End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Leaving,’ said Bell, tapping Porter on the shoulder as she walked past. Fitzwilliam stayed where she was, for now at least.

  ‘I owe you. Nicely done,’ he muttered as they jogged to catch up with the others, practically at the cars now. Milburn would shit a brick when that aired, regardless of how little he’d actually given away. ‘Made it sound like we’d been called out for that, instead of just being here for him.’

  ‘Not just a pretty face,’ she said. ‘Does that mean I get to sit in on Winter then?’

  Porter considered it, whether Styles would have an issue missing out. Then again, he may well prefer to play some more with Finch.

  ‘All right then, you’re on.’

  By the time they got back to the station, Porter had the bones of an interview mapped out in his mind. Of course, a plan rarely survived intact by the time you finished these things. Winter’s solicitor, Gene Rafferty, was waiting there for them when they arrived. A nervous man, he looked like an owl, behind thick-rimmed glasses and hair that couldn’t have had more than a passing acquaintance with a brush for a few weeks at least. He was softly spoken but Porter got the impression that in itself was one of his weapons. Rafferty asked for some time with his client, and they were ushered into interview room four.

  Porter tracked down his Harry Potter lookalike, Alistair Hobson, a young PC who’d only been on the job a few months. Hobson pulled out a spare chair and offered Porter his headphones. He clicked play and settled into his seat as the ringing began. The first voice he heard gave nothing away with a barked one-word answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Damien Winter?’ When the second person spoke, it was metallic, words twisted together by some kind of voice changer.

  A few seconds’ pause.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked, low, bordering on a whisper.

  ‘Ross Henderson has footage of you threatening his life, few months back. You and Leo Finch. He’s also got proof of who did the delivery driver, and he knows all about your trips to Peterborough.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Yes. If you wanted to talk to him about it, he’ll be doing one of his live events on Sunday, alone, somewhere quiet.’

  Three seconds of static.

  ‘If you wanted to have a chat with him about it, I could tell you where to find him.’

  More silence.

  ‘Somewhere nice and quiet,’ the voice echoed.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Old Greenwich Magistrates’ Court. Sunday at noon.’

  ‘Why? What’s your angle?’

  Static. Shallow breathing. A sigh. ‘Peace and quiet. You’ll do it then?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it,’ came the reply.

  Porter stood up as the call ended. ‘Who sent it in?’

  ‘Just some Gmail address, no name attached. I tried replying to them, asking where they got it from,’ said Hobson, eager to please. ‘They haven’t replied yet.’

  ‘Nor will they,’ said Porter. ‘Bit pointless using an anonymous email address if you’re going to write back and spill the full story like a Bond villain.’

  ‘You think they used it just for this then?’

  Porter leant back towards the screen. ‘I’d say so, unless their parents were cruel enough to christen them helpful2020@gmail.com.’ Hobson blushed. ‘I’m just messing with you. Let me know if you get anything back, and do me a favour, ask someone in tech to take a look at the file, see if there’s anything to learn from that,’ he added, more to throw the lad a bone.

  Porter forwarded a copy to his own email address, then headed back to where Styles and Bell stood chatting outside the interview room that Winter and his solicitor occupied.

  ‘Any good?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Mmm. Not as smoking a gun as I’d hoped. Quality’s not great either. He’s practically whispering all the way through.’

  He summed up the call for them, feeling a niggle working its way deep, something about it felt out of sync, sticking against edges of his thoughts like a door against a warped frame.

  ‘Question is then,’ said Bell, as if she was reading his mind, ‘if Winter was the nail, who was the hammer? Who wanted him dead? Who made the call?’

  Jackson Tyler flashed to mind. Triple H. Hard. Hitting. Hammers. He huffed out a loud breath blowing away any Holly-related cobwebs, for now at least.

  ‘Apart from every member of the EWP?’

  ‘If we’re lucky we might get something from the email address, or even the audio file,’ said Styles.

  Before Porter could answer, the door to his left opened, Gene Rafferty peering out.

  ‘Ready when you are, Detective,’ he said. Couldn’t have sounded more impatient if he had a plane to catch. Didn’t even wait for a response, ducking back out of sight as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Porter turned to Bell. ‘You want a listen before you head in?’

  ‘The call? Yeah, go on then.’

  He passed her his phone, grabbing the door handle as she listened, making sure Rafferty couldn’t pop back out and eavesdrop. Porter wanted the first time either client or brief heard it to be in there, on the spot. Wanted to watch Winter’s reaction. Whole thing took a minute, give or take. He watched as she listened, saw the same uncertainty on her face as he had felt himself.

  ‘Lead the way,’ she said, nodding at the door.

  ‘Finch is next door with one of Rafferty’s lackeys,’ Porter said to Styles. ‘Play it for him as well. Should be in your inbox now.’

  Styles nodded, disappearing through the neighbouring door.

  ‘Right, let’s do this,’ said Porter, holding the door open for Bell.

  Rafferty and Winter were huddled on the far side of the table, but conversation stopped like an old Wild West saloon. Porter ran through the formalities and started the recording.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Ross Henderson, Mr Winter?’

  ‘Relationship?’ Winter chuckled. ‘Makes it sound like I used to wine and dine him.’

  ‘Longer you dance around it, the longer we sit here,’ Bell said, clearly in no mood to mess around.

  ‘In that case, let’s just say we had differing views on what’s wrong with the world.’

  ‘You hold some pretty strong views, don’t you, Mr Winter?’

  ‘Can I ask what relevance my client’s views, political or otherwise, has to the charges, Detective Porter?’ Rafferty asked, somehow managing to make a basic question sound like he was questioning Porter’s intelligence.

  ‘Goes to potential motivation for seeing any harm come to Mr Henderson,’ Porter answered with a curt nod. ‘How many times did you meet Mr Henderson face-to-face?’

  ‘On purpose? Never,’ Winter scoffed. ‘Turned up at a few of my events, trying to disrupt things.’

  ‘Any of those occasions get heated?’

  ‘Define heated.’

  ‘You don’t deny that you met then? Good, we’ll let’s say heated would be anything from cross words to a punch in the face.’

  ‘I’m not going to pretend I liked him, but I’ve never laid a finger on him.’

  ‘How about someone else’s finger?’ Bell asked.

  Rafferty rested a hand on Winter’s arm. ‘Detectives, if it’s all the same, rather than dance around this, can I suggest we stick with more direct questions, or we’ll be here all day?’

  Porter resisted the urge to tell Rafferty where to shove his suggestion, opting for a polite politician’s smile that Milburn would be proud of.

  ‘OK then, direct it is. Did you, or did you not, threaten Ross Henderson’s life outside one of your events at a community centre in Enfield a few months back?’

  Winter opened his mouth to answer, but Rafferty leant in, whispering into his ear.

  ‘It’s fine, Gene,’ said Winter, squaring his shoulders, seeming to fill out, puffing up for effect. ‘Yes, we’ve had cross words in the past. He was spreading lies about me and my people, but that’s it. Why the hell you thin
k I would have anything to do with this is ridiculous.’

  ‘For the benefit of the recording, I’m showing Mr Winter the video obtained yesterday in a search of Mr Henderson’s home.’

  Porter hit play on the tablet he’d brought with him, spun it round and slid it across the table. Curiosity on Winter’s face turned to dread, knowing what was coming next, not being able to stop or change it.

  You’re gonna find yourself taking a long walk off a short pier.

  Winter’s expression soured, as if the sound of his own voice repulsed him. ‘I didn’t … I mean that’s just … just me trying to tell him to mind his own business.’

  ‘Really?’ Bell said. ‘Because if that’s the case, then I’d have expected you to say mind your own business, Ross, not threaten to kill him.’

  ‘I didn’t bloody kill him, all right.’

  ‘Glad we agree on one thing then,’ said Porter, reaching out, spinning the tablet back around, leaving both Winter and Rafferty looking as confused as if he’d just given them a piece of paper with PTO on both sides.

  ‘For the benefit of the recording, I’m now playing the audio file of a call between Damien Winter and an unnamed individual.’

  No waiting for Rafferty to interject with a question. The audio filled the room, pauses between sentences feeling oppressive, weighted by the decisions being made. Winter started muttering under his breath, too low to hear, brow pinched like folded fabric. He turned to Rafferty, speaking louder this time.

  ‘Not me.’ A shake of the head. ‘That’s not me.’ He hammered home each word on the table with his index finger. ‘This is a set-up, that’s what this is. A bloody set-up.’

  ‘Who’s the other voice on the call, Damien? Who were you talking to?’

  No answer. Another whisper from Rafferty to Winter, more urgent this time, almost audible.

  ‘You said you’d take care of it, Mr Winter. What exactly are you referring to?’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to anything cos that isn’t my bloody voice on that tape.’

  ‘Detective,’ Rafferty cut in, finding his voice again, ‘we’ll need to know the source of this information and access to the originals to conduct our own analysis. These things can be faked with an app on your phone these days. This is just as likely to be a forgery to implicate my client. The sound quality on that recording in particular is subpar, most of it is practically whispers. Really, if that’s all you’ve got, then this is tenuous at best.’

  ‘You call a death threat on video and a corroborating phone call tenuous, Mr Rafferty?’

  The solicitor puffed out his cheeks, making a show of it. ‘You might not, Detective, but I’ll be surprised if the Crown Prosecution Service don’t side with me. Until any of this is verified, that won’t be enough for you to charge my client and I think you know that.’

  There was a knock at the door before Porter could reply. He gave a painful smile. This better be bloody good, he thought. Nothing worse in an interview than having someone barge in when things were heating up. Threw the rhythm right off. Great for a solicitor, pain in the arse for the interviewer.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Bell. ‘You stay and crack on.’

  Porter nodded his thanks, announcing her departure for the recording.

  She got up and opened the door, and Porter saw Hobson in the corridor, wide-eyed excitement hard to miss.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Have you got a minute?’

  Bell slipped outside, letting the door click behind her. Porter looked across the table. Winter looked shell-shocked. Either he was putting on a great front or this genuinely had caught him off-guard.

  ‘All I know,’ said Porter, picking up where he’d left off, ‘is that your client had motive and was gifted an opportunity by some deep-throat wannabe. He’s admitted the threats are part of genuine footage. Violence seems to follow you around, doesn’t it, Mr Winter?’

  ‘What’s that’s supposed to mean?’ Winter sounded indignant.

  ‘The delivery driver Henderson referred to in that footage, the one he alleged your men put in hospital. Two EWP members are currently awaiting trial for it.’

  ‘And my client has already gone on record in that matter, confirming they acted independent of the party, and that he did not endorse their choice to take things as far as they did.’

  ‘But you did endorse them verbally abusing the man, isn’t that right?’

  ‘We’re not going to be commenting on an ongoing case, Detective,’ said Rafferty, ‘and quite frankly I still don’t see the foundations for a strong evidential case, unless there’s something fairly significant you haven’t shared. Is this your roundabout way of saying that you don’t believe the death of Mr Henderson to be a terrorist attack?’

  This was a question Porter had hoped Rafferty wouldn’t throw his way. They were on the record, an answer confirming that could have a ripple effect. Deny it, and it weakened the very reason they’d dragged Winter in here. The door opened and Taylor Bell came back in, sheaf of papers held against her chest. She peeled them off, showing the contents to Porter. He couldn’t hide the smile this time. Gotcha.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Porter reread the printout Bell had handed him, making sure he hadn’t misunderstood. He peeled off a copy and handed it across the table.

  ‘Now sharing a preliminary report on the audio file,’ said Porter. You had to hand it to Hobson, he worked quickly and came up with the goods. ‘You’ll see from the underlined sections that in addition to a source providing this file, they’ve since replied with additional information.’

  ‘Do you recognise this landline number, Mr Winter?’ said Porter, rattling off the digits.

  ‘This a trick question?’ Winter screwed his face up.

  ‘No tricks, just one that needs answering,’ said Bell.

  ‘Well,’ Porter asked, ‘does it sound familiar?’

  More shakes of the head, so slight they could pass as a muscular twitch. ‘It’s my number at the office.’

  ‘The office being the EWP main London location?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And whereabouts in the building is the actual phone?’

  ‘In my office.’

  ‘Anyone else have access to it?’

  Winter shook his head. ‘It’s locked when I’m not around.’

  ‘That’s a no then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about this number?’ Porter recited a second one.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘What if I was to tell you that this is the number that made the call to your office, the call we listened to the audio of a few minutes back?’

  ‘I’d tell you that you can say that all you like. Still doesn’t make that me on the call.’

  ‘What if I was also to tell you that we’ve been able to verify that a call was made between those two numbers on Thursday, three days before Ross Henderson was killed?’

  ‘My client has already stated several times that he is not one of the voices on that recording, Detective.’

  ‘True,’ said Porter, frowning as if that had derailed his train of thought. ‘Here’s the thing though, your client also told us that the phone is in a private room, one he keeps locked when he’s not there, and that nobody else has access to that phone.’

  Winter’s face dropped like a man who’d just heard rifles cock on the firing squad.

  ‘S-someone must have broken in,’ he stammered, usual composure long gone. ‘Snuck in when I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Snuck in to take a call they weren’t expecting, from a person they didn’t know?’ Bell asked. Winter’s face was a picture. Porter suspected that Winter lost for words wasn’t something you saw every day.

  ‘I think we’re at a bit of an impasse here, Detective. If you were going to charge my client, I suspect you’d be doing it around about now. This is—’

  Winter shot up straight in his chair, like somebody had just plugged him back in.

  ‘Wait, that call, you sa
id the Thursday before he died. What time?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ said Bell.

  ‘What time was the bloody call?’

  Porter checked the notes. ‘Came in at two thirty-two, lasted for sixty-four seconds.’

  Winter’s confidence was back, wicked smile curling up at the edges, a bully about to kick over a sandcastle. He nodded, savouring whatever he was about to share for a second more.

  ‘Three days before Ross Henderson died, I wasn’t even in London, never mind my office. I was in York and I can prove it.’

  SKY NEWS BULLETIN

  Tuesday evening

  ‘Hello, I’m Asim Bashara, and here are your headlines this evening. Tension mounts in the capital as police make multiple arrests in clashes between the English Welfare Party and a number of locals at multiple mosques across the city. The EWP have been out in force following Sunday’s brutal slaying live on Facebook, of activist and vlogger, Ross Henderson, also known as Stormcloudz. With me now in the studio is British Independence Party leader Sally Ashbrooke. Mrs Ashbrooke, you met with the Prime Minister and the leader of the Labour Party, Marcus Davidson, earlier to discuss how to tackle what are becoming borderline riots in some areas. Shops have been trashed, buildings set alight. We’ve had reports of a mosque in Wood Green being the subject of attempted arson. What do you say to people out there who are taking matters into their own hands?’

  ‘I’d say I feel their fear and I feel their pain, but we need cooler heads to prevail. We need to find those men who killed Ross Henderson and bring them to justice. Then, after that, we can put the rest of our house in order.’

  ‘Damien Winter, head of the EWP, made a speech earlier today where he called for a vote of no confidence in the Prime Minister and said he’d throw his lot in with anyone who would challenge the government on their immigration policies. Is that something you’ll take him up on?’

  ‘Look, Asim, I’m all for open debate, but the EWP are a little too far to the right for my tastes. I thank Mr Winter for his offer of support, but I’d need to see some tempering of views before I’d have a serious conversation with him, and I think we both know that isn’t likely to happen. At the same time though, the Prime Minister’s views are not strong enough. He’s condemned the Brotherhood in Parliament, and on Twitter, but where is the decisive action? Where is the personal leadership needed to reassure Londoners that this will not happen again on his watch? When will he put his money where his mouth is and throw the time and resources needed at fixing the unchecked, unvetted flow of illegal immigrants into our country? The people won’t stand for this much longer, I can assure you. The tidal wave of public opinion will wash this government away within a year, you mark my words.’