What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Be with you in two seconds, buddy.’

  He slid his phone into one pocket and his wallet into the other. Demetrious raised his purring another notch on the Richter scale. Even the bloody cat made him think of her. Holly had rescued him from the local shelter, claiming she needed company when he was working long shifts. He never did learn how to say no to her.

  ‘OK, OK, I get the hint. Let’s go.’

  He headed into the kitchen, the cat keeping within a few paces, herding him in the right direction. He opened the cupboard door and looked blankly at the meagre array of tins and packets.

  Shit, the shopping! Bugger!

  He had forgotten to swing by Tesco on the way home. That meant there was no milk for cereal or tea in the morning, either. He spotted his contingency plan and grabbed a tin of sardines in brine, drained them in the sink and dumped them into the blue plastic bowl on the floor.

  Demetrious gave one suspicious sniff, then forgot all about Porter and only had eyes for dinner. Porter topped up the neighbouring bowl with water from the tap, and left Demetrious to it. He left the small lamp on by the side of the sofa and headed out, hoping it would not be too late a night.

  The hooded glow of the desk lamp made shadow puppets of James Bolton’s hands against the far wall as he folded his arms, staring at the back of Alexander Locke’s chair. His boss hadn’t spoken since acknowledging the knock on the door, but the rich hint of cigar smoke he wore like aftershave confirmed he was there.

  ‘Well, James,’ said Locke, breaking the silence as he spun his chair round. ‘Imagine my surprise to find two police officers in my house when I got home today.’

  Bolton stared impassively, not sure if this was a cue for him to ask a question. He opted to stay silent, and Locke continued after a brief pause.

  ‘You know how much I hate surprises.’ Locke gave a slight shrug, leaning forward to plant his elbows on the desk. ‘Especially ones that were meant to have been dealt with. Years ago.’ His voice rarely rose above a conversational tone, but Bolton had known him long enough to sense the edge to his words. He had long since lost count of the situations he had dealt with for Locke over the years and was none the wiser.

  ‘Natasha Barclay?’ said Locke, settling back into his chair with a creak that could as easily have been his joints as the leather of the seat.

  Bolton paused, only for a second, and nodded. Now he understood the undertone of displeasure. ‘What about her?’

  ‘It seems she didn’t vanish as completely as we thought, or as you told me she had. The police found her, well, a part of her: her hand. It was in the freezer at her old flat. Mind telling me how it got there?’

  Bolton didn’t know for sure but he could make an educated guess. ‘Olly?’

  ‘Are you asking or telling?’ said Locke.

  ‘A bit of both, I suppose.’ Bolton shrugged. ‘Don’t know for sure but that was more his style than mine. We sent the finger to her dad like you said, made him realise how serious the situation was. My guess is Olly kept the hand in case Barclay needed telling twice.’

  ‘How convenient for you he’s not around to dispute that.’

  ‘Be easier if he was,’ said Bolton. Truth be told his world was a better place without Davies in it. Questions were asked when Davies was found slumped in his car, but nobody had dared ask Bolton to his face.

  ‘Somehow I doubt you actually mean that,’ said Locke.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Bolton.

  Locke gave him a terse summary of the visit from Porter and Styles. Bolton took the stubby remains of a packet of chewing gum from his pocket and popped two pieces in his mouth, crunching through the eggshell exterior as he listened. When Locke finished, he fixed Bolton with a stare that could have wilted flowers but the big man met it without blinking. Locke’s patience lasted three whole seconds.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think that we have anything to worry about. As far as we knew she was long gone then and she still is now. If I were you I’d just tell them that you don’t know where she is—’

  ‘Which I don’t,’ Locke interrupted.

  ‘There you go, then, and there’s no one around to contradict you.’

  Locke scowled but gave a slight nod of agreement. ‘I want you to speak to Finch. He was close to Oliver. See if he remembers anything.’

  Bolton grunted in acknowledgement. He’d do it – he always did what Locke asked – but was fairly sure it was a waste of time. Finch had crawled inside a bottle of single malt when his wife left him a decade ago, and had rarely come up for air since. Bolton was more than capable of filling in the blanks for Locke himself, but he wasn’t likely to do that any time soon. That would mean admitting he’d had ears on Davies for years, bugging his house, keeping one step ahead of him in the battle to be Locke’s right-hand man. He’d heard a great many things of interest from titbits of gossip about business Davies had on the side. He had been quite the chatterbox in the safety of his own home. He’d chattered still more that night when Bolton’s shadow had risen up from its hiding place in the back seat of his car. Chatty right up to the end, bargaining for his life, right up to the point when the loop of wire arced over his head, slicing through his neck like cheese wire through a wheel of cheddar, not long after the mess with Natasha.

  It had been part business, part personal. Bolton hadn’t wanted any competition for the number two slot. Not that Davies had been real competition, but Bolton wasn’t one to leave things to chance, and he genuinely didn’t like the man. This situation with Natasha Barclay was as if Davies was getting his own back. Stirring trouble from beyond the grave. He genuinely had no idea that Davies had stashed her hand in the freezer. As it turned out, a single finger was all they had needed to send her father a message. Stupid bastard should have gotten rid of the rest straight afterwards. The irony was not lost on him that, in killing his rival, he’d caused the hand to stay there all these years instead of being disposed of.

  He grunted a goodbye to Locke and headed out to find Finch. He’d sort it. God knows he’d sorted worse than this. If he was honest with himself, and he had to do it over, he’d still get rid of Olly Davies, and to hell with the consequences.

  By the time Porter arrived, the night was in full swing. Rosie’s was an Irish bar halfway between the station and Hyde Park, and a popular destination for a quick drink or five after a long shift. He spotted Styles, bottle of Bud in hand, by the bar, talking to two detectives he recognised from the drugs squad, Anderson and Whittaker. A quick scan showed at least a dozen more faces he knew, as well as a few that he was just on nodding terms with. Porter made a beeline for Styles, who had just delivered a punchline by the sounds of the laughter coming from his audience of two.

  ‘Better late than never, boss,’ he said, slapping a greeting on Porter’s shoulder and holding up four fingers to the passing barmaid to refresh their bottles.

  Porter greeted Anderson and Whittaker with a quick handshake, and took a long, slow swallow from the Bud that Styles passed over his shoulder.

  ‘Thought you were a no-show for a while there, Porter,’ said Anderson. He was a big man, two hundred and fifty pounds at least, his brown dome of a head completely bald.

  ‘Nah, had to turn up to check the rumours were true and you are actually retiring this time.’

  When Anderson laughed, his whole body shook, especially the shoulders. It reminded Porter of the way a jack-in-the-box bounced up and down. Anderson’s first attempt at retirement had been the subject of banter in the office for three years now. He had been all set to pull the plug, when his wife upped and left him, taking half of his retirement fund with her. It seemed that the prospect of spending every day with him hadn’t been that appealing after all, and he hastily withdrew his paperwork. A mild heart attack six months ago had changed that, though, and this time he promised there would be no false starts.

  ‘Scout’s honour.’ Anderson held his index and middle fingers up to his head in moc
k salute. ‘This time I’ll go and stay gone.’

  They toasted his impending departure, bottle necks clinking together like crossed swords, and listened to him talk about the golf courses he would tour round when he had no clock to watch.

  By the time he had finished his fourth beer, Porter felt his earlier reservations about coming out start to melt away. Anderson was dragged away by a couple of the younger detectives to drink a shot of tequila with them at the other end of the bar. Whittaker went with him for moral support, saying that shots were a young man’s game and he had better chaperone his partner, whose words had started to develop just the slightest of slur around the edges. Porter felt the warm glow seep through his body as he drank, loosening the grip of the long day at work, one finger and one bottle at a time.

  He and Styles rehashed the visit to the Lockes, and made plans for how they would tackle the next week’s tasks. Porter caught movement over Styles’s right shoulder and looked over in time to see Simmons flash a smile and a quick wave his way. He returned it with a tight-lipped smile of his own, and Styles whipped his head round to look behind.

  ‘I can have a word with the DJ if you like, to make sure he remembers to play a slow number at the end of the night?’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ said Porter, using the end of his bottle as a pointer towards Styles, ‘relationships at work are more hassle than they’re worth.’

  Styles shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Porter continued.

  ‘I mean, you’re my partner, for Christ’s sake. It would never work between us. Let’s just pretend this little proposition didn’t happen, and we’ll say no more about it – besides, you can’t dance for shit.’

  He had timed it perfectly and Styles had to clamp his lips together as he laughed to avoid the mouthful of beer he had just taken shooting back out.

  ‘Well played, boss,’ he said, inclining his head in acknowledgement of a line well delivered. ‘Can I ask you a serious question, though?’ His face told Porter he meant it, and it wasn’t a set-up for a punchline. ‘All joking aside, she’s a lovely girl, and you two don’t work together any more, strictly speaking. Are you not tempted, not even one little bit?’

  Porter shot another glance towards Simmons. She had turned to the side now and was listening to whatever anecdote the small wiry detective whose name escaped Porter was telling. He tried to find the words that wouldn’t make him sound like a coward; instead, he just shook his head.

  ‘I’m out of practice, she’s too young, I’m too old, work gets in the way – take your pick.’

  ‘To address your points one at a time,’ he began, counting out on his fingers. ‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks and bollocks.’

  That got a smile from Porter, and he took a swig from his bottle. ‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno, mate, the idea of going on a date with someone, it feels weird. Feels like I’d be cheating on her. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that’s how it feels in here.’ He tapped his palm against his heart.

  ‘You know she’d slap you for saying something that daft, don’t you?’

  Porter smiled wider this time, a real smile, one that showed teeth. ‘She probably would,’ he conceded. ‘She probably would.’

  ‘No probably about it,’ agreed Styles.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll get there eventually,’ said Porter. ‘Just takes time.’

  He glanced over again. Simmons was gone.

  The next bar they went to was even busier. The Duke of Kendal sat on the corner of Connaught Street, and put Porter in mind of a giant slice of architectural pie, the way its angled front pointed into the street. It had just reopened under new ownership, and the flyers promising a free shot for every customer bearing them had done their job admirably by the size of the queue. Porter stood nursing his seventh bottle of Bud – or was it his eighth? He would have to grab a burger or pizza on the way home to kick-start the recovery process. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked round to see Simmons slotting in beside him at the bar.

  ‘Evening, guv,’ she said with a wry smile.

  ‘Evening, Simmons,’ he said, raising his bottle by way of greeting.

  She swatted his words away with one hand. ‘Just Eve will do, or Evie, if you like, seeing as we’re off the clock.’ She had a glow to her cheeks that could have been make-up, or it could have been the drink; he couldn’t decide.

  He smiled. ‘Alright, Eve, Evie.’ Three seconds that could have been three minutes ticked by as she looked up at him. ‘Good turnout for Anderson.’

  Way to go, smooth talker, breaking that awkward silence. Might as well ask her if she comes here often.

  ‘Mm, like this lot needs an excuse for a piss-up.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, taking another swig from his bottle.

  ‘So …’ She drew out the last vowel into at least three syllables. ‘You around Monday? We could grab a coffee and you can tell me how it went with the Lockes?’

  ‘What about now? I can—’

  ‘Nope. No shop talk on a night out,’ she said with a shake of her head.

  ‘OK, OK. It can wait till tomorrow,’ he said, holding his hands up in surrender.

  She clocked the suds at the bottom of his bottle held against his chest.

  ‘Buy you another?’

  Had she moved in closer, or had he just imagined it?

  He looked down at the bottle. ‘Um, no, thanks. I’m good. I should probably make a move, early start in the morning and all that.’

  She lowered her eyes, and the space between them returned.

  ‘Yeah, good idea. Probably won’t be too long myself.’

  She made her excuses and headed off to the toilet, with a promise to find him tomorrow at work. Porter drained the last from his bottle and made his way over to Styles.

  ‘I’m gonna hit the hay. Catch you Monday.’

  ‘Can’t tempt you with one for the road?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘Nah, I’ll just cramp your style. You kids have fun.’

  ‘No worries, boss. I’ll grab the cuppas on the way in and see you there.’

  Porter spent the next few minutes working his way around the splintered group until he had said all his goodbyes, including a promise to Anderson to meet him for a final coffee before his last day. He headed outside, trading the buzz in his ears from the bass of the speakers for the drumbeat of rain on the road outside. He paused under the awning and looked off to the right just in time to see the sole taxi pull away from the rank. He sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket, but hesitated as he heard the voice.

  ‘Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker, guv.’

  Porter spun round to see who had spoken, and saw Simmons leaning against a doorway two doors down from the bar, cigarette in hand.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me smoke by the entrance,’ she said, pointing at the bouncers outside the doorway. ‘Come on, get under here before you get soaked.’

  He looked up at the sky, realising that he had wandered beyond the protection of the black canvas. He felt the raindrops, fat and heavy on his head and sweater. Half a dozen quick strides and he was in the doorway with her.

  ‘Want one?’ She held an open pack of Marlboro Lights towards him.

  He waved them away. ‘No thanks, don’t smoke. I was just going to call a cab when you shouted.’

  ‘It was hardly a shout.’ She laughed. ‘You’re not that easily startled, are you? Although, you did look a bit lost for words when I suggested that last drink.’

  He was suddenly aware of how small the doorway was, and how little space separated them. He could smell her perfume, mixed with a waft of smoke that drifted up from the cigarette she held by her side.

  ‘I know we’re doing coffee on Monday morning,’ she said, moving an inch closer, body language made bold by drink, only an inch, and she filled his field of vision now. ‘But the offer of a drink still stands, you know, I mean another time …’

  Before he could answer, she closed the remai
ning gap and kissed him hard, her forward momentum bringing their lips crashing together, and for the briefest of moments he felt her tongue tickle against the edges of his mouth, a cocktail of red wine and tobacco. Time froze for the briefest of seconds, the longest of moments, before he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently moved her back.

  ‘Evie, I …’ He stopped. Couldn’t find the right words. Confusion. It had felt good. ‘I don’t know—’

  She placed a finger on his lips to silence him. ‘S’OK. My bad. I just thought maybe …’

  She drew back, six inches first, then six more. The inches seemed like miles now. She smiled like an embarrassed teenager and turned her face to the side, hiding behind a cloak of hair.

  ‘Sorry. Little too much to drink. Can we … ?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I’m flattered, it’s just that …’

  How do you explain to someone that you’re still in love with a ghost, or that you don’t want to cheat on a memory? He was trying to work out how to explain it, or even whether it was worth explaining at all, when he was saved by the sweeping headlights as a taxi pulled into the rank. He was surprised how quick they had gotten here, until he remembered that he’d never actually made the call.

  ‘Ladies first,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, you take it. I’m going to head back in for one more,’ she said, dropping her cigarette to the floor and grinding it with her heel. ‘Unless you’re going to take me in for littering?’

  They both smiled, out of relief at the easing of tension as much as anything.

  ‘We still on for a catch-up on Monday morning, then?’ she said.

  Porter nodded, and made a dash for the cab. He didn’t look back at the doorway to the bar until he was safely in the car, but she had already retreated back inside. The only shapes he could make out beyond the rain-smeared window were both over six feet tall, the dark, unmoving golems that were the bouncers.

  He gave the driver his address and slumped back into the seat, running his fingers through his damp hair. He exhaled loudly.