‘This is Elliott, Ross’s friend. Elliott, we good to go?’
Kirk nodded. ‘All ready when you are.’
‘Ready? Ready for what?’
‘Mrs Ashbrooke, we should leave, now,’ the bodyguard urged.
‘Do it,’ said Porter, talking to Kirk, but his eyes not leaving Ashbrooke.
Kirk lifted his phone, tapped out something on the screen, then nodded to Porter.
‘What now, you’re going to try and trick me into saying something incriminating on camera?’
Porter shook his head. ‘No tricks needed. We got what we needed.’ He walked over to the bushes by the side of the bench, arm disappearing up to his elbow, far from empty when he pulled it back out. Smartphone and tripod. Just like the kit Ross Henderson’s murder had been filmed on.
‘This is entrapment,’ she gasped, then to the bodyguard said something inaudible. The man’s arm shot out, grabbing the tripod, wrenching it from Porter’s grasp, handing it to Ashbrooke. She looked smug, the kind of level reserved for schoolyard bullies after they’ve rifled the weaker kid’s pockets.
‘Nice try, Detective. I might even use this one to make my call to the commissioner asking for your suspension.’
‘You might want to have a look on this one, before you do,’ he said, borrowing Kirk’s handset, turning the screen so she could see. Her face went from irritated, cycled through confused as she processed what she was seeing, to something bordering on terror.
He angled his head around so he could watch. Saw the footage from minutes ago. Blue and white Facebook banner. That same profile picture, a rolling bank of clouds, one that he’d first laid eyes on a week ago. Dead centre, a screen within a screen, still muted but unmistakably Sally Ashbrooke approaching him minutes ago. One tap, and voices started.
‘Don’t worry, we didn’t share it live, just in case I was wrong,’ he said. ‘Elliott here is a dab hand with the tech though. Set up a private page to let it run live to an audience of zero. He’s just shared that link to the Stormcloudz page though. You wanted a soapbox to shout from, you got one.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
The next week was a blur. Milburn was unsurprisingly pissed off at not having had Porter’s suspicions shared in advance. That soon faded with each new headline about the Met ruthlessly exposing corruption. Plenty of press conferences for him to preen like a peacock. Ashbrooke had continued to rant about being set up, going as far as to smash the spare smartphone he’d used to film her, even ordering her bodyguard to intervene as Porter had arrested her. The man had seen sense. Whether that had anything to do with Tessier and Styles walking through the west gate at that stage, was anybody’s guess.
After the first twenty-four hours, Porter made it his mission to avoid the press, keeping news off the TV. Better things to do than watch Westminster tear itself to pieces, parties fighting for moral high ground, which after Ashbrooke’s video went viral was somewhere below sea level in the public’s eyes if you were a politician.
Winter tried to beat the EWP war drums again, but after several anonymous posts on the Stormcloudz Facebook page about his trips to Peterborough, plus a copy of the threats he made against Henderson, he was speaking to empty venues within days.
Ashbrooke lawyered up, said very little, scuttling out the back door when she made bail, avoiding the mosh pit of paparazzi waiting outside. That silence continued throughout subsequent interviews, guarded by high-priced lawyers in high-priced suits. They were still peddling entrapment, saying comments were taken out of context, claiming she had simply spoken about her efforts to get elected. That she’d do what she had to on the campaign trail, but of course she hadn’t actually ordered Ross Henderson’s death.
A spokesperson from the British Independence Party said she had the entire party behind her. But after a week’s worth of mauling in the press and a twenty-point gap opening between her and the PM, Sally Ashbrooke stepped down as leader of the BIP, for the good of the party, and so she could ‘attend to personal matters’. Equivalent of saying the Titanic had sprung a bit of a leak.
Amongst the whirlwind of white noise surrounding the Henderson case, Jackson Tyler’s arrest and subsequent charging with Holly’s death barely made a splash as far as any press was concerned. That suited Porter. He wasn’t the sort to have his life paraded in public. The man responsible would pay, although for how long remained to be seen, and that, he hoped, would be enough. Felt like a weird way to describe it when he rolled the words around in his mind, but the sense of unresolved grief, a need for answers, had followed him around like a shadow for years, matching him step for step. Constant, conjoined, it had taken on a life of its own, a weight.
Jackson Tyler’s arrest seemed to have cut it loose, but he’d become so used to it, he didn’t quite feel himself. Milburn insisted Porter took a few days off, and for once, Jake didn’t fight it. Some were calling Sally Ashbrooke’s arrest a career-defining moment, but truth be told, he couldn’t think of anything more important he could have achieved than getting justice for Holly.
He toyed with escaping London with Evie for a few days, but when he mentioned it to her, she reminded him of his promise to spend Saturday at Kat’s for a barbeque and a kick-around with the boys. And so, as Sally Ashbrooke started to slide from the front page and disappear from headlines, at least until the trial, Porter found himself in Kat’s garden, trying to stifle his competitive nature so as not to wipe out the twins with an overzealous tackle. Their dad, Tony, handed over barbeque duties to Kat, to even up the sides, and for half an hour, Jake’s world consisted of a square patch of grass and some dubious shirt-pulling by Tom and James when it suited them.
By the time Kat called them over to eat, Jake had a sweat on and matching grassy stains tattooed on the knees of his jeans. Egged on by the twins, he built his own tower of a sandwich. Burger, cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, pickles, plus a few sausages for good measure. Any more and he’d need planning permission, much to Kat’s feigned horror, and the twins’ delight.
He looked up from his construction, seeing the ear-to-ear grins on the twins’ faces, both boys egging Evie on to do the same, if not bigger. A memory slipped in between frames of the present, the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it type. Little over four years ago, Holly sat at the exact same table, cutting crusts off cheese sandwiches for the boys, promising she and Uncle Jake would take them to the park later so they could feed the scraps to the ducks.
Past and present spliced, spacing him out, only for a moment. He blinked and he was back in the here and now. Evie looked up from her plate, as if she’d sensed something in his gaze. She gave a smile that started from the mouth, radiating all the way out like ripples on a pond. He couldn’t help but respond with one of his own, very much back in the moment. This last week since Postman’s Park, and the last few days in particular, he’d felt cast adrift somewhat. Time away from the job, the thing that had been his focus for so long since Holly, coupled with the shadow of her case, had left an oddly empty feeling somewhere in the back of his mind. Not a bad empty though, more a feeling of roominess. Headspace he’d been without for too long.
He hadn’t managed a second bite of his house-sized burger, before Evie was out of her seat, dragged under fake protest by the boys back out onto the makeshift football pitch, to have shots pinged in at her. Tom tried to dribble around her, and she knew she was beaten, ignoring the ball, grabbing hold and tickling as he tried to go past. James tried valiantly to rescue his brother, suffering the same fate, but only for a few seconds, until they, with a little leniency from Evie, double-teamed her, one tickling each armpit. Right there, in that moment, present trumped past. Even offered a sneak preview of a future that could be his, filling up that empty space the last few years had hollowed out. Theirs. One that made him smile. One he wouldn’t just be settling for. One he wanted. One he was pretty sure Holly would want for him just as much.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Four books on, and the novelty of being in a position
where I get to write these still hasn’t worn off. End of the Line was written exclusively in lockdown, which might sound like perfect conditions – stuck in the house with fewer distractions. The reality is though that’s been possibly the busiest year of my life, personally and professionally. My day job is in HR, so has been insanely busy throughout, and it’s meant more late nights than ever to hit my deadline. This one has felt a little different for other reasons too. My first three have felt more insular when I look back on them. By that, I mean I hear other writers talking about reflecting social themes in their books, and I’ve just been head down, focusing on the idea I’ve had. For this one though, I wanted to explore some pretty divisive issues. It’s been a weird few years, and events like Brexit have brought out the worst in way too many people, at a time when we need a sense of unity and inclusivity more than ever. The research into far-right groups, and some of the dialogue I had to write for those characters associated with them, genuinely left a bad taste in my mouth, but I’m hoping that’s just a reflection on how realistic the people who speak those words come across.
As ever, it’s not just about me scribbling words down. There’s a whole army behind the scenes that make my grubby drafts a whole lot prettier. Big thank you to all the team at A&B. It never ceases to amaze me how much better the finished product is because of you folks, and any errors left behind are entirely mine.
Lockdown hasn’t been all doom and gloom. I’ve actually come out of it with more friends than I went in with. Thanks to the miracle of Zoom, and a weekly dose of lockdown episodes of Virtual Noir at The Bar, I’ve gone and found myself a new group of pals – my circle of trust buddies – you know who you are. You guys have helped make lockdown more bearable, one Zoom call at a time. Rockstars, every last one of you.
Shout out to my fellow Y-Files crew for always being there as a sounding board, givers of advice, shoulders to vent on and just generally being all-round legends.
I want to give a shoutout to a couple of charity anthologies I was lucky enough to contribute to during lockdown, and to all the other authors who contributed. First up is Afraid of the Light (all profits going to Samaritans), followed by the sequel, Afraid of the Christmas Lights, (all profits shared between East Surrey Domestic Abuse Services, providing help and outreach in East Surrey, and Rights Of Women, a national charity that helps women understand their legal rights and access a range of support services to which they are entitled. Lastly, Virtual Noir at the Bar, with all profits going to NHS charities. Lockdown really has brought out the best in some people, and it was an honour to take part and give a little back.
To Jude and Malc, the best in-laws a bloke could wish for. Your support and encouragement mean a lot, especially bearing in mind I still haven’t taken all of Nic’s stuff from your loft like I promised I would when I married her.
My own mam and dad have literally been a never-ending source of encouragement and support my whole life, and these books are borne out of that. I wouldn’t be writing these were it not for you two. Took me a while to persuade my mam to read past the opening scenes in this one. Apparently, she was disturbed that her son could dream up such things.
To my kids – Lucy, Jake and Lily. Only one of you is old enough to read this right now, but hope your old man makes you proud from time to time.
To my wife, Nic, chief proofreader, toddler wrangler, BFF and partner in crime. There’s nobody I’d rather have been locked down with. Every day is just that little bit better for having you in it, even though you never finish a single cup of tea I make for you.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Scragg had a random mix of jobs before taking the dive into crime writing; he’s been a bookseller, pizza deliverer, Karate instructor and football coach. He lives in Tyne & Wear and is a founding member of the North East Noir crime writers group.
robertscragg.com
@robert_scragg
By Robert Scragg
What Falls Between the Cracks
Nothing Else Remains
All That is Buried
End of the Line
COPYRIGHT
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1F 8AN
allisonandbusby.com
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2021.
Copyright © 2021 by Robert Scragg
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2700–1
End of the Line Page 31