‘I look after my sister’s kids sometimes. Both gonna be famous painters when they grow up. Messier the better at that age.’
Far too early for small talk, Porter launched straight in. ‘I understand you and Ross Henderson were close, and we’re hoping you can fill in some blanks for us.’
‘I … um … yeah, sure. Whatever I can do to help.’
‘Thanks. So, we spoke to his parents, and his dad shared some information with us about threats he’d been receiving. Are you aware of those?’
Kirk’s gaze drifted down to the table, no surprise registered. Nodded twice.
‘What can you tell us about them?’ Styles prompted.
‘I saw a fair few, but I’m pretty sure there were plenty more he kept to himself.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Stuff he said. Fact that he handled the inbox for the Stormcloudz website himself. Wouldn’t share the password. Said there were plenty of bored white middle-class men with too much free time on their hands, bad enough that it filled it up like spam sometimes.’
‘No other reason he wouldn’t want you to have access?’
‘Not really, no,’ said Kirk. ‘Apart from the fact he wouldn’t tell us the broadcast locations, he was a pretty open book.’
‘When you say us, you mean Jason McTeague as well?’
‘Yep. The three of us have been doing this for almost four years now.’
‘And how would you describe the relationship between the three of you?’
‘Relationship? We were mates. I was in the same year at school. Jason was a few years ahead. His brother was in our year though, so I’ve known him since I was about ten.’
‘And you all got on well?’
‘Yeah, course we did,’ he said, looking puzzled. ‘Sorry, but what does this have to do with what happened to him?’
‘Just background,’ said Styles. ‘The better we know someone, the more it helps us sift through what’s relevant and what’s not.’
‘What do you mean “relevant”?’ Kirk said. ‘How’s whether we got on or not relevant to him having his head hacked off by a bunch of bloody terrorists?’
‘I know this has been a hard few days for you, Mr Kirk, but—’
‘Hard? If by hard you mean worried that they might pay me a visit next, then yeah, it’s a bit hard.’ Kirk’s stress levels were showing.
‘What would be really useful,’ Porter said in a neutral tone, ‘is to just get a sense of how you guys all worked together. Whoever did this to him knew where to find him. There has to be something in what he did, how he did it, that allowed them to do that.’
Kirk leant back in his chair, palms rasping over a Brillo pad’s worth of stubble. He looked exhausted, lost, like a man who’d just woken up in a different room to the one in which he closed his eyes.
‘Don’t know how they could, I honestly don’t. He told us nothing. Literally nothing. First we’d know of it was when we saw the streams. Had to be live as well. He wouldn’t pre-record. Said it made it more authentic.’
‘And there were only the three of you on the project?’
Kirk scoffed. ‘Project? A project is a collage you make for GCSE art. People’s civil liberties isn’t a project, Detective.’
Touched a nerve there, thought Porter.
‘Nobody else was involved, then?’
Kirk shook his head.
‘And the threats, what can you tell us about those?’
He shrugged. ‘Just par for the course these days. There are lots of keyboard warriors out there who’ll happily dive onto a Twitter thread with a death threat. Price of doing business online.’
Keyboard warrior. There was that phrase again. Made Porter picture a pasty-faced teenager, huddled over a keyboard in a dark room, streaks of camo paint on his cheeks.
‘What about run-ins with the EWP?’ Styles prompted.
‘Those soulless bastards,’ Kirk said, face screwing up like a toddler who’d been asked to eat their vegetables. ‘They like to try and flood our comments, start arguments with our fans. If they had their way, we’d have a whitewashed Britain. I’d love to see those twats take a DNA test and see all the random bits pop up. I’d pay for the lot of ’em just to see them top themselves when they find out they’ve got a couple of per cent from Kenya.’
‘Anyone specific?’
Kirk shrugged. ‘We used to trace a lot of ’em back through their profiles. There’s some worse than most though. Worst one is a guy called Leo Finch. One of Damien Winter’s lapdogs. Ross used to do most of his stuff online, but we did a couple of street protests too. Finch turned up at a couple with his boot boys. Didn’t get physical. Too many witnesses most likely, but he was up in our faces. One time, he was literally this close.’ Kirk held up his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart. ‘Leaning right in, whispering something to Ross. I was too far away to hear, but I tell you what, that’s the only time I saw Ross shook up. Whatever Finch said put the shits right up him.’
Porter was about to head off on a tangent with his next question, when something fired up a connection. He pulled his phone out, flicking to the copy of Henderson’s micro SD card footage he’d saved on there, pausing on a particular frame.
‘Don’t suppose you recognise any of those faces, do you?’
Kirk’s face was the one kids make when the rabbit pops out from the magician’s hat. ‘That’s him,’ he pointed at the men flanking Damien Winter. ‘His babysitters. This one’s Freddie. Freddie Forrester, and that,’ he said, leaving his finger pointing at the second face, ‘that’s Finch.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘What do you mean he’s gone already?’ Porter asked. ‘Why did you let him leave?’
‘Didn’t have much choice, boss,’ Tessier said, looking every inch the scolded schoolboy, not a sight you saw often with a man of his size. ‘His brief was here by the time we got back. Smarmy little sod, looked like he should still be in school, but McTeague’s story checks out so the solicitor started making all sorts of threats if we didn’t let him walk.’
‘Why was he wandering past a murder scene then?’ Styles asked.
Porter didn’t bother to correct him. Technically it wasn’t a murder scene when he did, but that was just splitting hairs.
‘Says he was pitching for work. He’s a graphic designer by trade. Only works at the bar cos there hasn’t been much work coming his way. Gave us details of a job he was quoting for that day and it checked out. Just a coincidence.’
‘You know I hate the C word, Gus.’
‘Yeah, I know, but what can you do? We sent a car to the address he gave us. They even still had his business card.’
‘You’ve met him before, Nick, what do you think?’
Styles weighed it up for a few seconds before he answered. ‘Do I think he’s told us everything, probably not, but him, Kirk and Henderson, they’re up in arms against the establishment. Hardly likely to bare their souls. Besides, his story checks out, and we’ve got bigger fish to fry with Finch and Winter. What time does his thing start?’
‘Kicks off at noon.’
‘Who’s kicking off?’
Porter spun around at the sound of Evie’s voice, hating the heat rising to his cheeks.
‘Me,’ said Styles. ‘They’ve started charging for those sachets of sauce down in the canteen. Disgraceful. Thinking of writing to my MP.’
She gave him her best sarcastic smile. ‘You poor baby, Nick. How will you cope?’
‘It’s Damien Winter,’ Porter said, cutting through the flow of banter. ‘He’s speaking at an EWP rally at lunchtime. Plan is to bring him in for questioning after that.’
‘And there was me about to offer to take you for a burger at The Lockhouse, but I can’t compete with a wannabe white supremacist.’
Her poker face held for a second longer, then broke into a smile that melted any residual tension away like warm water on an icy windscreen.
‘Rain check?’ he asked. ‘How abou
t we grab a drink after work?’
‘I’m sure I could squeeze you in. How about The Green Man?’
Definite peace offering from her. Porter’s favourite of the pubs nearby, with an extensive selection of real ales. The very bar he’d stopped off for one in last night with Taylor Bell.
‘Oh, boss, did you have a try of that one I told you about?’
Porter hadn’t even seen Glenn Waters arrive. Popped up out of nowhere like a bloody genie, and for someone who you normally wished would shut up, had made an uncharacteristically quiet entry.
‘One what, Glenn?’
‘The ale I mentioned. Haymaker. Best I’ve found this year so far. Did you try one last night?’
At the mention of his one drink with Bell, Porter felt a tiny prick of guilt. Hated that it felt like a betrayal, when he knew there was nothing in it, not from him and he was pretty sure not from Bell either. All the same, he hadn’t mentioned it to Evie, and the thin ice that had reformed over last night’s cracks felt like it might be a test too far. Their spat had left him with a pretty clear view of how his choice not to share, even for what he saw as the right reasons, could twist like a tree root, taking on a totally different shape from the one he intended. Evie’s eyes had narrowed ever so slightly. Confusion or distrust? Hard to say. No sense in lying, wasn’t his style anyway.
‘No, Glenn, I’m saving that for when you put your hand in your pocket.’
‘What about DI Bell? I reckon she’s more the white wine spritzer kind.’
‘She’d drink you under the table, Glenn,’ said Tessier with a chuckle.
‘Sounds like quite the woman,’ said Evie. No mistaking the tension in her words now, not for him at least.
‘You’d like her,’ he said, slipping into damage control, trying to keep any hint of discord from the others, dirty laundry out of sight so to speak. ‘We’ve got her from CTU on the Henderson case.’
‘Mmm,’ said Evie. ‘Well, I’ll leave you boys to it.’ She turned on her heel, heading back out to the lifts. A call of ‘See you when I see you’ over her shoulder was all he got. Next chat would be interesting, and not in a good way. He toyed with tearing a strip off Waters for dropping him in it, saw in the young copper’s face that he expected something coming his way. What was the point? he thought. He was the one who’d dug this hole. Dug? Who was he kidding? He was still waist-deep holding the shovel.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
From the footage of previous events Porter had seen, these gatherings were never quiet. Plenty on both sides wanted their voices to be heard. This one, it seemed, had been arranged at short notice, presumably because of this week’s events, and was an attempt to politicise Henderson’s death, use it as a recruiting tool even.
A fine balance, then, between walking in exposed and piling in heavy-handed. There would already be a police presence outside for the expected protest, but last night’s run-in with Jackson Tyler had left Porter with the uneasy distrust that people would even move on a copper if they were backed into a tight enough corner.
They’d parked up a few hundred yards down the street. Styles and Bell in with him. Waters, Tessier, Sucheka and Williams in a second car behind. Plan was for Porter to slip into the audience unnoticed to listen to Winter’s rhetoric. There were two fire exits and a back door. The other six would split into pairs, marking each door by the end of the event, ready to catch Winter slipping away like he had when Henderson had collared him. The team huddled in the gap between cars for a last-minute check-in.
‘Right, you all know where you need to be. Nobody leaves their spot unless I say so. Everybody clear?’ he said.
Nodding heads all round. He set off ahead of them, creating a gap wide enough that nobody would think to link them as he approached. Granted there was every chance that all seven of them gave off the scent of a copper like a heavily applied aftershave. Ten minutes until the start, and already there was a healthy counter-gathering out front. Porter guessed at between thirty and forty, herded off to one side by a line of uniformed officers. The protesters were an eclectic mix, young and old, all ethnicities. Home-made placards bounced up and down in time with chants. Some of them crude, one of them with an acrostic EWP down the left – English Wanker Party scrolling out to the right. Others more heartfelt, one catching Porter’s eye that read National pride knows no colour.
A steady stream of attendees filtered in, some shouting back at the anti-EWP chants, but Porter couldn’t make out what was said. He tucked in behind a pair of young lads, somewhere in their twenties, checking the officers as he walked past, seeing no familiar faces. Inside, it reminded him of his old school hall. Rows of hard plastic seats designed to guarantee numb cheeks after twenty minutes. Quick guestimate put the count somewhere near two hundred, rows of ten either side of a centre aisle, with an old-fashioned wooden lectern front and centre, raised up a few feet on a boxy platform.
Porter had to pick his way along a row to nab one of the few remaining spaces. Five more minutes and it would be standing room only. A pair of cameras sat on tripods at the front, ready to plaster Winter’s face and pipe his words far and wide. Quick scan of the room and it wasn’t hard to get a sense of where the core of Winter’s following lay. White, working class, forties and above, made up the bulk of the faces.
Porter checked his phone was on silent, seeing texts from the others confirming they were in position, and settled down to wait for the main event. Winter kept them waiting, like the rockstar he probably thought he was, striding out ten minutes later than advertised. Jeans and shirt, no tie, going for the man-of-the-people look. Porter recognised the man he now knew as Finch, as well as minder number two, flanking him either side, scanning the room, playing secret service with earpieces. They, like Winter, had an image they wanted to project, and the crowd lapped it up. Chair legs scraped back, applause, and even a few whistles echoing around the room.
Winter took his place at the podium, Finch and his counterpart standing a few feet to either side, pumped up golems, taking fashion tips from their boss. Nothing relaxed or informal about them though. Pair of them gave off a fizz of energy, waiting for an excuse to spring into action.
Winter held up his hands to dampen the applause. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ His smile looked photoshopped from a catalogue, definitely there, but it looked forced to Porter. Like many things about the man, all for show.
‘Lovely to see so many of you sacrificing your lunch hours to join us,’ Winter said when the clapping had faded. ‘And that’s a word you’re going to hear me talk about a lot today. Sacrifice. Ross Henderson paid the ultimate sacrifice for free speech this week.’
A wave of grumbles, half-whispered comments rippled through the room.
‘Make no mistake, he and I weren’t friends. When it came to politics, to beliefs, we were chalk and cheese, but that doesn’t mean I don’t mourn him.’
Winter paused for effect, looking down at non-existent notes, making out that he didn’t already know exactly what he wanted to say. He was good in front of an audience, Porter had to give him that.
‘I listen to what the fine officers of the Met are saying, that horrific as it was, they have this under control. That those responsible will be brought to justice. That we shouldn’t panic. To them and to you I say this: the enemy isn’t at the gates.’ Another pause. ‘The enemy, our enemy, came through those gates a long, long time ago. They’re still coming through now, hundreds of thousands every year, and our government doesn’t just let them. They hold the gate open, and say have a nice day as they waltz in.’
Another wave of discontent washed across the crowd. The whole thing felt weirdly co-ordinated, timed for effect to keep step with Winter’s speech, everyone assigned a role and playing their part. Speaking of which, Porter was conscious he was the only one that was not weighing in with a clap or a comment. Couldn’t bring himself to, even though he’d blend in better. He settled for nodding, arms folded, as Winter hit his high points.
‘
Now, am I suggesting that everyone not one hundred per cent British should pack their bags and be on the next boat out? No, I’m a reasonable man. There’s a place for those who follow the rules, who add value to society.’
Undertone being that they should know their place. Winter wasn’t stupid. He’d attract a much larger following than if he went full racial purge. This was aiming at a sweet spot, hinting at wanting what was rightfully theirs, playing on a sense of who’d been here first, where their place in the queue should be. Porter wondered if Winter believed his own hype. If he ever stopped to think about what being British truly meant. Conquered by the Vikings, ruled by the Normans, all the richer for the multicultural mix you saw every day in London in his book.
‘You get what you vote for,’ Winter continued, ‘Every illegal who slips past our borders, every so-called refugee who syphons our benefits. Benefits you, and you, and you’ – he pointed at faces in the crowd – ‘have funded with your taxes. Taxes that should be paying for more police on our streets, more doctors and nurses in our hospitals.’ Emphasis on the our, a sense of shared ownership, bonding them together.
‘And the only people who can change this are the likes of all of you in this room.’
Cheers this time. Shouts of encouragement. Cries of Spot on and Damn right.
‘How do we do that?’ he asked, tilting his head as if expecting answers. Porter looked around, a sea of faces hanging on Winter’s every word. Grim nods, an energy in the room that you could practically reach out and grab a fistful of. Dangerous in the wrong hands.
‘We don’t just vote with ballot papers. Why wait two more years for that? We vote with our feet. We vote with our voices. We get out there and show this excuse for a government that they we won’t take this lying down. We push back against the dark tide that’s flowing in.’
Porter’s phone buzzed, a text from Styles.
What a prick.
They must have found the stream and were watching it from outside.
End of the Line Page 15