End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  Porter slipped it back in his pocket, not wanting to run the risk of firing one back, exposing his screen for anyone nearby to see.

  Winter kept the pace up for another half an hour, and practically every word he uttered made Porter’s skin crawl. The guy was basically advocating taking matters into your own hands, without going the whole hog and asking for outright violence. That was the gist of it though. Making people believe that it was their right to act, that they could stop atrocities like Ross Henderson’s death by standing up for their country.

  London already felt like a tinderbox waiting for someone to drop a match. If even a fraction of those here and everyone watching online answered this call to arms, the few incidents Porter knew about so far would be eclipsed by a bonfire big enough to be seen from space.

  Winter was drawing to a close now. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the show of support. I’m going to let you all head off for a bite to eat now, but I’ll leave you with this.’

  One final pause, hands gripping either side of the lectern. A preacher delivering his sermon.

  ‘In the words of our greatest playwright, William Shakespeare, once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. Each and every one of you has a part to play in fixing this, and don’t let anyone in Westminster tell you different. If any party leaders are brave enough to call for a vote of no confidence in the PM, I for one would throw my weight behind them. I’m talking to the likes of you, Sally Ashbrooke, and you, Marcus Davidson, leader of the so-called opposition. My door is open to anyone brave enough to step through it.’

  Winter stepped back from the lectern as the room erupted. It had been loud enough when he’d walked in, some even shouting for more, like it was a gig, and he’d run back out with the band and play an extra set. The two minders tucked in either side as Winter strode down the centre of the room. Rows of faces turned as he passed, like a congregation at a wedding watching the happy couple breeze past.

  Winter could easily have snuck out through one of the side doors, but he, and his organisation, needed coverage like oxygen. He’d want his moment on the steps. Once he was out there, it would be harder to control the conversation. Two sets of opposing views, his loyal followers in here, die-hard protesters outside. Better to have a word inside, even with a throng of Winter supporters keen to get back to work, lunch or whatever else they had on; the more appealing of two crappy options. No guarantees that Winter would come back to the station with them willingly on the spot. Worst case they’d have to arrange a time for him to call in.

  Porter had taken up residence in the second row from the back, bang in the middle, and started pushing his way past those to his right. He figured best to exit to the side and circle around, catch Winter in the reception area, rather than step out, centre aisle like a one-man roadblock. Looked like he’d timed it well, Winter was midway through the crowd, as Porter walked around, behind the back row. All going according to plan. Until it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Porter heard the man coming before he actually saw him. His attention was fixed on Winter, visible from the head up between his standing supporters. Shouts from somewhere in reception, the words lost in a barrage of noise, chanting from outside dominating the soundtrack now. Doors must be open. A figure burst through the doorway, moving fast, jeans and jumper, too quick to make out a face. Looked like one of the home-made signs, nailed to a two-by-four, raking the floor where he dragged it behind him.

  Winter’s face was framed between two rows, beginnings of surprise on his face, jaw changing from slack confusion to disbelief. Porter charged along the remainder of the row, shouting to be heard above the noise.

  ‘Police, out the way. Move! Move!’

  He rounded the last seat, cornering like a ten-year-old Ford Fiesta in need of a MOT, catching a foot against a metal chair leg and stumbling against an outstretched arm that came from nowhere, like a clothes line. Twenty feet away, minder number two was manhandling a scruffy-looking man to the floor, egged on by the crowd, several of which had jumped into the aisle to help.

  Over the melee, Winter was being guided away by Finch, a slight stoop in his gait as if expecting something launched their way. Porter fished his radio out as he shouldered his way into the growing throng, seeing a kick connect with the man on the floor, but unable to see the boots’ owner for the other bodies.

  ‘Winter’s heading for the back,’ he barked into the radio, no time for preamble, and to the crowd, ‘Police, back in your seats. Step back, now!’

  His voice must have carried. Finch glanced over his shoulder, met Porter’s eye, face as sour as spoilt milk. No question of following them, not with the lynch mob kicking seven bells out of the guy on the floor. He’d have to hope the others would collar Winter on his way out. Both Finch and Winter disappeared from his view as he shoe-horned his way between two more bodies, clamping a hand on the minder’s shoulder, where he knelt on top of the protestor.

  Fresh shouts from behind him, back towards the door. He twisted around to look, even as he identified himself again.

  ‘Police, back off. Hands off him. I’ve got this.’

  A second figure had raced through the door, several crowd members at the back alert to the new threat. Those further forward sensed it, surged in a wave that caught Porter, bearing him down. Through a tangle of legs, a flash of high-vis yellow, cavalry arriving. Something solid connected with his temple, fireflies bursting across his vision, dragging him down, down.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A buzzing filled Porter’s head, white noise, expanding, filling every corner of his world, like tinnitus on an Olympic level. He had fallen sideways, the upper half of his body now in one of the rows. Pushing up on one arm, he saw people scattering in every direction. Strands of sound started to separate out. Shouts from somewhere in the room. A flash of colour to his left, neon yellow. The officers from outside. His head clearing fast, vision un-fogging like a windscreen, he pulled himself up against a seat. He saw the man still pinned to the floor by Winter’s hired help, the minder slipping in sly blows to the trapped man’s ribs.

  ‘Get off him,’ he said, feeling the steadiness flood back into his legs. ‘Police, I said off him now.’

  The minder looked up, sneered, held Porter’s eye as he hammered home another punch. Porter took a step towards him but jerked back into the row as two uniformed officers burst past, grabbing an arm each, hauling the minder off his victim.

  Quick sweep of the room, and most of it had cleared now. Porter slipped his warrant card from his jacket and showed it to another pair of uniforms who came down the aisle towards him.

  ‘DI Porter, where’s Damien Winter?’

  Split-second cynicism as they clocked the ID. ‘Haven’t seen him, sir. Didn’t go out front, I know that much.’

  Porter left them to it, trotting past the protestor, complaining of police brutality as his hands were cuffed, even though they’d saved him from a far worse beating. The minder might as well have had ‘bully’ tattooed on his forehead. The kind of guy who pulled wings off flies as a kid.

  ‘Tell me someone has him,’ he barked into the radio.

  Styles’s voice crackled back. ‘Rear left fire exit, boss. Everything OK in there?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Porter, grimly.

  He pushed the bar down on the door and winced as he stepped out, sunlight hitting him like a flashbulb. A quick press against his temple and a lance of pain shot through him, edges blurring for a fraction of a second. Not quite one hundred per cent back online yet.

  ‘Boss, over here.’

  Styles’s voice came from the other side of the door, and Porter stepped out, letting it swing closed behind him, to see Winter and Finch, Styles and Bell on one side, Sucheka on the other. Finch was face to the wall, one arm wrenched up behind his back courtesy of Tessier. Finch might look like he lived in a gym, shirt like a second skin over his biceps, but he might as well be a skinny kid who’d never been in the
same room as a dumbbell with the ease with which Gus held him there.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Winter said. ‘Those idiots attack us, and you’re out here pushing us around instead of locking them up.’

  A sheen of sweat glistened on Winter’s forehead, not quite as composed as he had been two minutes ago. Porter raised his eyebrows at Tessier.

  ‘Gus?’

  ‘He tried to swing for me, boss.’

  ‘Tried being the operative word,’ said Bell, fighting back a smile. ‘Looked like he was trying to swat a fly.’

  ‘You let go of me, and we’ll see just how hard I can swat. Knock you back to your own bloody country,’ Finch snarled through lips smushed against brick.

  Tessier gave Porter a look that said he’d be game for that, but Porter ignored it.

  ‘We’re not here for you, Finch. We’re here for your boss.’

  As he said it, he saw an ugly expression ripple across Winter’s face, one of a man constantly looking down his nose at others. ‘And since when is exercising your right to free speech a crime?’

  ‘When what comes out is as bad as yours, I’d say all day, every day,’ said Styles.

  Winter fixed him with a cold, unblinking stare, like he was something to be studied.

  ‘Your winning personality gets you through though, I’m sure,’ said Styles.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, Constable …’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Styles’ he said, enunciating the first two words to hammer them home.

  ‘So that affirmative action stuff really works then? Good for you, both of you,’ he said, inclining his head towards Tessier as well.

  ‘About as well as the Hitler Youth programme has for you,’ Styles said, deadpan.

  Porter caught Winter’s micro expression. Slitted eyes, clenched jaw. Nick had made an enemy here for sure.

  ‘Enough of the small talk,’ he said, cutting across the pair of them. ‘Mr Winter, this isn’t to do with your little get-together in there. We need to talk to you about Ross Henderson. You too, Mr Finch, isn’t it?’

  Finch looked surprised at the mention of his name.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Not really a street corner kind of conversation,’ said Porter, seeing Waters and Williams appear around the corner, beckoning them to join the party. ‘If you’ve got no lunch plans, you can join us at Paddington Green.’

  ‘Afraid I’ve got places to go, people to see. Some other time perhaps,’ said Winter, nice as pie, like Porter had invited him around for dinner and drinks.

  ‘Up to you, but it’s going to happen sometime in the next twenty-four hours whether you like it or not,’ Porter chanced his luck, no way to force him in such a short timeframe. ‘Either way, we’ll keep hold of Mr Finch here. DC Tessier looks a little shaken by the attempted assault. We need to speak to him about Mr Henderson as well, so you can have him back when we’re done with him.’ He paused, enjoying the silent anger radiating from Finch, but especially the realisation from Winter that he wasn’t the alpha here, not now at least.

  ‘Fine, but you might as well have a revolving door on there, for how long my solicitor is going to let you keep me.’

  ‘You see, mate,’ Styles said, leaning in, as if sharing a secret with Finch, ‘you soon learn who your friends are. He’s watching his own back already. I’ve put away a few over the years that are gonna love you when you’re inside.’

  Finch tried to twist around, but Tessier’s grip was a vice only a few could break, and he wasn’t one of them.

  ‘They want a reaction, Leo. Don’t give them the satisfaction. I’ll take care of everything.’

  ‘You take care of Ross Henderson?’ Bell asked, stepping forward, two feet away from Winter now. ‘Or you have one of your Gestapo like Finch here handle it?’

  Winter didn’t rise to the bait, just slipped his phone out and started scrolling through his contacts, looking for his solicitor presumably.

  ‘No need for a brief if you’ve got nothing to hide, Damien,’ said Bell, feeling around for which buttons to push. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Damien, do you? Loved The Omen. Great film.’

  As much as Porter was sure Winter’s brief would have something to say about this kind of needling, he sensed where she was going. Men like Finch in particular, those with fuses shorter than the seven dwarves, could be herded into a corner, prodded until they bit, overshared in anger. Winter looked a little too composed to fall for it, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Yes, hello, can you put me through to Gene Rafferty, please? It’s Damien Winter.’

  Porter recognised the name. Rafferty was the marginally less obnoxious half of Rafferty and Nath, a firm renowned for representing some of the most polarising public figures to grace the red top gossip columns.

  ‘Boss, you got a sec?’ It was Dee Williams, she and Glenn Waters having finally caught up.

  ‘What is it, Dee?’

  She was a little out of breath from trotting around from the other side of the building, but Porter’s eyes widened as he took in what she had to say.

  ‘Right,’ said Winter, ending his call. ‘He’s on his way. Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

  ‘Don’t think it’s going to be quite as quick as you think, Mr Winter. You might want to cancel any afternoon plans as well.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’ Winter said, dripping with contempt now he had the cavalry on the way.

  ‘Because, Damien Winter, you are under arrest for conspiracy to murder Ross Henderson.’

  Porter rattled through the rest of his rights, motioning for Tessier to take Finch, and Styles to escort Winter back to the cars.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ Bell asked, as Porter ran a hand through his hair, wincing as the pain flared back up from his forgotten blow to the head.

  ‘Dee got a call just as all hell was breaking loose in there. Apparently, we’ve got him on tape agreeing the hit on Henderson.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ‘No,’ said Bell, drawing the vowel out for a three count, sounding almost disappointed. ‘Who’d he ask to do it?’

  ‘No idea yet. Seems we got it via email. Audio file of a call, don’t know who else was on with him. That new lad – what’s his name? One that looks like Harry Potter – he listened to it and called Dee.’

  Porter kept his voice low as they trailed six feet behind the others, not wanting to tip his hand to Winter just yet. He needed to listen to the file first. Arresting Winter had been an in-the-moment call. Could have still taken him in, checked the audio and arrested him after it was all out on the table. It had been the comment to Nick that tipped it though. Casual racism, passing as polite conversation, and Porter knew from Winter’s reputation that there was nothing casual about his beliefs. To hell with him. Milburn wouldn’t be happy about not being looped in before the arrest was made, but bollocks to bureaucracy and the bullshit that came with it. Besides, it had felt good.

  ‘Calls for a celebration then,’ said Bell. ‘Same time, same place, my round.’

  ‘I, um, I don’t think I can tonight,’ he said, flashing back to Evie’s reaction earlier. Bridges to build.

  ‘Your loss,’ she shrugged. ‘You change your mind, you let me know.’

  He looked across at her, trying to read her, but was none the wiser. What did it matter whether it was just a friendly drink or not? Wasn’t like him to overthink, but regardless, he had some making up to do with Evie.

  When they reached the front corner of the building, Porter saw several handcuffed men being loaded into a van. Hard to tell which side of the fence they’d been on. He could see their unmarked cars where they’d left them parked up. Ahead, Winter was still arguing the toss with Styles. Porter caught the odd word, Winter trying to figure out what they had, what had changed things back there.

  A muted rapid-fire sound reached his ears at the same time he heard footsteps. Three people, all press, converged on them. The photographer, snapping off shots, camera click
ing like a Geiger counter. Following close behind, an all-too-familiar face.

  ‘Detective Porter, Amy Fitzwilliam, Sky News. What can you tell us about the men you’ve arrested? Are they protestors, or …?’ She tailed off, expression freeze-framing for a split second as she processed who it was being led away.

  ‘Is Damien Winter under arrest, and if so, can you tell us what for?’

  ‘Jesus,’ Porter muttered under his breath, before turning, giving her a polite smile and a bland answer.

  ‘We can’t comment at this stage. Excuse me, step back, please,’ he said as her own cameraman edged closer, positioning himself ahead of Porter but walking backwards, then panning forward to catch a shot of Winter.

  ‘Have you made any progress on the Ross Henderson case, Detective? Is this linked in any way?’

  Winter, ever the one to seize an opportunity, twisted around, calling over his shoulder. ‘People dying on our streets, terrorists free to come and go as they please, and I’m the one they arrest? Speaks volumes as to this government’s priorities.’

  What a load of crap, thought Porter. As if the Prime Minister had called in a favour from him, asked him to pick on Winter. There may well be politics at play, but this arrest was anything but politically motivated.

  ‘Please, Ms Fitzwilliam, any more questions, you can ask them at the next press conference,’ said Porter, holding his arms out to the sides, trying to shepherd them away, or better still, stop them in their tracks entirely.

  ‘Next conference?’ she said, eyes lighting up at a loose thread to pull on. ‘So, it is linked then?’

  Porter clenched and unclenched his jaw, said nothing,

  ‘Doesn’t pay to make assumptions, Ms Fitzwilliam,’ Bell chimed in. ‘I’d stick to facts, and if it’s facts you’re after, there have been a number of arrests after a disturbance at an EWP rally today. That’s all we can say at the moment.’

  Fitzwilliam raised one eyebrow. ‘And you are?’