‘My wife,’ he said eventually. ‘She died a few years ago. Killed in a hit-and-run.’
‘Condolences, Detective, but this concerns me how?’
‘The car that hit her was ditched a few miles away. Never found the driver, but your boy Henry, his prints were in the passenger side.’
Porter paused, waiting, looking for a reaction. Nothing from Tyler, not even so much as a twitch. He’d be a nightmare to play poker against.
‘Like I said, I’m not here for you, or anything to do with your business, but one of your boys was in that car. I need to know who else was with him.’
‘Ask him,’ he said with a shrug.
Porter gave a wry smile. ‘I’m guessing you probably know already there’s no telling when he’ll wake up, if he even wakes at all.’
‘Nothing I can do about that.’
‘No, but you strike me as the kind of man who knows his business inside out. The kind of man that would know if one of his people killed someone, accident or otherwise.’
‘You’re saying I’ve known about this all these years and kept it to myself, Detective? A pillar of the community like me?’
‘A case like this could bring a lot of unwanted attention to you, to your business. If you gave us a name, there’d be no need to dig too much deeper into anything else.’
‘So we’re negotiating now, are we?’ asked Tyler, pushing off the wall, strolling over to where Porter stood in the centre of the room. ‘What you offering me in return then, hypothetically speaking, if I did know anything?’
‘This isn’t a negotiation, Mr Tyler,’ said Porter. ‘We don’t dish out favours.’
Tyler stopped three feet away now, smallest of chuckles. ‘Hmm, funny that.’
‘What’s funny?’
‘You say the Met don’t do favours, but it’s not the Met standing in my living room, telling me it’s personal. Tell me, Detective, you sure they’re actually letting you work this case?’
Porter tried his best to keep a straight face, but clearly had let something slip in his expression.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Tyler, leaning inches closer, studying Porter, like a scientist with a specimen. ‘Here’s my offer for you. I’m going to let you walk out of here. I’ll even call off the dogs downstairs.’ He gestured towards the window he’d leant out of. ‘Even though they’re itching to have a dance with you. Call it a mark of respect, seeing as you’re a grieving widower and all.’
Tyler folded his arms, showing Porter a sea of rippling ink poking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves.
‘This doesn’t just go away when I leave here,’ said Porter through gritted teeth, feeling the mood shift.
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Tyler.
‘How far would you go,’ Porter asked, ‘if it was your wife?’
Sod any attempt at diplomacy, Tyler wasn’t going to budge willingly. Truth be told, Porter would have been suspicious if he had. Fine line though, between baiting and pushing over the edge. If he could push the right buttons, Tyler’s next move could be to reach out to whoever Porter was looking for, to warn them or discipline them. He’d likely send Dumb and Dumber downstairs. Porter would follow them wherever they headed.
‘Oh, I don’t think you want to see how far I would go, Detective. Asking how far you’d go implies limits. That’s something not all of us have.’
Tyler took half a step nearer. Porter stood his ground, studying Tyler closely, working out the chances of things getting more than just verbal. Felt himself tensing, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. They stood like that for what seemed like an age, in reality just a few seconds, before Tyler flashed a cold smile, turned and headed back towards the window.
‘You know your way back downstairs,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘I’ll go,’ said Porter, ‘but I’ll be back. If we catch enough of you and your lot being naughty boys, I’ll get my man eventually. Just going to cost you more that way.’
Tyler turned back to face him, back in his original slouch against the wall. No poker face this time, eyes narrowed, jaw set in a hard line.
‘I ain’t no old man, Detective,’ he said. ‘You’ll not find me rolling over like Locke.’
Porter couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. Alexander Locke had been the head of a criminal enterprise, one that Porter had come up against a few years back. Locke had a man inside the force on his payroll, keeping him a step ahead, until it all unravelled. More bodies than Porter cared to remember by the end of it, Locke being one of them. The void he had left was still up for grabs to a degree. New players had come in, existing ones like Tyler had used it as an opportunity to expand.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Tyler said, smile playing around the edges of his mouth now. ‘I know you. Knew Locke too. He was old-school. Got sloppy.’
Nothing to be gained by just standing sounding off at each other now. Porter headed back out into the corridor. Just as the door closed behind him, Tyler fired his parting shot.
‘You come at me, you best not miss.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Styles couldn’t help but glance at Porter’s empty desk and wonder, mind racing as Milburn stood waiting for an answer. Porter had said he was heading back to brief the super, so if he hadn’t made it back, where the hell was he? Milburn looked at him expectantly.
‘He, uhm, he went to interview Elliott Kirk, sir. Divide and conquer, and all that. Should be back any minute.’
Truth be told, Styles and Bell had struck out with Kirk. He hadn’t been at the address they had for him, but tomorrow was Tuesday, and being a teacher, little chance he’d be anywhere other than the school. They could catch him tomorrow. Important thing now was letting Porter know where he was supposed to have been before Milburn collared him.
As if on cue, no sooner had the words left his mouth, Styles saw Porter bump the door open, head down over his phone. Time to jump in before his gaffer dug a hole.
‘Guv, we were just talking about you,’ he called over Milburn’s shoulder. ‘How did it go with Kirk?’
Blank looks from Porter, and as soon as Milburn turned to look the other way, Styles raised both eyebrows, tiniest of head tilts towards Milburn, sending his best play-along vibe with it.
‘Hmm?’ Porter looked confused. Had every right to be, but then again, so was Styles, wondering what Porter had been up to, and why he hadn’t wanted to share.
‘Kirk? Did you track him down?’
A split second later he saw Porter catch on. ‘Ah, Kirk, um no. No sign of him. He’ll have to keep to tomorrow. What about McTeague?’
For Milburn’s benefit Styles gave a rundown of Roly Thomas first, then sharing McTeague’s twin revelations about Winter and possible footage. Porter was hearing this for the first time too, and Styles saw the same uncertainty on his face that he felt in his own gut. What looked like a straightforward if gruesome case was sprouting more legs than a centipede.
‘He have any idea where Henderson might have stored this footage?’ Porter said when he finished.
Styles shook his head. ‘All he knows is that he was paranoid about keeping things on his hard drive. Preferred cloud storage, or something more portable, like a flash drive.’
‘We need to go back and see his folks again,’ said Porter.
‘DI Bell, what’s your take on this?’ Milburn cut in. ‘All sounds a little too convenient for my liking. All these death threats and nobody says a word until now?’
Bell looked first at Porter, then Styles, before she answered. ‘Honestly, sir, I don’t think we can ignore it. Group like the EWP, as far as I’m concerned, they’re one step away from domestic terrorists. Tends to be disgruntled masses with a militant core. Some nasty characters in there with not a whole load of morals to share between ’em. Wouldn’t be a great leap to think they would engineer this to whip things up, bump your average punter off the fence and onto their side. I think we have to at least do what we can to rule this out.’
<
br /> Milburn had a look about him that suggested he was picturing conflicting printed press inches. Stuck between gems like Police ignore genuine terror threat to chase after patriots and Met allowing the proverbial pressure cooker to simmer after getting fooled by the EWP.
‘What do you suggest then?’ he asked her.
Styles shared a glance with Porter, one that asked why the hell she was getting put in pole position. This was still their case.
‘Give me twenty-four hours to hear back from the Americans. I’ll try and put a rush on it, but that will give us as close to a confirmation as we can around whether this was the Brotherhood.’
‘And in the meantime?’ Milburn asked.
‘I’m happy to be an extra pair of hands for your team.’
Milburn mulled it over for a few seconds. Styles could practically hear the wheels turning, knowing how Milburn operated. SIO centre stage when things go right, with an option to palm off blame for somebody else’s plan gone wrong. That someone could well end up being Taylor Bell, she just didn’t realise yet.
‘Fine,’ he said finally. ‘But not a word of this EWP business to the press, not until we know more. Make sure your team know that, Porter. Anyone who leaks will answer to me.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Porter replied, irritated by the inference that any of them would be sloppy enough to do that in the first place. Milburn’s threats were like the man in general. Mostly for show.
The super’s attention span had clearly run its course, and with promises to come to the next team briefing, Milburn strode off towards his office, leaving the three of them to their own devices.
Styles saw Bell’s glance flick between the retreating Milburn and Porter. She knew there was something at play she didn’t fully understand. Curious, but enough smarts about her to pick up on Styles’s play and not drop them in it with the super. Whether she’d ask for a favour in return or not remained to be seen.
‘I’m going to grab a coffee. Get you boys anything?’
Styles and Porter declined in stereo, and she disappeared off downstairs. Just the two of them now. Styles waited a beat, giving Porter the chance to explain, but Porter just glanced back down at his phone.
‘You’re welcome,’ Styles said eventually.
‘Hmm? For what?’
‘Covering your arse with his lordship.’
‘Covering for what?’
‘Don’t know what happened to coming back here to brief him, but he was busy grilling me about where you’d disappeared to.’
‘And?’ said Porter, sounding put out.
‘And if you’d gone off on a tangent related to the case somewhere, I’m assuming you’d have mentioned it as part of that little debrief, which makes me wonder, if you’ve been skulking around on something else, what that something else could be. Wouldn’t have involved another trip to the hospital by any chance?’
‘What? No. Course not,’ Porter protested, with something approaching a laugh. Too forced though. Something he wasn’t sharing. Maybe not the hospital, but Styles knew his boss better than most. No way could he let things lie and leave Pittman to it.
He leant in, lowering his voice just above a whisper. ‘You know I’ve got your back, right?’
Porter hesitated, conflict of some sort rippling across his face. ‘Course I do. It’s nothing, honestly.’
Styles held his gaze, eyebrows raised, offering another chance to come clean.
‘What?’ Porter laughed out loud this time, but again, it rang a little hollow. ‘You’re being paranoid, mate.’
He gave Styles a double shoulder pat as he walked past him to his desk. Styles took a deep breath, shoving hands deep into pockets. He knew two things for sure. One, his boss had just lied to him. Two, he needed to find out why, before Porter got himself into a hole too deep to haul him out of.
Sucheka burst through the doors before either man could sit down.
‘Boss,’ she panted at Porter, as if she’d just sprinted up the stairs. Probably had. ‘It’s all kicking off. The EWP has clashed with a group of Muslims at a local mosque. Couple either side in hospital. There’s been a fire at the South London Islamic Centre as well.’
All Styles could think of was one of the toys Emma’s mum had bought for Hannah. A musical mobile dangling above her crib, one of the many tunes it tinkled, more prophesy than lullaby.
London’s burning, London’s burning.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Angela Henderson’s face, framed by the gap in the doorway, was full of hope when he introduced himself. Must think they’d made progress already, maybe even an arrest. Porter quashed that in a few short sentences.
‘Sorry to bother you again quite so soon, Mrs Henderson’ said Porter, introducing himself as Styles’s partner. ‘Nothing major to report, I’d just like to have a look in Ross’s room if that’s all right?’
Her smile drooped, face flat again. ‘Ah, yes, of course, come on in,’ she said, stepping back to let him past. ‘Is there something in particular you’re looking for?’ she asked. ‘I might be able to help you find it.’
He debated sharing specifics but decided against it. Actual footage of a death threat was going to be sensitive enough if it existed, the fewer outside his team that knew about it, the better. Instead he kept it pretty generic.
‘My colleagues just asked me to take another look around, fresh pair of eyes and all that,’ he said with an apologetic shrug. ‘We took a couple of laptops with us then, but just wanted to have another look to see if he had any more devices he might have used to run his social channels.’
‘Help yourself then. His is the door at the end of the hallway,’ she said, gesturing upstairs. ‘Think he just had the two that you took, but I’ll ask Brian if he knows about any more.’
A once-over on their first visit had yielded a pair of MacBooks, currently being scrutinised closer than an MP’s expenses, by the tech team at the station. Aside from those, and a sheaf of papers and letters, there’d been nothing else to speak of. Different now though, knowing what he was looking for. There was every chance he’d find nothing, that Henderson had everything stored in the cloud.
McTeague had mentioned a micro SD card, portable storage smaller than a postage stamp. Even if Henderson had uploaded it anywhere, if he hadn’t used the device again since, the footage might still be there. Digital dynamite waiting to be discovered.
Henderson’s room was the kind most mothers with kids still at home would relate to. Clothing scattered on the floor like someone had spontaneously combusted, duvet rumpled at the foot of the bed as if it had been kicked off, bedside table littered with paperbacks, Post-its and a trio of empty cups. A massive wooden desk dominated the room. Solid mahogany and must have weighed a ton. The dark green leather top poked out from under messy piles of paper, faded, scuffed and worn in places, from the resting of a thousand elbows. Two matching pillars of four drawers either side, with a long thin one dead centre. Porter snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
All nine were unlocked. Porter slid each one out, running fingers underneath. Bit of a cliché hiding place, but Henderson could have taped something under one of them. Nothing. He bent down, picking up T-shirts, socks, jeans, with thumb and forefinger. Unfolding, checking pockets, seams, even making a half-hearted effort to fold things and put them on the bed as he did. One less thing for Angela Henderson to pick up. Obvious spots under the bed, behind the desk, yielded nothing. He worked fast, and in silence for another ten minutes, clearing a path through the debris that remained of Ross Henderson’s life. He was beginning to wonder if he should have brought Styles instead of sending him to pay a visit to the EWP’s main office. No, he needed this time alone without distraction to sift through his meeting with Jackson Tyler, consider a next move.
Tyler’s confidence had bordered on arrogance, suggesting enough layers of insulation against anything incriminating him personally. Truth be told, Porter would have been more surprised if he’d given up any information full s
top, let alone an actual name. Wouldn’t play well for him to be seen to help the Met. In that world, reputation was everything. Plenty lurking in the shadows behind him, waiting to step up and take their shot any time a crack showed.
No, Tyler wouldn’t budge unless he was forced. And what would that take? Catching him in the act of whatever he was up to these days? Nah, no way would he get his hands dirty personally when he had men to take that risk for him. What would back him into a corner, and how far was Porter willing to go to apply the pressure?
That idea of reputation hovered in his mind like a fly waiting to be swatted as he stepped back, hands on hips, eyes doing a slow sweep. How comfortably Tyler sat on his throne relied on his ability to control his men, make things happen, bring in the money. What if that was threatened? If his business was so affected that giving up a name was the preferred option? Under normal circumstances, if this was a case Porter led on, he’d have his team to back him up, to squeeze the life out of Triple H’s cash flow, shutting them down one arrest at a time. He wasn’t naive enough to think others hadn’t tried though, and the reality was that his team here consisted of him. Anyone else in their right mind would say no to going against chain of command, and anyone that would help him, Styles for example, Porter wouldn’t want that on his conscience.
Perception is reality.
The words came to mind like subtitles on a screen. A mantra an old boss had sworn by. If Tyler believed the threat to his livelihood was real, that might be enough, but he had to believe, not just suspect. He filed that thought to return to, gaze coming to rest on a white rectangle resting against the wall to the side of the desk. It hadn’t been there before. Must have been sandwiched between some of the detritus in the desk, fallen out as he shuffled through things. The back of a photo by the looks of it. He squatted down, one knee on the carpet, turning it over to reveal a picture of Henderson, looking at the camera, wincing as a woman in side profile poked the tip of her tongue in his ear. Both his arms were by his side, one of hers extending out into the picture. A selfie by the look of it. The Hendersons hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend.
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