They drove through Caernarfon itself and came off the main road, crossing the River Seiont just before it made its final loop towards the mouth to empty its contents into open water. Evans lived in an old farmhouse with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof. Smoke seeped lazily from the chimney, dancing on the breeze and disappearing into nothing. A Land Rover was parked under a nearby oak tree, its white paint camouflaged behind splashes of mud dried black and a layer of dust from long hours of use.
They had made a decision not to call ahead. People had a tendency to suddenly remember urgent commitments and not be around to open the door when you told them your arrival time in advance. Porter rapped four times in quick succession and stood back from the door, looking around as he waited. As close to Caernarfon as it was, the house had a secluded feel to it, set back from the main road with a line of trees casting a protective arm around the west side and a line of wooden fencing to the east. Porter preferred the ebb and flow of the city, the life that pulsed through it with all its sounds and smells. It had a vitality all of its own, from the low rumble of the Underground and the indeterminate murmuring of large crowds of people to the symphony of scents assaulting the nostrils at places like Borough Market. That was his world.
A blurred silhouette moved behind the opaque glass door, and a key scraped then squeaked in a lock. The door swung open to reveal a man six inches shorter than Porter. He guessed him to be in his late sixties, wearing an old green sweater and dark blue jeans. His once rusty brown hair had a frosting of white around the edges, and the beard that exploded from his chin reminded Porter of Gimli the dwarf from The Lord of the Rings.
He stared at them from beneath eyebrows almost as dense as the beard, and raised them like two arching caterpillars in an unspoken question.
‘Mr Evans?’ said Porter.
‘I am he,’ Evans replied, with a curt nod. His voice was low like an idling car engine, with the unmistakable sing-song lilt of the Welsh accent.
Porter quickly introduced himself and his partner. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about a case we’re working on. It involves a number of companies and individuals, some of whom you’ve done business with in the past.’
Evans held Porter’s gaze as he spoke. ‘Son, I’ve not worked a day in nearly twenty years. Just enjoying my retirement. I think you’ve wasted your petrol coming here.’
‘That’s when we’re taking about, Mr Evans,’ said Styles. ‘Nineteen years ago. You sold the three companies you owned to Locke & Winwood.’
Evans whipped his head around to look at Styles, eyes narrowing as he stared. ‘You’ve got some nerve coming round here asking questions now. Where the bloody hell were you when I asked for help years ago?’ He still spoke in a low grumble, but the sparks of anger coming off his words were unmistakable.
‘Sorry, Mr Evans, I wasn’t aware that there was any police involvement when you sold up,’ said Porter.
‘There wasn’t.’ His voice rose a shade higher now, lifted by the anger. ‘But there bloody well should have been. Useless bastards didn’t lift a finger. Said there was nothing they could do. No evidence, apparently. Well, they didn’t look that bloody hard, I can tell you.’
‘Well, if you can spare us the time, Mr Evans, I’d be more than happy to hear your version of events.’
Evans eyed him suspiciously then shrugged. ‘What the hell. I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’m not scared of that bastard. Not any more.’
He turned and made his way back inside the house, gesturing for them to follow.
‘Scared of who, Mr Evans?’
Evans shouted back over his shoulder as he turned a corner at the end of the short hallway. ‘Of Alexander bloody Locke, that’s who.’
Porter and Styles sipped politely at mugs of steaming milky tea while Evans sat across from them at a large oak kitchen table and told them what he remembered. He had taken over from his uncle after working there for twenty years, and turned a small family business into one of the biggest in the area. He had been in the early stages of the most lucrative contract they’d ever had, when a spate of warehouse fires had led to the very same customer exercising a get-out clause and leaving them with hefty insurance premiums to pay, and no sign of new business to replace the lost revenue.
‘He didn’t stop there, though,’ said Evans.
Porter interrupted. ‘You say “he” – are you saying that Mr Locke was responsible for the fires, Mr Evans?’
‘I can no more prove that than I can prove that God exists, but with some things you don’t need proof, you just believe and know in your heart. He might not have struck the match, but he did this to me, as sure as night follows day. He did this.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ asked Styles.
‘I was warned,’ he said simply. ‘I was warned that I’d regret turning down his offer.’ His eyes had lost some of their focus now, not seeing the kitchen table, but looking back and seeing things as they had transpired, seeing Alexander Locke.
‘What was the warning, Mr Evans?’ said Porter softly, not wanting to break the flashback, just steer it in the right direction.
‘He offered me peanuts,’ said Evans, ‘nothing near its real worth. I said no, of course, but he wasn’t put off and next time he brought his muscle. Two of them came with him, one big bloke and one little. Made me the same offer again, and said that he wouldn’t be so generous if I made him stretch to a third. I told him that wasn’t how negotiation works. I told him that when your offer is rejected, you’re meant to up it. You know what he said to that?’
Porter was caught mid-sip with his mug to his lips and a mouth of warm tea, and couldn’t speak, but he shook his head slightly to prompt Evans.
‘He laughed at me. Actually laughed in my face, him and his two babysitters. Found it hilarious, they did. Then he looks at me and asks me what the hell made me think that anything was up for negotiation? The bloody cheek of the man.’ Evans shook his head, still bristling at the disrespect all these years later.
‘And then what happened?’ prompted Porter.
‘First fire was a week after that. No one got hurt, thank God.’ Evans made a quick sign of the cross. ‘But we lost everything in the building. Cost me a bloody fortune, even with the insurance. Second one was only two days later. Third one the day after that. Fire Brigade said it was faulty wiring, but I had those places checked regularly. There was bugger all wrong with that wiring!’
He was practically shouting now, every other word sending tiny grenades of spittle arcing out. Then his voice grew quiet, his story moving into the eye of the storm, his recollection calmer now.
‘Third one was what got me.’ He rolled up his sleeve. ‘I’d worked late and was just finishing up when it started. Ripped through the place like a tornado. No way was that the wiring. A fire moves that fast it’s had help, you know what I’m saying?’ He looked at them both for affirmation. ‘I was just stood watching my life go up in smoke when I heard Danny shouting. Lazy sod had been having a sly snooze off in a corner, and woke up coughing.’
He grabbed the cuff of his right sleeve and started to pull his arm back up it as he spoke.
‘I didn’t even think. Just ran back in. Suppose if I’d stopped and thought about it I’d probably have been too scared to do anything. I found him quick enough and we were nearly out. I could even see the door. There was a container on a shelf off to my right, God knows what was in it, but it went up with a bang and next thing I know my bloody shirt is on fire.’
He had pulled his arm completely out by now, and lifted the hem of his jumper up over the side of his chest until his shoulder and arm were exposed. The scars were old, and had long since lost their vivid red glow. What was left behind was a faded pink, in contrast to his natural pale freckled forearm. Its contours rose and swirled in places like leathery brushstrokes. The disfiguration extended part way across his chest, then stopped suddenly in a thicker tidemark of scar tissue.
‘Locke came back the day I
got out of hospital, to offer his sympathies, if you can believe that. Looked me in the eye and told me I was lucky my buildings didn’t have thatched roofs like my house. Told me how those old thatches take like kindling and go up in seconds.’
His face was flushed with anger now. The pent-up hatred for Locke had lain and festered for almost two decades, but it bubbled to the surface now.
‘The bastard told me I should get the wiring checked at home so the farmhouse wouldn’t go the same way. I didn’t tell Anne about that last part, God rest her soul.’
Evans looked off to the left as he spoke, and Porter followed his gaze to see a photograph of a younger Evans with his arm around his bride. He was unmistakeable in his suit, his beard just as prominent, she with a simple white dress and a modest bouquet of roses.
‘She’s no longer with us?’ asked Porter.
‘No,’ he said with a shake of his head, ‘but that was nothing to do with Locke.’ The anger in his eyes gave way to a more youthful sparkle, a reflection of good times long gone but still remembered. ‘Cancer. She died four years ago. She’s the reason I sold up in the end.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Styles.
‘I didn’t have much to start with, Detective, so losing the business didn’t leave me any worse off, and I still ended up with some money to show for it, although not as much as I deserved.’ He gave a bitter chuckle. ‘She was all that really mattered to me, and he wouldn’t have stopped. I knew that then. Wouldn’t have stopped until there was nothing left, and I couldn’t risk anything happening to her. Couldn’t have lived with myself, especially not after some of the things his two meatheads said.’
‘Out of interest, Mr Evans, are these the two men you’re referring to?’
Porter pulled two pictures from his jacket pocket, one of Bolton, the other of Davies, and placed them on the table in front of Evans.
Evans nodded grimly. ‘That’s the bastards right there.’
‘And what was it they said?’
‘The little one, had a face like a weasel with beady little eyes, he did, he told me what would happen if I insisted on holding out.’ Evans grimaced as he tapped the picture of Oliver Davies. ‘Told me a story about another chap that had apparently tried saying no to Mr Locke.’ The name was spat out rather than spoken. ‘This other fella was like me: self-made man, hard worker, family man.’ A tremor crept into his deep voice now, the slightest of vibrations behind the words. ‘Told me in a fair amount of detail what would happen to Anne if I didn’t sign it over.’
Evans rubbed at his eyes. Porter saw the fire in them mixed with frustration and fear. Fear for what he would have subjected his wife to if he hadn’t done as he was told.
‘Don’t get me wrong, if they laid a finger on her they’d have had to put me in the ground to stop me. I would’ve done anything for my wife. She didn’t want me to sell.’ Evans looked back at the wedding photograph as he kept on talking, confessing to her now what he couldn’t tell her years ago. ‘If I’d told her about the threats she’d have made me go to the police, and somehow I didn’t get the impression that would be the last I’d see of those three if I did. I couldn’t take that chance. Couldn’t risk them coming for her when I was at work. They didn’t strike me as the kind of men to make idle threats.’
Porter’s head buzzed with the familiar excitement that came when strands of a case started to come together, to coalesce into something more solid. ‘This man they told you about, did they tell you anything else about him? His name? Where he was from?’
Evans looked back from the picture at the two detectives, licked his lips nervously, and shook his head. ‘No. No name.’
Porter realised he had been holding his breath as he waited for the answer, and let it out loudly.
‘But they showed me a picture. The little one had it with him. Showed me a picture of what happens to people who say no to Mr Locke.’
‘What was in the picture, Mr Evans?’ asked Porter.
Evans stood up and went across to a wooden dresser tucked into an alcove. He opened a drawer and rummaged around inside. When he turned around, he was holding a tattered brown envelope. He walked slowly across to where they sat and slid it across the table towards Porter with a soft whisper, and took his seat again.
‘See for yourself.’
‘What’s this? Is that … ?’ Porter’s voice tailed off. Evans finished the sentence for him.
‘The man that said no. They told me to keep it as a souvenir. Thought about taking it to the police, at first, but there’d be no proof they gave it to me. Probably no easy way to find out who the chap even is. I don’t know why I kept it, to be honest. I only looked at it one more time, a year after it all happened, to remind myself that I made the right choice not ending up like him.’
Porter lifted the flap up, so old that there was no hint of stickiness where the adhesive used to be, and drew out the single photograph from inside. He recognised the surroundings before he even looked at the face. The jacket, folded neatly so as not to crease it. The single sheet of paper positioned squarely on top of the garment. Finally, he looked at the face. Nathan Barclay’s eyes were closed; his head hung forward, lips slightly parted. There was no mistaking his peaceful expression for that of a man taking a power nap, though. You only had to look at the dark spray on the cabinet behind him to know his eyes wouldn’t be opening again.
Porter passed the picture across to Styles. Nathan Barclay’s suicide had just become a lot more interesting.
Alexander Locke watched Charles Jasper scuttle across the driveway and climb into his car. He heard the rustle of fabric from behind him, where James Bolton reclined against the sofa. The big man took up half of the available space on the three-seater, and looked around the room as if he was casing the place. Locke didn’t often allow people who worked for him into his home. Bolton had only been here twice before, and with good reason. Men like James Bolton drew trouble to themselves like one of those ultraviolet lights that lures in flies. Sometimes that trouble was from business rivals; other days, like today, it was the authorities. Locke felt himself becoming irritated at Bolton’s indifference to the mess he’d contributed to, even now, days after the shitstorm at Taylor Fisheries.
‘What the hell have you got to say for yourself, then?’ Locke snapped at him, cracks showing through his usually cool demeanour.
Bolton sighed, rolling his eyes like a naughty child. ‘Storm in a teacup, boss.’
‘I’d hardly call a dead police officer a storm in a bloody teacup. What happened in there?’
‘Mr Carter just got too big for his boots is what happened. Tried to do to me what I ended up doing to him.’
Locke scoffed. ‘Carter? That scrawny little shit tried to take you out?’
Bolton shrugged. ‘I know, the cheek of it, eh? Thinking he could catch me with my pants down. I ask him to help me shift a few things around and next thing I know he’s swinging a two by four at me. He charged me, I clipped him, and he ended up smashing through the window.’
Locke couldn’t help but wonder what a clip from Bolton would feel like. He’d seen a few men on the wrong end of one over the years and it never ended well for them.
‘And the officers?’
Bolton folded his arms and sank back into the sofa. ‘Not my doing, boss. Soon as I saw Carter take a dive I was out of there. He must have had backup there, and they ended up tangling with the coppers.’
Locke studied him for a moment. His gut told him Bolton was holding back. Then again, he’d proved his loyalty so many times over the years, Locke couldn’t bring himself to doubt him completely. He was about to ask for more detail on Carter’s failed attack when he heard the crunch of tyre on gravel from outside. Had Jasper forgotten something? Whoever it was came in without bothering to knock, or ring the bell. Locke heard footsteps marching towards them down the corridor and was surprised to see Gavin Barclay storm in, cheeks flushed candyfloss pink. With his rumpled suit and prematurely receding hairlin
e, he looked about as threatening as an angry accountant as he strode over to Bolton.
‘You,’ he spat out. ‘What did you do to my sister?’
Bolton glanced over at Locke, who in turn looked mildly amused.
‘Hmm?’ Gavin jerked his head forward to emphasise his prompt, but it fell short, looking more like a nervous tic.
‘You do know I was seeing your sister for a bit before she went missing, don’t you, Gav? You really want to know what we got up to? You get off on that kind of thing?’
Gavin screwed up his face and flinched backwards. ‘What? That’s not what … You know fine fucking well what I meant. And you,’ he said, turning to face Locke. ‘You’re no better. Why did you do it? Sending this fucking ape after her. Then calling your slimy lawyer to get him out.’
Gavin turned back to see Bolton rising from the sofa, unfolding himself, filling the room as he stood.
‘Cool your jets, boy. That’s no way to speak to the man.’ Bolton, almost at his full height now, reached out, putting a cautionary hand on Gavin’s shoulder.
‘You were never good enough for her. Get your fucking hands off me,’ he spat out. Gavin reacted without thinking, lashing a hand out towards Bolton, only reaching his collarbone. More of a slap than a punch, and about as damaging as a moth fluttering at a lightbulb. As it landed, the anger melted from Gavin’s face, replaced by shock that he’d actually laid a finger on Bolton. With Locke still just a spectator, Bolton swatted Gavin with a backhander that could fell a tree, sending him sprawling backwards over the coffee table. Gavin spun as he fell, landing face down, and Bolton was on him in a flash, grabbing Gavin’s left wrist in a vice-like grip, extending the arm and pushing the hand down towards the forearm. Locke heard a soft snap, like dried twigs. Gavin’s squeal was high enough that Locke expected the neighbourhood dogs to come running.
‘Enough, James. Leave him be,’ said Locke.
Bolton looked disappointed as he released his grip and stepped back. Gavin rolled onto his back, clutching his hand to his chest and whimpering like a wounded animal.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 17
