‘You’ve got to believe me, boss. I had no idea he was peddling bad gear, let alone talking to the coppers.’ Andrew Patchett’s usual low grumble of a voice had snuck up an octave in protest.
‘I don’t have to do anything, Mr Patchett. I do, however, believe you. If I didn’t, you’d have been booked on the same one-way trip as Mr Carter. What about that lanky streak of piss he hung round with? What’s his name again? Thick as thieves, those two. You found him yet?’
‘Jono Murray? Yep, picked him up this morning. Daft bastard went round to Carter’s place to pick up what was left of that shite they were selling. Useless fuckers had been cutting it with anything and everything they could find in the bathroom cabinet.’
‘Where is he now?’ Bolton squeezed his knuckles, popping them like bubble wrap.
Patchett jerked his head towards the far wall. ‘Through there. Think he’s lost a stone in sweat since we brought him in. He’s bricking it.’
‘Let’s go and have a little chat, then, shall we?’
Bolton let Patchett lead the way. He knew his way around the Atlas warehouse well enough, but he wanted Murray to see Patchett first. To think he had a reprieve, that it was just to check he was still there. Patchett led him down a long corridor, stopping at the last door on the left, and pulled a small key ring from his pocket.
This mess with Carter didn’t worry Bolton. He could do without the hassle, but he was fairly sure Locke would buy a line about Carter having a go at him. He ran through the worst-case scenario. He would never willingly move against Locke out of loyalty for what the man had done for him over the years. But by the same token, he had always imagined his boss would have drifted off into a retirement villa somewhere tropical, and left him to run the show. Was it so wrong for him to want a bigger piece of the pie while he waited? The only person he’d seen play second fiddle for a longer stint was Prince Charles. He would have been tempted to leave a roller skate neat the stairs at Buckingham Palace long before now if it was him.
Patchett was his man, not Locke’s, and he trusted him as much as he did anyone. Never completely, but enough. Brainless fools like Carter and Murray were another matter. Disposable but dishonest. The irony of what they had done wasn’t lost on him. To skim from him, the way he was skimming from Locke. It was just plain greed to cut other shit in with the product, though. Greed that brought Carter to the attention of the police. Greed that put Murray in the chair in which he now sat.
Bolton smelt him before he saw him. The kind of ripe sweat it took days to cultivate, and a half-dozen washes to get out. Jono Murray had always reminded Bolton of a sulky teenager, even now in his thirties. Face permanently set in a scowl, as if the world owed him a living. Always had an answer for everything. Bolton looked down at where Murray sat tied to a plastic chair. Not so fucking cocky now, was he?
Murray tried to put a brave face on when he saw who had entered the room. He looked up at Bolton, smile as fake as the knock-off Armani jeans that hung off his spindly legs. Add those to a Nike T-shirt two sizes too big, and he could make for a cracking scarecrow. Bolton nodded to Patchett, who closed the door, and moved to stand in front of it.
‘Mr Bolton,’ Jono Murray said with a forced lilt. ‘This is all a mix-up. I didn’t have nuffin to do with whatever Owen had going on.’
Everything about him repulsed Bolton. The faint brown sweat-rings under his armpits. The way that everything he said came out half-sniggered. The fact that he had the balls to try and get one over on him. He ignored the double negative in what Murray said, and bent down so he was in the younger man’s face, inches away.
‘Of course you didn’t, Mr Murray. That’s why you went back to clear out the stash as soon as you heard what happened to your little pal.’
‘Nah, nah, you’ve got it all wrong, boss. I was gonna bring that to you, see. I heard him talking. Knew he was up to something, so I guess he got what was coming. I’m your boy, though. I was gonna come straight to you with it.’
‘Of course you were, son. Course you were.’ Murray flinched as Bolton patted him on the knee, then stood up. ‘That’s why you’d packed yourself a bag isn’t it. You were going to come to see me, then pop off for a little break somewhere for a bit of R & R?’
‘I was just gonna pop and stay with my mum for a few days. She’s not getting any younger, you know, bless her.’
‘And she’s lucky to have a son like you,’ said Bolton, wandering over to a desk by the far wall. He took his jacket off, settling it on the back of the chair as carefully as if he was dressing a mannequin in Harvey Nics’ window. He unbuttoned both cuffs with his back still to Murray.
‘So I was wondering, when can I get back to work, boss?’ said Murray, aiming for chirpy, but sounding pleading.
‘What about visiting your poor old mum?’ said Bolton. ‘You’ve forgotten about using her to try and talk your way out of this one, haven’t you?’ He turned round, shook his head, sighing as he approached Murray. ‘I wish it was that simple, son,’ he said, rolling his sleeves back to just below the elbow. ‘You see, Mr Carter had been talking to the wrong people. Who’s to say you won’t do the same given half the chance? Maybe you have already?’
Murray’s head started to shake side to side, like he was watching tennis on fast forward. ‘No, no, no. Not me, boss, I wouldn’t. I would never—’ The open-handed slap caught him across the cheek, toppling him like a bowling pin.
It boiled down to fear and respect. People respected Locke. They feared men like Bolton. They didn’t make an enemy of him. That’s the difference between him and Locke, he thought to himself. He’d take fear over respect any day.
‘Just like you would never mix in baby milk or fucking talcum powder into my perfectly good cocaine?’ Bolton growled. ‘More to sell. More to line your grubby little pockets with.’
The side of Murray’s face glowed pink, eyes watering. A trickle of blood mingling with snot snaked out of his nose and down his face. ‘That was Owen. That was all Owen,’ he whimpered. ‘If you’re worried I would say anything to Mr Locke, you needn’t. I—’
Bolton’s foot shot out and connected with Murray’s chin, snapping his head back. ‘You’ll be lucky if you can manage a confession to your fucking priest by the time I’m finished with you, son.’
Murray’s eyes rolled back, mouth opening, blood lining the gaps between his teeth. Whatever sound he was trying to make, it was stuck halfway down his throat and all he could manage was a choking rattle.
‘Boss?’ Patchett spoke for the first time since they’d entered the room. ‘Hate to stop you in full flow, but he can’t talk if you break his jaw. How else will we find out who he’s talked to?’
Bolton stood over Murray now, one leg planted either side of his chest, watching it heave up and down like a bellows. He didn’t bother turning round as he spoke to Patchett. ‘This isn’t about whether he’s talked or not. He stole from me. Where would I be if I let that kind of thing slide? I’d be on the floor underneath somebody’s boot like this little shit here.’ Bolton placed the sole of his shoe on Murray’s neck. ‘Now I suggest you don’t interrupt me again.’
Bolton looked down at Murray, at his eyes, pupils dilated to the size of five pence pieces. He drew his knee up to chest height, put all his weight into it, and drove it down with a sickening crack on the bridge of Murray’s nose. He stepped back, admiring his work. He noticed a splash of blood on his shoe, and wiped it against Murray’s T-shirt. What had started out as a white top was now speckled with red like a Jackson Pollock painting. Fear trumps respect every time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Deciphering a dream could be like trying to translate a foreign language after hearing it for the first time; the images had an echo of familiarity, but the true meaning hovered tantalisingly out of reach. Other times you ended up dreaming about something you saw on the news before you turned in for the night. Porter woke with a start after a dose of the latter.
Simmons had been in her hospital
bed where he had left her last night, but the room was different. It had no door, only an enormous window. He had stood, nose practically touching the glass, breath flowering and fading on the surface. Holly fussed around her in an old-fashioned white nurse’s uniform, tucking in the bed sheet, checking vitals. He called out, but neither of them reacted. He smacked the flat of his palm against the glass so hard it stung; not so much as a flicker of eyes in his direction.
He looked at the clock by his bed: 5.14 a.m., barely worth trying to get the last half hour before his alarm caught up with him. His subconscious still clung on to that raw feeling on his palm even now that the dream had evaporated. He looked at his left palm, half expecting to see it glowing pink from the impact, but only a pasty white hand hovered in front of him. He slipped on a pair of shorts and stumbled off in search of breakfast. Demetrious watched from the comfort of the sofa as Porter ambled past like a Neanderthal man, arms dangling by his side and feet dragging to make a swish, swish against the laminate floor.
He opened the fridge, staring blankly at the pitiful amount of milk he had left, barely enough to cover the bottom of the container, and decided to head to the twenty-four-hour garage down the road. He swapped his shorts for jeans and a black fleece, opting for the five-minute walk over a lazy drive.
The girl at the checkout smiled at him as he placed his basket in front of her. She had worked here as long as he could remember, and reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She had a badge clipped near her collar with SAM stamped on in bold black capitals, and her black hair was scraped back from her face into a tight ponytail. Her eyes did a little dance; left, right, up, down, as she looked at him. He wondered for the first time since he got up whether his hair was sticking up at odd angles, and felt himself blushing at the thought of how he must look.
‘Early start?’ she asked cheerfully.
He looked up, startled, as if he’d not seen her there. ‘Afraid so.’ He forced a quick smile. ‘Not as early as yours, though.’
‘Mm,’ she murmured in agreement as she packed his items into a plastic bag. ‘I usually do lates but I’m helping a friend out, and the overtime doesn’t hurt either.’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d usually seen you on a night-time rather than this ungodly hour.’
She laughed. ‘The joys of working for a twenty-four-hour shop.’
He went to pay but realised he only had a five-pound note, and with the extra things he had grabbed on the spur of the moment he was twenty pence short.
‘Guess I’ll have to pop one of these back,’ he said.
‘I’ll let you off. You can pay the extra next time.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
‘That’s very kind of you, thank you.’
He smiled and headed out into the still-dark morning with its whispers of faint traffic. He glanced back through the glass shopfront as he walked past, hoping she hadn’t noticed the flush he felt in his cheeks. That was more conversation than he usually dared strike up with women he didn’t know, but no reason to get self-conscious. Damn Styles and his non-stop piss-take. She was just being friendly. It was her job to be polite, so why was he left wondering if she was flirting with him? He wondered if he’d ever get to the point of flirting back. Wondered if he wanted to. What was the worst that could happen?
He considered that for a moment as he climbed back into his car. The worst scenario wasn’t that he might not be ready for what it could lead to. Worst case by far would be if Styles found out. That would give his partner ammunition for weeks – months, even – but it made Porter smile all the same.
It wasn’t that he wanted to end up a lonely old man, but the idea of being with someone, of feeling that way about anyone other than Holly, stirred up such a conflicted knot in his stomach, that he wasn’t sure he could ever unpick it.
Porter was at his desk with the day’s inaugural coffee by six-thirty. He sipped it slowly as he watched the darkness outside evaporate, as if God was turning up the brightness on his celestial TV.
He silently berated himself for the way he had handled things yesterday. Going after Bolton that quickly had been a mistake, although it had been satisfying to haul him in. It wasn’t that he thought they’d tipped their hand by questioning him. Porter was certain that Bolton and Stenner knew they had been under surveillance. Maybe Patchett had too. What other reason was there for Carter to have ditched his coat unless he’d been persuaded to do so by one of the others? Persuaded, coerced: made no difference. He had let his anger get in the way of building a case, they all had, but today was another day.
He planned to call and check on Simmons around nine, and he had arranged to meet Natasha’s school friend, Rebecca Arnold, around lunchtime. She had been away for a few days visiting a friend, but was due back into King’s Cross around noon. He drained the last of his coffee and spun away from the window to face his computer. He fired up Google and set about tracking down anything he could in the public domain about Alexander Locke, Nathan Barclay and James Bolton. There was very little about Barclay and Bolton, but after reading the first few articles on Alexander Locke, things took an unexpected twist.
Locke might have kept a low profile as far as the law was concerned, but he had featured quite recently in the local press, half a dozen times in the last twelve months to be precise, as well as a string of older search results. It seemed he had a reputation as a local philanthropist, donating undisclosed sums to a number of charities. There were pictures of him in front of a community centre he’d helped fund the rebuilding of, a shot of him with a local MP at a fundraiser for a nearby kids’ football team. The third one he read stopped him in his tracks. Locke was wearing a traditional-style tuxedo, flashing his pearly whites for the camera. He looked every inch the successful businessman, but it wasn’t Locke that made him catch his breath, it was the man whose shoulder his arm was around.
Shit, that’s all we need.
Porter leant back, arms crossed, resting his chin in one hand while he took in this latest development. The picture on his screen showed Locke arm in arm with the deputy commissioner, Adam Nesbitt, at a fundraiser of some sort. The last thing they needed if they ever made an arrest was for a picture like this to surface in the tabloids. The deputy commissioner attended dozens of these events, and probably wouldn’t even remember posing for the picture, but that wouldn’t bother the journalists. They would sink their teeth into that and gorge on the story for weeks. He’d have a word with Superintendent Campbell when he came in. The politics of the job could be like quicksand if you weren’t careful, and if it surfaced some other way, making Campbell look bad, he’d make Porter pay somewhere down the line.
Porter looked up to see Styles coming through the door. He reminded Porter of a basketball player or a high jumper: he was all limbs, zigzagging between desks like an NBA shooting guard dribbling around his opponents.
‘Bit keen today, aren’t you? You’ll show the rest of us up. Did you bring an apple for the teacher as well?’
‘Couldn’t sleep. Had an interesting morning already, though.’
Styles stopped short of continuing his usual brand of sarcastic comebacks, perhaps sensing the seriousness of yesterday still hanging over them. ‘Share the joy; what have you found?’
Porter spun his monitor around and Styles gave a low whistle.
‘Friends in high places, I see,’ he said, walking around to his desk and taking a seat opposite Porter.
Porter shrugged. ‘Doesn’t change anything, but we could do without the complication. OK, I figure the day pans out like this. Rebecca Arnold is due in at King’s Cross at noon. See how far you can get digging into Locke’s financials. We’ve only really looked at him in connection with Barclay so far rather than in his own right. After speaking to Alec Brookes, I wonder how kosher Locke’s non-drug-related business practices are. If he was strong-arming Barclay in any way, then we run that down in relation to Natasha.
Did he just threaten Barclay, or did he extend that to his family as well?’
‘What about Bolton?’ asked Styles. ‘Do we speak to him again? Might turn up the heat a little more?’
Porter shook his head. ‘You saw what he was like yesterday. If we haul him in again straight away, he’ll sit there looking smug and not say a bloody word. Let’s see what we get back from the crime scene report first. Might make our job easy if he left prints all over, but no sense rushing it like we did yesterday. He’ll keep.’
‘Any word from the hospital on how she’s doing?’
‘Not yet. I’ll give them a call now, then I’ll give you a hand with the financials. It’s about time you showed me how you decipher that stuff.’
Styles grunted an acknowledgement and started pecking away at his keyboard while Porter picked up the phone. The ward sister he spoke to sounded weary. He guessed she was coming off the night shift rather than being the cavalry relieving those that had worked through since yesterday. She told him Simmons was still stable and was due a further assessment at ten o’clock. There was no sign of her waking up, but he hadn’t expected that just yet. He extracted a promise of a call if anything changed, and let her get back to the dozens of patients more deserving of her attention.
He would give anything for her to be sitting upright and chatting away, not only for her own personal wellbeing, but because he was desperate to hear her side of what happened in the Taylor Fisheries building. Had she seen what happened to Gibson? Had she seen Bolton? He prayed she would remember some or all of the frantic charge up the stairs, although he couldn’t pin all his hopes on that. The doctor had said there was a chance she might remember nothing. He knew the right thing to do for the time being was to assume she had nothing to give them, and pursue all other lines of enquiry to get something more concrete.
His thoughts darted back to the photo of the deputy commissioner. That was one mess he would gladly follow Campbell’s lead on, but one situation he couldn’t walk away from was the intersection of the two cases after yesterday’s maelstrom of events. Anderson and Whittaker would likely welcome his help with their case, not least of all because their team was lighter by two after yesterday. Locke was a big fish, though, and whoever landed him would have their moment in the limelight. Porter didn’t give a damn about the backslapping that came with closing a case, and his worry was that Anderson would want to keep his own hand on the rudder but didn’t have the stomach for what lay ahead. Anderson had been a good detective in his day, but he had peaked with the Spice Girls in the nineties and any fire that had burnt in his belly was more of a glowing ember these days. The time to tiptoe around Bolton had passed, but Porter worried that Anderson would want to continue the softly-softly approach to keep fishing for Locke.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 14
