‘I would have preferred an actual family member,’ said Porter, ‘but she’s the only person I’ve found worth talking to so far. I say we have a drive up there this afternoon. I haven’t looked for the son yet. I figure she can point us in his direction to save me a job. We should be able to get a DNA swab from him as well to see if there’s a familial match against the sample we took from the hand.’
Styles grunted his agreement before he spoke. ‘My turn now?’
Porter nodded, settling back into his chair. Styles shuffled through a small stack of paper fresh from the printer. He had confirmed with the bank that the only activity on the current account had been the direct debits that had paid the bills, and that she had no other accounts with them. Styles was always a keen advocate of following the money trail, so he’d taken a step back and looked at the flat. With no sign of a mortgage either, he, like Porter, had been curious as to how she’d financed the purchase. Lucky for him, Natasha Barclay had been organised as far as her personal affairs went, and had bank statements filed away in a cardboard box at the back of a large storage closet. There had been four deposits, adding up to a little over the purchase price of twenty-five thousand pounds. They’d all come from the same account with a payment reference starting AH and followed by a sequence of six numbers, each string of digits different from the last.
The Land Registry showed that the flat, previously owned by Atlas Holdings, had been sold to Miss Barclay in 1980 shortly after her eighteenth birthday. A quick check at Companies House showed Atlas Holdings to be a wholly owned subsidiary of Locke & Winwood, who had a head office registered to an address near Gravesend.
‘That can’t just be a coincidence,’ said Porter. ‘Same name as her stepmum.’
‘Yeah, I’ll be surprised if there’s no link there.’
Neither man had heard of either company before, but a link between Atlas and Natasha Barclay soon became a lot clearer. The list of former directors included a Nathan Andrew Barclay. The deposits in his daughter’s account had, in all probability, come from her father’s company.
‘So Daddy paid for the flat, and kept her account topped up?’ said Porter. ‘That explains that, then.’
‘Mm hmm,’ said Styles, dropping the pages casually on his desk. ‘You couldn’t even buy a garage in parts of London for that price nowadays.’
Porter shook his head, not in disagreement but disbelief. He knew it to be true and was thankful, not for the first time, for the sanctuary of his own small flat. It had belonged to his wife since long before they had first met, left to her in her grandmother’s will, mortgage free. It was a compact two-bedroom flat, but without her to share it, the space sometimes felt disproportionately bigger than it actually was. He forced his thoughts back to the present situation.
‘Why you’d want to live in a garage is beyond me, but your tastes have always left a lot to be desired. Shall we head off and see if Mrs Locke is around for a chat?’ he said.
Styles nodded in agreement, springing to his feet and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. Porter did the same, although with a little less enthusiasm, and slipped the envelope of photos into his jacket pocket as he headed for the exit. His brief flirtation with Holly’s memory had left him, as it often did, with the surreal sense that it had all happened to someone else. His recollection of her was still so fresh, as if he had kissed her goodbye on the way out to work this morning. Many people were haunted by ghosts from their past, but Porter classed his as more of a bittersweet relationship. As much as the flashbacks were a mixture of happy memories tinged with sadness, he cherished those he had, unable or perhaps unwilling to let go just yet.
The moment had passed by the time he made it outside, and he slid into the driver’s seat of the car, closing his door at the precise time Styles pulled his shut to give one synchronised thunk. Porter started it up and pulled away without a word. Time to speak to Mary Locke, and discover whether any more ghosts would be created today once they had done so. His subconscious kicked in with the afterthought:
What if Mary Locke has been living with ghosts of her own for some time already?
CHAPTER FOUR
If the house they pulled up outside on Nan Clark’s Lane was any indication of status, Mary Locke had managed to shelter from the storm of the recession in relative comfort. They had only left the M1 a few minutes ago, but the impressive detached residence a short hop from Edgware had a secluded, exclusive feel to it. The dark wooden gates covering the driveway were closed, but the roof of a pristine white Range Rover poked over the top of them. The house itself looked perfectly symmetrical; a pair of sandstone effect columns flanked the doorway on either side, like soldiers standing to attention, with the lintel made from the same material. The matching sets of windows, three up and three down, on either side of the front doorway, acted like mirrors rather than portals into the interior, although Porter wagered that Mary Locke herself had never had to stoop to polishing them to get that shine.
He had toyed with calling ahead to check somebody was in, but that would open up a line of questioning he would rather pursue face-to-face. Porter pulled up on the opposite side of the narrow private road they’d driven up to get there, and motioned for Styles to stay in the car while he went to push the intercom button on the gate; no sense them both getting out unless they knew they’d be staying a while.
He pushed the button and held it for a three count, then took a step back. There was no immediate sign of life from inside. A double garage sat off to the left with both doors closed, no doubt harbouring an equally expensive vehicle to rival the Range Rover. There was a split second of static from the intercom, followed by a woman’s voice.
‘Yes, who’s there, please?’
‘Mrs Locke?’ said Porter.
‘Yes, speaking. Who is this, please?’ she repeated her question politely.
‘Mrs Locke, my name is Detective Inspector Jake Porter with the Met Police. I’m here with my partner, Detective Sergeant Nick Styles. We’d like to ask you a few questions about a matter we’re investigating, if you can spare us a couple of minutes, please?’
There couldn’t have been more than two or three seconds of silence before the burst of static again, but the time oozed past like treacle, making it seem like double figures. Was she thinking of an excuse not to let them in, or just a little flustered to have police on the doorstep? Whatever would the neighbours say? Porter reminded himself they were in an unmarked car, and he hadn’t been in uniform for many years now, so the secret of their visit was safe from prying eyes for now.
‘Can I ask what it’s about, Detective?’
‘It would really be a lot easier to explain if we came in, Mrs Locke,’ said Porter.
Another brief pause. ‘Do you have any identification with you, please, Detective?’
Porter fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out his warrant card. As he held it up to the glass eye of the intercom camera, he looked over his shoulder and gestured to Styles with his free hand that he should join him at the gate. There was a soft click followed by a low buzzing noise. Porter placed one hand on the gate and gave a tentative shove. It gave before him and swung open.
The short driveway looped around in a tight semicircle, passing the front door and curving back round past the garage doors, and exiting out through a second wooden gate. Porter and Styles walked almost shoulder to shoulder towards the door. It opened before they were halfway there, just six inches at first, then swung slowly until it was halfway open. Porter assumed the face that peered out was Mrs Locke herself, although if she could afford a house like this she may well have a maid.
From what he had read at the station, she was seventy years old, but she could have passed for a decade less. She reminded him a little of a younger version of Mary Berry, her short sandy hair cut just above shoulder length and tucked back behind her ears. Her eyes were a startling blue that demanded attention, but her body language screamed timidity, not the confidence and poise that
often radiated from someone of her relative affluence.
‘Mrs Locke?’ asked Porter, just to be certain.
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Locke,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘Can I ask what this is about? Has something happened to Alexander?’ She spoke softly, with an accent that would cost a small fortune at elocution lessons.
‘Alexander?’ said Porter, looking to Styles and back to her.
‘My husband.’
‘No, Mrs Locke. This has nothing to do with him. I’m sure he’s fine. Could we come in for a few minutes?’ said Porter, looking past her into the house.
‘Of course, please, come in.’
She stepped aside to let them in, closed the door and turned to face them. Porter noticed that she seemed uneasy despite being on home turf, but then again the majority of people went through life without ever having the police turn up on their doorstep, and he put the vibe down to a simple case of nervous anticipation.
‘We can go through to the living room,’ she said, gesturing through a doorway set in the wall to their left. She led the way and they followed close behind. The room was like something from a show home. Porter wondered if the sofas had ever been sat on. The cream leather looked smooth, buttery and unblemished, free from any telltale creases or wrinkles. A pair of matching two-seaters faced each other over a glass coffee table, with a single armchair from the same range at the head of the table. Mary Locke shepherded them towards the nearest sofa and took up residence on the other, keeping a safe distance, with the no man’s land of the coffee table between them.
Porter perched on the edge of the seat, loath to lean back lest he disturb the artfully arranged cushions that looked plumper than a Christmas turkey. Styles had no such qualms, settling back into a large mocha-coloured cushion and crossing his legs as he took out a small black notepad from his jacket. Mary Locke sat upright in the centre of her sofa, back straight and hands clasped in front of her on her knees.
‘I’d offer you a drink, Detectives, but I was just on my way out so can’t talk for too long. What’s this about, please?’
‘I’ll not waste any time, then,’ said Porter, with a polite smile. ‘We’re trying to locate your stepdaughter, Natasha. There appears to have been an incident at her flat and we’d like to speak to her about it. We’re hoping you can help us reach her.’
Porter studied her face as she absorbed his words. Her already stiff posture held firm; her tongue stole out a fraction and nervously wet her lower lip.
‘An incident? What kind of incident?’
‘A possible break-in and some kind of altercation is as much as we can say right now, Mrs Locke, but we really do need to speak to Natasha. Do you know where we can find her?’
She fidgeted slightly, smoothing away an imaginary crease on her trouser leg before clasping her hands back together.
‘I’ve … not seen Natasha for a long time, I’m afraid, not since …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Not since when, Mrs Locke?’ prompted Porter.
She looked down at the floor for a second before she met his gaze again.
‘Not since just before her father died.’
‘So that would be April 1983?’ asked Styles.
She nodded slowly. ‘Nathan died less than a week after Tash’s birthday.’ Her voice tailed off as she spoke, her thoughts clearly drifting back to a memory she would rather not revisit.
‘And you saw her when, exactly?’ Porter asked.
‘Sorry,’ she said, aware she had been starting to drift. ‘Um, let me see. I think it was the day before her twenty-first birthday. I’d gone around to drop off her birthday card.’
‘So you’ve not seen your stepdaughter in over thirty years?’ Porter asked, his tone low and even.
Mary Locke shook her head. ‘Tash and I were never what I’d describe as close. She was a proper daddy’s girl when I came along and I think she saw me as just someone who was stealing his undivided attention away from her.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Of course, I tried to show her I wasn’t a threat, but I never quite got through to her. Nathan had always been a workaholic before I met him, and she used to get the lion’s share of what free time he had.’ She shrugged. ‘I think perhaps she found it hard to share him at times.’
‘I can understand that must have been hard, Mrs Locke,’ said Styles, ‘but if we can focus more on where she might be now. Where does she work? Is there anyone else she’s close to who can tell us how to contact her?’
‘She had a hard time dealing with Nathan’s death. The last I heard she was teaching children to speak English in a school over in Poland. She’d travelled around Europe for a while after she finished school and ended up teaching somewhere near Kraków for about six months, so I guess it was easier to go back there again instead of sticking around here without her father.’
‘Do you have an address or phone number for the school?’ asked Styles.
She shook her head quickly. ‘Sorry, it was so long ago. I don’t know that she even gave me one.’
Porter pulled the envelope from his jacket, reversing the pictures they had taken from Natasha’s flat so they faced Mary Locke, and slid them across the glass tabletop towards her.
‘These are copies of pictures we found in Natasha’s flat, Mrs Locke. Could you point out Natasha for us, please?’
Mary Locke stared at them, only her eyes moving as she flicked between them. She made no move to pick them up. Porter waited patiently, and was on the verge of prompting her when she spoke.
‘That’s her in the denim jacket. Her and Nathan,’ she said, her gaze still fixed on the picture. ‘Nathan took her to see The Rolling Stones up in Aberdeen for her birthday, the year before he …’ She left the sentence unfinished.
Porter reached across and spun the picture back round. That would make Natasha nineteen or twenty when it was taken. She had an arm wrapped around the waist of the man Porter now knew to be Nathan Barclay. They wore matching black T-shirts with the iconic tongue and ruby red lips that had long since been synonymous with The Stones. There was no mistaking them for anything but father and daughter. Her hair, so dark it was practically black, matched his, and two sets of identical blue eyes, creased at the corners at the promise of the evening to follow, stared back at Porter. He nodded a silent hello to Natasha, glad for a face to focus on. It made her finally feel real.
Porter decided to change tack. ‘You and her father were divorced when he died, is that right?’
‘Yes, we’d been apart for a few years by the time he passed away.’
‘And do you think she blamed you for the break-up?’ asked Porter.
Mary Locke paused for a moment before replying. ‘I’m not perfect, Detective. We all make mistakes. Mine was that I fell in love with someone other than my husband.’
It might just have been a trick of the light, but Porter thought it looked as if her eyes were glistening a touch more, a precursor to tears.
‘Nathan was a good man, but not always easy to live with. He’d worked hard to build up his business and by the time he … well … you know … It had been losing money long before we split up, and he’d had to sell up to pay off his debts. Things like that take their toll on any man.’
‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Locke, we don’t have much information on what happened to Nathan other than that he took his own life. Can you fill in the blanks for us?’
‘What does that have to do with Natasha?’ she asked, looking puzzled.
‘Maybe nothing’ – Porter shrugged – ‘but if nobody has seen her since around that time, it might help us understand her frame of mind, where she might have gone, that kind of thing.’
She swallowed hard. These were the types of memory that people kept locked up as tightly as possible, and stored in the darkest of recesses. Her eyes danced from side to side in short staccato movements.
‘Nathan … he, um … he shot himself. It happened in one of his warehouses.’ The glistening in her eyes finally gathered enough momentum and turned
into matching menisci of tears, balancing on her lower eyelid. ‘Sorry,’ she said, forcing a nervous smile. ‘Even though we were apart by then, it was still hard, you know?’
Porter and Styles both nodded. Neither had lost a loved one this way, but they’d both seen enough people grieve over lives lost to be able to empathise. Too many, thought Porter. Still not enough to have prepared him to deal with Holly, though. No amount of consoling others could prepare you when the time came to swap places with them, to be told the news by an apologetic stranger.
There was a brief lull in the questioning while they gave her a few seconds to regain her composure. She blinked and the dam broke, solitary tears from each eye racing its rival down her cheek. She tugged at a paper handkerchief that had been hiding up her left sleeve and used it to dab at the damp tracks. Porter half expected to see a trail of coloured ones flowing out behind it, like those of a magician at kids’ parties. It reminded him of his grandmother, who always had a hankie stashed like that in case of emergencies. He waited till she’d stuffed it back into its hiding place before asking his next question.
‘Did he leave a note?’
She nodded.
‘I know it’s a long time ago, but do you remember what it said?’
‘Not word for word; it’s been so long. All I remember is something about being sorry for the hurt he’d caused his family, and that this was the only way to make things right.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Styles.
She took a deep breath in and shook her head. ‘I assumed he meant that he’d lost everything – his money, the business, their financial future. I knew he’d not been himself, but if I’d only known how far he’d been pushed …’ Her words tailed off again, eyes unfocused and looking back across the years.
‘Pushed?’ asked Styles. ‘What do you mean by pushed?’
She snapped back to the present and blinked three times in rapid succession.
‘I mean just by the sheer weight of everything he had bearing down on him.’ Her words faltered a little at first but soon gained strength. ‘Anyway, I don’t mean to be rude, Detectives, but that was a long time ago and you were asking about Natasha. I really don’t have anything else to share that would help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to head out and meet my husband. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 3
