End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Eh? What?’

  ‘If we can stick to the questions related to the charges, please, Detective,’ Rafferty cut in.

  ‘Just an observation.’ Porter shrugged. ‘But it is linked, isn’t it? No secret that you’re not a fan of anyone who doesn’t share your shade on the Dulux colour chart, now, is it?’

  ‘You’re grossly oversimplifying what the EWP stands for.’

  ‘Because of course it’s so much more nuanced than that, isn’t it?’ said Styles. ‘Britain for the British? Includes me last time I checked my birth certificate, but you wouldn’t know it to hear the reception I’ve had twice at your place now.’

  ‘Feelings can run a little strong amongst some of the party when national pride is at stake, our safety, the fact we’re in danger of becoming a minority in some of our own cities.’

  Porter made a show of looking around the room. ‘There’s no crowd for you to play to here, Damien. You’ll probably be glad of that by the time we’re finished though.’

  ‘Detective, if can we cut to the chase instead of throwing out childish threats?’ Rafferty, the dictionary definition of pompous.

  ‘No problem.’ Porter shrugged again. ‘You want short and sweet. Tell me what happened on Sunday. Were you one of the three men on camera, and if not, who were they?’

  ‘How many times?’ Winter was borderline shouting now. ‘It wasn’t bloody me.’

  ‘Then how did this memory card get under your desk? A card that had been in Ross Henderson’s backpack at the time of his murder.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Each word forced out, through gritted teeth. ‘Someone else must have put it there. Whoever took that call.’

  ‘Let’s move onto that, shall we?’ said Porter, lapping up every ounce of discomfort from across the table. ‘Whoever put it there was either at the scene or part of it. If it wasn’t you, who was it?’

  ‘How many times? I have no bloody idea. Why don’t you get them all in and ask them?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Damien, I don’t think you were there when it happened. Don’t think you’d have the stomach to actually watch, let alone do it.’ Porter leant in over the table. ‘I do, however, think after listening to all that hate you spew dressed up as national pride, that you’d let someone else do your dirty work to get your hands on that footage. Only way this gets any easier for you is if you tell us who.’

  ‘Asked and answered, Detective,’ said Rafferty.

  ‘Your call, Damien, but I’m pretty confident we’ve got enough to satisfy the CPS as it is. We’ve got you threatening the life of a man who was brutally murdered, we’ve got evidence tying you to the scene, and we’ve got you on tape saying you’ll “take care” of him,’ said Porter, making air quotes for two of the words. ‘Only question is whether you go down alone.’

  ‘This is bollocks,’ Winter snapped. ‘All of it. You think that by stitching me up, you can silence the thousands who feel the same way I do about the state our country is in?’

  ‘I think those thousands of people would have a different view of what you spout if they knew why you were in Peterborough, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Winter said, trying to sound nonchalant, failing badly.

  ‘Cabbie gave us the address you went to. Flat belonging to a Mr Gareth Wood. Tenant by the name of Suzi Adeyemi.’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ said Winter, but the denial came to fast, too forceful.

  ‘Funny, she’s heard of you. Turns out not only is Suzi an escort, but she’s not meant to be in the country. Should have been back in Nigeria long before you crossed paths with her, but her parents were killed by Boko Haram militants and she’s scared to go back. Been working off the books so to speak to stay here. It’s fine though. We’ve offered to help her claim asylum in return for testifying when you go in the dock.’

  Porter paused for a beat, watched Winter fix on a spot over his shoulder, slight tic twitching away in one eyelid, nostrils flared.

  ‘Wonder what your hardcore supporters will make of that? Their glorious leader shacked up with a Nigerian hooker,’ said Styles, perfect poker face revealing none of the satisfaction he must be feeling of slapping Winter back down. ‘Kind of undermines your stance on immigration, doesn’t it, Damien?’

  ‘No comment,’ Winter said after a pause, still looking beyond Porter.

  ‘Your call,’ said Porter, ‘but if you don’t give us the three names, then Suzi testifies. You give us them, and we don’t need her story.’

  Winter looked at him now, desperation in both face and voice. ‘So I paid her. So what? There’s bigger crimes committed every day by the thousands who come here looking to leech off us. Stitching me up does nothing but harm our country.’

  ‘I think you’re grossly overestimating your own importance, Damien,’ said Porter. ‘And we don’t need to stitch you up, when we have evidence and witnesses.’

  Rafferty leant in, whispering, but Winter recoiled, shoving him away. ‘I’m not making any bloody deals for something I didn’t do!’

  Pretty convincing, thought Porter, but then again Winter was used to spinning a line for the masses, Pied Piper whipping up the crowds, pointing them in the general direction of anyone who wasn’t white, and slipping their leash off.

  A quick-fire triple knock had the effect of hitting the pause button, all eyes on the door. Porter bit down on his lower lip, already prepping a verbal volley for whoever stood on the other side.

  The face he saw was Taylor Bell’s. ‘I know, I know,’ she said, ‘I’d hate me too if I were you, but you need to hear this.’

  He stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘Our main man, the one who did the cutting. We’ve got an ID. My guy that picked apart the Facebook feed, I gave him a few other samples too.’

  ‘Eh? What other samples?’

  ‘He compared the audio from Facebook footage to the stuff from the memory card and the call. Same man, all three of ’em. It’s Leo Finch.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Winter couldn’t have looked more confused if Porter had just spoke to him in Russian.

  ‘What? Bullshit.’

  ‘Not according to the audio analysis,’ said Bell, having pulled a third chair alongside Styles. ‘You won’t have much more luck than I did if I try and regurgitate what’s been poured into my head about acoustic parameters and verbal probability scale. Most of it just leaked back out the other ear. Suffice to say, bigger brains that yours or mine have deemed it so.’

  ‘Not Finch. Can’t be. He literally saved my life last year. Stepped in when some drunken bum tried to glass me at a rally. Why would he do that if he was just going to set me up for this?’ Winter kept shaking his head as he spoke.

  ‘If we find him we’ll be sure to ask,’ said Porter. ‘If I were you though, I’d see this as my way out of this. If Finch did it, if you’re being straight with us about being in the dark, that puts you in the clear.’

  He left that hanging for Winter to chew on for a few seconds.

  ‘There were three men there, Damien. Who would Finch trust to have his back?’

  That seemed to spark something in Winter. ‘He’s ex-forces. Used to be in the Marines. He … oh my God … him, Freddie and Dominic. They used to serve with him. He brought them on board when he took the job as head of security.’

  Never mind a penny dropping, Winter’s face looked like the whole piggy bank had just cracked over his head.

  ‘Leo, he has a master key for the whole building. He could get in my office any time he liked. I just … why would he do this though?’

  ‘We know Freddie Forrester. Who’s Dominic?’

  ‘Dom Twyford.’

  ‘Any idea where we could find them?’

  ‘No.’ Frown lines ploughed deep furrows in Winter’s forehead. As much as Porter disliked the guy, this was either worthy of an Oscar or he’d genuinely played no part in this.

  ‘Anythi
ng else you can tell us about any of them?’ he asked.

  Winter sighed, gaze skittering around the room like he was tracking a fly. ‘Makes no sense, none of it. He was meant to be in Southampton.’

  ‘Southampton? Who? Finch?’

  Winter nodded. ‘Some army reunion thing. I spoke to him Thursday afternoon after I came back. Said he wouldn’t be in on Friday, and that he’d see me Monday.’

  Gene Rafferty had sat quietly like a shop mannequin during this last exchange, but he whirred back to life.

  ‘Detective, in light of this new information and your new persons of interest, can I suggest we pause proceedings and let you track down Mr Finch and his friends? I’m sure my client will be happy to co-operate and answer any more questions you have once you do.’

  He looked at Winter, eyebrows raised, and seeing his client lost in his own fog of questions, placed a hand on his arm that snapped him out of his trance. He repeated the suggestion for Winter’s benefit.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Winter. ‘Whatever you need. Does that mean I can leave?’

  Porter looked at Styles, then to Bell, finally back at Winter. ‘For now, yes, but RUI, released under investigation. You’ll definitely be back here with us at some point.’

  Even as he said it, something pinged deep in the shadows. Took him a second to make the connection. Winter wasn’t the only one being released today. Tyler’s man. Could be out already. Dammit, why hadn’t he let Styles handle this one? Because he was a perfectionist, he thought, but it might have cost him.

  To say Winter looked relieved as he walked out was an understatement, like a man who’s just found out his terminal diagnosis was all a paperwork mix-up.

  ‘We’ve already done background for Finch,’ he said when the door closed behind Winter and Rafferty. ‘Need it on the other two, like yesterday.’

  ‘On it, boss,’ said Styles.

  ‘Why disappear days before?’ said Bell.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘He took the call from McTeague Thursday. Not like he didn’t have time to prep. Why disappear a full forty-eight hours before?’

  ‘Maybe he was just too busy? Maybe he just couldn’t get away from Winter?’

  ‘Yeah maybe, but they knew exactly where Henderson would be. What if they’d been at the court waiting? Since Friday I mean. That would explain why nobody saw them enter or leave.’

  ‘Worth a look. I’ll get Glenn on it.’

  ‘Give me a shout when we’ve got any info on Forrester and Twyford, and let’s get Mr Finch back in here,’ Porter said to Styles, and went to wander off.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Need to pop and see Kat,’ he said, the weight of the lie squatting heavy on his chest. ‘Shouldn’t be more than an hour.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  His luck had held. Marlon Hawkins had still been in custody, and Porter watched him now, walking out of the station. Hawkins was a young black kid, looked barely out of his teens, and had definitely got the same dress code memo as Tyler’s other hired help. Trainers so white they practically glowed. Jeans riding low enough to see the logo on his boxers. Cookie-cutter gang fodder. While Porter had waited, a more appealing option had presented itself. Hawkins stood for a minute or so, listening to whatever his brief was telling him. The suited solicitor towered above him by almost a foot. Looked like a kid getting a dressing-down from a teacher.

  They broke off their separate ways, and Hawkins waited until the taller man was out of earshot, before pulling out his phone. Porter slipped out of his car, passing the solicitor as he double-timed it to close the fifty-foot gap. Porter fell in ten feet behind Hawkins, pulling out his own phone as camouflage, waiting for enough distance between them and the station.

  Hawkins hung a right at the first corner, talking low, hard to make out more than a mumble. Porter picked up the pace, jogging out slightly in front of Hawkins, warrant card already in hand.

  ‘Steady on, Marlon. What’s the hurry?’

  Hawkins screwed up his face, then spotted the ID, giving a what now? roll of the eyes.

  ‘’S OK,’ Porter said, pulse quickening as much from the risk he was taking as the jog over the road. ‘I just need you to deliver a message for me.’

  ‘I look like your errand boy?’

  ‘Oh, your boss is gonna want to hear what I’ve got to say. Tell him Porter said so. One hour, by the river outside the Tate Modern. I’ll be there alone. You tell him,’ he said, backing away. ‘He’s not there and the information goes to a bakery in Creekmouth instead.’

  Porter disappeared back around the corner, heart beating so fast it felt like he was coming off a hundred metre sprint. This wasn’t so much rolling the dice, as chucking them into a fan and hoping they didn’t get spat back in his face. But he was out of options.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Late afternoon footfall outside the Tate was light. Steel wool clouds drifted above the skyline, scraping rooftops in the distance. Porter checked his watch. He’d been gone from the station for almost an hour now. Wouldn’t be long before Styles would wonder where he’d disappeared to, if he wasn’t already.

  He scanned faces as people drifted by. A group of a dozen or so, led by a tour guide waving a cherry-red umbrella like a conductor, herding them past like cattle. The Millennium Bridge stretched across the Thames like a steely tightrope, the dome of St Paul’s squatting in the background. Porter sauntered over to the railings, peering over as the wind dragged its fingers across the river’s dirty grey surface.

  Porter spotted Jackson Tyler as he emerged from the wooden drinks shack to the west of the gallery’s entrance. On his own, as far as Porter could tell. Dressed as he was the first time Porter had laid eyes on him. White shirt, jeans, only difference being a three-quarter-length coat that flicked out behind him in the breeze. Seemed to have a bubble around him, space that people just didn’t want to share, as if he radiated menace.

  Tyler gave a soft shake of the head, turning his back to the river and resting against the railings six feet along.

  ‘You’re a worse stalker than some of my exes’ he said, looking ahead at the gallery, arms folded. ‘Thought you might have got the message by now.’

  ‘Yet here you are.’

  ‘Here I am,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you, I’m still leaning towards plan A, having Ty and Reece here slip a little something between those broken ribs of yours and tip you over these railings.’

  Porter jerked his head around, spotting two men that had materialised twenty feet to the other side, wincing as the twist tugged at his still tender midriff.

  ‘You didn’t really think you were just going to walk away from this, did you? Only reason you got me here is Creekmouth. What business you got with the old man?’

  ‘None yet,’ said Porter, ‘but if I don’t check in with a friend of mine, information’s going to be leaked to him that you’d probably rather stayed quiet.’

  The fact that the source was Nuhić wasn’t something Tyler needed to know. Porter glanced at the pair to his left again, back to Tyler.

  ‘What can you possibly have to say that keeps you out of that river?’ said Tyler, still yet to look directly at him. ‘And don’t think for a second that they won’t do it. My men are loyal, Detective. They’ve got my back, I’ve got theirs. How long you think that lasts if I let you walk all over that bond?’

  ‘This isn’t going away, Tyler. Yeah, it’s personal for me, but whether I get to the bottom of it or the guy leading the case does, coppers and their families die, it’s bad for business both sides.’ He shot a sideways glance down at the choppy surface of the Thames, turned back and scouted out options either side. He’d make a run for it if they moved on him, but his ribs jarred even just walking down the stairs, never mind trying to make like Usain Bolt.

  ‘You don’t even have to give me the name now. Save face in front of your boys and call me at the station later.’

  ‘You know what, fuck saving fa
ce. Time’s up. You’re done.’

  Tyler pushed off the railing, finally looking Porter in the eye. Only for a second though, glancing over his shoulder, presumably to signal his men. Porter braced himself, ready to push off the railings, make for the Tate. Lock himself in somewhere and call for backup. Shouldn’t have come here, much less alone. Should have done it over the phone, but he wanted to look Tyler in the eye and watch it hit home.

  He chanced a quick look to his left, needing to gauge when to move. Took a split second to make sense of what he saw. Two new figures approaching Tyler’s pair. Styles, Tessier a pace behind him, Nick with a taser held just inside his jacket, hidden from general view, but no mistaking his intentions.

  ‘Everything all right there, boss?’ Styles called out, stopping ten feet short of Tyler’s men, both staring at Tessier and not fancying their chances from their expressions.

  ‘Come alone, eh?’ Tyler said, laughing with all the warmth of a snowball.

  ‘Just as alone as you,’ Porter shot back. ‘All good thanks, Nick. Didn’t have you pegged as an art lover, Gus.’

  Tessier cracked a knuckle that popped like a firecracker. ‘All about the culture, boss.’

  ‘You mind keeping Mr Tyler’s boys company while he and I take a short walk?’

  Porter left the four men in an uneasy two by two stand-off and motioned for Tyler to follow him.

  ‘I want you to remember, I’m doing you a favour here. This part, you don’t want them to hear.’

  ‘The fuck you think you have on me?’

  ‘Not what I have on you. These boys, however, they do have something.’

  Porter handed over a single sheet. Photocopied but good quality. Watched Tyler as it hit home. Knew from the way his face dropped it had gone deep. Bangkok Police Department Header, arrest sheet dated three years ago. Solicitation charges. Boy involved barely in his teens. Jackson Tyler’s mugshot a bleary-eyed shadow of the man here now, looking like he’d been out on a three-day bender.