End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  The young man pointed to a door up ahead, but let Porter past him, clearly not on the list for an invitation only. Nuhić rose from his desk as Porter entered, skirting the edge to meet him halfway, extending a hand like old friends. Porter kept his firmly in his pockets. Nuhić had a face hard to date, somewhere in his fifties, although which end was anybody’s guess. Expression slightly soured, a look that could curdle milk. Even when he smiled, it looked like an effort. Not a physically imposing man to look at, but like Tyler, who needed bulging biceps when you had an army of them on payroll?

  ‘We are not quite there yet I see,’ he said, heading back around his desk with a shrug. ‘Please, sit.’

  Even the act of sitting down, accepting an invitation from this man, ran down Porter’s spine like icy fingers, reminding him just how big a step over the line this was.

  ‘I’m not here for a cuppa and a cosy chat, Mr Nuhić,’ he said, sitting uncomfortably upright. ‘You said you had some information about Jackson Tyler. Anything you’ve got that can help prosecute him, you’ll have the gratitude of the Met.’

  Nuhić gave a slow nod, running one hand over a chin that Kirk Douglas would be proud of.

  ‘So, you’re looking to arrest him now? My understanding was that your interest in Mr Tyler was a little more’ – split second pause – ‘personal, no?’

  ‘He’s a criminal, Mr Nuhić, plain and simple. We want him off the streets. You said you had information that can help us do that.’

  ‘I do?’ Nuhić looked confused. ‘I don’t remember telling you that.’

  Porter sighed, bored. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I haven’t got time for this.’

  ‘Yet still you sit there. You have other places to go, be my guest,’ said Nuhić, leaning back in his chair.

  Porter had a hundred places he’d rather be, but none of them would give him what he needed, what he was here for.

  ‘Look, whatever you called to tell me, I’m here now, so tell me.’

  ‘You are wanting information about Mr Tyler, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Porter, no attempt to hide his exasperation.

  ‘You believe he knows about your wife, about what happened to her?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He is not a man likely to co-operate with you unless he is forced. Was this,’ he pointed to Porter’s bandaged fingers, ‘an attempt to force him?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Men like us, me and him, we cannot afford to be seen working with men like you.’

  ‘And yet here you sit,’ Porter mimicked Nuhić’s words from moments ago.

  ‘Let us just say that a prolonged clash with him would be … problematic. If you were to disrupt, maybe even stop, his business, this may force his hand to talk to you.’

  ‘And clear a nice gap for you to step into, just like you did when Alexander Locke died.’

  ‘I’m in a competitive industry. I waste an opportunity, somebody else steps in. No good for either of us.’

  ‘Don’t even pretend that we’re on the same side,’ Porter spat out. ‘Or that we’re doing this for the same reasons.’

  ‘Now, now, Detective, your motives here are not exactly altruistic, are they? Tell me, if you had five minutes alone in a room with the man who did this to your wife, would you spend that time reading him his rights, or …?’

  He let it tail off, Porter’s imagination doing the rest. Not a question he would answer out loud, but inwardly, admitted to himself it might well depend on whether it was in Paddington Green station or somewhere quieter. Nuhić nodded, a sly smile suggesting silence was all the answer he needed.

  ‘Tell me, Detective, what do you think it would take to force Mr Tyler’s hand? You think it would be enough to just disrupt his business? I could tell you about such things as a warehouse he uses in Camberwell. I expect you have probably already tried this tactic though?’

  Porter nodded. ‘We picked up a few of his guys. About twenty grand’s worth of gear on them, but Tyler didn’t budge.’

  ‘Reputation,’ Nuhić said, tapping a finger against the desk. ‘For me, for him, it is everything. Speaking to you, cooperating in any way, this would cause his reputation to suffer. His men would not trust him to have their backs. He, like me, would do anything rather than that. What is it then, I wonder, that he would fear, that could damage his reputation more?’

  Nuhić folded his arms, one hand scratching non-existent stubble.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me,’ said Porter.

  So Nuhić did. Porter grimaced as he listened. Not what he expected, but definitely what he needed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Porter’s mind whirled the whole way back to the office like a hamster on steroids hammering its wheel. What Nuhić had shared with him, if it was true, would leave Tyler with a straight up choice. A walk-the-plank moment. Jump and take his chances that Porter went after whoever he gave up in a way that hid the source. Stay put and end up impaled on the sharp end of the secret Nuhić had shared.

  He called Evie when he was five minutes out. She wasn’t on shift until lunchtime and had that fuzzy quality to her voice suggesting she was either not long up or still in bed.

  ‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’

  ‘Hmm, no. I was just trying to find the will to crawl out from under the duvet. What time did you wake up?’

  ‘Never really fell asleep in the first place,’ he admitted. ‘Thought I might as well make an early start.’

  ‘Any chance of an early finish as well?’

  ‘I could always play the wounded soldier card,’ he said, slipping into his best poorly voice. ‘I can feel the migraine coming on already.’

  ‘You should have stayed off, you know. Nobody would have thought any worse of you for it.’

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, selective hearing kicking in. ‘I was thinking, this weekend, we need to blow off a little steam. You free for dinner and a vat of wine on Saturday? I think I’ve got some making up to do.’

  ‘Why, Detective Porter,’ Evie said, ‘if I didn’t know better I’d say you were flirting with me.’

  ‘Powers of deduction like that, I’ve got to wonder if you’re after my job.’

  ‘I’ll say yes on one condition. You take it easy today. How’s the head?’

  ‘Attached.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny. I mean it though, take it easy.’

  He promised to do just that and drop her a line later with an ETA. Walking into the office, he was surprised to see he wasn’t the first in. Kaja Sucheka sat staring at her screen, tired eyes that looked like she’d had even less sleep than him. So engrossed, she mustn’t have sensed his approach until he was feet away. When she realised it was him who’d snuck up behind her, her tiredness dropped away, words tumbling out at a hundred miles an hour. If the day had started with a bang thanks to Nuhić, then Kaja’s revelation was just as explosive, and Porter felt both cases in danger of pulling away from him at breakneck speed.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘See for yourself.’

  He pulled up a chair, watching as her screen flicked between a half-dozen camera shots. Visual only, no audio. Black and white, shades of grey and shadows everywhere, but clear enough where it counted.

  Porter drummed a fist on the desk, squeezing Kaja’s shoulder with the other hand, feeling a bit stupid when he realised only two of his fingers were up to the job. She sat back, smile fading to confusion, flickering to concern.

  ‘Long story. I’m fine.’

  The look on her face suggested she’d have believed him more if he’d said he was a closet fan of One Direction, but she said nothing, letting it slide.

  Porter spent the next hour rewatching the footage, jotting down notes, making follow-up calls. Only on a five-minute wander to the canteen did he allow his mind to drift back to the conversation with Nuhić, and how best to use the information.

  One by one the team drifted in, every set of eyes settling on Porter, flicking between
his bandaged hand, bulbous wrapping next to his one free finger making it look like a giant white crab claw. Took another ten minutes or so until they’d all grabbed a drink and settled into seats, the low murmur of conversation stopping as Porter strode to the front of the incident room.

  ‘Don’t try taking candy from a baby,’ said Porter. ‘Vicious little bastards don’t take too well to it.’

  More smiles than laughter, as if they knew he was deflecting.

  ‘Dee, let’s hear from you first. What have we got on our lovely friends at the EWP?’

  ‘Part guesswork as to who our mystery man on the phone was if it wasn’t Winter. I found two cameras that help us. One traffic, one private.’

  She stepped up beside Porter, connecting her tablet to the screen on the wall, swiping through a series of stills. Cars entering and exiting the EWP car park, plus a few men coming in on foot.

  ‘We’ve got a list of eleven inside at the time of the call. Winter isn’t one of them. Couple of our favourites are though,’ she said, pausing on two faces Porter recognised. Leo Finch and Freddie Forrester.

  ‘Whoever it is,’ said Styles, ‘They could just as easily be acting on Winter’s orders as flying solo. I don’t trust that guy as far as I could throw him. Second thoughts, might just supervise and outsource the actual throwing part to Gus.’

  ‘We’ll come on to Winter in a minute,’ said Porter, unable to help a glance at Kaja. ‘How much do we know about the other nine, Dee?’

  Williams rattled through a list of names, most of which were new to them, superficial profiles only, the exception being Roland Thomas. His name triggered a memory of the confrontation at Greenwich with the EWP-fuelled crowd, Thomas squaring off against Bell, falling short and skulking away. Where was she this morning?

  ‘Keep digging, Dee. I know it’s easy to get tunnel vision on the ones we know and love, but we, and by we I mean I, have already come a cropper from making assumptions on this one.’

  ‘If you need to go down there, Dee, don’t fly solo. Give me a shout first,’ said Styles. ‘They’re not the friendliest bunch.’

  ‘Gus, Glenn, need you back out Greenwich way this morning. Mop ups on CCTV for the places we didn’t manage to speak to already. Not gonna be enough to just have motive. We need to place them at the scene, whoever they are, whether it’s Winter, some of his boys or someone we haven’t got up there yet,’ Porter said, nodding towards the collage of photos, printed sheets and Post-its that wallpapered that side of the room.

  ‘That brings me nicely on to the guest of honour,’ Porter continued, walking over to tap Winter’s face. ‘Kaja, let’s share your little find, shall we?’

  Kaja Sucheka stood up, wandered over to borrow Dee’s tablet, fingers tapping away as she joined Porter at the front.

  ‘So, we know Winter travelled to York the day before Henderson was killed. We’ve got his e-ticket and CCTV puts him at King’s Cross.’

  A black and white still popped up on the wall-mounted screen. Winter, travelling light, satchel slung over his shoulder. Jeans, white shirt, looking for all the world to be just another guy off out for a trip, rather than the biggest of a bunch of bigoted pricks. Something bothered Porter about the image. Couldn’t quite place it, like seeing a face in a crowd, wondering if you used to go to school with them, nothing firm enough to hang your hat on.

  ‘That’s all we had time to check out yesterday before he walked thanks to his brief having a tantrum like a hungry toddler. This is where it gets interesting. We know he got on, but far as we know, he never got off.’

  A sea of befuddled faces stared back.

  ‘This gonna be one of those riddles I used to hate at school?’ Waters asked. ‘A train leaves London at ten, travelling a hundred miles an hour. What colour were the driver’s boxers?’

  ‘More of a question than a riddle really, Glenn,’ said Styles, never one to pass up a chance to correct the young DC. ‘Question isn’t whether he got off. Course he bloody did. How else do you think he was sat in room four yesterday?’

  ‘Why didn’t he get off in York, and if not there then where?’ Williams thought out loud, staring at the screen.

  ‘Gets weirder,’ said Kaja. ‘His phone records say he was at the office all weekend, and I mean all weekend. Like he slept there, but we know from Dee that he’s not on the list of people at the office, least not that came in through the front.’ She rattled off stops on the East Coast Main Line the train had pulled into, all the way to Aberdeen and back.

  ‘What’s the first confirmed sighting back in London?’ asked Tessier.

  ‘That’d be the broadcast he did the day after Greenwich,’ Kaja confirmed.

  ‘Where the bloody hell was he in the meantime?’ Styles said, leaning forward in his chair.

  Kaja held up her hands. ‘That part, I’m still working on. Waiting to hear back from British Transport Police about footage from the stations and cameras on board. For now, though, that drags him back in the picture and proves he’s lied to us.’

  ‘You think the super will let us bring him back in for that?’

  All heads turned to Porter. He puffed out a breath, painfully aware of the consequences of calling it wrong.

  ‘We’ll get a lot less grief if we fill in the blanks first,’ he said finally. ‘Wouldn’t hurt to have eyes on him in the meantime for when we do. Kaja, that’s priority number one for you today.’

  ‘Boss, how about seeing if we can blag a favour from DCI Agarwhal?’ she asked.

  Another reminder for Porter that he was off his game. Should have thought of that himself. DCI Amara Agarwhal ran a team of so-called super recognisers. People whose ability to recognise or remember faces was off the charts. They spent their lives scouring CCTV for known suspects and had an impressive strike rate.

  ‘Great shout, Kaja. Tell her I’ll owe her one if she comes through for us.’ He turned his attention to the others. ‘Gus, Glenn, you get yourselves away to Greenwich as soon as we’re done here. Dee, you know what you’ve got. Nick, you and I are going to pay another visit to the parents. I got side-tracked last time watching Winter up on his soapbox and forgot to ask about the girl in the photo. Henderson had plenty of followers, but not many friends. They look pretty close, and yet his folks didn’t mention anything about a girlfriend, and she hasn’t popped up anywhere mourning him.’

  Styles waited until the team had dispersed before he spoke.

  ‘I called the hospital this morning. Kamau’s still out cold, but the nurse did say he’s responding well after the surgery. Could wake up any time.’

  ‘Shit, that reminds me,’ Porter said, snapping his fingers. ‘With the EWP mess and everything that happened last night, I forgot to follow up on his brother.’

  ‘Wait, what? He has a brother now?’

  Porter filled him in, cheeks reddening at how thick and fast these little cock-ups of his were becoming. Getting out of hand, failing faster than a black-market kidney.

  ‘If you’ve got a note of the number plate on you we can check it now before we head to the Hendersons’. Maybe swing by on the way back. Two birds and all that.’

  Porter rummaged around in his pocket, pulling out a scrunched-up paper ball, smoothing it against his desktop.

  ‘Bingo.’

  The Hendersons’ house was a forty-minute drive, and while Styles drove, Porter used the time to dig up what background they could on Henry Kamau’s brother. Benjamin was two years the elder and, unlike his baby brother, had no criminal record. Didn’t mean he was squeaky clean, just that he’d never been caught. The address they had for him was the Willowbrook Estate and a quick google of his name yielded some interesting results.

  Seems like he and Henry were flip sides of the coin. Benjamin worked at a community centre not far from there. The website said he was the on-site activities leader, whatever that involved. The place popped up in a few local press articles over the last couple of years. One article about an outreach programme to combat gang culture
and another about a knife amnesty they headed up, collecting in over two thousand blades across a bank holiday weekend. Those same blades now stood outside, melded into a sculpture. One figure helping another to climb a step, giving them a help up. Title of the piece was Leg Up. It formed part of the mission statement of the centre, offering everyone and anyone who needed it just that.

  ‘Wonder if Benjamin ever ran with Tyler’s crew before this,’ said Styles when Porter relayed the info. ‘Turned over a new leaf, that type of thing. Would have made for a bit of tension at the dinner table growing up, what with him and Henry batting for different sides.’

  ‘Should only be a five-minute job at the Hendersons’,’ said Porter. ‘You can ask him soon enough.’

  Brian Henderson looked as good as Porter felt when he opened the door. Baggy pouches under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. Looked like a man who’d been stripped of his reason for being, like life had kicked the shit out of him and he was just waiting for round two.

  ‘Mr Henderson,’ Styles took the lead, as the man Henderson recognised from his first visit. ‘DS Styles again, this is my boss, DI Jake Porter. Can we come in for a minute?’

  ‘Has something happened? I saw you arrested that Winter chap yesterday. Has he been charged?’ The prospect of any news sparked Henderson to life, only for a moment though, when Styles brought him crashing back down to earth.

  ‘No, sir, no charges, and nothing major to report at this stage I’m afraid.’

  Brian Henderson closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply. ‘Then now’s not a good time. We’ve had a fresh wave of reporters at the door after you arrested that Winter fella yesterday. Angela’s had to go to the doctor’s today to get something to help her sleep. Starting to wonder if I should pop a few myself to be honest.’

  He gave as sad a smile as Porter had seen, and he wondered how you even began to cope with the loss of a child, let alone in these circumstances.