End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Whether through blind luck or pure instinct, the blow caught a forearm he hadn’t even realised he had raised, the rest of his body twisting away. The impact still hurt like hell, whatever it was, and he carried on his spin, putting distance between him and any follow-up, moving through a full three-sixty. Didn’t have much time to refocus as Finch flew towards him, wielding his empty bottle like a cosh, aiming at Porter’s temple.

  Unlike the first blow, he knew this one was coming. No need to block this time, just a half-step back, watching it slash the air, inches short of his nose. Finch reversed it, readying a backhand strike towards the face again. Porter stepped into this one, surprise showing on Finch’s face, as Porter’s left hand clamped onto Finch’s wrist. He tucked his injured right hand into his chest, scything the point of his elbow into Finch’s cheek, feeling it land with a satisfying crunch.

  Finch’s eyes fluttered, but only for a second. Porter sensed, rather than saw, a knee drive up. Only just managed to twist his hips, taking it on the thigh. They were close now, Finch’s teeth bared, straining to break Porter’s grip on the hand wielding the bottle. Little grenades of spittle peppered Porter’s cheeks, and he pulled back a few inches, readying a second elbow, but this time it was Finch who stepped in closer, his one free arm snaking around Porter’s neck, pulling him in close like a dance partner, pinning his own arm across his chest, but taking away any leverage Porter had to swing the elbow.

  Pain exploded in his foot, sharp and hot. Again, then a third time. Dirty bastard was stamping on him. Porter tried to glance down, anticipate the next heel coming down, but realised too late that the stomps had just been a distraction. Finch’s head, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. The headbutt came in like a steam train. He tried to free himself, to pull away, but they were practically conjoined, each hanging on to the other. Best he could manage was a token dip of the head.

  It caught him on the ridge of bone just above his eyebrows. Jarring, disorientating. He staggered back, room tilting, one hand scrabbling at the bar for balance. Slipping off polished wood, counter falling away from him as something hard bumped against his back. Not heavy enough to stop him heading downwards. He hit the ground, backside first, hard enough to jar his spine, pain shooting up the line of discs like dominoes. The stool he’d collided with rattled against the hard parquet flooring where it lay beside him like a fallen comrade.

  Finch looked impossibly tall from this angle, blinking away the impact of his own headbutt. Styles flashed to mind for a split second. Was he halfway across the bar to step in, or was he facing off against Twyford and Forrester? No time to check. Finch shook it off, started moving forward, reaching to grab another bottle from the bar. Porter pushed backwards, trying to crab-walk away. Finch brought the bottle down hard against the edge of the bar. Tiny diamonds bursting, raining on Porter’s legs, leaving a jagged mouth of gaping glass.

  Finch’s mouth twisted into a maniacal grin, enjoying this way too much. Had he done the same behind his mask in Greenwich? Porter went to roll sideways, bumping against the stool. Finch came at him now, switching the bottle to an overhand grip, ready to drive down like an apple corer into Porter’s chest.

  Porter grabbed for the only thing within reach, the stool, swinging it up and out, as much a barrier as a weapon. The pain in his broken fingers was molten, lighting his hand on fire. He gritted his teeth and fought through it, gripping the seat in both hands as it passed his face, both palms planted against fabric, pushing it up and out as hard as he could. Felt, rather than saw, the impact, Finch’s eyes bulged cartoonishly, bottle spinning from open fingers and clattering harmlessly by Porter’s head. Finch backed up a pace, doubling over, withdrawing from the stool leg that had just hammered into both testicles with enough force to send them into orbit thanks to his own momentum.

  Porter stayed seated, scooting forwards on his backside, jabbing the stool out again, striking first shin, then knee. Finch folded to the floor, still clutching at his groin. Porter pushed up onto his feet, using the stool as leverage. Less than ten seconds, start to finish. Finch was foetal, so Porter risked a glance towards the door. One man belly down, Styles cuffing wrists behind him. Porter did a double take when he clocked Tessier, no longer by the front door, pressing Forrester up against the wall, the EWP man’s hands pinned practically up under his shoulder blades. Tessier couldn’t have looked more relaxed if he was just propping up the bar. Forrester, on the other hand, looked like if Tessier pushed any harder, he’d merge with the wallpaper.

  Porter drank in a deep breath, puffed out hard. Felt all eyes on him. Managed to fumble out his warrant card to fend off any questions.

  ‘You all right, boss?’ Styles called out.

  Porter ran a hand over his scalp, nodding as he surveyed the room.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ he muttered, watching Finch try and rise to his knees, realise it was a bridge too far and collapse back to lying on his side. Porter walked over to where he lay, stepping to one side so as to be behind him, ignoring the temptation to accidentally dig a toecap in on the same spot the stool had hammered home. He pulled out his cuffs and snapped them onto Finch’s wrists.

  ‘Leo Finch, you’re under arrest. You do not have to say anything. But it may—’

  A stampede of boots rumbled down the corridor, shouts of ‘armed police’ echoing from reception. They came through in two rows of three, Glocks out, fanning left and right, scanning the sea of shocked faces. Porter recognised the officer stepping around tables, moving towards him, as DS Holt.

  Porter nodded towards the bar. ‘You getting a round in, Sergeant?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Three interviews, three stubborn silences. No matter. They had Finch bang to rights thanks to the voice print analysis. The other two might try and argue their presence in the hotel that day was circumstantial, but Porter knew how that would play to a jury.

  Turned out they’d all served together in Helmand, all been dishonourably discharged, allegations of taking part in a fight that saw two local men hospitalised. None of them were on Winter’s payroll directly. He’d contracted them in from Sentinel Security, a firm offering everything from risk assessment through to personal protection. Can’t have been cheap, but then again, there were still far too many people who fell for Winter and his snake-oil sales pitch ‘Britain for the British’, lining his pockets with donations.

  Still no word from Jackson Tyler. This morning’s meeting with Nuhić seemed a lifetime ago, and Porter was starting to wonder if Tyler would just dig his heels in, refuse to give up a name. Shout fake news and dust off the hammer for anyone that dared to give Porter’s claims an ounce of credibility.

  Today had felt like a week, and the weight of it all laid heavy across his shoulders now, like a concrete cloak. He rubbed at a knot of tension by the base of his neck. Evie across the desk from him, lifting another slice of pizza, bungee cords of cheese escaping either side. Something about this, about her being here now, anchored him to the present. Who better to share your life with than someone who understood the pressures, the weight of expectation, the drive to see things through? Someone who got changed back out of their PJs to bring you dinner when you called to tell them it would be a later than planned finish.

  The urge to wring a name from Tyler like water from a sponge, hadn’t faded, but yesterday’s scare, Tyler’s threats, had snapped him out of his stare into the rear-view mirror. Holly was beyond danger, untouchable. Evie was here, vulnerable, a target thanks to him. Milburn strode across the room towards them.

  ‘Right that’s the press conference arranged for noon tomorrow. You did good today, Jake. Still want to throttle you for storming in there before the bloody AFOs, but never mind.’

  ‘You and me both, sir,’ said Evie, shooting mock daggers at Porter.

  ‘Both of you, get yourselves home,’ Milburn said, ‘especially you. And take the morning as well. Styles can handle the second run at our three new guests.
Don’t expect we’ll get much more out of them yet, but not to worry. Would be nice to have them charged ahead of the press conference.’

  He left them to it with nothing more than a nod and a smile, short and sweet.

  The aches from the bar, combined with the broken ribs and fingers Tyler had left him with, were making a persuasive argument to do exactly what Milburn said. Technically, he could even say it was an order. Before he could change his mind, Evie snapped the lid closed on the pizza, scooping it up.

  ‘Come on. Way past your bedtime. You can come and play with the other children again tomorrow.’

  Several goodbyes later, they left the others to it, promises of being in no later than ten. They headed out to the car park, Evie munching a second slice. Porter had barely managed to press the button on his key fob when Evie snatched them from his hand.

  ‘Not tonight, Detective. You’re riding shotgun. Kick back, relax and grab a slice. This is a door-to-door service.’

  He started to protest, but she was at the driver’s side and behind the wheel, so he slid begrudgingly into the passenger seat. Not that he’d admit it to her, but it felt nice, having someone looking after him for a change. He leant back into the headrest as they pulled out onto Edgware Road, wondering if tonight would be the night he managed more than five hours, and was asleep before they hit the first traffic lights.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  The fuzzy edges took a few seconds to clear. He rubbed at his eyes, rolling over to check the time, but his view was partially blocked by a mug. The note propped against it explained the empty space beside him.

  Didn’t want to wake you. Just popped to shops. x

  Rising to one elbow, he peered at the black coffee, pressing fingers against the mug for a temperature check. Lukewarm at best, so she must have been gone a little while. The clock showed a little after nine, a lie-in by his standards, and a surprisingly good night’s sleep. No point loafing around, and five minutes later, he ambled into the kitchen, feet dragging across cold tiles to sling a few slices of bread in the toaster, while he totted up a list of what today had in store.

  The press conference would be a feeding frenzy. The arrests wouldn’t be the end of it. Those who’d answered the EWP war cry wouldn’t apologise any time soon, regardless of who’d killed Henderson. That type of next level ignorance and hatred wouldn’t be washed away by the simple truth that one of their own was responsible. What still bothered Porter was where Winter factored in. Could he really have had nothing to do with an act that, on face value, was done with the intent of furthering his cause? Porter’s gut said no, regardless of how convincing Winter had been. If Finch and the others wouldn’t talk though, proving that might be damn near impossible.

  As for Tyler, less than three hours to go. If this latest play didn’t work, he was out of ideas. He was still turning that thought over when his phone buzzed.

  ‘Hey, Nick, what’s up?’

  ‘Morning, boss.’ His DS sounded almost apologetic. ‘I know you’re not in till later, but I figured you’d want to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Henry Kamau. He’s awake.’

  It was as good as a splash of ice water to the face, blasting away any tiredness.

  ‘Is he talking?’

  ‘Yep. Has been since yesterday apparently.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I overheard a couple of Pittman’s team talking this morning. They reckon he came around yesterday afternoon and is doing really well.’

  ‘What’s he said?’ Porter’s mouth felt dry, chalky.

  ‘Not much. Nothing to start with. Then when he heard we had his prints, he admitted to being in the car, but reckons he saw it abandoned and just went in to see what there was to lift.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Maybe so, but that’s all he’s saying for now.’

  ‘Can’t believe Pittman didn’t call me. What a prick.’

  ‘I wouldn’t normally stick up for the guy,’ said Styles, ‘but word is that Milburn warned him not to. Didn’t want you distracted apparently.’

  ‘Oh, he’s all fucking heart,’ said Porter, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Anyway, just thought you’d want to know. I’m heading in with Finch in fifteen minutes. Anything you want me to try?’

  ‘Nah, just run it your way, Nick. I’ll be in by eleven, so we can catch up then.’

  Porter signed off, halfway back to the bedroom to get ready when the toast popped, forgotten.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  No guarantees he’d get any quality time with Henry if Pittman was there. Even if he managed it, Milburn would almost certainly find out, but Porter was past caring. Besides, yesterday’s arrests had to count for something. What was the use in earning brownie points if you didn’t cash them in?

  He recognised one of Pittman’s team leaning against the counter of the nurse’s station, a young DC by the name of Sean O’Connor. The look on the young staff nurse’s face suggested he was wasting his time with an obvious attempt to flirt. Him laughing enough for both of them at his own joke. She, by contrast, managed a tight smile, attention more focused on a patient file. He straightened up, slipping on a serious face when he saw Porter approaching.

  ‘Is he awake?’

  ‘Yes sir, but I—.’

  ‘Pittman in with him?’

  ‘No, sir, DI Pittman had to step out to take a call, but he should be back any minute.’

  Perfect. Easier to ask for forgiveness later than wait for permission now. Porter kept walking, past O’Connor, towards Henry Kamau’s room.

  ‘Um, sir, you can’t—’

  ‘Can’t what, Detective Constable?’ Porter turned back to face him.

  ‘The boss, he told us the super didn’t want you distracted from your Greenwich case.’

  ‘All done and dusted,’ said Porter. ‘Three arrests and a press conference at noon, so no harm, eh?’

  He left O’Connor lost for words, something the staff nurse would probably thank him for, and pushed open the door to Henry Kamau’s room. The dressings that had hidden a good amount of his face were gone, swelling almost disappeared, and the face left behind looked too young, too far removed from the kind of one Porter had pictured these last few years.

  ‘Henry? My name is Detective Inspector Porter. How are you feeling?’

  It was as if the mention of rank, confirmation he was another copper, flicked a switch. Kamau’s expression went from curious to something harder, like slipping on a mask.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You recognise my name?’

  ‘I ain’t never seen you before.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked,’ said Porter. No time to sit and shoot the breeze to warm him up, win him over. Pittman could come back any minute, making any real conversation nigh on impossible. ‘My name, Porter, that mean anything to you?’ he asked, pulling up a chair, sitting down and leaning in.

  Kamau wrinkled up his nose like Porter had hit him with a bad case of garlic breath.

  ‘Man, I don’t know you.’ The deep voice didn’t fit. It belonged to a man years older, but he somehow still sounded like a scared kid to Porter. Only playing at being a gangster.

  ‘That car you were in, the one that killed the woman almost four years ago. Holly Porter, she was my wife.’

  Flash of fear in Kamau’s eyes, like he expected Porter to lunge at him.

  ‘I already told your man, I didn’t drive no car.’

  ‘I know, I know, you were just seeing what you could nick. Here’s the thing though, I know you’re not telling us everything. You sure you weren’t driving?’

  ‘Man, that’s bullshit. That other copper, he already told me you got my prints on the passenger side.’

  ‘And no trace of anyone else in the car, Henry. How do you think that’s going to look to a jury? Then they hear about you trying to rob that old fella. Not exactly a model citizen, are you?’

  ‘You ain’t pinning that shit on me,’ he sa
id, more animated now, sitting up a touch, shaking his head, his IV drip rattling against the side of his bed.

  ‘If you weren’t driving then who was?’

  ‘Yo, you can’t do this, man. I want a lawyer.’

  ‘You’ll get one soon enough, Henry, but you don’t owe Tyler a thing. You’re the one going to do time, for the burglary at least. You’re just a kid. Don’t give up the next ten years of your life for them, maybe more.’

  Porter glanced back through the door, saw O’Connor on his phone, looking like he was on the wrong end of a dressing-down. Must be Pittman on the other end. Not much time.

  ‘We can protect you, Henry. Just tell me who was driving.’ Porter leant in closer, hearing the edge in his own voice, borderline growl behind the words.

  Kamau shuffled an inch over, trying to preserve personal space.

  ‘Just give me a name, Henry. One name and I go away. You don’t, and I’ll be there when you get out. I’ll be there every time you look over your shoulder. She was my wife. You think I’m gonna let this slide, then you’re stupider than I thought.’

  If he gripped the side rail of the bed any harder he fancied it might snap off. Kamau seemed to shrink away from him, wedging up against the far side.

  ‘What about your brother? What will he tell me?’

  ‘Ben? What’s he got to do with this?’ said Kamau.

  ‘You tell me. Went to see him yesterday and he scarpered pretty quickly.’

  ‘This is nuffin’ to do with him.’

  ‘Then give me a name, or I’ll have him in an interview room next door to yours.’

  ‘I can’t give you a name,’ Kamau said, all trace of bluster having fled the room.

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘’S the same thing. You don’t understand, man. You don’t just—’