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

by Susan Wilkins

  He nods and tension ripples through his jaw. ‘I shouldn’t have blown my stack at your boss,’ he says. ‘No way to speak to a lady. I did ask Wardell to pass on my apologies. I hope he did that.’ There’s a gruffness about him. He’s over seventy and a different generation. It’s part of his mindset to conceal his vulnerability. But Megan notices him eyeing the whiskey bottle he’s just put down. Booze is his coping strategy. And that spans every generation.

  ‘I believe he did,’ says Megan politely. She wants to get the formalities out of the way so they can press on.

  But he rakes his hand through his shaggy grey locks and says, ‘Bloody awful business, but Wardell says you’ve released my grandson under investigation. What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘That’s the reason we’re here,’ says Megan. ‘Aidan tells us he attacked his father. But we’re looking into that further.’

  ‘You mean you don’t think he did it either?’

  ‘It’s a confession by a seventeen-year-old. We don’t just take it at face value.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Porter. ‘Mind if I have another drink? You’re welcome to join me. Or is it that on duty thing?’

  ‘It’s that on duty thing,’ she replies. ‘But please feel free.’

  Barry Porter picks up the bottle of single malt and sloshes another hefty measure into his glass.

  Vish and Megan exchange glances. She waits. It’s hardly by the book, but if getting pissed loosens his tongue that might prove useful.

  Porter takes a large swallow, plonks down on one of the sofas and invites them to sit too.

  Megan perches on the opposite sofa. Vish remains standing.

  Porter gives him a surly look. ‘What’s he? Your punkah wallah?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ says Megan. ‘DC Prasad is my colleague.’

  ‘Take no notice,’ says Porter, with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘I was just joking.’

  ‘As you can see, I have no fan, Mr Porter,’ says Vish evenly. ‘So the answer to your question must be no.’

  Barry Porter glares at him for a moment from under his bushy brows. Then he cracks a smile. This turns into a loud guffawing laugh and ends in a fit of coughing. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘very smart. No offence, lad.’

  ‘None taken,’ Vish replies. He holds the old man’s gaze with a steady stare and a polite smile.

  Porter breaks eye contact first.

  ‘Do you mind talking about your son?’ says Megan. ‘I realise it must be difficult.’

  ‘Ask away,’ says Porter.

  ‘What can you tell us about his marriage?’

  He sips his drink and glances at Vish. ‘If a man plays away, there’s a reason, right?’

  Vish folds his arm and listens.

  ‘I don’t say that my son was a saint, because he wasn’t. But he loved his kids and he did his level best to keep that family together.’

  He also blackmailed women into having sex with him.

  ‘Were your son and his wife contemplating a divorce then?’ says Megan.

  ‘She probably was,’ says Porter. ‘It was her bloody sister pushing her to it. She’s a cold fish, that woman.’

  ‘We’re talking about Penny Reynolds here?’ says Megan.

  ‘I do my best to keep it civil, but she can be bloody difficult at times.’

  ‘Still, she agreed to Mr Wardell, your choice of lawyer, representing your grandson. I presume you talked to her about that?’ says Megan.

  Barry Porter shrugs and says, ‘Well, she phoned me. I recommended Wardell. She agreed. We both wanted what was best for the boy, obviously.’

  Megan finds herself wondering if this is true. Penny Reynolds works in the City, surely she knows some London heavyweight she could call upon. Perhaps she agreed because she wanted his confession accepted.

  ‘Tell us more about your son’s marriage,’ she says.

  Porter sighs. ‘Yvonne’s an odd sort of female. I’ve never really made head nor tail of her. As a girl she was very pretty, turned a lot of heads including my son’s. But if you ask me, she’s got a screw loose.’ He raises his glass and chuckles. ‘Drinks like a fish too.’

  ‘Has she ever received any treatment for mental health issues or an alcohol problem?’ says Megan.

  ‘Treatment! In and out of various posh rehab places for years. Cost Greg a fortune. Not that it did any good. She was depressed apparently. Beats me what she had to be depressed about. Greg gave her everything. Four lovely children. Cupboards full of clothes. More bloody shoes than Imelda Marcos.’

  Megan doubts that having everything worked for Yvonne. In her own marriage she wasn’t short of stuff; it was love and attention that she was missing.

  ‘Tell us about your grandson,’ she says.

  Porter sighs. ‘Aidan’s always been under his mother’s thumb. When he was a little lad, she would never let him out of her sight. She was always fussing over him. As he got older it got worse. She wouldn’t let him play rugby at school, said it was too dangerous. But how’s the boy going to grow into a man if he’s wrapped in cotton wool?’

  ‘What was Greg’s view of this?’ asks Megan.

  ‘Oh, he fought her every inch of the way,’ says Porter. ‘I think that’s probably where it all started to go downhill for them. Arguing about Aidan. Just last year, lad wanted to go skiing with the school. She wouldn’t have it. But Greg did put his foot down. Aidan was so pleased, because he was desperate to go.’

  ‘So Aidan did feel supported by his dad?’

  ‘Course he did. I always thought they got on pretty well.’

  Megan glances at Vish.

  He chips in. ‘Do you know what Greg thought about Aidan’s hair? The topknot?’

  Barry Porter shrugs, then he smiles wistfully. ‘When he was fourteen he shaved it all off. Bald as a coot. But I think that was to piss his mother off. Kids do stuff with their hair, don’t they? I don’t think it bothered Greg.’

  Megan picks up the thread again. ‘As far as you know, did Greg ever hit his wife or children?’

  Porter shakes his head vehemently. ‘No. You youngsters, you probably think I’m an old fart. But I’ll tell you this, I brought my son up never to raise his hand to a woman. Only a coward hits a woman. I don’t believe Greg ever hit her. Though she certainly gave him provocation.’

  ‘What sort of provocation?’ says Megan.

  He takes another slug of whiskey. Megan can see he’s on the cusp of becoming maudlin drunk.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Look at me, some would say I’m a wealthy man. But I can tell you I’ve earned every brass farthing. I started out working for my father. He was a builder. I worked on the site, hod carrier for a brickie, that’s what I was doing when I was Aidan’s age, up and down a bloody ladder all day.’ He throws out his arms. ‘Now I’m not a hypocrite. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the good things in life. But Yvonne was never satisfied. She was always pushing Greg to earn more. The avarice of that woman knows no bounds.’

  ‘You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of your daughter-in-law, Mr Porter,’ says Megan.

  ‘Too bloody right,’ says Porter. ‘For years she led my son a right bloody dance and then she thought she was going to divorce him and take half his money. His money! He earned it, not her. That’s what she and her bloody sister were planning. Greg knew it and I knew it.’

  ‘Do you think Greg confronted his wife about this? Could they have rowed about it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Would you say that Yvonne and her sister are very close?’ says Megan.

  ‘Close,’ says Porter. ‘But in a pretty messed up way, if you ask me.’

  ‘Messed up how?’ says Megan.

  ‘They’re all about money too. The fact Penny earns her own living, that’s always bothered Yvonne. She’s jealous. My wife used to say if Yvonne saw Penny with a new handbag, a week later Yvonne’d have a new bag worth twice as much.’

  Porter drains his glass and pours himself yet anoth
er drink.

  ‘You’re convinced that Aidan didn’t kill his father?’ says Megan.

  ‘I don’t believe it for one moment,’ says Porter. ‘Bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Then why would Aidan say he did?’ says Megan.

  The question hangs in the air for a moment. Porter sighs again. He seems about to speak, then he hesitates. He knows something.

  Porter frowns, takes another slug of his drink and says, ‘Part of me keeps thinking, how can he be dead? It’s not real. He’s my son. He’s just going to turn up with a cooler of beer and off we’ll go. Out there into the bay, maybe down the coast. But you never understand how things really are until it’s too late, do you? Or maybe I’m just getting old.’

  It feels as if he’s deliberately changed the subject. Was he about to accuse Yvonne? Why didn’t he?

  Maybe he’s just too pissed. By Megan’s calculation he’s drunk nearly half a bottle of whiskey since they’ve been there. He’s becoming bleary-eyed and his face is beaded in sweat. She knows it’s time to wind this up.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Porter,’ she says. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful. This must be a very painful subject.’

  He shrugs. ‘My grandson is innocent,’ he says.

  Megan stands up. ‘We’ll do our level best to get to the truth,’ she says.

  As they leave the salon and walk out onto the deck of the boat, Megan turns to him and says, ‘Oh, just one last thing, the lady in a blue dress that you were speaking to earlier, does she own one of these boats?’

  Porter frowns. ‘What lady?’ he says. He’s swaying and has to grasp the bulkhead for support.

  ‘I think you were speaking to her earlier,’ says Megan.

  Porter shrugs. ‘I don’t remember that,’ he says. ‘But I quite often have a chat with other boat owners as they pass by.’

  ‘Blue dress? Attractive. You don’t remember her?’ says Megan.

  Porter shakes his head. He smiles sadly and holds up his glass. ‘To be quite honest with you,’ he says, ‘I’ve had quite a few of these today. Think I’m pissed.’

  Megan scans him. His gaze is fixed firmly on her and it’s steady. The old man has a harder head than he pretends and he’s certainly sober enough to lie.

  She smiles. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Porter,’ she says.

  Thirty-Nine

  Monday, 6.35 a.m.

  Megan ploughs her way slowly through the gentle grey swell. Raindrops plip onto the surface in front of her, creating tiny ripples as they melt into the sea. The first time she swam in the rain it seemed like a mad thing to do but she loved it. The wetsuit keeps her warm and the orange marker float bobs along behind her. It makes her feel like a sea creature, solitary and safe under the waves, protected in her watery domain from the winds that strafe the air above and a more spiteful world onshore.

  A sunny Sunday has given way to a rain-soaked Monday morning; a shroud of mist hangs over the bay. An Atlantic low has swept in. Still, Megan was out of the house by six.

  Unfortunately, as she was about to leave, she met Mark in the kitchen; he was off to catch an early train to return to his job in the North Sea. She hadn’t spoken to him since Saturday evening. He was packing some sandwiches and a banana in his kitbag.

  He gave her a tentative smile.

  ‘Morning,’ she said.

  ‘Morning.’ He hesitated then he said, ‘Listen, Meg—’

  She raised her palm. ‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine. I get it.’

  ‘I doubt that you do,’ he said. ‘I know it wasn’t your fault. Any of it.’

  ‘I should’ve been able to stop it. And if I’d known sooner what Collins was up to—’

  ‘And Saturday night, we were both still really wound up. It was shitty and I’m sorry.’

  ‘I get it.’

  And she did. A bottle of wine or two, some hot kiss-and-make-up sex, followed by a quiet Sunday with their children. The cracks had been papered over, they wanted everything back to normal.

  ‘Deb feels really bad now,’ he said.

  She would, thought Megan. So now I have to make it all right? But she wasn’t ready, not yet.

  Mark smiled sadly. ‘You’ve spent your whole life taking care of her, rescuing her. You passed the job on to me and I’m the one who’s made a hash of it.’

  ‘That’s not true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to my sister.’ He probably wouldn’t have been so flattered if he’d seen the competition.

  His face softened. ‘But I should’ve been here. Not five hundred miles away in the middle of the bloody North Sea. We both know she doesn’t cope well on her own.’

  ‘I was here,’ said Megan. ‘And she didn’t tell me what was going on. On top of which, Greg Porter would still have been a scumbag.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was the shock, when your lot came stomping in here like the bloody Gestapo. But I shouldn’t have blamed you. It wasn’t fair.’

  Megan shrugged. ‘I’m a cop,’ she said. ‘I’m used to people hating me for something I haven’t done.’

  ‘If we upset you, that’s really bad. Did we upset you?’ He gazed anxiously at her.

  She wasn’t about to go into any of that. Why couldn’t he just leave it, she thought, and go and get his bloody train?

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a tough hide.’ That’s a lie.

  He smiled. ‘I’m glad I saw you this morning. We’re family and I want to make this right with you.’

  He stepped towards her and opened his arms. It felt awkward but she allowed him to give her a hug.

  As she swims across the bay, she thinks about her brother-in-law. Is it that easy, you say sorry and move on? Perhaps it has to be if you want to stay sane. But what about the pain and the damage? It doesn’t just disappear. And what if a line has been crossed? What if a woman like Yvonne Porter has a row with her husband and picks up a hammer and hits him? There’s no way back over that line. We all have murderous impulses at times. Megan has seen plenty of homicides where things just got out of hand. Barry Porter reckoned his son faced provocation, but what kind of provocation did Yvonne face?

  Megan turns and starts to swim back to shore. It’s her job to make a woman confess to murder. A screw loose? Is that what propels you over the line? The inside of any marriage is a deeply private place, where small cruelties and betrayals can gradually snowball. Her own was certainly like that. Once trust is broken is there ever a way back? How many years did it take from the moment of thinking ‘this was a mistake’ to the divorce?

  At a distance, through her misted goggles, the beach seems deserted, but as she gets closer a black smudge morphs into a definite shape. An umbrella? Someone sitting on the sea wall under an umbrella? Reaching the shallows, her toes touch the bottom. She wades out of the water with her float tucked under her arm and lifts the goggles up onto her forehead. The figure under the umbrella waves. A jolt of surprise shoots through her. It’s Danny Ingram.

  Megan’s first impulse is annoyance; her private realm has been invaded. How did he even know where to find her? Could he have tracked her car? Using official databases for personal reasons is a disciplinary offence. But perhaps in the NCA you can get away with such things? It wouldn’t surprise her.

  She walks up the beach, picking her way round the rocks and mounds of seaweed. He stands up and he’s grinning. He’s pleased to see her. She feels a sudden constriction in her throat, an instant welling up of tears. This man has come looking for her! He wants to see her! Her stomach flips. She puts a hand up to her cheek and finds a wet, briny mix of tears and seawater. She’s seized with an impulse to run into his arms. Don’t be ridiculous.

  When she first bought the wetsuit she paraded in front of the mirror in it, so she knows what she looks like. The tight skull cap biting into her forehead completes the picture. She’s hardly rising romantically from the waves like a mermaid, more crawling out of the sea like a wrinkled, rubbery slug.
But he’s still smiling.

  ‘Morning,’ he calls cheerfully.

  ‘How did you find me?’ she says.

  He shrugs. ‘What can I tell you? I’m a detective.’

  ‘The car? Surely not?’

  He laughs. ‘I’m really appreciating the wetsuit. But I’ve never met anyone who goes swimming in the rain.’

  ‘It’s great,’ she says. ‘You should try it.’

  Her towel is in a plastic bag on the wall beside him. He tosses it to her. The rest of her kit she leaves in the car.

  She pulls off the skull cap and shakes out her hair. She must look a fright. Ordinarily she wouldn’t care but now she does. She can feel his eyes upon her.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll fess up. You didn’t answer my texts yesterday. I hoped you might come over last night. You didn’t. So this morning I went to your house.’

  ‘You woke my sister up?’

  ‘Nope. I was lurking outside because it was very early. She saw me out of the window. I explained who I was. She invited me in for a coffee. Then she told me this is where you usually swim.’

  It takes Megan a moment to process all this. Danny Ingram and Debbie drinking coffee. No!

  ‘You explained who you were?’

  He grins. ‘Yeah, a colleague from the National Crime Agency, who you’ve been working with. Said I needed to update you. And I showed her my ID.’

  ‘Right.’ Her lover and her sister. Her lover? It feels surreal. She climbs the concrete steps up to the sea wall and says, ‘I need to get changed. I’m getting cold.’

  He falls into step beside her and they walk across a patch of wet grass towards the car park.

  ‘She really looks like you,’ he says. He’s grinning like a schoolboy.

  Megan frowns. ‘She does not! I’m about a foot taller.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He pulls a face.

  They walk on in silence. The rain is falling in a light drizzle. He holds the umbrella over them both and she finds herself enjoying the physical proximity. Is it just a basic pheromonal buzz? Or is there more to it? Being with him, walking side by side, is so natural. It feels as though she’s known him for months not days.