Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas)

by Susan Wilkins

  ‘That must’ve been hard for Aidan,’ says Megan.

  Yvonne shrugs. ‘Greg probably thought Aidan would be impressed.’

  ‘But he wasn’t?’

  ‘You’d have to ask Aidan.’

  ‘Are you and your son close?’ says Megan.

  Yvonne frowns as if the question is ridiculous. ‘Do you actually have any kids?’ she says.

  The frigid, childless, middle-aged cop. Is that how she comes over? Megan wonders.

  ‘No,’ says Megan. ‘I have nieces and a nephew.’

  ‘As soon as they hit puberty, that’s it. They turn into this other creature. Aidan’s…’ She waves her hands around. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Did his father ever hit him?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. His infidelity I could live with. But Greg knew that if he ever raised his hand to the children, then that would be it.’ She juts her chin. She’s lying.

  Now they’re getting to the nub of it.

  ‘Did Greg ever hit you?’ says Megan. She tries to hold Yvonne’s gaze. But it skitters away.

  Yvonne unclasps her hands and places her palms together. She seems to be lining her fingers up and focusing on them. It looks to Megan like a technique she’s been taught. A way to control your emotions? But in an odd way she seems as if she’s praying.

  She sighs, raises her eyes and stares straight at Megan. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t have stayed in such a marriage.’

  Megan returns her look. ‘Aidan says that your husband was violent towards you. Why would he say that if it isn’t true?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Now she sounds tetchy and impatient. The soft voice has become louder. She’s a woman defending her honour by refusing to admit the truth. It’s a reaction Megan can understand. She’s been there. She’s been too proud to admit that she let a man hurt her and didn’t have the strength to walk away. And if Yvonne did finally lose it and attack him, Megan doesn’t blame her.

  She wants to reach out to Yvonne Porter and say just that. Tell her not to be ashamed.

  But Penny Reynolds walks into the room carrying a tray, which she puts down on the glass-topped coffee table, and Megan knows the moment has been lost.

  Yvonne flips back to meek housewife mode and busies herself unloading the tray: a tea pot, milk jug, cups and saucers. They all belong to a matching set.

  ‘Darling, get some coasters,’ she says to her sister. Back to the soft voice. ‘They’re in the sideboard drawer.’

  Collins and Megan exchange covert looks. He appears to be at a loss, which is probably why he’s deferring to Megan. Yvonne Porter’s behaviour has all the hallmarks of a performance. This is probably what she spends her life doing. Megan watches her pouring the tea like a perfect hostess. She knows her role. But who’s the performance for? For them? Or for Penny?

  Megan is puzzled; she decides on a change of tack.

  ‘This has obviously been a very stressful time,’ she says. ‘But can you tell us about the last time you saw your husband?’ There’s still a chance they can crack this open.

  Yvonne’s hand freezes mid-air. She nearly spills the tea she’s pouring. ‘I suppose,’ she says with a catch in her voice, ‘it was that morning.’

  ‘He went to work? Where did your husband run his business from?’ says Megan.

  Yvonne waves her hand vaguely towards the window. ‘There’s an office, out there in the yard.’

  ‘Would it be okay if DC Prasad went to have a look?’

  Megan has already come to the conclusion that CSI will need to go through the whole place. It should’ve been done days ago.

  Yvonne sighs and says, ‘I don’t see why not. Greg’s hardly about to object, is he?’ She gives a small, tinkling laugh. Now she’s playing the mad wife.

  Penny steps forward and seizes the wobbling teapot from Yvonne’s hand.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate that my sister is not quite herself,’ she says. ‘She’s been prescribed medication by her doctor.’

  Yvonne glares at Penny. Now what’s going on? Yvonne is the elder of the two but the power seems to reside with Penny. It occurs to Megan that the fragile female act is for her sister’s benefit, which is interesting. But does Penny know or suspect what Yvonne’s done?

  ‘All this is very difficult, we understand that,’ says Megan soothingly. She doesn’t have a chance to continue.

  Yvonne jumps to her feet. She has a tear welling in her eye. She wipes her face with a shaky hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ And she hurries out of the room like a scolded child.

  Megan turns to Penny. She’s wondering what they’ve just witnessed. Penny took control and Yvonne reacted by kicking off?

  ‘I’m sorry if we’ve upset your sister,’ Megan says.

  ‘Her husband’s dead,’ says Penny tartly. ‘What do you expect?’

  ‘And who’s telling the truth,’ says Megan. ‘Aidan or his mother? Did Greg hit her?’

  ‘I live in London,’ says Penny. ‘I’m rarely here. So I really couldn’t say.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Sunday, 5.10 p.m.

  When they leave the Porters’ house, Jim Collins is as good as his word and gets into the back of the car so Megan can ride in the front. As they drive towards Torquay he’s silent and morose, mostly staring out of the window.

  Megan finds the tension uncomfortable and also annoying. She catches Vish’s eye; he must be thinking the same.

  ‘Well,’ says Megan brightly. ‘What do we make of Mrs Porter?’

  ‘Something’s seriously adrift,’ says Vish. ‘It obviously wasn’t a happy marriage. He was unfaithful. So big row, she clocked him with a hammer? Son knows this and is trying to protect his mother?

  ‘But what’s the role of the aunt in all this?’ says Megan.

  ‘The little exchange Aidan had with her in the interview room suggests it was Auntie who persuaded him to confess,’ says Vish.

  Is Collins even listening?

  ‘Makes sense,’ says Megan. ‘After we’ve talked to the grandfather, we need to get CSI and a fingerprint officer over there. If her prints match those on the potential murder weapon, then we’re probably on the money. You didn’t arrange for Yvonne’s prints to be taken before, did you, Jim?’

  Collins turns from the window to look at her. He’s deathly pale. ‘Sorry?’ he says. ‘No, didn’t seem necessary.’

  It’s standard procedure. Megan decides not to say that.

  Vish surveys him in the rear-view mirror, glances at Megan, then says, ‘Need a drink of water, boss?’ He extracts a plastic bottle from the door pocket, hands it to Megan, who offers it to Collins. She scans him; it’s a warm day, but he’s shivering.

  ‘Cheers,’ says the DI weakly. He unscrews the top and takes a long drink.

  Vish and Megan exchange glances. Megan’s not sure how to tackle this, but Collins can be so reactive that keeping it light seems the best approach.

  ‘Honestly, Vish,’ she says with a grin. ‘Your bloody driving’s a nightmare! I ride in the back, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster, now you’re doing the same to Jim.’ The forced jollity sounds false even to her.

  But Vish takes the hint immediately. ‘Really sorry, boss,’ he says. ‘I keep forgetting I’m not on response any more. Truth is I miss the blues and twos.’

  Collins drinks some more water. He screws the top back on the bottle and sighs.

  Then he says, ‘It’s not you, mate. It’s me. Forget about it. I’ll be fine.’

  This is ridiculous, thinks Megan. The man’s sick. He shouldn’t even be at work. Barker should have brought in another DI.

  She cranes round in her seat to look straight at him. ‘Jim, you’re obviously not fine.’

  As he meets her gaze, she can see the fear in his eyes. ‘It’ll pass,’ he says. And she knows what’s driving him on. The dread of medical retirement. Pensioned off. On the scrapheap. She also knows what the spectre of that feels l
ike, which is why Barker’s got her over a barrel.

  ‘It’s after five, it’s a Sunday,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t need three of us to question Barry Porter. We can easily drop you back at your place.’ She smiles, then adds, ‘And whatever you might think of me, I’m not going to go running to Slater and use this against you.’

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He drops his gaze, dips his head and pinches his nose. Then he says angrily, ‘Bloody treatment! Fucks with your hormones. I end up crying like a girl. I fucking hate it!’

  He wipes his face with his palm and adds, ‘I’m sorry. What I said before about snitching… sorry.’

  Megan looks away; she doesn’t want to embarrass him.

  They’re nearing the turn-off to Torquay. She doesn’t even know where he lives.

  ‘Let us take you home,’ says Megan in as neutral a tone as she can manage.

  ‘Okay. Thanks,’ he replies. ‘Need to get my medication changed. Straighten this out. It won’t be a problem again. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine,’ says Megan. She knows she’s treading a fine line between helping him and exploiting his weakness. Forget that. After the grief he’s caused her, she refuses to feel guilty.

  The diversion to Ashburton takes a little over three quarters of an hour. Jim Collins disappears into a neat Victorian terraced house just off the high street after a curt word of thanks and without a backward glance.

  On the drive back to Torquay Megan calls Hilary Kumar. Organising CSI to visit the Porters’ house, getting the appropriate sign-offs from Slater, takes most of the journey. Megan doesn’t mention Collins, as promised. The relief she feels at having him out of her hair, at least temporarily, is enough.

  Vish manages to find a slot in a busy car park near the harbour.

  The sea is glistening. It’s a Sunday evening, a time for pleasure and relaxation. The town is full of tourists and day trippers taking advantage of the spring sunshine. Megan wishes she could join them. But this murder investigation is barely five days old. It’s been up one blind alley, thanks to Collins. And Aidan Porter’s confession looks like being another. She’s not interested in the DI’s reasons or excuses; it’s clear he’s not up to the job. Her task now is to get the investigation on track.

  ‘I phoned Barry Porter earlier,’ says Vish. ‘Told him we needed to speak to him again. He was a bit surly but said he’d be on his boat all afternoon.’

  The harbourside is jam-packed, cafes and pubs overflowing. Kids with ice creams, families with fish and chips, gaggles of hopeful seagulls.

  Megan and Vish walk down the hill towards the marina. The short stroll feels like the first opportunity she’s had to ease up even a little. She needs to step off the rollercoaster.

  Only two days ago she was here with Danny Ingram and his NCA colleagues. But that was before she fell out with her sister and got drafted into this mess.

  She has a text on her phone from Ingram, which she hasn’t answered. He says that the interview with Ranim confirmed that the men on the video are the smugglers. She could simply acknowledge that. But composing a suitable reply feels too complicated to manage in her present mood. She wants to say more but she can’t decide what. She wonders what he’s doing. And she can guess. He’s like her, he uses work to fill the empty spaces in his life.

  The NCA are probably still scouring Dartmoor in the hope of finding the smugglers’ bolthole. But that’s just guesswork too. Until another load of illegal immigrants turns up on the authorities’ radar, it’s likely to be a waiting game.

  By contrast the murder inquiry is giving Megan something to get her teeth into and she’s glad of that. She’s had no time to communicate with her sister either. But then Debbie has made no attempt to phone or text her. The raw pain of the rift between them hasn’t gone away but, while Megan remains busy, she can ignore it.

  ‘What did Collins ask Barry Porter when he spoke to him before?’ she says.

  ‘Not much,’ says Vish. ‘The old man was in shock. He’d only just been told that his son’s death was suspicious. We didn’t get much sense out of him.’

  ‘So we’re starting from scratch?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  They reach the steps that lead down to the pontoon.

  Vish points. ‘That’s his boat down there.’

  Megan says, ‘Yeah, I remember. You pointed it out before. The white one. Third along.’

  Some of the moorings are empty. Plenty of yachts are out sailing in the bay. But the luxury cruiser is obvious. Larger than most of its fellows, it’s one of the more expensive boats moored at the jetty.

  On the apron at the back of his boat, Barry Porter, in baggy shorts and a leather bushranger’s hat, is talking to a woman standing on the pontoon. Passing the time of day with the owner of a neighbouring boat? That’s what it looks like.

  Vish is about to head down the steps when Megan puts a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ she says. ‘Let’s just watch for a minute.’

  Barry removes his hat, runs his hand through his hair. He’s a fair distance away but there’s some agitation in his stance. He’s speaking and gesticulating. He’s angry. A row? They know each other?

  He plonks the hat back on his head. The woman turns abruptly on her heel and walks away from him. Barry appears to shout something after her. It’s too far away to hear.

  The woman is walking along the pontoon towards them.

  ‘Go round, see if you can get a picture of her,’ says Megan rapidly.

  Vish runs down the steps two at a time and scoots behind some tourists talking selfies.

  Megan walks down the steps slowly in the hope she can look the woman over without being noticed.

  The woman wears a tight blue sundress. Her dark hair tumbles onto her bare shoulders. Most of her face is concealed by large Jackie O sunglasses. The bag she carries looks expensive. It seems quite possible that she’s come from one of the other millionaire’s gin palaces further along the pontoon. Or maybe not?

  As Megan passes her, she gets a whiff of perfume. It smells intense and pungent and, Megan guesses, won’t be cheap. It matches the clothes and the imperious manner.

  Vish re-joins Megan a few metres on from the bottom of the steps. He gives her a smile. The woman has disappeared.

  ‘You get her?’

  ‘Yep,’ he says, brandishing his phone. ‘Stills and video.’

  ‘Might be nothing, but you never know.’

  ‘Girlfriend, maybe?’ says Vish.

  ‘What would a woman like that see in an old geezer like him?’

  He stares at her in disbelief. ‘Money?’

  ‘Okay,’ says Megan doubtfully.

  ‘C’mon,’ says Vish. ‘Fortyish but nice bum and flash. Right up old Barry’s street, I’d say. And they were having words. And she looked pissed off.’

  Megan smiles at him. His direct, no bullshit approach is refreshing. She always likes working with Vish.

  As they approach Barry Porter’s yacht, they find him pouring a large measure of whiskey into a tumbler. He looks pissed off too.

  Megan holds up her warrant card and says, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Porter. I’m DS Thomas. I believe you spoke to my colleague DC Prasad on the phone.’

  He takes a large swallow of whiskey and says, ‘What’s happened to Ted?’

  ‘He’s been transferred to another job.’

  Barry Porter sighs and says, ‘Come aboard.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Sunday, 6.15 p.m.

  As Megan steps across from the pontoon to the back of the cruiser, Barry Porter reaches out and grasps her elbow to steady her. He reeks of body odour and booze – shirt unbuttoned to reveal a pot belly and a wiry mat of white hair – and she can’t help flinching at his touch. Up close there’s nothing attractive about him; this makes Vish’s suggestion about a girlfriend seem more outlandish.

  ‘Welcome aboard the Seamew,’ he says, doffing his hat.

  Megan can’t decide wh
ether to be offended by his patronising attitude or to accept it as old-fashioned gallantry. She finds it hard to detach from the knowledge of what his son did to her sister. How is she ever going to remain objective in her attitude to the Porters? Yet this is what the bosses are demanding of her.

  Under her feet she can feel the undulating motion of the boat, gently rising and falling. Vish follows her across. His stride is long, and he’s male, so he gets no helping hand.

  ‘You’d better come into the salon,’ says Porter, holding out his arm and showing them the way.

  ‘Salon’ seems like a fogeyish term to Megan, but what do you call a sitting room on a boat? Her experience of luxury yachts is limited; she has no idea.

  Porter ushers them through a sliding door into a spacious area below decks. The sofas are built-in and the coffee table is screwed to the floor, but apart from that it looks much like a conventional sitting room. To Megan’s eye this is a masculine room. There’s a bar in one corner, a large television screen fixed to the wall and a dartboard. Random items of clothing are tossed around. It looks like his home from home.

  She’s aware of Porter’s beady eye on her. He still has a glass in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He puts the bottle on the table. ‘My wife’s not very keen on the sea,’ he says. ‘So you’ll have to excuse the mess. I get a cleaner in once in a while. But things have got a little chaotic recently, as I’m sure you can imagine.’ He dips his head and his bristled chin quivers.

  This is a man whose son has been murdered, she has to remind herself. Even a sleazebag like Greg Porter has parents.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ says Megan.

  It’s formal and a cliché. But he seems to appreciate it.

  He wipes his nose with his fingers and says gruffly, ‘Hardest thing I’ve ever faced. No man expects to bury his own son.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to us again,’ says Megan. ‘I know you were upset when your grandson was arrested.’