End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Think this kind of wallet is the sort you boys would rather keep clear of.’

  Something about the way they carried themselves, the sneer on their faces, suggested that his status as a copper might make him a more attractive target to these fools. As they made to close the gap, he clenched his fists, ready for whatever they might be stupid enough to throw, fingers tightening on the mobile he’d forgotten he was holding.

  ‘It’s OK, boys, stand down,’ he said, raising it quickly to his ear. ‘They’re not as daft as they look.’

  Both faces opposite him creased into frowns, halting their advance as they looked first at each other, then at each end of the street, scanning the balconies on both blocks of flats. Porter pressed him his advantage.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I got this,’ he continued his one-sided conversation. ‘You’re not going to make me ask the others to join the party, are you?’

  Red-Shoes kept scanning but stayed quiet. Brown-Boots kept up his tough guy act.

  ‘The fuck you want? You got no right sniffing round my motor.’

  Porter lowered his phone. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘You two mates with Henry?’

  ‘Don’t know no Henry,’ said Red-Shoes, turning his attention back to Porter.

  He let the double negative slide, new course of action decided. ‘Sure you do. That’s why you had a key to his flat, isn’t it? What you did back there would be breaking and entering if you weren’t his friends. We haven’t been able to find any family to let them know where Henry is. I was hoping to speak to Jackson Tyler to see if he could point me in their direction.’

  ‘Man, you’d best move on,’ said Red-Shoes.

  ‘We just want to know—’ Porter began.

  ‘You not listening, bruv?’ he said. ‘We don’t know no Henry, and we don’t know no Tyler either. You keep asking, you going to get escorted off the premises, copper or no copper.’

  ‘I’d rather leave the others in their nice cosy vans,’ Porter said, holding up his phone again, ‘but if you’re coming at me, you’d best make it quick to get a few shots in before they taser you.’

  He hoped the words sounded a damn sight more confident than he felt, and that they couldn’t see the light blistering of sweat he felt pop on his forehead.

  ‘Enough.’

  A voice drifted down from above them. What it lacked in volume, it made up for in authority. Porter looked up. Saw a face at a third-floor window. One he recognised from a mugshot he’d seen this morning. Thirty-five and at the top of the Triple H tree for five years now, Tyler had a misleading face, one that looked like it belonged in middle management, not running a criminal enterprise. Short, neat hair, rectangular wire-framed glasses. White cotton shirt, top button undone. Looked like he’d just stepped out from a meeting to see what the commotion was. Porter knew better than to judge this book by its cover though. He’d read enough background on Tyler to know that he didn’t need to cultivate the hard man image, when he had his reputation to do that for him.

  Headlines that popped to mind included liberal use of violence, one in particular where a suspected informant who Tyler had allegedly used as a human dartboard, numbers drawn around his body in permanent marker, enough puncture wounds to use him as a colander, one dart still lodged deep in his throat. Nothing alleged about the injuries or cause of death, but Tyler had kept a step ahead of them so far. No direct ties to any of the atrocities he’d supposedly carried out. The police had tried and failed to turn a few members of his crew, but his men were fiercely loyal.

  Jackson Tyler rested both arms on the window ledge. ‘Problem, Mikey?’ he asked, looking at Red-Shoes.

  ‘No problem, JT,’ he said, chest puffed out, shoulders squared, peacocking for the boss. ‘Long arm of the law just got lost is all. You was just leaving, wasn’t you?’ he said to Porter.

  ‘Mr Tyler,’ Porter ignored the posturing. ‘DI Porter, Met Police. I was looking for you actually. Hoping to grab five minutes of your time.’

  Tyler just stared at him, unblinking eyes boring in, even at a distance. ‘I’m a busy man, Detective. Barely have two minutes to take a piss. What makes you think I’m going to waste five on you?’

  ‘It’s about Henry Kamau,’ Porter said, looking for a reaction but seeing none.

  ‘That supposed to mean something to me?’ said Tyler.

  ‘He’s living in one of your flats,’ said Porter.

  ‘Can’t help you. Don’t own any. Must have me confused with someone else.’ There was a lazy drawl to his words, as if Porter was boring him.

  ‘Wouldn’t bother you if we searched all the Moor Lane flats then?’

  ‘Ah, but you’d need cause for a warrant, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.’

  Porter took a deep breath, looking down at his feet, then back up at the window. He was aware that the two men here on the street with him had moved a few feet closer. Could feel the energy coming off them, practically vibrating, waiting for a word from above that would let them sort this situation their way.

  ‘I’m not here for you, Mr Tyler. I’m not even here about what happened to Henry.’ He chose his next words carefully, ignoring how unpalatable they felt on the way out, but needing to hook Tyler’s interest. ‘It’s um … it’s personal.’

  He glanced at Red-Shoes and Brown-Boots, as much to convey that he’d rather not talk in front of them, as to check how close they’d moved.

  Tyler frowned, the ghost of a smile hovering around the edges of his mouth. Porter resisted the urge to keep talking, letting the seed of interest worm its way in. Must have been a full five seconds before Tyler spoke.

  ‘Flat six.’

  With that, he disappeared back inside, leaving Porter on the receiving end of a pair of disdainful glares. A buzzing sound came from the door, and he heard the lock click open. Porter gave both the wannabe hard cases one last glance, resisting the urge to wink at Red-Shoes, and went inside. How this would go was anyone’s guess. Tyler could have a half-dozen more men upstairs with him. Porter could turn around, walk out and head back to the station. Still up to him, his choice.

  He gave a slight shake of the head as he went upstairs. Who was he kidding? It was no choice at all.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Styles and Bell pulled up outside the Duke of Wellington pub, perched on the corner of Rainham Road South. Capping off the end of a tired-looking high street, somebody obviously took pride in appearances. Hanging baskets punctuated the front wall, mini explosions of colour. Two tables outside stood clear of any empties, the third occupied by a young couple, leaning in close, as if there was a risk of their sweet nothings being overheard on the practically empty street.

  Styles caught a glimpse of his and Bell’s reflections in the window as they approached, an incongruous pairing of little and large, him towering almost a foot and a half over her. She must have seen him peering at the image.

  ‘You worried people will think I’m your date or your daughter?’

  ‘I don’t look that old just yet,’ he shot back.

  ‘More chance of me getting ID’d than you,’ she said, quickening her pace to double time it through the door ahead of him.

  The lunchtime crowd had made an early start. Pockets of people dotted around, pints in hand, clutching crisp packets. The faint base notes of hops soaked into carpets and furniture made Styles glance over towards the bar, pretty sure Porter would have gone for a cheeky one if he were here, equally sure Bell would raise her eyebrows.

  ‘Your mother teach you no manners?’ she said as they soaked in the atmosphere, such as it was. He looked at her, confused. ‘You not buying the lady a drink then?’

  ‘Oh, um, yeah, can do. What you having?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks, I’m on duty,’ she said, heading over to the bar.

  He couldn’t help but smile, shaking his head as he followed her. The lone member of staff behind the bar glanced up from the pint he was pouring, eyes flicking from them to the rising level of Gu
inness and back again.

  ‘Be with you in a minute,’ he said as Bell tapped out a rhythm against the wooden counter.

  ‘You wouldn’t be Jason McTeague, would you?’ she asked.

  His gaze flicked up again, held hers for a beat. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Sorry, do I know you?’

  He was a beanpole of a man, almost as tall as Styles when he straightened up. Messy dark brown hair and pianist’s fingers. Styles pegged him for thirtyish. McTeague leant over, placing the Guinness in front of a grey-haired old man, who returned the favour with enough change to fill a piggy bank.

  ‘DI Taylor Bell,’ she said, flashing him a full beam smile. ‘And this is DS Styles. Wonder if we can borrow you for a few minutes?’

  ‘I’m not due a break until two.’

  Bell looked around, eyebrows raised. ‘You’re not exactly swamped. I’m sure your friend there has got it covered.’

  She nodded towards the far end of the bar where a barmaid had appeared, who couldn’t be more than an inch taller than Bell herself. McTeague looked like he’d rather slam his head in the serving hatch, but nodded, and wandered over to mumble something at the unimpressed-looking barmaid.

  They settled into a table in the far corner, out of earshot of nearby punters. McTeague looked uncomfortable, as if they’d just ushered him into an interview room at the station.

  ‘This about Ross?’

  Bell slipped into a more serious mode than she’d shown at the bar, jumping the queue in front of Styles again. So much for just along for the ride.

  ‘It is,’ she said. ‘I understand you two were friends?’

  ‘He went to school with my brother,’ he said, not answering the actual question.

  ‘How well did you know him then, Mr McTeague? I hear you helped him with his social media channels?’

  McTeague sat back, nodding slowly. ‘I did, yeah.’

  Talkative this one. Like getting blood from a stone.

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  ‘Have you caught them, then?’ he asked. ‘The ones who did this. Have you arrested anyone?’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ Bell said. ‘That’s why we’re here We need to understand more about Ross’s activities, his background, to help us do just that.’

  ‘I can’t watch it,’ he said, eyes unfocused, staring over her shoulder at the wall behind.

  Don’t blame you, mate, thought Styles, but he stayed quiet, waiting the other man out.

  ‘Fucking animals,’ said McTeague eventually.

  ‘Who else knew Ross was headed to the courthouse?’

  ‘No one,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t even tell us.’

  ‘I thought you helped record his sessions with him?’ said Bell.

  ‘Nah, he did all that himself. Me and Elliott are …’ He caught himself, correcting tense. ‘Were like general dogsbodies. Admins on his website and social channels, arranging the events he did, sorting merchandise, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Merchandise?’ Styles said in disbelief. ‘What, like T-shirts and mugs?’

  ‘And the rest. Pens, mouse mats, baseball caps. He was big business. Had some big sponsors on his pages as well.’

  ‘So he wasn’t just doing this out of the goodness of his heart then,’ said Bell. ‘How much money are we talking?’

  ‘Enough to kill for you mean?’ said McTeague, shrugging, ‘Comfortable six figures last year, but he gave most of it away to charities – homeless, refugees, Help for Heroes, that type of thing.’

  ‘Any idea who would want him dead, Jason?’ she asked.

  He looked puzzled. ‘Apart from the terrorists who hacked his head off you mean?’

  ‘We’re looking into a number of possibilities.’

  ‘Cos catching the bastards live on video isn’t enough to convince you?’ said McTeague, raising it a few decibels, looking around as nosy regulars tried to hide interest behind glazed glances.

  ‘His dad told us about threats from a member of the EWP, a Roland Thomas. Name ring any bells?’

  ‘Huh!’ McTeague spat out a laugh. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘You know of more then?’

  ‘Elliott and me, we used to monitor the comments that came in. Traced plenty of the more extreme ones to blokes who didn’t exactly hide the EWP link. Most of ’em have the bloody logo as their profile pics or else it’s tattooed all over themselves.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you could get us a list of the ones you traced?’

  ‘It’s all public domain, you can see ’em all yourself, but yeah, think Elliott saved a list of them.’

  ‘And you never thought to call the police before now?’ asked Bell.

  ‘And say what? Some middle-aged racist is being mean to me online. Can you make him play nice, please?’ No effort to keep the sarcasm hidden.

  ‘Death threats aren’t nothing, Jason,’ said Styles. ‘We would have taken them seriously.’

  ‘We tried. At least Elliott did, back when the first few appeared. They’re clever though, they’re threats without being directly threatening, most of ’em anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean most of them?’ Bell asked. Styles could hear impatience creeping in around the edges.

  ‘Look, this was always more his fight, not mine. It’s all very noble and stuff, but it’s not worth dying over.’

  Styles felt them losing him, seeing the glances back towards the bar. Couldn’t shake the feeling that he was holding back though, hanging on to something. Time to apply pressure to shake it loose.

  ‘Look, Jason, we don’t want to drag you into anything you don’t want to be part of, but look at it this way’ – he paused for effect, leaning forwards over the table – ‘these men, whoever they were, there’s no guarantee they’ll stop with Ross. If they targeted him, there’s every chance they might come after Ross’s associates next, anyone aligned to his cause.’

  ‘What are you … are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that anything you can share that helps us, no matter how small you might think it is, gets these guys off the street. Stops them from hurting anyone else.’

  McTeague sat back into his seat, rubbing his palms up and down his thighs. Nerves? Sweaty palms? Styles could practically hear the cogs turning as McTeague wrestled over whether to share whatever he was keeping back. Deep breath in, out loudly through the nose. Slightest of nods, and he folded his arms, decision made.

  ‘You didn’t hear this from me, right? I want my name kept out of it.’

  If it was solid info, they’d have to take a statement, but Styles kept quiet, praying that Bell would too. Just let him talk. Styles gave the slightest of nods to encourage him.

  ‘OK, so Ross used to speak at a few political rallies, organised a few of his own too. Few months back though he went to one he wasn’t invited to. An EWP bash, not to cause trouble, just to listen to their crap. We said he looked like a shit James Bond. Baseball cap and a week’s stubble hardly makes you a master of disguise, does it? Anyway, when he came back he was pretty shook up. Took me a while to get it out of him, but someone had recognised him. Ended up getting dragged off into a side room by two gorillas in suits. They told him what would happen if he showed his face again.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘He said one of them had a cut-throat razor. Held it up to his throat and dry-shaved off some of his stubble. Said if they saw him hanging round again, it wouldn’t just be his facial hair they’d cut.’

  ‘Who’s “they”, Jason? Who said that to him?’

  ‘There was a bunch of them there, not ones he’d seen before, except for one that is. The one holding the razor. He said it was Winter.’

  ‘EWP Damien Winter?’ Bell clarified.

  ‘Course Damien bloody Winter. How many other Winters do you know?’

  Milburn would have a coronary if they went back and pissed all over the chips of a perfectly good terrorist angle, but this couldn’t be ignored. Bringing Winter’s name up seemed to have ratcheted McTeague’s nerves up a notc
h, making him fidget in his seat like a naughty child.

  ‘Anyone else vouch for this?’ asked Bell.

  ‘You calling me a liar?’ McTeague said, a little steel creeping back in.

  She shook her head. ‘No, but it’s your word against his. Can’t exactly see him backing up your story, can you?’

  McTeague’s tongue darted out, wetting chapped lips. ‘What if there was a way to prove it?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Ross, he used to wear a body cam when he went to these things. Tiny bit of kit, one of those buttonhole things, with a micro SD card.’

  ‘You’re saying he might have recorded it?’

  McTeague shrugged. ‘I never heard him mention it, but yeah it’s possible.’

  This was starting to feel ominous whichever way they chased it. Londoners were already up in arms shouting about terrorists, how the government and the Met needed to do more. Going after the EWP without hard evidence would make an even worse feeding frenzy out of it, if that was possible. EWP would call it a witch-hunt. Styles could only imagine the uproar if there was any truth in this new thread. EWP members had already shown a propensity for confrontation. Get this wrong and people would get hurt. No pressure.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Define personal,’ said Tyler. No preamble. No offer of a cuppa or a seat. Straight to business.

  Porter had run through a few options of how to position this on his way up. None of them felt appealing. Come across too needy and Tyler would be looking for something in return, a debt that Porter wasn’t sure he could bring himself to owe, no matter the stakes. Try and strongarm him and, well, Tyler didn’t seem the kind to respond too well to threats.

  The gang leader stood propped against a wall, hands in jeans pockets. He wasn’t a big man. Similar size to Porter, but he wore his authority like a cologne. The air of a man used to having his orders followed, happy to dish out the consequences to those who let him down. The flat was as minimalistic as they come. Nothing on the walls, one sofa, one chair. Not exactly lived in. Probably not even a cup in the cupboard or a knife in the drawer. The two men stared at each other. Felt like Porter’s entire body was thrumming with energy, fight or flight waiting to make a decision.