End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  He made a mental note to ask them when he went downstairs and was about to stand up when something caught his eye. A furrow cut into the carpet running almost parallel to the desk. A quick glance at the other side of the desk revealed a matching groove in the carpet pile. The desk had been moved. Recently by the looks of it. Maybe Henderson had hidden something underneath it? He tried pushing it with his shoulder, but the weight, combined with a deep pile carpet, meant it only moved a few centimetres. He stood up, grabbing the front and back edges, knees slightly bent to take the weight in his legs rather than back, and grunted as he lifted, dragging it away from the wall until it sat at ninety degrees to its original position. Nothing left behind on the carpet except a couple of coins and a paperclip.

  He had another thought, tipping it gently backward, feeling it grow heavier as it tilted, until the rear edge rested on the carpet. Both sets of drawers, the chunks at either side that Porter thought of as the twin pillars of the desk, were exposed, the bottom of the last drawer sitting an inch above the floor. This created a space about the size of two hardback novels.

  Porter peered at the first pillar, running his fingers around the edges. Nothing. He reached into the second side, breath catching in his throat as his fingers brushed against something standing out from the grain of the wood. He dipped his head, looking under the top edge, seeing a strip of tape with a bump in the centre. He picked at the edges with his thumbnail, tugging the tape free. It came off in one piece, and he saw the lump, still stuck in the centre of the strip, was a plastic case the size of a large stamp, tiny black SD card held safe inside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The English Welfare Party headquarters wasn’t so much an office as a warehouse. The drab unit was on Canterbury Industrial Estate, near Peckham. With its half-brick, half-corrugated metal front, it could have been mistaken for just another wholesalers or mechanics, if it weren’t for the inverted sword logo plastered across the door.

  Styles had deliberately not called ahead, figuring the EWP had set its stall out well enough yesterday as not exactly cooperative. If Winter was here, no sense giving him time to compose himself, if he even waited around for Styles to arrive. No, Styles preferred to catch people on the fly, see real-time reactions, micro expressions, tics they didn’t even know they had. All in the moment, no time to rehearse a response.

  He pulled into the space closest to the door and scanned the rest of the area. The unit sat back from the road, surrounded by a gunmetal grey fence, easily eight feet high, tips of each strut split into three sharp points like a mini-trident. Not exactly the home you’d expect for a political party. The Tories and Labour usually pitched their tents on a main road, big glass windows plastered with a collage of propaganda. This was more like a compound.

  He’d barely swung his legs out from the car, when the door to the unit opened, and a man stepped out. No mistaking the fact he’d come out to see Styles. He stood there, arms folded, face set into something approaching a sneer. Somewhere in his fifties, hair barely long enough to pass for stubble, well-cultivated beer-belly spilling over his belt, grubby fleece zipped up to under his chin.

  ‘’Fraid this is private property. Gonna have to ask you to park somewhere else,’ he said, giving Styles a once up and down as he climbed out and straightened up to his full six-four.

  ‘What if I’m here to join up?’ said Styles, pointing up at the logo.

  ‘Here to …’ A flicker of something between disbelief and confusion flickered behind the man’s eyes. ‘We’re not accepting new members at the moment. Not the likes of you anyway.’ He puffed his chest out, rounding his shoulders, trying to look the big man.

  ‘Likes of me? What, you mean you don’t allow Sagittarians?’

  ‘He means you can only join if you’re British,’ a second voice came from inside, soon followed by a second man, shorter than his tubby friend, but wiry. Styles clocked a tattoo on his left arm that matched Roly Thomas’s, wrapped around a forearm braided with muscle, the kind you get from a life of hard graft.

  Styles made a show of patting his pockets. ‘If I’d known you did ID checks I would have brought my passport.’

  ‘How ’bout you do us all a favour and piss off?’ said the new arrival. ‘There’s a good lad.’ Those last words were sickly sweet with sarcasm, hint of a West Country accent creeping in around the edges.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your names, fellas.’

  ‘You don’t want Jimmy here to have to ask twice,’ said the first man. ‘That’ll just make him angry. Now do like he said and piss off back to wherever you came from.’

  No mistaking the racial undertones now. Nothing Styles hadn’t heard before. He’d learnt enough self-control not to react long before he joined the Met, but he’d had enough of the verbal sparring.

  ‘Jimmy, is it?’ he said, cocking his head as if checking for understanding. He pulled out his warrant card as he spoke. ‘Well, don’t you worry, Jimmy, I’ll be heading back to Paddington Green soon enough, but not before I’ve had a chat with Damien Winter. DS Nick Styles by the way.’ He flashed a how-do-you-like-them-apples? smile, enjoying the frustration on both faces as they realised they weren’t going to scare him off with a little casual racism.

  ‘You not going to invite me in then, gents?’ Styles asked.

  ‘He ain’t here,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘You mind if I take a look inside to check?’

  ‘You got a warrant?’ Jimmy snarled.

  ‘Ah Jimmy, I thought we were all mates here. You, me and … I didn’t catch your name,’ he said to the first man.

  ‘It’s Pat, and that badge you flashed don’t make us mates.’

  ‘OK Pat, how about I take you at your word and believe you when you say Mr Winter isn’t here. Do you know where I might find him?’

  Pat checked his watch and smirked. ‘He’s going to be pretty much everywhere, any minute.’

  Something about the way he said it set Styles’s nerves jangling. Whatever the dunce in front of him was hinting at, odds were it wasn’t going to be good.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Porter rummaged in his pocket for the adaptor he’d nabbed from Styles, that would let him slot the card in and view any files on his phone. He slotted the micro SD card in, aware his breathing had become shallower. Menus popped up, and he tapped through them, anxious to see the contents. One file. No name, just a date. Porter tilted his head towards the door, convinced he’d heard a creak. No sound other than a car driving past outside. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunching over the screen, and pressed play.

  The footage opened fast and jerky, as if Ross had been putting on his jacket. Porter recognised the very room he was in, looked at the scroll bar and saw the clip was over two hours long. He’d get one of the team to sit though the full thing later, but for now, he just needed the highlights. He dragged a finger across the bar and the picture leapt forwards like stop-motion animation.

  After a minute or so of trial and error, he left it playing at a point where Henderson was outside, walking towards a large group of people. The soundtrack so far was mostly Henderson’s footsteps, occasional rustle of fabric for good measure, but as he drew closer to the crowd, Porter could make out raised voices, some kind of chant. The footage wasn’t high definition, but eventually what had been white blobs in the distance melted into focus. Placards. Some kind of protest? Slogans crept into view.

  One race – the human race

  Root out racism

  Dotted around the edges of the protestors, splashes of luminous yellow. A dozen officers set against a backdrop of a hundred or more people. A token safety net if ever there was one. Henderson veered off right before he reached the throng of people, hugging a wall that ran down the side of whatever the building was they’d gathered around. He stopped by a set of dark green double doors and stayed there. Porter waited him out for a minute before scrubbing ahead again. Bodies popped into shot from nowhere only minutes later, and he dragged it back and fo
rward until he had the moment the doors opened and whoever it was exited the building.

  Porter recognised Damien Winter straightaway. Could have been a poster child for the Third Reich back in Nazi Germany. Tall, smartly dressed, blonde hair bordering on white in the sunshine, rocking the Aryan chic look, with cheekbones you could sharpen a knife on. Flanking him either side were burly twin minders, cut from the same cliff face, craggy features and bulging biceps. Winter barely gave Henderson a glance as they went to breeze past where he stood. ‘Mr Winter? Mr Winter?’

  It was the first time Porter had heard Henderson’s voice other than on the footage of his murder. He sounded younger than he looked, borderline nervous, little of the steel Porter had heard in the opening minutes of his final Facebook appearance.

  Winter turned to face him, stopping mid sentence. No mistaking the recognition on his face, quickly turning to irritation, slightest of eye-rolls, like a parent about to explain something to a child for the fifth time.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t storm in a teacup,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got time for your shit today.’

  Winter turned to walk in the opposite direction. Slightest of tremors to the picture, Henderson huffing out a loud breath.

  ‘You got time to talk about the delivery driver a couple of your men put in hospital last week?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re on about,’ Winter called over his shoulder, six feet away now.

  ‘So, if I said I had proof, you’d not have time for that either?’

  Winter stopped and wheeled around. Looked like he was staring straight into the lens.

  ‘You had proof, you’d be speaking to one of those fine officers of the law up there,’ said Winter, pointing over Henderson’s shoulder. ‘Not having a cosy little chat with me.’

  The perspective twisted slightly, making Porter wonder if Henderson was looking back at the officers, wishing they were a little bit closer right now. A rustling noise muffled the next few words. Next thing Porter saw was a phone in Henderson’s hand, different from the one he had seen in the courtroom. An older model, camera on, mini version of Winter on screen, timer ticking forward showing it was recording.

  ‘… to see what you had to say. Might not be enough to put you behind bars, but it’ll be enough to make them dig. What are they going to think about your little trips to Peterborough as well?’

  Winter glanced down towards his feet, half-smile, shaking his head. He turned towards the slab of muscle to his left, muttered something Porter couldn’t make out. The man smiled, all the warmth of a snowball, and moved faster than someone of his size should be able to. One minute the phone was in Henderson’s hand, the next it was gone, presumably getting pulverised under the big man’s foot, from the way he was stamping a boot down.

  Henderson jumped back a few feet. ‘Hey, you can’t—’

  ‘Can’t what?’ the big man growled, a meaty hand the size of a shovel reaching out, grabbing a handful of jacket, pulling Henderson back in close.

  The two men were close enough that all Porter saw on screen was the white of the other man’s shirt, bookended by black edges of jacket. Winter’s voice, when it came, was calm, flat even, no trace of emotion. The polished edges to his pronunciation slipped off, leaving behind the North London boy. That made what he said all the more menacing.

  ‘You’d best stick behind your keyboard, son.’

  Breathing came in hurried, shallow bursts. Had to be Henderson’s.

  ‘The world’s a dangerous enough place already with those bleeding-heart liberals up there, begging to open the floodgates to any Tom, Dick and Abdullah who wants to come and help themselves to some dole money. Let’s not go stirring up any more trouble than we need to, eh?’

  ‘Get off me,’ Henderson said, picture wobbling as he wriggled, but the grip on him held firm. For all Porter knew, he had the other man-mountain’s hands on him now as well.

  ‘You might have a few million fools following you online, but they ain’t here now, are they? Now, you listen up good. You crack on and preach all you like, but you cause trouble for me or any of my boys, and you’re gonna find yourself taking a long walk off a short pier. Freddie and Leo here would be happy to help you with that, wouldn’t you, boys?’

  A series of grunts, what probably passed for laughter from the two big men. More laboured breathing.

  ‘First and only time I’ll tell you this,’ one of the big men said. ‘There ain’t no second chances with me. You try me, it won’t end well. Tell me you understand that.’

  Few seconds of silence. ‘I asked you if you fucking understand that,’ he roared, voice like a revving engine.

  ‘Yes, yes, I hear you, for God’s sake, I just wanna—’

  More muffled words, Winter and his men exploding back into view as Henderson was presumably released and pushed away in one movement.

  The three men turned, oddly synchronised like soldiers on parade, and left without another word.

  ‘Jesus,’ Porter let go a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

  ‘Jesus,’ Henderson’s own voice mirrored his own, making hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

  They had Winter, well, enough to bring him in for questioning anyway. Not even Milburn could ignore a death threat caught on camera. Clever of Henderson to pull the phone out, goading Winter into letting his guard down when he thought the chance of anyone else hearing the conversation had gone. Well, maybe not clever as such. Could have cost him his life ultimately.

  He checked his watch, an hour to go before he’d agreed to meet Styles back at the station. Milburn needed to hear this now though. He popped the cable out, slipping the micro SD card back into the case, and sliding both into his inside pocket. As an afterthought he reached out and plucked the photo up off the duvet. Quick check in with the Hendersons to see if they knew who the girl was and he’d be on his way.

  Styles’s name flashed on his phone.

  ‘Nick, I’m heading back now. You’re not going to believe what I’ve just watched. I—’

  Styles cut him off. ‘I’ve got something you need to watch right now, boss. It’s Winter. He’s broadcasting live.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘I thought long and hard about what to say today,’ Winter began, ‘or whether I should say anything at all.’

  Porter’s phone connected to the car as he started the engine, and Winter’s voice boomed out, like he was there in person. He dropped his phone into the passenger seat, along with the items he’d taken from Henderson’s room, and pulled out to head back to the station. It was surreal, hearing a different version of the man he’d just seen threaten Ross Henderson’s life. This, his public face, was all charm. Measured, articulate. Easy to see how he swayed a certain type to his cause.

  ‘And it came down to this: how could I not?’

  He couldn’t help an occasional glance down as he drove, seeing Winter stare at the camera for a beat, as if expecting an answer to his own rhetorical question. The irony that he was broadcasting using the same Facebook Live feature that had screened Henderson’s murder wasn’t lost on Porter. Looked like he was sat at a dining table. Porter saw what looked like turned down photo frames on the shelves behind him.

  ‘Ross Henderson and I sat on opposite ends of the political table, but he was still just another human being. What happened to him was deplorable. Those responsible need to be punished, but so do those who let them into our country in the first place. Our Prime Minister hasn’t just gone for an open-door policy, he’s taken the bloody door off the hinges. You mark my words a storm is coming.’

  A flash of passion now. Porter could sense him building. Was that an intended play on words with the storm reference?

  ‘He needs to go, and he needs to go now. Someone in authority needs to pay for what happened to Ross Henderson, and that man is Prime Minister Joseph Banks. He needs to, if you’ll pardon my expression, fall on his sword. The time has come for new leadership, and I for one propose a vote o
f no confidence in him and his government.’

  Winter radiated a peculiar mix of anger and energy. A dangerous man at the best of times, let alone if he conned enough disillusioned voters. He had stood for election three times that Porter knew of, beaten each time by one of the larger party candidates, but narrowing the gap inch by inch.

  ‘Now, we at the EWP are growing, make no mistake about it.’ He stabbed a finger at the tabletop. ‘We are here to stay, and to you, the British people, I say this.’ Winter paused for effect. ‘Let us put aside our differences and grieve for the young man who lost his life. Let us punish those who killed him. But once that is done, you need to demand more. You need to put a government and a leader in place that puts you first, that stakes our claim to being the world power we know we are. Neither the Prime Minister nor the leader of the opposition are that person. It’s time for a new party to rise, be that mine or any other, and give you the country you deserve.’

  Winter signed off with a nod to whoever was working his camera to end the broadcast, and Porter drove the rest of the way back in silence, mentally chewing over what he’d just heard. Styles’s was the first face he saw when he strode out of the lift back at Paddington Green.

  ‘You catch it all, boss?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it. Fancies himself as a bit of a Churchill-type figure, doesn’t he? Trying to stir up the Great British public and all that.’

  ‘They’re a dangerous bunch, the lot of ’em,’ Styles said, and filled Porter in on his visit, and the warm welcome from his new friends Jimmy and Pat.

  ‘And they didn’t give anything away on Winter?’