it, blade coloured in red. The EWP logo, a bastardised version of the Saint George’s Cross.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Bell. ‘You even managed to keep your crayon inside the lines and everything.’

  Thomas made no effort to keep the menace from his expression. Just stared at them, mouth set into a tight smile. Ten seconds into the conversation and Bell was stepping on toes already.

  ‘We’d like to have a chat with you about last night, Mr Thomas. I understand you and Mr Henderson didn’t exactly see eye to eye, politically speaking?’

  ‘Mr Henderson?’ Thomas looked up to the ceiling as if struggling to place it. ‘Ah, you mean that little runt who got himself killed last night. Stormy Daniels, or whatever he called himself.’

  ‘Stormcloudz, yes,’ Porter said. ‘My colleague here found less than friendly comments you left on some of his earlier videos.’

  ‘Yeah, and?’

  ‘And you don’t exactly seem cut up at what happened to him last night, no pun intended. Where were you at four-thirty yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Thomas. ‘You think I did this?’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Styles. ‘And you haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you all,’ he said, spreading his arms out, nicotine-stained teeth nibbling at his upper lip. ‘But I was here working, till just gone five.’

  ‘And I’m assuming your lovely lady on reception will vouch for you as well?’

  ‘Better than that, you can even check the cameras. You’ll see me finish off a timing belt on a BMW, then head out for a beer with the boys.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the same boys you were out for a stroll with down Greenwich last night, would it?’ Bell asked.

  ‘Seems to me my social life ain’t the issue here. You know as well as I do what time that boy was killed, and I can prove I weren’t there, so how about you all piss off and let me crack on?’

  ‘I suppose you and your mates just happened to be in the area, and in between pubs when we bumped into you?’ she pressed him.

  ‘Look, me and him, let’s just say we weren’t exactly on the same page, but what those bastards did to him, nobody deserved that. Soon as we heard, we headed down to protest. That’s all.’

  ‘But you had previously threatened his life?’ Styles asked.

  Thomas rolled his eyes, shaking his head. ‘That was just all, whatcha call it, for show. Can’t let him spout his shite and say nothing.’

  ‘So, you’ve never threatened him in any other way?’

  ‘Me?’ he asked, face the picture of feigned innocence. ‘Not guilty, Officer.’

  ‘We’ll be checking your cameras on the way out, Roland,’ Porter said. ‘They don’t show what you say they should, we’ll be turning right around and the rest of this chat happens at the station under caution.’

  Thomas looked completely unfazed by the threat. Either he’d been inside enough for the shock value to wear off or he genuinely had nothing to do with the murder. Porter’s bet was probably both. Seemed entirely too cocky to have anything to hide, at least as far as this was concerned. Didn’t mean to say that the EWP wasn’t pulling some sort of strings in the background though, just not ones Porter could see yet.

  They left him to climb back into his pit and headed back to the receptionist, who looked even less pleased to see them than the first time. She ran the previous day’s footage for them with all the enthusiasm of a stroppy kid being told to do homework. Sure enough, there was Roly Thomas, time- and date-sta
mped, same mucky overalls.

  ‘One down, ten million to go.’ Styles shrugged as they reached their car. ‘What now, boss?’

  Porter pretended to think it over, this next part having been thought up on the fly on the way here.

  ‘Let’s divide and conquer. I promised the super I’d brief him face-to-face, so if I head back and do that, you two can see if you can track down Damien Winter, assuming you’re still up for tagging along, DI Bell?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m assigned to this until it’s done or stops being terror-related.’

  ‘EWP registered office is up near Barnet. I’ll just hop out anywhere near the station and you can carry on from there.’

  Styles slid into the driver’s seat. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  Porter hated lying to his partner, but what other option did he have?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Porter parked up and stared at the block of flats for a full minute before getting out of his car. Still not convinced his idea was sound, but there was no plan B, at least not one he’d been able to think of yet.

  Henry Kamau’s listed address was a second-floor flat on the corner of Moor Lane, near Cranham. It sat atop a barbers and dry cleaners, although Porter had it on good authority from what little digging he’d done this morning that Jackson Tyler, the leader of the Triple H gang, had bought the whole block outright a few years back, flats, businesses, the lot.

  He had no idea what he hoped to do or find here, but Porter had to start somewhere. If there was a good chance Kamau wouldn’t wake up, the next person on his list to speak to was Jackson Tyler himself. Kamau had been in the gang back when Holly died, and the fact she was married to a copper had made for more than the usual tabloid inches. That, and the Met pulled out all the stops to hunt down whoever was responsible. Every chance that Tyler had heard about it at the time, and just as likely that he’d know of any involvement from his people. Whether he’d talk about it was another matter entirely. For that, Porter would need leverage or something to offer, and at this stage, he had neither.

  Of course, he’d have to find Tyler first. The man was like a ghost. No fixed address. No property in his name, not directly anyway. Places like the flat that Henry Kamau lived in were owned by a shell company. No direct link to Tyler.

  There was little traffic as he strode across and up the stairwell at the side. Kamau was the only name listed as a tenant, but that didn’t mean he lived alone. He stopped several feet short of the door. A faint whiff of stale urine hit him as he rounded the corner, into a poorly lit corridor, Kamau’s door the furthest of three.

  He tried the door. Locked. Porter knocked, putting his ear to the door as soon as he’d finished. Nothing. No footsteps, no whispers, not even a television or radio playing. He took a step back, looking at the lock on the door. Didn’t strike him as the heaviest of timber from his knock. A couple of well-placed kicks by the handle would do the trick. Question was, how badly did he want to see what was inside? Could be that he broke in and found nothing of any use. What alternative did he have though? Pittman or one of his team would pay a visit soon enough. Could even be on their way as he stood there dawdling.

  This was a line he hadn’t crossed before, a step beyond getting creative with the rules. This would be breaking and entering, plain and simple. No warrant, no cause. Not his case. The alternative was to sit this one out, and it was the thought of waiting, of inactivity, of Kamau waking up and walking away that swayed him.

  He backed up against the far wall. Worst case he’d say he heard noises inside, somebody calling for help. One long, deep breath as he psyched himself up, palms flat against the wall, ready to push off and drive his foot at the door, when something stopped him. A noise from the stairwell. Scraping of feet on concrete. Voices, getting that tiny bit louder with each word.

  Instead of hurling himself at the front door, he whirled away, towards the matching staircase that wound its way down the other side of the building, pulling his phone out as he did, tapping the screen trying his best to look nonchalant. From the sounds of the voices behind him, they’d rounded the corner just as he turned his. He flicked the mute switch, holding the phone to his ear, ready to mock-up a conversation if needed to explain his lurking on the stairs. He’d wait until they went into whichever flat they lived in, then reassess.

  Two voices as far as he could make out, both male, arguing about which local takeaway was best. Scrape of a key in a lock, closer than he’d expected, but hard to tell exactly how far along the corridor they’d come, which door they’d stopped at. A hinge creaked open, the voices faded, but didn’t disappear altogether. Porter risked a peek around the corner and his eyes widened at what he saw.

  The door to Kamau’s flat stood open now, the briefest of flashes of red footwear, as whoever it was disappeared inside. Whoever they were, they had a key. Could be family, come round to pick up a few bits to take into hospital. Wait, no. Pittman had mentioned they hadn’t found anyone to notify when they admitted Kamau.

  Inside, drawers opened and shut, footsteps moving deeper into the flat. Going in wasn’t an option, not a sensible one at least. If he’d had Styles and Bell with him, maybe. Alone though, with no idea of who they were and why they were there, whether they were armed, that would be reckless to say the least. He couldn’t just stay in the stairwell either. What if they decided to go back down via the side he was on instead of the way they’d come?

  Porter made his way downstairs, careful not to kick the crushed can or carpet of crisp packets halfway down. No way to call in any backup without alerting others that he’d stuck his nose in where he shouldn’t. The joys of working under the radar. Instead, he headed back to his car, glad now that he hadn’t parked right outside.

  A little over five minutes later, his patience was rewarded. Two figures emerged from the side he had exited minutes earlier. A pair of twenty-somethings, casual dress, jeans with dark lightweight jackets. Unremarkable, apart from the lead man, crimson trainers that could have been dipped in blood and not changed colour.

  His partner, wearing a far tamer pair of dark brown boots, had a black bin liner clenched in one fist that swung like a pendulum as they walked. Whatever was in it was heavy. They climbed into a black BMW by the kerb and jerked out into traffic.

  Porter let three cars pass, before pulling out to join them. Two options scrolled through his head. Most likely they were members of Triple H, cleaning up Henry Kamau’s place before any coppers turned up to search it. He could lead them to Jackson Tyler, or at least one step closer. There was also a chance they could be part of a rival organisation, carrying out an opportunistic raid on whatever Kamau had stashed if word had gotten out that he was hospitalised.

  He mixed it up, letting a little more space open up on longer stretches of road, but never more than a couple of hundred yards. They cut down towards the Thames and west along Newham Way. The dome of the O2 poked above the skyline to his left, support struts jabbing into the air like prongs on a crown. On past Canary Wharf, its high-rises jutting up like a half-finished game of Tetris.

  By the time they crossed Tower Bridge, Porter was beginning to wonder if they’d spotted him, and were just playing. Finally, after little under an hour of driving, the BMW pulled off Camberwell Road at the Castlemead Estate, just shy of Camberwell Green, doubling back on itself behind a matching pair of buildings. Two parallel blocks of flats, Keats House and Milton House. All sounded very highbrow.

  They pulled into the road that bisected the two buildings, Porter making sure to drive past then double back. The nose of his car poked around the corner just enough for him to see them disappear into a doorway halfway along. He waited a long ten count, before getting out and wandering towards the door, pretending to text on his phone, snatching glances either side just in case.

  A sign over the door promised access to Keats House, numbers seventeen through twenty-four. Unfortunately for Porter, an intercom and some kind of touchpoint for a key fob told him there was
little chance of slipping in unannounced, unless he could find someone to tailgate. He turned his attention to the car instead. Hard to tell whether either man had been carrying the bin liner from where he’d been looking.

  One last look around for nosy neighbours and Porter darted forward, peering through the windows. Couldn’t hang around too long in case they came back out. It occurred to him yet again that if they did, and if it went sour, he was here alone. No cavalry waiting in a van around the corner. No telling who he was dealing with or what they might do, but it was the price he had to pay for doing this on his own. Worth it.

  The interior was clean, conspicuously so. The kind of tidy you got in a new hire car. Or if you were paranoid about leaving anything incriminating around. No sign of the bag. It must have made the journey inside after all. He tried the door. Locked. Wandered to the back next and was about to try the boot, when a shout made his head snap up.

  ‘Oi, you! The fuck you think you’re doing?’

  A young black guy stood in the now open doorway. Not Red-Shoes. His mate in the boots. Porter pretended not to have heard him properly.

  ‘Sorry mate, what’s that?’

  ‘You lose whatever part of you touches that car,’ he said. ‘That clear nuff for ya?’

  ‘I dropped a tenner,’ Porter tried. ‘Think it blew under.’

  ‘Ain’t your tenner any more then, is it?’ Brown-Boots said, coming out to meet him, hands that had been stuffed into pockets now hanging by his side, ready. Behind him, Red-Shoes appeared minus the hat. Porter saw now his hair was dyed practically white-blonde, an Eminem wannabe.

  ‘Who the fuck’s this joker?’ he asked his mate.

  ‘He’s the fella just about to give us his wallet and phone, ain’t that right, mate?’

  They both advanced towards him, and he obliged by pulling out his wallet, but not quite how they’d intended, holding out his warrant card. Not the first time he’d been in a bit of a jam, but his pulse hammered a loud, excited beat in his ears all the same.