Déjà vu
Any doubts as to who was behind this disappeared as his eyes traced the silver lines scored into the top of the car. Same make and model as Holly had been hit by. Stolen from a nearby house, abandoned a few miles away from where she’d been left crumpled on the pavement.
Tyler’s third warning. Keep coming after him and history would repeat. Holly replaced by Evie.
‘What did he look like? The kid?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it all happened so fast. He was gone, off the train before I even realised what he’d given me.’
Given. As if it was a gift, not a threat. Enough. A tornado bounced round inside his mind, drawing up all the anger and frustration of the last few days, thoughts battering his head like debris. Enough of the threats. Threats talked about what you might do. Time to stop talking and act.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The drive back to Evie’s was long. Stuck in traffic that flowed like quicksand, there was no escape, and she took advantage to grill him on what he’d done, where his mind was at now.
‘Can’t help but think the less you know the better,’ he said.
‘Those twats tried to scare me, Jake. Worked pretty well too. But if I can’t stop you, at least I can try and figure out a way to help get you what you need. Sooner you get a name, sooner you stop winding Tyler up. If he’ll threaten a copper, he might be willing to go a lot further.’
‘Nick’s helping with background, but Tyler looks pretty watertight.’
‘No weak spots at all then?’
Porter shrugged. ‘We can keep picking up his street level guys, the ones doing the selling, see if anyone will break the trend and turn on him.’
‘We already know they won’t.’
She was right of course. Tyler’s set-up was as tight as he’d seen. Wasn’t that he was some kind of megalomaniac villain, quite the opposite. From the looks of it, he didn’t want to take over the world, just milk the patch of London that he had. Whatever Porter could threaten any of his men with, unless it included taking a hammer to parts that weren’t meant to be tenderised, they’d just take their chances in prison.
Tyler was right about one thing. Threats didn’t work if you never followed through. Word got around that you were all mouth, and you might as well not waste your breath.
‘What do you suggest then?’ he asked her.
She thought for a minute. ‘There’s got to be something that matters more to him, something important enough that it would leave him no choice.’
‘If I knew what that was, I’d have used it already.’
She paused, weighing up what to say next. ‘You’re right. It has to be bigger than just sweeping a few of his guys off the street. Something that hits him harder, costs him more. I could maybe make a few discreet enquiries with a couple of informants we’ve used in the past.’
This was a big step for her, after the stand-off they’d had the other night. He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him.
‘Before you say anything, we don’t have anyone directly inside his organisation. I would have told you already if we did. There are some guys I know who work for his rivals though. Stands to reason they might have heard something.’
‘Evie, that’s …’ He tailed off, opting instead for a simple, ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me until you’ve heard my terms,’ she said. ‘First, you tell me everything from here on in. No more secrets. Agreed?’
He nodded, pretty sure there was more to come.
‘Second, whatever we find, we take to Pittman.’
Porter was slowing to a stop as she said it, and her suggestion made him stamp a little too hard on the brake, bunny-hopping the last few feet.
‘Uh-uh,’ he said. ‘If I take anything to him, Milburn finds out where it came from.’
She arched her eyebrows at him. ‘You really think Pittman would pass up a chance to be a little diva in the spotlight by telling the super whose homework he copied from?’
Valid point. Pittman would most likely take whatever he was given and run with it. It was more the sense of responsibility he felt, what he owed to Holly to see it through himself. If he didn’t agree though, chances are Evie would revert to being a conscientious objector.
‘Fine,’ he agreed, unable to resist the childish crossing of fingers down by his side.
That seemed to appease her and she nodded, shoulders dipping a fraction as she relaxed away from the fight she must have been expecting. She reached over, squeezing his hand, and he wondered if she could feel anything but honest vibes. Promises sometimes came with small print. He hadn’t promised to share with Pittman immediately, or that he couldn’t make a few moves to verify the information first.
‘Any idea what time you’ll be done?’ she asked. ‘I was thinking you could come back here afterwards, Chinese, glass of something?’
‘An hour, two tops,’ he said. ‘We’ve had someone taking a look at the original Facebook footage, pulling apart the sound, frame by frame checks, see if we missed anything.’
He left out the fact that Taylor Bell was the one who’d arranged it, or that she’d texted him saying it would be worth his while heading back to the station for the results, the preview pane open on his screen, peeking out from where the phone lay wedged between his legs.
‘Call me when you’re on your way so I know when to ring the order in.’ She reached over, cupped a hand against his cheek. ‘We’ll get him, whoever he’s protecting. One way or another.’
As she leant over, planting a soft kiss he felt his phone vibrate again. She smiled, lips still pressed to his, pulling away a second later.
‘Go on then, go play with the other kids.’
He grinned, afraid to pull the phone out in case it was Bell again. Stupid, he knew. There was nothing in it, not from his side at least. Still, things felt brittle despite the warmth of the kiss. Finely weighted, like snow on a rooftop that a slammed door could bring piling down to bury you.
She blew him a kiss from her front door and disappeared inside before he pulled away. Safe now to look at the phone. A notification sat waiting for him, not Bell though. His sister, Kat. He frowned, seeing a thumbnail preview, but not able to make out the detail. He clicked it open to read as he slipped the car back into gear, and what he saw made his foot slip off the clutch, bouncing the car forward, barely daylight left between his bumper and the car in front.
You been leaving your toys lying around again?
A photo. Outstretched hand, Kat’s presumably. Palm open. Small red Mini Cooper with Porter scratched into the roof.
Tyler. Motherfucker.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Shopfronts and traffic lights glided past in a blur as Porter’s blue lights blazed all the way to Kat’s house. Twenty minutes and three near-misses later, he raced down her street, bumping up the kerb hard enough to rattle teeth. Her face when she answered the door was a cocktail of confusion and cynicism.
‘You going to tell me what this is all about?’
‘Where are the boys?’ he asked, wanting to make sure his nephews were safe, and preferably oblivious to any of this. Tom and James, six-year-old mirror images of one another, had been targeted before by someone else out to get Porter’s attention. It had only been a few weeks since Graham Gibson, a man living out his own warped view of the world in which his own family, killed in a crash he caused, were still alive, had snatched them to force Porter’s hand. That hadn’t ended well for Gibson, who had later died from the injuries sustained by Nuhić’s man slamming a van into him.
On the day, Tom and James seemed to have coped in that way that kids can, popping back into shape as if it had all been a game. Kat had confided though that Tom hadn’t slept well this past week. James had been clingier than usual, and both were nervy in general if they didn’t have line of sight to Kat.
‘They’re fine. They’re upstairs watching a film in their room. What’s going on, Jake?’
‘Nothing, everythin
g’s fine. It’s just—’
‘Hang on a sec, you practically teleport over here after telling me to stay inside and keep my door locked, and you expect me to believe everything’s fine?’ She stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows in a Yeah right arch. ‘What’s the thing with the car as well? Why have you scratched your name on it? What are you, like five years old?’
‘It’s not mine,’ he said, still mentally testing out the best way to broach this without freaking her out.
‘You’re not coming in till you start to make some sense.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Jake, just tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Just tell me where you found the bloody thing,’ he snapped, louder than intended, and her face hardened. He swallowed hard, breathed deep. Reset. ‘Sorry. I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just please tell me where you found it first.’
She stared him out for a second, making him work for his forgiveness. ‘Come on, in you come.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t stop.’
The first signs of worry crept in around the edges as she studied him. Finally, she threw up her hands. ‘Fine, have it your way. Tom found it. It was on the doorstep when we got back from doing the shopping. He thought you’d been and left it cos of the name. That’s when I texted you.’
Her doorstep? They’d been to her house? How had they known where she lived? The news coverage of the boys’ abduction. Cameras had flocked around the house and the street sign was fixed onto the wall outside her house. Not exactly Sherlock Holmes territory to figure that out via a quick google. Shit.
How could he tell her? After what she’d been through, having the boys snatched from her doorstep so recently, this would be a stick of dynamite lobbed into a still-fragile household. He had to say something though. He couldn’t ask for anyone extra to watch over them without alerting Milburn to his personal agenda. Threads of a plan started to weave together.
‘Look, Kat, I promise I’ll tell you everything, OK? I just need to take care of something first.’ He turned back towards his car. ‘I’ll pop back soon as I can, yeah?’
‘Jake? Jake? What the hell’s going on?’ she called after him, but he just turned, blew a kiss and slid behind the wheel.
She shook her head, disappearing inside with a face that warned him this wasn’t over. He drove east, not as fast this time, but with urgency. Gambled on amber lights, tailgated closer than he knew he should. Another text from Bell lit up his screen. He took advantage of a few seconds at a red light to fire off a quick reply, saying he was on his way. Innocent enough lie. He’d get there eventually.
The visit to Kat was a match put to petrol already poured by the kid on the Tube and his little gift to Evie. He’d kept a lid on it in front of Kat, but he could feel the mercury rising, muttering to himself as he drove.
‘You don’t fuck with family.’
One quick pit stop to make on the way to the station. Jackson Tyler. What he’d do when he got there was anybody’s guess.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
No sign of the BMW from his previous visit amongst the half-dozen cars parked around the back of the flats. Porter reversed into an adjoining back street, killed the engine and climbed out. He popped open the boot, rummaged under an old folded blanket. Felt as much as heard a dull clank of metal on metal as his fingers closed around what he was looking for.
The matt black baton he pulled out was around a foot in length when retracted. It would double when he flicked it out, but he kept it close to his side for now. A quick three-sixty glance, but nobody was watching, least not that he could see. Porter strode with purpose towards the doorway, jamming a finger on the buzzer. He pulled out the wad of chewing gum he’d been softening up for just this purpose on the way over, pushing it onto the lens of the fish-eye camera, spreading with his thumb.
The speaker crackled into life. Breathing from somewhere inside. Silence. Porter went for round two, keeping it pressed for a full ten count. No static this time. He didn’t stand on ceremony, spinning around and using a drainpipe to hoist himself up onto the small flat roof that covered the doorway. He flicked his wrist, baton magically doubling in size. Long enough to reach down and hit the buzzer again if needed.
It wasn’t. He’d barely scraped his trailing foot over the edge when the door below clicked open. A man’s head appeared below him, twisting left and right. Porter clocked the baseball bat clenched in his right hand, hanging low, tapping out a rhythm against his leg. Porter’s heart hammered so hard he was sure the guy would hear it, look up and take a swing.
‘Fucking kids,’ the man muttered, taking a step further out of the shadow of the doorway. His head swivelled both ways again, pausing in the direction of Porter’s car. The bat came up, resting on his shoulder now. Two more steps to the right. Porter licked dry lips as rough as sandpaper, a shadow of doubt flickering. He knew this wasn’t the path, that it was a step closer to people like Jackson Tyler, but you didn’t mess with family. These bastards, one of them, had already taken Holly. If he let today slide, what did that say about the kind of man he was? People feared Tyler because he wasn’t all mouth. He acted. A man of action would only respond to action.
Porter knelt, one hand gripping the edge of the roof for balance, the other scything the baton down on the man’s wrist, landing clean against the ulna. The crunch was sickeningly satisfying, and the bat spun from the man’s hand. Keeping his weight on the hand against the roof, Porter swung his legs round and over the edge. Both soles connected between shoulder blades, and the guy went down like the proverbial sack of potatoes, head bouncing off tarmac with a dull thud. The scream of pain he’d started to let loose was cut off before it peaked.
Porter spun around on the off-chance there’d been more than one, but the open doorway was empty. No time to admire his handiwork. He pulled out a four-loop polymer restraint, fed the stunned man’s wrists through and pulled tight. Not one of Tyler’s lapdogs he recognised. He would be expected back upstairs soon though. No time to waste. Porter dragged him to his knees, all glazed eyes and chin sagging to chest. He half hauled, half pulled him through the doorway, letting him flop against the foot of the stairwell.
Porter bounded up, two steps at a time, retracing his steps to the flat he’d met Tyler in. The door stood open a few inches, muffled conversation drifting out. He paused, listening for a beat. Satisfied there was only one voice, he peered into the flat, nudging the gap wider. Tyler stood dead centre, back to him, talking quietly on his mobile phone. The door was on mercifully quiet hinges, and Porter stepped inside, adjusting his grip on the baton handle, zeroing in on Tyler’s knee, going for a chopping motion.
Something alerted Jackson Tyler. Could have been a reflection in the window, scuff of shoe on carpet. Whatever it was, he spun around, saw Porter closing the gap. He swung for the kneecap, but Tyler’s turn meant the blow landed against the back of his thigh with a meaty thump. Tyler cried out as Porter advanced on him.
‘You like your warnings? Well, this is one of mine. You stay the fuck away from my family. I find out you’ve been anywhere near them, I’ll be heading to B&Q for my own hammer. You hear me?’
The strangest thing. The twisted grimace of pain Tyler wore, took on a slyness, bordering on a smile.
‘Didn’t think you had it in you, Detective. Good for you. Shame though.’
What the hell was that supposed to mean? ‘I asked you if you understood.’
‘Let me tell you about what I understand,’ Tyler said, rubbing the spot on the back of his leg. ‘I understand you want your head read, coming in here all Rambo-style, one man fucking army.’
‘People like you make me fucking sick,’ Porter said, reaching into his pocket, pulling out the Mini Cooper he’d taken from Kat. ‘Here,’ he threw it overarm at Tyler’s head, but only managed a glancing blow of a protective arm. ‘Bad enough you peddle your shit on the street, but you honestly think there’s any lengths I won’t go to, to get you to give
me a name? You and your crew, you killed my wife. My wife!’
He swung again, this time aiming for Tyler’s arm. For a man with an injured leg, Tyler moved faster than Porter had bargained for. He moved towards Porter, stepping inside the arc of the blow. It still landed, but Tyler took it on the bicep. A stinger but not incapacitating, and he bowled into Porter, ducking in, driving his shoulder into Porter’s midriff, launching them both towards the wall. Porter pushed down on the back of Tyler’s neck with one hand, while hammering the butt of the baton down between his shoulder blades. Tyler grunted in pain by the third blow, tried to let go and stand up. Downward pressure from Porter’s left arm made that a non-starter. A fourth blow landed. Fifth. The rhythm felt good, years of grief flowing through the baton and finding the spot his anger had been searching for what felt a lifetime.
Tyler’s arms, previously searching from blows of their own to land, slid down Porter’s legs, the rest of him following suit a beat later. Without a thought, Porter rotated his angle of strike, ready now to whip it down full force against the back of Tyler’s neck. It hovered there, top of the arc. Breath ragged and hoarse. Fingers gripped as tight as a man hanging over a cliff edge around the hilt. And still the blow didn’t come.
‘Gahhhhh!’ he bellowed, pushing Tyler away, watching as he toppled back into a messy heap, back arched as he tried to hold the spot Porter had repeatedly slammed into. The world snapped back into focus and Porter grimaced at his own lack of self-control.
His panting and Tyler’s combined to mask the approaching footsteps until it was too late. A cannon exploded against the side of his head, room fuzzing around the edges, tilting on its axis. Sliding down the wall. Falling. Falling. Something dark whooshed towards his face. Blinding flash of light, clearing into a swarm of fireflies across his vision.
Rough carpet rubbed his cheek now, and through the haze, Tyler began the slow process of rising to his feet. How had …? Who …? Thoughts like dots he couldn’t join. A low laugh cut a path through the white noise filling his head.
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