End of the Line

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Boss? You all right?’ Styles’s words seemed to come from far away, but when Porter looked round, he was only a couple of feet to the side.

  ‘Can’t believe I missed it.’

  ‘Missed what?’

  ‘Need to check to be sure, but we’ve got to go. Tell you on the way.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Postman’s Park was deserted at this time of the evening. Less than half an hour to go before the gates would be locked, the usual flow of city workers seeking solace from offices long since dried up. A mini oasis of green squeezed between buildings that loomed over it, the park, more of a garden really, was a tranquil little treasure, tacked on to the side of St Botolph’s Without Aldersgate Church. There’d been a church of one type or another here for over a thousand years.

  Porter shuffled along the line of plaques on the wall, the park’s main attraction. Each was a memorial to an ordinary member of the public who had lost their life trying to save another’s, the brainchild of George Frederic Watts, a nineteenth century artist. Some of the everyday heroes had only been children, as young as ten, saving a sibling from drowning. He paused for a moment by the last, a quote from Watts himself.

  The material prosperity of a nation is not an abiding possession; the deeds of its people are.

  There were plenty that had fallen well short of that ideal this past week. The path wound its way around a circular dot of grass, a green punctuation mark in the paved yard, and he made his way across to one of the last benches before the exit out onto King Edward Street.

  He could still be wrong about this, about all of it. There was still time to walk away. He could head home to Evie and away from a fight he didn’t have to pick. Except walking away didn’t feel like a genuine option. Not this far in. If he was right and he walked, the repercussions could be a lot more serious than the events of the last few days.

  Porter sank down onto the wooden bench, feeling perspiration blot his shirt as he leant back and opted for sitting forwards, elbows on knees, flicking through his phone to kill time. He didn’t have long to wait though. He’d barely had a chance to click into his emails when he heard footsteps approach from the left. He looked up to see a familiar face heading towards him. Not one he’d seen in person before, but one he knew well nonetheless.

  ‘Detective Porter,’ she said, the barest hint of a Yorkshire accent lurking beneath the surface. From what he’d seen, she played on it when it suited her, hid it when it didn’t.

  ‘Mrs Ashbrooke,’ he said, standing to greet her.

  ‘Oh, there’s just you and me here. Call me Sally,’ she said, choosing not to count the bodyguard who waited just inside the King Edward Street gate as part of the gathering.

  ‘In that case, I’m Jake. Nice to meet you,’ he said, shaking her hand, gesturing towards the bench. ‘Shall we sit?’

  The seat was divided in three by half-height armrests. The leader of the British Independence Party left the middle vacant, plumping herself down in the far seat. She seemed softer than her on-screen persona, more of a youthful grandma vibe about her than politician. Late fifties, hair more white than grey. Eyes the colour of Arctic water, behind thick black frames.

  ‘I know you can’t accept my reward personally, but I must admit, I thought it would at least make for some positive press for the Met. Are you sure your superintendent wouldn’t rather do this with a few more people present?’

  Porter shook his head, thinking to himself, Of course he would, poker face giving nothing away.

  ‘He’s not one for pomp and ceremony, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s Sally, and that’s exactly what I thought he was. Oh well, makes no difference to me. Anyway, it’s not as if there’s a giant novelty cheque to change hands. I’ll have my people transfer the money to the Met first thing tomorrow. We could have done this over the phone I suppose, but I did want the chance to meet you, say thank you in person. Your stopping Finch, hopefully that can bring the city back from boiling point.’

  ‘That’s very generous, thank you.’

  ‘And this man, Finch, he’s confessed?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘He’s not saying much, but to be fair, we’ve got enough without a confession.’

  ‘Mm, yes, Superintendent Milburn mentioned something about recorded calls and matching his voice to the awful Facebook video.’

  Typical Milburn, oversharing to ingratiate.

  ‘Can’t really go into detail, ma’am … Sally.’

  ‘Of course.’ She nodded, showing a smile that said she could find out exactly what she wanted whether he liked it or not. ‘I hear Damien Winter has managed to crawl out from under this though. He’s a dangerous man, that one. Even more so for having gotten away with this.’

  ‘We can only go where the evidence leads us.’

  ‘I suppose if that stops with Leo Finch, your hands are tied.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Porter conceded.

  ‘What do you mean, not exactly?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes. ‘Your hands aren’t tied?’

  ‘They might still be, but it doesn’t stop with Finch.’

  ‘But you just said there was no link back to Damien Winter?’

  ‘Not to Winter, no.’

  ‘To whom then?’

  ‘Leo Finch, he served with your son. Did you know that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said after a beat, ‘what does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘His dishonourable discharge, turns out he was beating information out of a local who they suspected was protecting the man that ordered the attack that killed your son.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Ashbrooke just stared at him. He waited her out for the five seconds it took her to respond.

  ‘And what’s your point?’

  ‘I just find it peculiar that you’ve never mentioned the connection.’

  Stern features dissolved into a smile that creased the corners of her eyes. ‘You know us politicians, we try and stay downwind of anything that makes us look bad. Anything other than shaking hands and kissing babies, people look to twist things into something they’re not.’

  ‘And what are they, then, when they’re not twisted?’

  ‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Detective,’ she said, saccharine sweet, but the smile had left her eyes. Dropped the first names too he noted. ‘Leo did what he thought was the right thing, just went the wrong way about it. Made some bad choices.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Porter said.

  ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Detective,’ she said, standing up, straightening her jacket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Party event this evening, so I’ll leave you to enjoy the peace and quiet.’

  ‘Probably best you give me five more minutes,’ Porter said, making no move to stand himself.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Anger twinkled in her eyes, warning him he’d walked to the edge of a very short plank.

  ‘Five minutes, and I’ll be on my way. If not, I’ll have my super on the phone before you’ve left the park. See what he thinks about what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘You’ve got three,’ she said, but stayed standing.

  That should be enough, he thought, peering past her to where the bodyguard had clearly picked up on the shift in atmosphere, edging a few feet closer without looking too obvious.

  ‘Finch wasn’t just your son’s friend, was he? Did a stint as your CP, your Close Protection, a few years back?’

  ‘There were threats,’ she admitted. ‘Not enough for the police to act, but back when I was campaigning for the removal of troops from Afghanistan. Enough that I wanted to feel safe. Leo gave me that feeling.’

  ‘And the company he works for, Sentinel, that’s part-owned by your son’s former fiancée, isn’t it? Didn’t twig at first, different surname, but Companies House lists you as a director as well. They’ve even got a nice glossy pic of you on their website in the testimonial section. Now I know what you�
�re thinking, where am I going with this?’

  ‘Two minutes left,’ she said, sounding bored, with a hundred better places to be.

  ‘Here’s the thing, when we arrest a suspect, like Leo Finch or Damien Winter, we dig deeper than a miner on speed. I’m talking finances, known acquaintances, phone logs and locations, the works. Know what we found?’

  ‘Do hurry up, Detective. I don’t have time for a full show-and-tell.’

  ‘Turns out Finch and Winter were regular visitors in your neck of the woods. Not your office, your home. Not actually at your house, but nearby, along the river path. Their phones pinged there four times in the last six months. Not only that though, Finch, he came calling solo as well, and he did come to your house. Here’s the kicker: so did Ross Henderson.’

  She’d worn a stony mask up until that point, but the mention of Henderson cracked through the icy veneer. More of a micro expression, but enough to confirm it had struck home somewhere. Porter pressed on.

  ‘Ross liked to record things. Had all sorts of gadgets. Buttonhole cameras, drones, you name it. We’ve already got one death threat from Winter on tape, and it got me thinking, what if it wasn’t only Winter that Henderson wanted to expose? You’ve publicly spoken out against Damien Winter, Mrs Ashbrooke, so why was he a regular around your way? And why was Leo Finch even more of a regular?’

  ‘If you’ve got something to accuse me of, Detective, why don’t you just spit it out? That way I know exactly what slander I’ll be suing the Met for. What exactly are you saying?’

  Stick or twist time. He’d played this part through in his head a hundred times since Finch’s arrest. No going back.

  ‘It’s not really slander if it’s true though, is it? Finch called you three minutes after he pretended to be Winter to get handed Henderson’s location on a plate. I’m saying Finch was working for you, not Winter. I’m saying Finch did what he did with your blessing. I’m saying he’s your attack dog. I mean, come on, he even talks like you. All this talk of tidal waves sweeping the nation, wiping the slate clean, starting again. Like I said before, Mr Henderson was a cautious man. Voice recordings, drone footage. More than enough to expose the who and the what. That much I know. What I’m a little hazy on is the why.’

  Ashbrooke studied him intently, as if seeing him for the first time. A glance back at her bodyguard, another past Porter towards the far gate. Still only the three of them, and only two party to the conversation.

  ‘And you’re saying what? That I’m part of some kind of conspiracy? That I’d risk my reputation, my freedom, just to shut one bleeding heart liberal up? What I’m hazy on, Detective, is if you have what you say you have, why we’re having this conversation here, just the two of us, and not at Paddington Green?’

  ‘My gaffer reckons you might be in charge of all this soon enough,’ he said, looking around the park.

  ‘Maybe,’ she agreed. ‘Who knows?’ A pause. A shift in her expression. ‘You know, if you were ever to leave the Met, Sentinel could use a man of your skills, your … tenacity.’

  ‘You offering me a job?’

  ‘Would you accept if I did?’

  ‘Depends who I’m working for. If you do win, what do you actually want?’

  ‘You’re ex-army,’ she said. ‘You know what it’s like to serve your country. To keep our enemies at a distance, only for someone to slip through the net at home. They walk into an arena wearing their IED on their back, next thing you know we’ve got casualties on our own soil.’

  She took her seat beside him again, eyes fixed ahead for now on a wall of plaques.

  ‘Sacrifices need to be made to keep our country safe. They all understood it,’ she said, nodding towards row after row of those who’d given their lives so that someone, often a stranger, could live. ‘My son understood it.’

  ‘Part of the job,’ he said simply.

  ‘Leo understands it. Men like Ross Henderson, they do not.’

  ‘And Winter?’ Porter asked. ‘Does he understand it?’

  The EWP leader was still a shifting piece in this jigsaw, couple of possible slots he could slide into.

  ‘Damien,’ she said, with a slow shake of her head. ‘Damien means well, but we can’t very well have him running rampant. This last week has proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. He overstepped the mark a while back with that poor delivery boy his men left for dead.’

  ‘Allegedly.’

  Sally Ashbrooke swivelled around in her seat so she was facing him, the hint of a smile.

  ‘There’s a reason why they’re called the far right,’ she said. ‘They’re too far away from what your average middle-Englander is comfortable with. Don’t get me wrong, he spins a good yarn, but he’s not going to be picking out a colour scheme for Downing Street any time soon. All he had to do was stoke up the fires a little, then let me smooth things back over.’

  ‘A safe middle ground,’ Porter added. ‘More appealing than the Tories, less extreme than the in-your-face racists.’

  ‘Something like that. Ross Henderson was the opposite of Damien. As liberal as a man could get. All this talk of borders open like a twenty-four-hour Tesco.’ She shook her head at the thought of it.

  ‘He had evidence against Winter,’ Porter said. ‘Threats on camera.’

  ‘So I heard.’ She nodded.

  ‘Winter, he genuinely didn’t know about Finch, did he?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘That’s a bit of leading question, Jake, don’t you think?’ Ever the politician. Answer a question with a question.

  ‘If that job offer is real, I need to know what I’m hitching my trailer to.’

  She sighed, seeming to wrestle with something. That’s the trouble with politicians though, he thought. Ask them for a straight answer and they clam up.

  ‘And there’s the sticking point. Trust. I hear good things about you, but I don’t know you. Trust is something you have to earn.’

  ‘Like Leo did?’

  ‘We all have to at some point, Jake.’

  ‘And how exactly would I be able to earn yours?’

  ‘These recordings you say Henderson made. You know how the press love to twist things in the name of headlines. Words get taken out of context, and the next thing you know, good people get their names dragged through the mud. As you said before, there’s a chance I could be in charge soon enough. Do some real good for this country. Our country. If there was anything on those that put that at risk, however innocent, anyone who could make them disappear would be someone I could trust.’

  As politicians went, she was as slick as any he’d seen. Using a hundred words, when ten would do.

  ‘You’re asking me to destroy evidence?’

  ‘You’re asking me how to win my trust.’

  ‘Here’s the thing, Sally. I can still call you Sally, can’t I? You can dance around it all you want, but I know you ordered Leo Finch to kill Ross Henderson. I know you wanted it to look like Winter was behind it. I know you think you’re some kind of white knight riding in to save the country, that you’re better than the likes of the EWP. But, when it comes down to it, you’re worse. At least they’re upfront about what they believe in.’

  ‘We’re done,’ she said, flashing a look that could cut glass and rising from her seat.

  ‘We’re a long way from that. Once what we have goes public, the closest you’ll get to Downing Street is Google Maps.’

  She took quick steps towards him, anger hissing out with every word. ‘Big mistake, Detective. You have no idea what it takes to make the kind of decisions needed to keep our country safe. What’s one death if it saves thousands? If it stops the next Manchester bomber from entering the country, then I can live with that.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re not fit to run the country.’

  That one lit an already shortest fuse. ‘I’d choose my next words carefully if I were you,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Or what, I’ll end up like Ross Henderson? Good luck with that now
your Rottweiler’s in jail.’

  ‘If that’s what it takes. There’s plenty more where he came from that’ll follow my orders every bit as well as he did.’

  And there it was. No more going round in circles.

  ‘How can you stand there and say what you did was right?’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘You’re no better than the people you’re trying to keep out.’

  ‘I did what had to be done, to put me where I need to be. The PM’s taken a hammering. I’m two points off him and closing after this week. If anyone had had the guts to do what I did, to stand up for this country a decade ago, my boy might still be alive.’

  ‘This isn’t going to bring him back, Sally.’

  ‘No, but there’ll be plenty more saved that don’t have to go through what I did. Now if you’ll excuse me, we really are done.’

  She turned on her heel and strode away towards her bodyguard.

  ‘You’ve just admitted conspiracy to murder, Mrs Ashbrooke. You don’t get to walk away from that.’

  ‘And who’s going to believe you?’ she said, whirling to face him. ‘If whatever recordings you had were enough, you’d have used them.’

  Porter stared her down for a slow three count in head. ‘Actually, we didn’t have any,’ he admitted. ‘Until today.’

  Confusion flickered behind anger. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Elliott,’ Porter called over his shoulder. ‘You can come out now.’

  After what seemed like an eternity, over towards the east gate, a face peered out from the church doorway. Elliott Kirk looked almost embarrassed to be there as he made his way across.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Ashbrooke muttered, then louder, ‘And who the hell are you?’

  The sound of footsteps approaching fast. Porter turned back to see the bodyguard making a beeline for them, sliding himself between Ashbrooke and the unknown quantity, even though Kirk couldn’t have looked less threatening if he’d walked out in a priest’s robes.