In the incident room Slater turns to greet them. ‘Nice piece of cage rattling,’ she says.
Megan just nods and moves on. Her focus is on coffee. She heads for the machine, pours herself a mug and scans the room.
The team is busy. They have a huge amount of material to sift through. CCTV footage from the harbour office at the marina. Acres of it. Reports on forensic evidence coming in from the CSI lab.
Brittney is leaning over Kitty’s shoulder. Kitty has one eye on her own screens and she’s also supervising the efforts of two new recruits next to her. To Megan the screens look dark and pixelated. Staring at them for hours is like staring into a black hole. She knows, she’s done it.
‘No!’ says Kitty to one of her charges. ‘Slower. You’re not searching for a bloody film you fancy on Netflix. You’re gonna miss something. Every movement could be a clue.’
Megan feels restless. The slow accumulation of evidence has always frustrated her. She needs to keep moving.
She turns to Brittney.
‘How’s it going?’ she asks.
‘We’ve got the last known sighting of Barry Porter,’ Brittney replies. ‘He left the Seamew at 7.34 p.m. on Sunday night. He was pretty drunk, which may explain why he dropped his phone. But he was on his own. No kidnapper.’
‘That’s annoying,’ says Megan. ‘No sign yet of who took the boats?’
‘Nope. It was probably later that night so it’s a way down our timeline yet.’
‘What about the phone?’ says Megan. ‘Anything useful on that?’
‘It’s still being analysed,’ says Brittney.
‘Lots of anonymous random numbers,’ says Kitty over her shoulder.
‘Are you trying to be cute?’ says Megan.
‘No, I’m analysing, because that’s my job,’ says Kitty. ‘The numbers will all need to be traced, but I think it’ll just confirm that an array of different numbers with no ID suggests the use of burners. Look at your own phone. Most of the calls are to numbers with names attached. Barry’s phone is atypical. He was in communication with someone who uses burners. Such people are usually criminals.’
Megan has to smile. Kitty can be bolshie but she’s meticulous at her job.
‘Point taken,’ says Megan.
‘Doughnuts,’ Kitty replies. ‘That’s the penalty for dissing my efforts.’
‘Duly noted,’ says Megan.
She wanders round the room sipping her coffee. No sign of Ingram. Garcia is talking to Slater.
Megan checks her watch. Barry Porter’s post mortem is scheduled for noon. That’s next on her agenda. But she’s not looking forward to it. Blood, viscera, the stench. She tries not to think about it.
Garcia leaves and Slater heads purposefully in Megan’s direction.
‘Megan,’ she says. ‘If you don’t mind, I want you to leave the PM to Vish. It’ll fill in the details but probably confirm our assumption he was shot. Instead I want you to go and talk to Marion Porter, Barry’s widow.’
‘Okay,’ says Megan. Deliverance comes in unexpected guises.
‘She’s been informed. Family liaison are with her.’
‘Any particular line of questioning?’ says Megan.
‘Follow your nose,’ says Slater. ‘That’s what you’re good at.’
Fifty-Three
Tuesday, 1.30 p.m.
After Greg Porter’s impressive rural barn conversion, Megan is surprised by his parents’ home. A modest bungalow with a front garden bursting with spring flowers on a hillside overlooking Torbay. The only flowers Megan can name are the bluebells and tulips. But it’s clear the garden is someone’s pride and joy, and she doubts that person was Barry.
The family liaison officer lets her in and explains that Marion is with her daughter-in-law in the conservatory.
A visit from Yvonne? Could prove interesting.
‘How’s she holding up?’ asks Megan.
Christine sighs. ‘Well, I was at the daughter-in-law’s house previously,’ she says. ‘She’s a drinker, as you probably know. Marion’s got a bathroom cabinet full of antidepressants and sleeping pills.’
‘Should we be worried?’ says Megan.
Christine shrugs. ‘The GP’s been round. I mentioned it, so it’s up to him. He gave her a sedative. She was all over the place. It has calmed her down.’
Megan inspects the neat hallway: a shiny parquet floor with an old-fashioned rug, a smell of wax polish and floral air freshener. The whole place has a well-kept but elderly feel, a complete contrast with Barry Porter’s floating gin palace.
Suddenly there’s a loud roar from the back of the house. Is it a howl of distress? Megan and Christine exchange looks as it becomes apparent that it’s laughter – hysterical laughter. This is calm?
Christine leads Megan through the sitting room to where French windows open into a large conservatory.
Yvonne Porter is rocking a small, dumpy woman in her arms; they’re both crying with laughter.
Megan waits for them to notice her.
Yvonne does. She frowns in embarrassment and releases her mother-in-law. For a moment Marion Porter looks like a startled pixie. Her face is round and her large eyes blotchy with crying. Her grey hair is flecked with white, cropped short and sticking out at zany angles. She wipes under her eyes with her fingers. Yvonne hands her a tissue.
‘Hello, Mrs Porter,’ says Megan, holding up her warrant card. ‘I’m DS Thomas. Your daughter-in-law and I have already met. I’m really sorry for your loss. I was wondering if you feel able to answer a few questions?’
‘Well,’ says Marion belligerently. ‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you want to know.’
This is not quite what Megan was expecting but she’s been a detective long enough not to be surprised. Go with the emotional flow, that was a piece of advice given to her years ago by her old DI. People in shock can have weird reactions, particularly when they’ve been medicated.
‘That wasn’t going to be my first question,’ she says. ‘But do you know who did?’
Marion’s chin trembles. She swallows down a tear. Maybe she does.
‘I told him no good would come of it,’ she says. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’ She shakes her head. ‘God knows I shall miss the stupid old bugger.’
She clutches her daughter-in-law’s hand fiercely.
Megan waits.
Then she says, ‘No good would come of what, Mrs Porter?’
Marion doesn’t answer immediately. She needs time to process. Zoned out but not completely.
Megan waits. Be patient.
Marion smiles wistfully. ‘Greg was so like his father,’ she says. ‘Well, it’s to be expected, isn’t it? But much smarter. He was such a perfect little boy.’ She turns to Yvonne. ‘Just like Aidan.’
Yvonne smiles and squeezes her mother-in-law’s hand. The two women are holding on to each other as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they do.
Megan wonders what the hell they were laughing about. She decides not to ask.
Marion frowns. She seems to be following a rambling thread of her own. ‘But men can be so silly sometimes. They both thought they were such clever clogs. Barry, I can understand. No fool like an old fool. When something’s too good to be true, it’s too good to be true, isn’t it? Greg should’ve known that.’
‘What are we talking about here, Mrs Porter?’ says Megan.
‘I’m talking about those bloody Spaniards,’ says Marion angrily. ‘Her in particular.’
‘Tell me more about that,’ says Megan.
Marion seems to drift again. ‘Well, she’s lovely-looking, I’ll give her that. People my age would call her a vamp. As soon as Penny brought her down here and introduced her, it was obvious how it was going to go. You know what men are like.’
Megan glances at Yvonne. ‘We’re talking about your sister Penny?’
Yvonne nods. ‘She was only trying to be helpful.’
‘No she wasn’t!’ says Marion indignantly. ‘I don�
�t want to upset you, lovey, but that sister of yours helps nobody but herself. You should keep your eye on her.’
Yvonne doesn’t look offended; she shrugs and says, ‘It is all very confusing.’
‘Do you mind if I sit?’ says Megan. ‘And make a few notes?’ She gets out her pocket book.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ asks Marion brightly. ‘Christine’s very helpful. It’s like having a maid.’
‘I’m fine,’ says Megan. She sits on a basket chair opposite the two women. ‘So, these Spaniards. A woman and who else? And do you know their names?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Marion. This seems to be something she’s been brooding about. Rehearsing the details so she won’t forget? ‘Lopez. Elena and his name’s odd, you write it with a J but say it with an H. Javier?’
Megan notes it down. ‘Elena and Javier Lopez. Were they a couple?’
Marion nods. ‘They seemed quite nice to start with.’
‘You met them both?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Marion again. ‘They took Barry and me out to dinner once. Very fancy.’
Yvonne chips in. ‘But it was clear she targeted Greg.’
This irritates Marion. ‘She knew what she was doing. But sex makes men stupid, doesn’t it? It wasn’t Greg’s fault. She played him and his dad off against each other.’
‘But she slept with Greg,’ says Yvonne.
Marion shakes her head. ‘No no! Greg would never have done that,’ she says. ‘I think it was a game.’
Yvonne seems about to disagree.
Megan jumps in. ‘And what was the purpose of this game, do you think?’ she says.
‘I suppose to keep them off their guard,’ says Marion. ‘Make them both besotted with her so they didn’t ask questions. Barry was easy to fool, poor old bugger. I mean, as if…’
A ghostly smile comes across Marion’s features as she mentions her husband. ‘He was a fool,’ she says. ‘But not Greg.’
‘Okay,’ says Megan. ‘Just explain to me what the Lopezes wanted. What was it all about?’
Marion Porter has detached herself from Yvonne. She laces her fingers and frowns as she struggles to concentrate.
‘They said they wanted to buy some boats,’ she says. ‘They’d provide the money. Penny would arrange it. But for tax reasons to do with some EU regulations a company run by Greg and Barry would be the official owners and rent the moorings. Barry knew people at the marina. He’s belonged to the yacht club for years.’
‘What did they want these boats for?’
‘Just as an investment, they said. Greg and Barry could use them. But occasionally they might borrow them back for a day or two.’
‘You didn’t think this was odd?’
Marion gives a hollow laugh.
‘I thought it was bloody suspicious,’ she says. ‘I told Barry, they’re up to something. Drugs, I don’t know. But he believed the tax thing. I think because he wanted to. Bit dodgy but not too dodgy. And of course Greg told him not to worry.’
She seems to be vacillating between two positions: Greg’s fault, not Greg’s fault.
Megan turns to Yvonne. ‘What about Greg? Did he think this was a tax thing?’
Yvonne hunches her shoulders and stares at her hands. She doesn’t answer.
‘No,’ says Marion. Her chin trembles again as she struggles with this. ‘My son was clever. He must’ve known more.’
She’s staring at her daughter-in-law. Yvonne starts to cry.
‘Oh come on, lovey,’ says Marion. ‘They’re… gone. We must tell the police what we know.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ whines Yvonne. ‘He never told me anything.’
Marion sighs. ‘Somehow Greg and Penny cooked this up. They’ve always been close.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Yvonne emphatically, through her tears. ‘He chose me.’
Marion takes her daughter-in-law’s hand and pats it.
‘Penny was his first love. She turned him down. So he married you instead. He told me that on your wedding day.’
Yvonne pulls her hand away. ‘That’s simply not true,’ she says. ‘He chose me. He loved me.’
Megan watches the two women. There’s nothing fake about their distress and both are resolute in their beliefs. Yvonne has built her life around a bad marriage. But that doesn’t make the pain of her loss any the less. Marion Porter wants justice but is clinging desperately to a rosy image of her son. Does she suspect the kind of man he really was?
Marion stands up, walks to the window and gazes out at her immaculate garden. Her steps are shaky and she leans on the back of a chair for support.
‘Barry phoned me on Sunday, about seven,’ she says. ‘Silly old sod was drunk. Told me some tale about telling her straight. He was so upset about Greg, well… obviously. He ranted on, said he was keeping the boats. I didn’t take much notice. He wasn’t really making sense. I told him to come home. He didn’t.’
‘What do you think he meant by “telling her straight”?’ says Megan.
‘I reckon he told Elena he was keeping the boats. I think that’s what he always wanted.’ More tears erupt from Marion and course down her cheeks. ‘Stupid bloody fool! That’s what’s got him killed, isn’t it? Those bloody Spaniards! They’re bloody criminals and they killed my husband and my boy!’
She sinks to her knees. Yvonne rushes over to her.
They both end up kneeling on the floor, Yvonne rocking the old lady.
‘Sssh,’ says Yvonne. ‘Sssh.’
Fifty-Four
Tuesday, 4.15 p.m.
Megan sent the names to Ingram by text. By the time she walks into the Major Crime Team incident room, they already have Javier Lopez’s mugshot on the screen.
The beard is black and bushy, the eyes fierce. A people smuggler who looks like a pirate? Megan’s first impulse is to laugh. A night without sleep followed by a rollercoaster day has left her frazzled. Or perhaps she’s been infected with Marion and Yvonne’s hysteria.
Her encounter with Marion Porter has left her wondering how many women remain in marriages that disappoint them. Out of laziness? Out of fear of being alone? She seemed fond of Barry in the way you might love an old dog; her only real affection was for her son. Perhaps it explains why Barry preferred life on his boat and was determined to hang on to it.
Slater and Ingram are standing in front of the screen. Collins is standing apart. The presence of the NCA seems to be pushing him out of the loop even more. He stands, arms folded, a blank expression.
Megan joins them.
‘Is he our people smuggler then?’ she asks.
‘He’s a good candidate,’ says Ingram. ‘Got out of jail in Spain eighteen months ago after serving time for drug smuggling. He’s got form going back twenty years. Maybe he was looking for an easier career. Dealing with the drug cartels can be rough. He does have a wife and two sons who fit the age profile. Sasha’s talking to the Spanish police.’
Across the room Garcia is on a Skype call. Rodney and Bibi have joined the techie corner, presided over by Kitty.
‘Let me guess,’ says Megan with a smile. ‘In Spanish?’
Ingram grins back. Megan is still getting used to the warmth and openness of his smile.
Slater shoots them a look, shifts uncomfortably. The boss is never at ease around intimacy. Especially other people’s.
‘We’re trying to see if we can match him with the first lot of CCTV from Torquay harbour,’ she says briskly.
Megan catches Ingram’s eye. Back to business.
‘The other part of this equation,’ Megan says, ‘is that Penny Reynolds brought the Lopezes down here and introduced them. And whatever her scheme was, Marion reckons Greg was complicit. We need to talk to Reynolds again.’
‘So what are we looking at?’ says Collins. ‘Barry rows with Elena Lopez, so they kidnap him and shoot him?’
‘Probably,’ says Megan.
‘What about Greg?’ says Slater. ‘Elena whacks him too? We haven’t y
et identified the prints on the murder weapon. Are they going to be hers if we can ever get hold of her?’
‘But why?’ says Ingram. ‘If Greg was part of the scheme and it was running smoothly, why would she do that? This was a very lucrative business for them. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to set it all up. Arguably it’s Greg’s death that put a spanner in the works. Barry got difficult. Then they had to deal with him, take the boats and make a run for it. The last bit makes sense but not Elena and Greg.’
‘Villains fall out,’ says Slater. ‘Perhaps Greg started to demand a bigger slice of the profits?’
‘Yeah,’ says Ingram. ‘That’s certainly another way to look at it.’
‘Perhaps the argument wasn’t about the boats, it was about the flats,’ says Megan.
Slater frowns. ‘Okay, go on.’
‘Well,’ says Megan. ‘If Lopez and his sons brought furniture for the show flat, maybe they had money in that business too?’
‘I’ll buy that,’ says Ingram. ‘If the Lopezes had put money into the flats and Greg was trying to screw them, that could’ve precipitated a row.’
Brittney comes over. She hovers, waiting for Slater’s attention.
‘I think we’ve got a possible match, boss,’ she says to Slater. ‘We’ve slowed down the first lot of footage from the harbour on Wednesday night, early hours of Thursday morning We’re fairly sure the older bloke who walked down the pontoon is Javier Lopez. You see him walk past the Seamew—’
‘So he was coming from the other boat, the Seahawk?’ says Slater.
‘That’s the assumption,’ says Brittney. ‘But the camera doesn’t cover the far end of the pontoon, so it’s still an assumption.’
‘What about Sunday night? Did they come for the boats? Do we know that yet?’ says Megan. She’s aware of the impatience in her own voice. Her colleagues are working flat out. She knows this but it doesn’t help. The window of opportunity to arrest these people is closing fast.
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 23