Jesus, didn’t see that one coming.
‘Rough night?’ asked the cabbie, a hint of Jamaican lilt in his voice.
Porter nodded. ‘You could say that.’
‘Woman trouble?’
‘Kind of,’ he said; then added, ‘It’s complicated.’
Part of him dreaded any uncomfortable tension he knew there must surely be when he saw her on Monday, but who was he kidding? There were far worse ways to end an evening. It might well have complicated things, but those complications were his to wrestle with. His issues, not hers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Porter had sat across from murderers, thieves and gangsters and not batted an eyelid. He felt out of sorts and out of place today, though, as he watched the dozen or so turf wars amongst the five- and six-year-olds for supremacy of the soft-play kingdom. He guessed at best that he’d had four hours’ sleep last night, and his hangover was lurking dangerously close to the surface. Kat looked down at him from behind a curtain of rope netting on the second storey of the soft-play. She waved him up to join them, but he shook his head, pointing to his coffee – a poor excuse, but it was all he had to cling to.
Harriet came back from the toilet just as he was making his excuses, and tutted loudly as she sat down.
‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘Get yourself in there for a few minutes at least. It’ll do you good.’
‘To get beaten up by a gang of kids faster than I could shout “ASBO”? That’d do wonders for my self-esteem.’
‘Do you have to make a joke of everything?’ She shook her head, but smiled all the same. ‘I want you to promise me you’ll play with the boys at least once before you leave.’
Porter held up two begrudging fingers to his temple. ‘Scout’s honour.’
Kat bounced up and out from a sea of balls she had landed in and hopped over to his table. She slung herself into the chair next to him, breathing loud, but not hard.
‘You’re up, bro. I need to tag out for a spell,’ she said, slapping his thigh.
‘Two minutes. I promise.’
‘Clock’s ticking,’ she said, tapping an imaginary watch. ‘What’s new with you, then?’ She peeled away the stray bits of fringe that were matted to her sweaty forehead.
‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Busy at work, still. You know how it is.’
‘I know you need to get out more. Let your hair down now and again.’ She leant forward, ruffling his mop of hair like she would a toddler.
‘I do get out,’ he said, getting defensive. ‘I went to a leaving do just last night if you must know.’
Kat rolled her eyes. ‘Doesn’t count if it was just the work crowd. Unless …’ – she looked sideways at him through slitted eyes – ‘there are any hot young ladies on the force?’
Porter blushed, looking away, and Kat stabbed a finger towards him. ‘Aha! I knew it. I need a name, age, rank and star sign.’
‘His name’s Brian, aged forty-two from Watford, and he’s a Virgo,’ Porter shot back.
Kat screwed up her face, sticking her tongue out. ‘Well, if you won’t help yourself, let me help you. Girl sitting at your nine o’clock is single. Sarah, aged twenty-nine. One daughter, Sophie, a little sweetie. She’s never been married, and …’
‘Woah, easy tiger,’ said Porter, both hands up in surrender. ‘I’m all good, sis, honestly.’
‘What about the brunette in the ball pool?’ she said, ignoring him. ‘Anna, thirty-one, no kids, she’s just here as a semi-responsible adult with her nephew?’
‘Jesus, you don’t give up, do you?’
She shook her head proudly. ‘I’m like a dating version of the Terminator.’ She held out a hand to him, putting on her best Arnie accent. ‘Come with me if you want to love.’
That one really tickled him, and he came dangerously close to spitting out a mouthful of coffee. He had just managed to rest his cup back on the table when he heard the twins yelling his name. He turned towards the sound just in time for them to barrel into his legs.
‘Unclejakeunclejakeunclejake!’ Two excited voices blurring into one.
‘Hey, you two. Having fun?’
‘Will you come and play with us?’ said Tom.
James butted in. ‘We’re playing king of the castle and Matthew’s dad is helping him. You’re bigger than his dad so we might win.’ They both jumped up and down, slapping his legs like rhythmically challenged drummers.
‘I’d love to stay and continue the chat, sis, but duty calls,’ Porter said with a shrug.
‘This isn’t over,’ she called after him.
He knew he’d taken the coward’s way out. Knew he couldn’t dodge the issue for ever. He waded carefully through the ball pool, convinced he’d step on a submerged child any moment, and up into the heart of the soft-play. A small boy wearing a fierce expression began launching plastic balls at him from the top of a plastic slide. Matthew, he presumed. Tom and James charged fearlessly past him and began clambering upwards. Porter followed them, his promised two minutes turning into ten, then fifteen. The worries of the previous week were a long way away, at least for now. When he finally clambered back out, he realised that he was actually enjoying himself, smiling. That didn’t happen often enough these days.
Styles swung by Saint Agnes’ Catholic School first thing Monday morning on his way to the station. The buildings were shrouded behind twin barriers of trees and grey railings. Groups of chattering children swarmed through the gates, leaving parents waving at their backs. Styles identified himself to a teaching assistant shepherding the kids through the front door, and was pointed inside to the front desk. The receptionist Styles spoke to answered in a lethargic tone, but that quickly changed to flustered when he explained he was a policeman. The poor woman stammered an apology and went off to find Mr Palmer, the teacher who headed up the alumni association responsible for coordinating events for former pupils.
Mr Palmer peered at Styles through glasses as thick as a telescope lens when he came through the door two minutes later, nervy as if the receptionist was playing a prank on him by saying a police officer was waiting for him. He listened without interruption while Styles explained why he was there, and promised to email across a list of pupils from Natasha’s year, along with the contact details they had for them.
Styles thanked him and headed off to meet Porter at the station. When he arrived, he saw Porter slouched in his chair, arms crossed, staring out of the window as he slowly dragged a thumb back and forth across his stubble.
‘Simmons in yet?’ asked Styles, reaching for his cup.
‘No, she’s running late, but I spoke to Gibson. Sounds like there’s going to be some action tonight. Seems our inside guy is due to pick up a fresh consignment later this evening. He’s going in wired up, but there’s going to be a team outside.’
He had seen his boss talking to Simmons on Friday night through a window blurred by rain. He saw how awkward Porter looked at the mention of her name now, and decided to skip any cheeky comments about the two of them. Porter could handle almost anything you threw at him, but this was his weak spot, and Styles knew to leave well alone. It didn’t affect his work, at least not that Styles could tell, but he hoped for Porter’s sake he managed to get his head around the idea that life without Holly was possible eventually.
‘I thought no one was going to make a move until we had something on Bolton and Locke?’
Porter shook his head. ‘They’re going to be there just in case. Sometimes Bolton is around, sometimes he isn’t, but if it’s just Carter and Patchett, then it’s look but don’t touch. What about you? Any luck with the school?’
‘Yeah, they’re sending over what they have, so we can start calling around this morning.’
‘Good stuff,’ said Porter, taking a sip from his cup. ‘I’ve had another idea as well.’
‘Careful, that’s your quota for the week used up in one go.’
‘I’d throw a few more into the mix as well, but I know you struggle to keep count o
nce we get past two,’ said Porter, without missing a beat. ‘So I was thinking, Nathan Barclay had no family apart from his daughter and ex-wife, nobody else to speak to about what kind of guy he was. He ran that company for a long time. I know he sold up over thirty years ago, but there’s a chance that there could still be some people working there from back in his day.’
‘Maybe,’ said Styles thoughtfully. ‘What’s your plan?’
‘I say we go to Atlas and tell them we’re investigating the disappearance of the former owner’s daughter, ask if she ever visited her old man at work – that kind of angle. In the meantime, we see what we can find out about the man himself. What was he like to work for? How did he react when he had to sell up? How well did he handle the pressure?’ Porter counted the questions out on his fingers as he went.
‘Sounds good to me. We might as well head over now. Even if the school sends through the info straight away, there’s a good chance most people will be at work. It’ll be easier to catch them when they’re finished for the day.’
They both stood, and Styles grabbed the car keys from his desk. It would be a long shot sniffing around Atlas, but as long as they stuck to their story of investigating Natasha Barclay there should be no ripples to knock Simmons and Gibson off course with their case. Piecing together a profile of a man from more than three decades ago wouldn’t be easy. Quite the opposite, but Nathan Barclay was the only one they had any reason to suspect, even if it was based solely for now on the ambiguity of his last words.
Styles couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like for Barclay’s world to come crumbling down around him; first his marriage, then his business, to the point where he felt like he only had one way out. He had known people crack under less pressure, had seen it first-hand on the cases he had worked. Had that pressure built up to the point where its release was so forceful, so unbridled, that he had lashed out and hurt his own flesh and blood? Styles felt a sense of sadness wash over him at the thought. Either way, he doubted that justice could truly be meted out. If Barclay was responsible, he would never see the inside of a courtroom, never have to live with the hurt he had caused. If he was innocent, then Natasha’s disappearance was just another layer of tragedy heaped upon a family that had already suffered through more than most, and his investigation would be right back where it began.
He could tell from the way Porter was acting that the case had gotten under his skin. The notion that someone could have met an untimely end and not had anyone make a serious effort for over thirty years to find them clearly did not sit well with him. Nobody had ever been convicted of Holly’s death, either, and maybe Porter saw this one going the same way. The ease with which the Lockes had accepted Natasha’s disappearance without question clearly bothered him, too, and made him even more determined that somebody should speak up for Natasha. Somebody needed to be held accountable for whatever had happened to her, and if her own family wouldn’t do it then it might as well be them.
It was almost noon by the time they pulled up outside the main gates to the warehouse, and the intensity of the sun in the cloudless February sky offered false hope of warmth as Porter and Styles both shielded their eyes from its glare. The dashboard display showed it was a brisk four degrees outside the comfort of their car, although the stiff breeze would cut that in half.
Atlas had a number of premises dotted along the river, so they had opted for the one listed as the company’s headquarters. The warehouse reminded Porter of an airplane hangar. Its appearance bordered on military; the drab olive green of the walls reminiscent of a hundred other buildings from his army days. The only break in the monochrome exterior was the Atlas logo stamped on each side. It stayed true to the Titan from Greek mythology whose name they had taken, the sculpted ivory-coloured form of a man, crouching and straining under the weight of the planet that sat atop his heavily muscled neck and shoulders. Porter couldn’t help but notice the historical inaccuracy. Atlas holding up the earth was a common misconception. His grandfather used to read him stories when he was younger, tales of heroes, of Odysseus and Agamemnon. Achilles and Hector. He remembered thinking Atlas had been given a bum deal, condemned for ever to bear the weight of the heavens on his shoulders, not the earth upon which he stood, as many thought. Porter fancied he’d gotten a better bargain nowadays, now that the earth was home to some seven billion people. He wouldn’t want that weight on his shoulders.
They pulled up to the unmanned security barrier; Porter leant out of his window and pushed the button to speak. He waited patiently until a woman’s tinny voice squawked out from the intercom, shattering the silence. They identified themselves and the voice directed them to the visitor’s car park by the left-hand corner of the building, telling them they’d see a sign pointing the way to reception there. They followed the directions and found themselves inside a room that was the very definition of minimalistic. There was a chest-high counter running three quarters of the way across, punctuated by a hinged hatch to allow access, with two moulded plastic orange chairs set against the wall.
On the other side of the counter stood a woman that Porter pegged for mid-fifties. She reminded Porter of one of his former schoolteachers in her crisp, white blouse and sensible navy blue skirt, the way she peered out at him over the thick black frames of her glasses with a look of permanent disapproval. When she opened her mouth to speak, he half expected the same static and crackle in her voice that had filtered through the intercom.
‘Good morning, Officers,’ she said in a disappointingly normal tone. ‘I’ve called Mr Awad; he’s the site manager. He should be here any minute. Please, have a seat.’
She smiled and gestured to the chairs that were as hard and unyielding as they looked. Thankfully, Mr Awad arrived less than a minute later, rescuing their backsides from any prolonged discomfort. If Simmons was right about Locke, men like him operated on a cocktail of reputation, respect and a healthy dose of fear. If he was even half the character he was being painted as, Porter imagined at least some of the men who worked for him would have heard a rumour here and a whisper there. He wondered whether Awad was one such man as he came around the counter towards them.
Awad was a short, balding man, around the same age as the receptionist. He wore a pair of faded green overalls, suggesting he was a hands-on manager, but a white shirt and tie peeked out over the top of the zipper pulled up to his chest. He subconsciously wiped both hands on the front of the overalls, and extended one of them towards Styles, who happened to be standing closest.
‘Rafi Awad,’ he announced, blinking quickly through his small wire-framed glasses. ‘I’m the site manager.’ His eyes contradicted the confidence in his tone as they flicked nervously from Styles to Porter, over and over again. ‘Mary tells me you gents are with the police?’
‘That’s right, Mr Awad,’ said Porter, taking the lead. ‘We’re investigating a missing person’s case. The young lady in question was the daughter of the former owner, Nathan Barclay.’
‘Oh, that was well before my time,’ said Awad, a little too quickly for Porter’s liking. They hadn’t even hinted at the direction of their questioning and already he was trying to distance himself from whatever they were looking into.
‘But you are aware that Mr Barclay used to own Atlas?’
‘Yes, but that was over thirty years ago. I don’t see what—’
‘When did you start working here?’ asked Styles, cutting across him.
‘Let me see, I started off as a forklift driver back in ’89, so been here over twenty-five years now,’ he said with a hint of pride.
‘Is there anybody here who would have been employed when Mr Barclay was in charge?’ asked Porter.
‘There’s a few old-timers, but what has that got to do with—’
Porter held up a hand to silence him. ‘As I explained at the start, Mr Awad, his daughter, Natasha Barclay, is missing. Obviously, Mr Barclay hasn’t been around for some time to speak to, so we need to look at anywhere she might have f
requented, her father’s place of work being one.’
‘Well, there are two that spring to mind,’ said Awad, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, ‘There’s Willy Thompson. He drives one of our forklifts. You might try Alec Brookes as well. I’m pretty sure he was around then, although it’s that long ago I really doubt …’
‘Thanks, Mr Awad, if you point us in their direction that’d be great,’ said Porter tersely. He was getting tired of Awad ending every response with a dismissive remark of his own.
Awad checked the shift rota and quickly determined that Willy Thompson was back there in his forklift somewhere, and wouldn’t clock out for another three hours. Alec Brookes was on a day off, and Styles jotted down contact details for him so they could call by on the way back to the station rather than make another trip back to the warehouse.
Thompson was a short, barrel-chested man with a ruddy complexion. Both forearms had an eclectic mix of faded tattoos that continued upwards, part of the collage disappearing up into his sleeves. His gut bore witness to a sedentary lifestyle, almost touching the steering wheel of the forklift as he shuffled out of his seat to meet them. He had worked for Atlas since 1980, and had seen Nathan Barclay around plenty, but never exchanged more than a few words with him.
Styles showed him a copy of a picture they had taken from Natasha’s flat. She wore a knee-length cotton dress, white with black polka dots, which threatened to billow up around her Monroe-style. One hand pinning the hem to her thigh, the other holding onto a wide brimmed straw hat. Happier times.
Thompson shook his head. Styles segued into questions about the debts and the takeover. Had Barclay spent more time than usual at work? Did he seem stressed by what was happening to the business? Thompson answered in short clipped sentences with vague recollections of nothing being out of the ordinary. When Porter and Styles climbed back into their car five minutes later, they didn’t feel they knew Nathan Barclay any better. He was a good man to work for by all accounts, but they had gleaned nothing significant about the man himself.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 9
