‘If you were in his shoes, how would you put your money where your mouth was?’
‘I’ve already shared my proposals in an open letter to the Prime Minister, but as far as money goes, I’ll do one better. The Daily Mail has offered a reward of fifty thousand pounds for information leading to the capture of these men. I’ve been approached by a long-time party supporter, who has asked to remain anonymous. They have offered to add the same again, to help bring these men to justice.’
‘Another fifty? That’s a very generous offer indeed!’
‘It certainly is. Someone out there knows something, and if this helps to persuade them to come forward for the good of the country, to help us move past this and heal, then I’d say that feels like money well spent.’
‘You heard it first here, folks, the reward is now standing at an even one hundred thousand pounds.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘A phrase involving a piss up and a brewery comes to mind,’ said Milburn, looking between Porter and Bell like an old-school headmaster deciding who to cane first. The super wore a line in the carpet, pacing behind his desk.
‘Bad enough he and his brief make you look like a fool, waltzing out of here smiling like they’d just won the police raffle. Now I’ve had Sky bloody News on the phone, asking for a comment on his arrest and links to the Henderson case, which we now know is about as shaky as an alcoholic trying to go cold turkey.’
Milburn paused, and Porter could swear it was purely to appreciate his own little turn of phrase.
‘Three television vans outside already, door-stepping anyone that looks even vaguely like a copper for a quote. Winter threatening to sue for wrongful arrest. You couldn’t pick a low-profile case to screw up on, could you?’
‘With respect, sir,’ said Bell, ‘We only got the extra info on the call once we were already in the room with him. It was a fair call to make at the time. I’d have done the same thing.’
‘And you’d have jumped the gun as well,’ said Milburn. ‘You could have brought him in for an interview under caution without an arrest. You could have chosen somewhere less public to approach him than one of his bloody rallies. You could have even held off questioning him about the audio file until you’d done your due diligence.’
Milburn counted each smackdown out on his fingers. Nice that Bell had tried to stick up for him, but he could have told her it would fall on deaf ears. Much as he hated to admit it, Porter knew there was a grain of truth in Milburn’s words. He’d let himself get too invested in putting a bigot like Winter in his place. The way he’d spoken to that crowd, to Styles even, had left him with an urge to score points. Couldn’t blame Hobson either. As the more senior officer, Porter should have seen the risks, taken a step back. Too late now.
‘What about his man, Finch?’
Finch had been an arrogant bastard. Sat there and grinned his way at Styles through a barrage of No comments. Left the room with the same smile fixed on his face, like the Joker from Batman.
‘Gave us nothing, sir. Barely spoke,’ said Porter.
‘Think it’s best if the pair of you steer clear of the next press briefing,’ said Milburn, grabbing his jacket from the back of his seat. ‘I’ll take care of that woman from Sky. You,’ he said, pointing at Porter, ‘try not to waltz around in front of her camera too much more. And you, DI Bell, I expected a little more from you, what with your reputation. Until we have proof that this wasn’t an act of terror, I expect that to still be a line of enquiry. Understood?’
‘Sir.’ She nodded in acknowledgement.
They left him struggling to get into a jacket that probably fit him three stone ago and made their way back to Porter’s desk.
‘I expected more from you,’ she said, aping Milburn, amping up the pomposity levels. ‘Jesus, is he always that big a prick?’
‘You caught him on a good day there to be fair.’
Styles and Tessier were dissecting the day when Porter and Bell arrived. Styles glanced at Bell, picking up on the cloud of irritation still hanging over her.
‘Guessing you’ve been Rogered?’
‘Excuse me?’ she said, not sure how to take that.
‘Rogered. Roger Milburn. As in had the pleasure of seeing what a nob he can be first-hand.’
She shook her head. ‘He even has his own verb? Yes, in that case I have, and yes, he’s a nob.’
‘She can stay,’ said Tessier.
Porter filled them in, recapping a second time for Sucheka, Waters and Williams who joined halfway through.
‘Where does that leave us now then, boss?’
Porter had been asking himself this since Winter sauntered out of the interview room.
‘That bloody reward they’re offering isn’t going to help for starters. We’ll have the usual tidal wave of calls that have us running around like headless chickens. I can’t see any of Winter’s people giving him up, even for an easy payday. All a bit too fanatical for that, so we’re just going to have to pin him down the old-fashioned way. We know part of Winter’s York story checks out. He showed us his e-tickets. Doesn’t mean he got on the train though, but we should be able to get eyes on him at King’s Cross if he’s above board.’
‘We know the call happened as well,’ Styles chipped in. ‘Could be the audio file isn’t kosher though. What if someone made a call, then recorded that conversation to match the length?’
‘No way to verify the content,’ said Sucheka, ‘but someone answered that line.’
‘Can’t see Winter airing his dirty laundry in public,’ said Bell. ‘He knows someone on his side is involved, maybe not how deep, but if I was him, I’d be looking for whoever answered that call and asking some pretty direct questions.’
‘Or get Finch to do it for him?’ Waters chipped in.
‘Agreed, he’s probably more likely to start advocating for open borders than he is to help us now,’ Porter said, ‘but we need to ask, whether it’s the man himself or just his minions. Taylor, I want you to be blunt with us,’ Porter said, turning his attention to her. ‘Are we leaving ourselves open by sidelining the terror angle altogether?’
She shrugged. ‘I get why your gaffer is nervous. He’d be the one facing the mob with torches and pitchforks if it went that way and we’d been blind to it.’
‘But?’ he prompted, pretty sure he’d read the subtext.
‘I told you when we met that I can’t afford to get things wrong, that I stop bad things from happening. I just don’t see that here. I don’t see the next big thing coming. Usually these bastards crow from the rooftops, especially with something this big, this public. Here, nothing. Then there’s the grammatical errors in the tweet, plus zero chatter from our Intelligence community. I’ve got one of my guys fiddling around with the footage, see what else he can pull from that for us.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Porter, ‘we’ve already had someone take a look at that.’
‘Has your guy hacked the Pentagon before?’
Porter saw Styles looking as bemused as he felt. ‘Hacked the Pentagon, and he can still get a job on this side of the law?’
She gave him a look like he’d just asked if she was sure Santa didn’t exist. ‘You want the best, that’s where they learn their trade.’
Porter held his hands up. ‘OK, OK. Any idea when he’ll have anything for us?’
She checked her watch. ‘I emailed him the link and the audio file about an hour ago, so I’d say we’ll have an answer before you slope off home for Coronation Street. I need to check in with my gaffer, so I’ll ask while I’m there and leave you lot to it.’
She bustled out, promising to call the moment she had anything. Energy on legs, that was the best way to describe her. Porter chopped up what tasks there were between them, beckoning for Styles to sit as the rest of the team dispersed.
‘You had a chance to do any digging yet?’
‘Ah, you mean about our nudge, nudge, wink, wink, secret project?’ Styles said, tapping his nose, l
ooking around like he expected Milburn to jump out like Kato from a Pink Panther movie.
‘You’ll be wanting a bloody codename next,’ Porter said.
‘I’ve always fancied myself as a bit of a double-oh something or other,’ said Styles, going for a Roger Moore eyebrow arch. ‘Who says Bond can’t be black?’
‘Anyone who’s ever seen you do that.’
Styles pretended to look wounded, but lowered his voice a touch, all serious now.
‘Little bit, yeah. Lots of fingers in lots of pies. Drugs, knock-off gear, even a bit of good old-fashioned protection racket. Mostly the drugs though. Expanded a bit since we took care of Mr Locke, but still small in comparison to the bigger players.’
Alexander Locke, the head of the organisation they’d helped dismantle in the not-too-distant past, had been one of the largest importers of class As in the UK. His business fell apart like a Jenga tower when he died, and men like Jackson Tyler had taken full advantage. Nature abhors a vacuum. Seemed that the London gang hierarchy was no different.
‘No firm intel on how he brings it in. Half a dozen of his low-level dealers got scooped this year so far. His reputation does the job though. They all took heavier sentences rather than turn on him.’
No surprise there. A quick google showed up the few stories that had made it into the press. Attacks attributed to Tyler, or his gang at least, never proven. Blunt force trauma, hammer suspected. No arrests made.
‘So, bugger all then?’
‘That’s about the size of it. He’s smart. Big enough to earn serious money. Small enough that he’s never been number one on our list. His people just don’t talk.’
‘So how the fuck do we get him to give us the name of the driver?’
‘Can I be honest, boss?’ Styles asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘I don’t think we can, not just the two of us flying solo. Not what you want to hear, I know, but they’ve already run you off once. What’s to say you don’t run fast enough next time? Not as if you’re letting anyone watch your back.’
‘With bloody good reason in your case.’
‘Whatever your reasons, this isn’t a one-man job.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Porter mused, ‘but that’s the way it has to be.’
‘Sorry, DI Porter, hi.’ Alistair Hobson stood off to one side, holding a piece of paper like he was about to ask for an autograph.
Porter glanced at Styles, then back at Hobson, and wondered how much the young constable had heard.
‘What’s up, Alistair?’
‘Had Francine from reception on for you, sir. Somebody popped in downstairs and left a message for you at the front desk, she just asked me to pass it on.’
Porter took the half-torn page, squinting to decipher Hobson’s spidery scrawl.
‘Who left this?’ Porter asked, a little sharper then intended.
Hobson had started to turn away, but froze, full on deer in headlights. ‘I, ah, I don’t know, sir. Francine rang me, and I wrote it down. I didn’t …’
‘What’s up, boss? Everything OK?’ Styles asked.
‘It’s fine,’ Porter said, hearing the strain in his own voice. ‘When was this?’
‘Just now, sir. I just …’
But Porter didn’t hang around to hear the rest. Across the office and through the door to the stairwell, note crumpled in his hand. He’d confided in Nick about Jackson Tyler, trusted him enough to share pretty much anything. But not this. Not all of it anyway. Not if this was what he thought. What else could it be though?
Taking the stairs two at a time, he burst through the door to the ground floor. No time to speak to Francine just yet, she could wait. Out onto the steps leading down to street level, almost colliding with a solicitor whose face he vaguely recognised. Down the steps, scanning the street. He clocked the man straightaway. Action-Man-style bristle haircut. Boxer’s nose, dent chiselled in the centre. Jaundice yellow nicotine-stained teeth.
Porter never had caught the guy’s full name. Knew him only as Józef. Last time he’d seen him was a few weeks ago, when he had popped up as part of a previous investigation.
Józef worked for Branislav Nuhić, a fellow Slovakian with a dark backstory that had followed him from his homeland like a bogeyman’s tale, and another player in the drug trade. Bigger operation than Tyler by far. Unlike Tyler, Nuhić had a legitimate business to hide behind. Wasn’t as if he needed the illegal side of his empire for the money. For men like him, it was what he’d always done, always known. The kind of guy who could no more walk away from that part of himself than he could his own shadow. Nuhić’s words from a fortnight ago echoed in his head.
You owe me, Detective, and one way or the other, I will collect.
The Slovak saw his previous intervention with Graham Gibson, a suspect in multiple murders, as a debt to be repaid, even though Porter had told him where to stick it. Józef pushed up and off the black railings that lined the road, as Porter walked towards him, checking over his shoulder that nobody had followed him down the station steps. A cigarette dangled from Józef’s mouth, bouncing up and down like a conductor’s baton when he talked.
‘Mr Porter.’
His accent emphasises the vowels, making it sound more to Porter’s ear like Meester.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘This is no way to talk to old friend, yes?’
‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ Porter said, holding up the paper balled in his fist, smoothing it out again to read back to Józef. ‘White-van man? Giving yourself codenames now, are we?’
Józef shrugged. ‘Is what I do. Is there, you see,’ and pointed to the van.
‘I know you drive a bloody van,’ Porter snapped, doing a sweep of the street every few seconds. ‘But you can’t drive it here. You need to leave, now.’
Porter went to turn away, but Józef reached out a hand, clamping on his shoulder. Porter felt the strength in the grip, pincers digging, somehow knowing that Józef was barely trying.
‘I have for you,’ he said, reaching into his jacket with his other hand. ‘You must talk.’
He pulled out a phone. Porter reached up to the hand gripping his shoulder, prising it off. Józef tapped the screen, holding the device out to Porter with his other hand.
‘You must hear what is to be said,’ he ordered. ‘May be much help.’
‘Help? Help with what? What do you mean?’
Porter took the phone, seeing a number on screen, no name. He put it to his ear, turning his back to Józef, glancing up at the station steps, mercifully deserted, doors closed.
‘This is DI Porter, who is this?’
He asked the question, even though he was sure he knew who it would be.
‘Ah, Detective Porter. How wonderful to speak again.’ Branislav Nuhić’s accent was almost as strong as Józef’s. ‘I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I know you are a busy man.’
Porter moved away from Józef, veering off to the Harrow Road side of the building, adding a little distance to reduce any chance of association.
‘Mr Nuhić,’ he said grimly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Maybe I’m just calling to see how you are.’
Nuhić chose that last word carefully, a man used to watching what he said over the phone.
‘Maybe, but I doubt that.’
‘And this is why you are such big shot detective, yes? So perceptive.’
‘Busy big shot detective, Mr Nuhić. Are you calling to report a crime, because if not, then I’ll have to cut this little chat short?’
‘As a matter of fact, my call does concern the criminal element, yes,’ he said smoothly, as if he wasn’t one of them. ‘Jackson Tyler, you know this name, yes?’
That one caught Porter by surprise, leaving a gap that Nuhić slid into.
‘Mr Tyler is a …’ pause while he searched for the words, ‘person of interest to you, yes.’
Was Porter mistaken, or was there emphasis on the you, stressing him personally,
rather than the Met as a whole?
‘Who?’ said Porter.
‘You do not know the man you visited yesterday then? How odd.’
That one hit him hard, a cold wave washing over him, goosebumps popping like Braille on his arms. How the hell could Nuhić know that? The Slovak spoke, a hint of amusement in his voice.
‘There is not much that doesn’t reach me, one way or the other,’ he said.
‘If you know everything,’ said Porter, ‘then why do you need me for anything? That’s why you’re calling, right?’
‘I’m just a concerned citizen, who sees things happening, things that the police may wish to take interest in.’
‘I told you back then, and I’ll tell you again now. The Met isn’t in the habit of doing favours for criminals, and don’t tell me you’re just a humble baker.’
Porter had visited the Nuhić family bakery on a previous case, down on Creekmouth Industrial Estate. A front for everything that lay behind it, the tip of a shady iceberg. He looked around, saw no familiar faces except for Józef, leaning against his van, cigarette down to a nub.
‘And who says this is a favour for me?’ Nuhić countered. ‘Regardless of whether any of my business interests overlap with Mr Tyler, could this not just be a gesture of goodwill?’
‘Something tells me you don’t share anything for free.’
‘What in life is ever truly without cost?’
Porter was about to answer, when something registered in his peripheral vision. Movement back towards the station. Taylor Bell emerged, cradling something in her hand. She hadn’t seen him yet, and he glanced over to Józef, signalling with a slight jerk of the head to get lost, but the stocky Slovak was lost in his phone screen.
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