End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘I understand, Mr Henderson, and we’ll let you get back inside to your wife. There was just one thing actually,’ Porter said, pulling out his phone, showing Henderson a scanned copy of the photo he’d found upstairs two days ago. So much had happened since then, felt like a parallel universe.

  ‘We’re just wondering if you recognised this lady here with your son?’

  Henderson’s rheumy eyes filled up at the sight of his son, and he blinked back the tears as he reached out, taking the phone from Porter, a wistful smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, that’s Penny. Where did you get that from?’

  ‘It was in his room. Who’s Penny?’

  ‘Penny? She’s an old girlfriend of his. Not seen her in, ooh, three years, maybe four. What’s she got to do with this?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ said Porter, smiling, feeling the skin around his scabbed temple stretch. ‘Just being thorough. Don’t suppose you have an address for her, do you? And a surname for that matter?’

  Henderson puffed his cheeks out, slight shake of the head. ‘It’s Penny Trainor. No idea where she lives. Last I heard though she was still working at the Asda just off the A13. You could always ask there.’

  They thanked him and turned to leave.

  ‘Detective, sorry to be a bother, but I was wondering if there’s any chance I could get the original back when you’re done with it? He looks so happy there, so …’ He trailed off, swallowing hard.

  Porter promised to have it dropped off in the next day or two, and they left him to trudge back inside to a house full of memories. He texted Dee Williams about checking up on Penny via Asda before he pulled away. The drive to Willowbrook Community Centre felt like salmon swimming upstream, glacial traffic crawling through a series of roadworks. Porter was quiet for the first half, Nuhić’s words like loose marbles rolling around in his head. Styles had started off chattering into the silence, but that dropped off, as if he sensed Porter was struggling with something.

  Decision finally made, Porter started talking, problem shared, problem halved. Started with Nuhić’s man outside the station. Didn’t stop until he dropped the same bomb Nuhić had on him earlier this morning. Styles kept quiet throughout, but even he couldn’t stifle a woah as Porter finished his download.

  ‘How you going to play it then?’

  ‘Haven’t quite figured that part out yet. That place of his at Castlemead is like walking into a bloody rat trap though. Not strolling in there solo again in a hurry.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be solo next time.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, no way you’re on the front line for this.’

  ‘Hmm, we’ll see.’

  ‘That’s an order, Sergeant,’ Porter said, only half serious. He would be exactly the same if roles were reversed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  They pulled up outside the Willowbrook Community Centre a little after eleven. It was a stocky two-storey block of concrete and brick, squatting halfway along a residential street. The whole thing looked like it had been whitewashed once upon a time. The side facing out to the main road was punctuated by a series of large murals. One in particular stood out, bright, with a freshly painted look to it. Olympic rings, faces peering out of each. Different colours and genders, kids and adults. One big show of unity.

  Furious footfall and urgent shouts drifted across from a five-a-side pitch off to the left. Porter and Styles headed through open gates and into a reception area. A large black woman eyed them up as they walked in, filing a set of nails that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Freddie Kruger. Her purple polo shirt seemed to be part of the branding. Matching seats and noticeboard headers, alternating a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk wrapper shade with teal accents.

  ‘Help you, gents?’ she said in a happy sing-song voice.

  Porter approached the counter, pulling out his ID, introducing them both. ‘We’re after a quick word with Benjamin Kamau. He around?’

  ‘Ben? Yeah, he’s out back refereeing a game. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,’ she said, glancing at a clock on the wall. ‘You can wait here if you like?’

  They took a seat by a vending machine. Just the sight of a row of salt and vinegar crisps made Porter’s mouth water. Ella, he’d spotted her name tag, didn’t have a great poker face. Porter could tell she was itching to ask what they wanted to speak to Ben about. She fought the good fight, holding out for a full minute before she caved.

  ‘What is it you need to speak to him about? Maybe I could help?’

  ‘Afraid I can’t share details, miss. He’s not done anything wrong though.’

  A few minutes later, a door burst open down a corridor to Porter’s left, a stream of sweaty teenagers, crowd dotted with fluorescent bibs, charged halfway along and into the changing room. Bringing up the rear, Porter clocked Benjamin Kamau, build and gait recognisable from the hospital footage. He stood, meeting and holding Kamau’s glance along the corridor. Fixed on Porter and stayed there for a beat. Must be giving off blue vibes, as Kamau came straight to them.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Porter introduced them both again. ‘Sorry to rock up unannounced like this, sir, but it’s quite important we speak about your brother. Have you got a few minutes?’

  Kamau dragged a backhand across his forehead, smearing more sweaty drops than he cleared, and gestured for them to join him in his office, across reception and down a mirror-image corridor. The office itself could have been an IKEA display. It was so bloody neat, looked like all it was missing were the tags. Two big corkboards on neighbouring walls. One dominated by a huge year planner, handwriting so bad it looked like scribbles all over as if kids had been doodling. The other wall was just as busy, but this one was covered with letters. Porter snuck a closer look as he grabbed a seat. Letters and cards from kids. Kamau must have seen what had caught his attention.

  ‘Just a few from the kids who use the place. We try and teach ’em a few things here before they head off to ignore most of it.’

  He smiled at his own wisecrack, one that planted deep crow’s feet either side. He was the older brother by two years but looked another five on top of that. Not a big guy, but wiry, compact. Buzzed haircut that was closer to stubble. Two-inch scar cutting a furrow through the fuzz above his left ear. Porter couldn’t decide what must have been harder: growing up around here, Triple H influence leeching into the lifeblood of the community, or making the decision to stick around, try and turn kids away from that life.

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me what happened,’ he said, smile slipping slowly away. ‘Wouldn’t even say what they reckon he’s done this time.’

  ‘This time?’ Styles prompted, although they’d already read up on Henry’s priors. More a case of get Ben talking, use this as a temperature check of how honest he’d be, how much he’d share.

  ‘How long you got?’ he said with an eye-roll. ‘What kind of brother am I, that I can keep all these out of trouble’ – he waved a hand towards his fan mail – ‘but I can’t keep my own brother safe?’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ Styles said, ‘looks to me like you’re doing more than most round here.’

  Kamau gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Yeah, for all the good it does. Every one I keep off the streets, there’s two think the grass is greener with one of the gangs.’

  ‘Your brother is with Triple H,’ Porter said. ‘How long’s that been going on?’

  ‘Too long. Three years, maybe four,’ he said.

  ‘Daft question maybe, but I’m assuming you tried to keep him away, just like you do these other boys?’

  ‘More times than I can remember,’ Kamau said, every word laced with regret.

  Porter changed tack. ‘They never tried to recruit you?’

  ‘They don’t recruit. More of a press gang. They want you, you’re in, one way or another.’

  ‘And what, they didn’t want you?’

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  Some kind of ba
ckstory there, but Porter didn’t press it.

  ‘Do I get to know what happened then?’ he asked. ‘I tried calling up yesterday, but they wouldn’t give me anything over the phone. Said someone would call me back. Pullman? Pittman? Something like that.’

  Porter shrugged, swallowing down the frustration of Pittman turning out to be every bit as average as he feared. Why the hell had he not followed up yet? No harm sharing the charges and allegations behind them in the meantime. Might be a few questions when he eventually did reach out if there was mention of officers having already visited.

  Kamau sat stony-faced, water off a duck’s back. Nothing he hadn’t heard before. Henry had done a stint in juvenile detention for assault, picked up twice for handling stolen goods, but those hadn’t stuck. Nothing major, least not on his record anyway. Time to go digging.

  ‘To be honest though, sir, that’s not why we’re here today,’ Porter said. ‘Henry’s prints popped up as having been at an older crime scene, one going back a few years.’

  ‘Don’t know that I’ll be much help. He’s his own man. We’re not as close as we used to be. Yeah, we have a beer every now and again, but our two worlds don’t really mix.’

  ‘This was quite a serious one,’ Porter said, ‘hit-and-run. A car he was in ran another one off the road. The driver of the other car, a young woman, she …’ His throat felt tight, emotion wrapping bands around it, squeezing. ‘She died.’

  Kamau’s mouth opened a touch, closed again. Repeated twice more. Baby brother graduating to big time.

  Porter realised he was gripping the armrest hard enough for tiny white blotches to blanch his knuckles. Styles clocked him looking, saw the same, and stepped into the silence the other men had left.

  ‘The car he was in was found a few miles from the accident. Did he ever mention anything about it?’

  Kamau looked almost affronted at the suggestion. ‘What, you think I could have just sat on that for a few years, said nothing?’

  ‘Family loyalty’s a strong tie, Mr Kamau, even if you weren’t close. We’re not saying he would have just come right out with it, but I’m sure you hear a lot said in this place. Maybe even just a throwaway comment. I’m betting there’s a few passed through here who’ve been Triple H?’

  Kamau shook his head. ‘Couple tried, but Tyler doesn’t exactly let you just walk away, unless he wants you gone.’

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’ Porter asked. ‘Have you met him? Do you know him personally?’

  Three quick-fire questions. Too eager to get answers, letting heart rule the head. He needed to take a step back, reset. Easier said than done though.

  ‘Everyone round here knows Jackson Tyler, Detective. Best if he doesn’t know you though.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Pfft.’ Kamau made a noise like a tyre deflating. ‘Everyone knows what happens, you get on the wrong side of him. I just keep my head down, do what I can for the kids that’ll let me.’

  ‘What about Henry’s friends, life outside Triple H, anyone he hung around with? Anyone else we could speak to?’

  ‘They’ve pretty much brainwashed him. That gang is his life. Look, I wish I could help you, I really do, but whatever shit he got up to with that lot, that’s his business.’

  Kamau had started picking at one thumbnail with the other, worrying away at a ragged edge. ‘Look, I appreciate you coming here, filling in the blanks for me with Henry, but I’ve got another game to ref in five minutes.’

  Something about Kamau bothered Porter. Maybe the nerves, but then again, he’d just found out his brother was involved in a fatal accident. Felt like he was bobbing and weaving through the questions. Giving enough to appear helpful, without actually giving anything. Time to try a not so subtle prod.

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you can think of that might help us, Mr Kamau? Henry’s already facing some time for the B&E. Be a shame to let him get dragged down by this for longer.’

  ‘What do you mean? You can’t do that. How’s that his fault? That’s like me buying you a beer and getting the blame for you being drunk.’

  ‘He was there, Mr Kamau. We’ve got witness who saw it happen and his prints in the car. He fled the scene.’

  ‘But the driver’s the one you want though, yeah? He’s not a bad kid, even with everything he’s done. Man, it’s bad enough we’re losing kids to gangs hand over fist, and you’re trying to pin this on him when he can’t even speak up for himself. Look, I really got to go,’ he said, grin more polite than warm now.

  Kamau stood, moving around the desk, opening the door. Porter gave Styles a he’ll keep look and stood up to follow.

  ‘Just one quick one before you go,’ he said as he walked past Kamau. ‘You said the driver’s the one we want. How do you know that wasn’t Henry?’

  Benjamin Kamau’s grin fixed in place, but the eyes widened. Just a touch, a blink and you’d miss it, but Porter spotted it. Waited him out for the split second it took Kamau to start back up again, like someone had given him a jumpstart.

  ‘That’s what you said before, innit? That he was on the other side.’

  ‘Don’t think I did,’ said Porter, slow shake of the head. ‘Didn’t even say if his prints were in the front or the back.’

  ‘I’m telling you, you did. Look, I’ve got to be on the pitch in’ – he checked his watch – ‘three minutes. You’ll be OK to find your way out, yeah?’

  Kamau didn’t even wait for a reply, trotting off along the corridor and out of sight. Porter turned to Styles, arching his eyebrows.

  ‘He knows,’ Styles voiced what they were both thinking. ‘He knows what happened.’

  Porter’s head was already a step further. Leap of faith, but one that felt like a Tetris block slotting into place.

  He knows because he was behind the wheel.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Porter jogged around to the five-a-side pitch. Kids pinged half a dozen balls at either end, hammering a constant barrage into empty nets, waiting for goalies to step into the firing line. No sign of Benjamin Kamau though. A few of them stopped what they were doing, looking over at him as he poked his head through the gate, stepping onto the pitch on the off-chance that Kamau was behind the boarding. Styles circled around the edge, heading for the second pitch that sat alongside.

  Noise and movement hit Porter together, head whipping around. The top half of a Ford Focus cruised past the hoardings. Same one Porter had seen on the hospital CCTV. He called over to Styles, but by the time they’d both reached their own vehicle, the Focus was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What do you want to do, boss?’ Styles asked, breathing a little heavier from his jog.

  ‘Let’s get someone round to his home address. Let’s check before we leave here as well if he’s got an emergency contact listed, anything like that. Might be way off the mark, but he couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable in there if he’d just followed through.’

  Styles nodded. ‘Could just be that folks round here don’t have the best experiences with us. These places don’t exactly run their outreach programmes to support your average Tarquin or Tabitha.’

  He had a point. Still though, you developed a feel for these things, and Benjamin Kamau had hit every tripwire in Porter’s subconscious up to the point he made a hasty exit. Next conversation he had with Ben would be in a boxy room at Paddington Green. Styles offered to head back inside to speak to the receptionist, and while he disappeared, Porter used the breathing space to turn his mind back to Jackson Tyler.

  No matter how keen Styles was to be in the mix, there was no way Porter could allow it. Going back another time to the rat trap that was Tyler’s block of flats didn’t exactly appeal. Might as well punch himself in the face a few times for good measure. Had to be some other way, some place less secluded, to deliver what he hoped would be a knockout blow.

  Tyler’s men, the two scooped up night before last. The control freak that he was, he’d want to speak to t
hem when they got out, if they got out. One quick call filled in the blanks he needed. One released, one with an extension, meaning he was still in custody thanks to his prints having showed up at a burglary three months back. Likely he’d be out on bail later today though. Every chance he’d scuttle straight off to Tyler, and in the event he didn’t, it was just as likely that Tyler would find him.

  Styles came out of the centre, holding a piece of paper like a ref brandishing a card. He’d just popped the door open when Porter’s phone buzzed. Kaja.

  ‘Hey, Kaja. Everything OK?’ he asked, starting the car up.

  ‘More than OK,’ she said, excitement making the words tumble out faster. ‘It’s Winter. He lied about York, and I can prove it.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Porter. ‘He gets on a train with a ticket for York, but gets off at Peterborough?’

  ‘And we’ve got him coming back into King’s Cross around four hours later, over a full hour before the call comes into his office and a few days before Henderson died.’

  ‘Show me.’

  She clicked to open the first of a string of files the British Transport Police had emailed over. A new window popped to life packed with platforms and passengers.

  ‘Here,’ she stabbed a finger at the screen. The quality wasn’t exactly HD, but there was no mistaking Damien Winter, striding through throngs of people like he owned the place, leather satchel slung over his shoulder. ‘He gets on the eight-oh-three with his ticket to York’ – she toggled to a second window – ‘but here he is jumping off at Peterborough.’

  Porter squinted for a second, about to correct her, but stopped. The man she picked out had a jacket on, unlike the Winter he’d seen at King’s Cross, baseball cap pulled down low. Same satchel though, same imperious out-of-my-way-peasant strut.

  ‘You owe DCI Agarwhal a drink by the way. Couple of her team checked every stop the train made. Pot luck that this was one of the first, but they spotted it way before I would have.’