What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  Styles paused to take a sip from his coffee and Simmons jumped in to fill the gap in his flow.

  ‘The contract they’d won was with a Chinese firm called GFD who were trying to break into the UK market. No prizes for guessing who currently handles all UK import and distribution for GFD.’

  ‘Locke & Winwood,’ said Porter.

  ‘You’re good at this game,’ said Styles.

  ‘So they walked away, then came back to give all their business to essentially the parent company of the people who had just caused them public embarrassment?’

  ‘It gets better.’ Styles turned and winked at Simmons. ‘Tell him the rest about Bembenek.’

  Simmons picked up the prompt and continued. ‘Arnold Bembenek was a second generation Polish immigrant. He’d worked at Atlas for twelve years and never had so much as a parking ticket since he came to the UK. Claims that two men tried to bribe him to sabotage the deal. He said no and told Barclay, but never reported it to the police. The next thing he knows the bribe story explodes with him at the centre, and proof that money changed hands is found in his office. This mystery man was part of his defence, but he was never located, and Bembenek went down for five years. I pulled the file from his case.’ She grabbed a single sheet of paper from the table behind her and handed it to Porter. ‘The two guys that approached him, one was big, around six-six, dark hair and a scar across his chin, and didn’t say much. The other one did most of the talking, and on the way out said he might send the big fella, Jimmy, round to have a private word if he didn’t reconsider.’

  Porter quickly scanned the copy of Bembenek’s statement, and then looked at the picture held in the top corner by a paperclip. The black-and-white shot of the man was from a distance, but didn’t disguise the fact that he was a giant. Porter noticed the sloping shoulder muscles that rose to his neck in a triangular fashion, and arms that bulged against the fabric of his suit; a gymaholic if ever he’d seen one. The scar started along the lower part of his jaw and ended up like a second chin dimple, just off centre by the real thing.

  ‘Who’ve we got here, then? This the guy from the statement?’

  ‘Say hello to James Bolton,’ said Styles. ‘I’d say he’s a more than reasonable match against Bembenek’s description, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘So Locke sent his man to sabotage the deal so he could get Barclay’s business on the cheap, I get that,’ said Porter. ‘You’ve convinced me he’s not a nice guy. What I’m still not convinced of is that it has even a remote connection to what happened to Natasha Barclay.’

  ‘Locke is far from being a nice guy; same goes for Bolton, and bad things have happened to anyone who doesn’t give them what they want, but the connection is there. We’re just not sure how all the pieces fit together yet,’ said Simmons.

  Styles picked up a grey folder from the desk and handed it to Porter. It was a copy of the crime scene report that Will Leonard had promised but Porter had yet to read. He started scanning from the top of the front page, but Styles reached across and lifted the sheet up and over to reveal the one beneath it. He pointed at a section in the middle and Porter quickly took in the paragraph. He was only halfway through when he saw it and stopped, his eyes fixed on one word, a name. When he looked up, Styles and Simmons were both watching him, waiting expectantly for a reaction.

  ‘Him?’ said Porter. ‘He was there? In her apartment?’

  Styles nodded. ‘Yep, fingerprints are only partials but it’s a definite match. That a solid enough connection for you?’

  ‘Where were they?’

  ‘They were in the kitchen. It’s not often prints would last that long, but we got lucky. The bench next to the oven had some trace fatty deposits, most likely from somebody’s cooking, and we picked them up from that.’

  Porter stood up and dropped the file back onto the table. He felt his pulse quicken as he spoke. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a suspect. Let’s go round James Bolton up and ask what the hell he was doing at a crime scene.’

  He started to walk around Styles and Simmons but she put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  ‘You can’t do that, sir, at least not yet.’

  Porter stopped, his face a mask of incredulity. ‘You’re telling me I can’t speak to a man suspected of assault at best, and worst case, murder? Who’s going to stop me?’ he snapped as he pushed past her, and headed for the door.

  ‘Sir!’ she called after him. ‘There’s much more at stake here.’

  Porter stopped and turned to face her. ‘More than bringing a murderer to justice?’

  ‘You said yourself murder is worst case. You don’t even have a body.’

  He scowled and looked away, but she pressed on, lowering her tone to take the heat out of the situation. ‘If we go in there now, they’ll know we’re looking at them, or him at the very least. How much more careful do you think he’ll be then?’

  He couldn’t decide what pissed him off the most: the fact that he’d lost his cool and let the case get to him, or the fact that she was right. Either way, Bolton would have to wait, but it didn’t stop him from feeling like he was becoming the latest in a long line of people who had let Natasha down.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Porter drove in silence and mulled things over in his head as Styles chatted to his wife on his mobile. He knew everything Simmons had said made sense, but that did little to gloss over his irritation at having to leave Bolton alone for the time being. The identification of the prints in Leonard’s report was a step forward, though; the first real moment of clarity in an otherwise confusing haze of facts fogging up his mind. It had come as a surprise; his first instinct told him to expect the prints to come from Natasha’s father. Simmons and her series of revelations had made him think she was about to reveal evidence that confirmed Alexander Locke as a suspect as well, but knowing that James Bolton had been inside the flat gave rise to a new spur off from his main theory.

  Bolton was Locke’s man, so could as easily have been there carrying out his master’s bidding as being on his own business. Either way, his prints in the flat suggested he had been part of whatever had happened there. His print was the one true connection, stretching back across three decades, that placed anybody in Natasha Barclay’s flat apart from her. That was enough to bring him in for questioning, but they would need more than that to press charges. They would need Natasha, alive or dead, or a confession that he had harmed her, and he didn’t think the latter would exactly be served up on a plate for them.

  Porter pulled up outside the Locke house in exactly the same spot they had parked in on their first visit. He waited patiently while Styles finished the call to Emma.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Styles with a bashful shrug. ‘Em’s having a feud with her big sister and needed someone to vent to.’

  Porter waved away the apology, and they walked across to the intercom by the gate. Mary Locke sounded surprised to hear Porter’s voice again, but second time around did not hesitate to open the gates. When she opened the door, her face looked strained. She tried a smile, but the rest of her face didn’t follow suit. Porter wondered if she’d gone down the Botox route, or if she’d been under the knife. Either way, it made for a slightly unnatural look.

  ‘Detectives, Gavin said he’d spoken to you. I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. Have you found Natasha?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mrs Locke. May we come in?’

  She stepped back and they went inside, heading into the living room via the same route as the previous visit without waiting to be asked. Mary Locke followed behind, and they each assumed their same seats from the day before.

  ‘You said “not exactly”, Detective. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘There was evidence in her flat that leads us to believe that Natasha was the victim of some form of attack, Mrs Locke, and that she may have sustained serious injuries.’

  ‘What sort of injuries?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on his.

  Something in the way that she was
speaking bothered Porter. Was it what she said, or how she said it? It had dogged him since his first visit: an unreachable itch right at the back of his subconscious, nagging and undefined, but just too far to scratch.

  ‘We’ve compared the DNA sample we took from your son to evidence found in Natasha’s flat. There was blood found in the living area that has been identified as hers.’ He paused to let that sink in before dropping the real bombshell. Her mouth dropped open a fraction and her eyes flitted about the room, everywhere but on either police officer.

  ‘We also found a hand in her freezer that matches the same sample; it belongs to Natasha.’

  Mary Locke’s eyelids fluttered and she raised one hand sharply to her mouth, the other pressed flat against her chest. This time there was no protracted build-up of emotion, and the tears sprang forward unchecked. She closed her eyes and kept them that way for a three count, as if that could stem the tide. Porter hesitated, feeling like an intruder on the most private of moments.

  ‘Mrs Locke?’ The sound of his voice brought her back, and she opened her eyes. ‘I know this must be hard for you to process, but we’re coming into this whole thing late on. Whatever happened in that flat looks like it happened a long time ago, so we need you to cast your mind back and tell us absolutely anything you can remember about Natasha. Who were her friends, what hobbies did she have, did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘She was such a good girl.’ Mary Locke had a faraway look in her eye, her mind stretching back over thirty years, and her voice was quiet when she spoke. ‘We had our differences but she would never have hurt anyone.’

  ‘Mrs Locke, I need you to focus for us. Who did she hang around with? Is there anyone you can think of that we can speak to who might have seen her the week you last saw her?’

  Mary Locke shook her head. ‘Excuse me for just a minute. I need to get a tissue.’ She stood up and walked quickly through the door and back out into the hall. Porter and Styles turned and looked at each other. Styles raised his eyebrows, and leant in close to whisper.

  ‘You know she didn’t need to get a tissue, right?’

  Porter nodded. He had spotted the tell-tale lump of the handkerchief just beneath the hem of her sleeve as well. They sat patiently until she returned several minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a scrunched-up paper hankie. Porter gave her a sympathetic smile as she took her seat again opposite them.

  ‘I do apologise, Detectives. It’s just come as a bit of a shock that something might have happened to her. I really can’t think of anything that might help, though. I hardly knew any of her friends to speak to back in the day, let alone where they are now.’

  ‘What school did she go to?’ asked Styles.

  ‘St Agnes’ Catholic School. It’s near where we used to live, when I was still with her father, that is.’ She pulled at the tissue as she spoke, tearing it in several places and winding the strands around her fingers. Styles jotted the name down. They could speak to the school and get details of who else was in her year.

  ‘If only she had …’ Her voice trailed off as the crunching of gravel outside was accompanied by the low growl of an engine.

  ‘If only she had what, Mrs Locke?’ asked Porter.

  She craned her neck to look out of the window as a sleek black car swung round towards the double garage. The car’s windows were tinted, but Porter thought he saw only one occupant. He looked back at Mary Locke, who seemed not to have heard his question. He repeated it a second time, but she was already on her feet and moving towards the door.

  ‘Excuse me a second, that’s my husband coming home,’ she said without turning around, and then she was gone.

  Porter and Styles looked at each other, and then back to the window. The engine noise became briefly muted, and then stopped altogether. They heard a soft whirring, presumably the garage door motor, followed by soft footsteps on the gravel, and the click of the front door opening as Mary Locke prepared to greet her husband. He walked past the window too quickly for them to get a good look, other than to see he was wearing a suit. Porter heard strains of a conversation, and leant forward, tilting his head to the side, as if the extra few inches would improve the sound quality, but he couldn’t make anything out.

  Less than a minute later, Alexander Locke strode into the living room. He reminded Porter of the actor George Hamilton, silver hair but minus the permanent mahogany tan that Hamilton sported. The information Simmons had given on him put him at seventy-four, but with a relative lack of the years’ wear and tear on his face, he could easily be mistaken for ten years younger. He sized them both up as he approached and made his pick as to the alpha between them, extending his hand to Porter first, who rose from his seat to take it.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, I’m Alexander Locke. You must be Detective Inspector Porter?’ said Locke, shaking Porter’s hand with a firm grip.

  Porter nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Hello, Mr Locke, and this is …’

  ‘Detective Inspector Styles?’ asked Locke, switching his hand and smile away from Porter.

  ‘Just Detective Sergeant for now,’ said Styles, smiling at the correction, ‘but who knows, one day?’

  Locke gestured for them both to sit back down. He took the seat opposite that his wife had previously occupied, while she, after following him meekly back into the room, sat timidly to his right. She had been a nervy thing to start with, but Porter noted that the arrival of her husband had taken this to a new level. She looked from her lap, where one hand sat protectively covering the other, up to her husband, and back again, but not at Porter or Styles.

  Locke unbuttoned his jacket, leant back against the sofa and crossed his legs.

  ‘So my wife tells me you think something has happened to her stepdaughter?’ There was just the faintest hint of North London in his voice. Porter wondered if it came and went depending on the company.

  ‘That’s right, Mr Locke,’ said Porter. He quickly summarised the case so far while Locke listened impassively.

  ‘And you’re sure the hand belongs to Natasha?’ he asked when Porter had finished.

  Porter nodded. ‘We have a DNA match to Gavin, so yes, we’re sure. We’ve got people checking local hospital records and I’m sure you’ll understand we’re concerned about her welfare after an injury like that. How well did you know Natasha yourself?’ He wasn’t sure how to refer to her relationship with Locke. She wasn’t his stepdaughter; Porter wasn’t even sure she was anything in terms of a formal link, so he opted for the safe option of using her name.

  Locke cleared his throat. ‘She was my wife’s stepdaughter. I knew her, of course’ – he shrugged – ‘but we’d only been together a few years the last time either of us saw her, and she took it quite hard when my wife’ – he placed a hand over hers – ‘and her father got divorced. She and I were never that close.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her, Mr Locke?’

  ‘Let me see, that would have been around the time her father died. I wish I could be more specific, but I’m sure you can appreciate that was some time ago,’ said Locke, loosening his tie and top button.

  ‘Is there anything either of you can think of that might help us find her?’ said Styles, deliberately using the plural to try to tempt Mary Locke back into the conversation.

  ‘We wouldn’t even know where to start after all this time,’ said Locke, giving his wife’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘But if we think of anything we’ll be sure to give you a call. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have an event to attend this evening in the city and need to get ready.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Of course, Mr Locke.’ He had more questions for both of them, to get a sense of what kind of girl Natasha had been, and he had the feeling that Mary Locke, at least, had more to share. Alexander’s arrival had most definitely brought down the shutters for now, though. Porter and Styles both stood.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ said Porter. ‘Thank you both again for your time, and we’ll be in touch when we have anythi
ng to share.’

  They all shook hands, and Porter and Styles left the Lockes in their living room. Styles waited until they were beyond the gate and practically back at the car before he spoke.

  ‘One way or the other, I have a feeling that won’t be the last trip out here we do. There’s something they’re not telling us.’

  ‘Yep,’ said Porter. ‘I get the feeling more so from her than him. I think she was just about to open up, at least a little bit, before he turned up.’

  Styles nodded. ‘Her body language as well; she was nervous enough to begin with, but when he walked in it was off the charts.’

  ‘Mm, it wasn’t exactly hard to miss,’ said Porter. ‘He’s not your usual poster boy for the drug trade, but I get the feeling he doesn’t suffer fools. He may be the man who has everything, but it doesn’t exactly strike me as a house filled with love and happiness.’

  ‘That’s my mum’s favourite cliché – money can’t buy happiness. I keep telling her that she might well be right, but if I had the cash at least I could buy plenty of stuff to keep me amused until happiness comes along,’ said Styles.

  Porter chuckled and pulled away, occasionally glancing at the gate of the Locke house in his rear-view mirror until it was out of sight.

  ‘You going to Anderson’s leaving do later?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll show my face for a few,’ said Porter with a sigh. ‘Are we sure he’s actually going to leave this time?’

  ‘He bloody well better. This is the second time I’ve chipped in for his leaving present. He’s not getting a penny more out of me if he changes his mind again.’

  Porter dropped Styles off outside a new Italian bistro where he was meeting Emma, near Angel Tube Station. He almost gave in to Styles’s prodding to join them for dinner, but wriggled out of it by saying he was popping by to see his mum on the way home and didn’t want to turn up at hers too late.