‘What the hell have you done to him?’ a woman’s voice shrieked.
Locke looked over to the door and saw Mary rushing across the room to kneel by Gavin’s side. Bolton held up both palms in a nothing to do with me gesture. Locke felt the last of his patience dissolving, with all of them. Bolton, with his ‘lash out now, ask questions later’ approach. Gavin, who was just one of life’s punching bags; always had been, always would be. As for Mary, she was hardly a saint. Locke knew that she was more in the know than she let on. If she knew half of what he suspected, it would make Gavin see his mum in a whole different light. Mary glared up at both of them, a lioness protecting her cub.
‘He came charging in here full of hell, yelling his head off about his sister, and took his chances throwing a cheap shot at James,’ Locke snapped. ‘He’s fine. He just needs to calm down, that’s all.’
‘Let me see that,’ she said to Gavin, lifting up his wrist. He winced, sucking air in through gritted teeth. ‘I think you’ve broken his wrist,’ she snapped at Bolton. ‘He’s going to need this seen to. I’ll drive him to A & E myself. I wouldn’t want either of you to put yourselves out.’
She helped Gavin to his feet. ‘You’re a bloody animal,’ she said to Bolton. That was the equivalent of swearing by her standards. The two men watched in silence as she ushered him out of the room and out into her car.
Bolton held his hands up as if to say what can you do. ‘You saw it, boss. He went for me. I just reacted.’
‘Just like with Carter, eh?’ said Locke. ‘Twice in the space of a few days. What are the odds?’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Porter patiently waited his turn. Superintendent Campbell’s verbose outpourings tended to be more of a soliloquy than a two-way conversation, and Porter knew from experience there was little to gain by interrupting.
‘So let me get this straight.’ Campbell shuttled back and forward between his desk and the window as he spoke, his voice slow and measured, as if dealing with a small child. ‘He masquerades as a pillar of the community by making large charitable donations, to causes endorsed by our very own deputy commissioner, no less. Hell, he even rubs shoulders and shakes hands with the man. A man who can end both our careers with a wave of his pen, and now Locke is a murderer as well?’
‘What I’m saying, sir, is that we need to consider this new evidence and where it might lead the investigation.’
Porter’s pace and pitch was equally as regulated. Campbell had a stubborn streak in him and this wouldn’t be the first time he’d waved his bureaucratic wand, inadvertently grinding a case to a shuddering halt simply because it wasn’t how he had seen things playing out.
‘And the new evidence, is there anything else to consider, or is it just the information from the Welsh chap and that picture?’ He waved a hand in the direction of the Polaroid they had taken from George Evans.
‘Just, sir? It’s an eyewitness account of how a member of Mr Locke’s organisation confirmed that Nathan Barclay died because he didn’t want to do business with Locke; an account given while in the presence of Mr Locke, I might add. Now, I’m not saying it’s enough to bang them all up just yet, but if we can—’
‘I admire your passion, I really do. One of ours is lying in the hospital and you want to hit back. I’ll tell you how this will be played back to us by his solicitor, shall I?’
Porter clenched his jaw, swallowing a quick retort, and bristling at the phrasing Campbell was using.
One of ours. Admire my passion?
The man had some nerve. He’d been fast-tracked since he joined the force, and had served the vast majority of his career from behind the safety of his desk. If they were all on the same team, all had a common goal, why did it feel like Campbell was more concerned with how things might look instead of getting the right result?
Campbell resumed his pacing as he spoke. ‘This Mr Evans, we only have his word that Davies handed him the picture for starters. Only have his word that he ever met with Locke under those circumstances, let alone as confirmation of what was said between them. As for this …’ Campbell held up the evidence bag with the picture in it. ‘Without any corroborating evidence as to how he came by it, they’ll strongly suggest that we investigate how he managed to get his hands on a crime scene photograph.’
‘That’s the thing though, sir, it’s not a crime scene photograph. Well, I know it’s a picture of the deceased, but …’ Porter sighed loudly. ‘But it’s not one he could have just come across, or even taken from us.’
‘And how can you be so sure, Detective?’
‘Evans says he was out of the country on holiday when Barclay died and it checks out. He’s willing to make a statement confirming how he came to possess the picture.’
Evans had confirmed he would come in if they needed him to. With his wife gone, he had readily agreed at what he saw as a chance to turn back the clock and stand up to Locke.
‘It’s still one man’s word against another, Porter, and I’ll remind you again, it would be the word of a man who hands out money to good causes and shakes hands with our top brass, so I’ll ask you again, how can you be so sure?’
‘Because there’s something wrong with that picture, sir. It’s not one of ours. Whoever took that picture was there at the scene, but it wasn’t us.’
Campbell sneered as he studied the picture again. ‘You showed me the original yourself when you made your pitch to run both cases, Detective. It looks like the same picture to me, right down to the jacket and the note.’ He tossed the bag onto his desk and it skittered across the surface until it hit his keyboard.
The arrogance of the man was unbelievable. He was so sure of himself that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him. Porter hoped his polite smile didn’t look as fake as it felt. He reached across and drew the photograph towards him, picking it up and turning it to face Campbell.
‘If it’s one of ours, sir, then why are there no evidence markers at the scene? This one was taken before we even turned up.’
Campbell’s face reddened as he snatched the picture back from Porter and sat down. Even though there was no audience to witness the glaring error, Porter had a feeling he would pay for embarrassing his superior like that somewhere down the line, but right now he didn’t give a damn.
Porter listened while Anderson and Whittaker relayed what they’d found out. Whittaker had spoken to Martin Murphy’s son, Callum. The car that had struck Murphy was found abandoned a few miles away in an alley. The owner had reported it stolen the day before and no one was questioned, let alone charged. Callum Murphy hadn’t been involved in the business, but confirmed that his dad had been approached by a potential buyer from London a few weeks before the accident. His mum had been in favour of selling up and enjoying early retirement, but Murphy had flatly refused to entertain the idea. Callum didn’t have any knowledge of the would-be buyer and his mother had passed away two years earlier, so there would be no way to confirm that Locke had made the original offer, short of Locke himself offering up the information. Whittaker had thanked him for his time and left it at that.
Anderson went next. He read from his notes in a flat, almost disinterested tone. He’d spoken to Alastair Reece’s widow. Reece had been fanatical about his bikes, his pride and joy being his Harley Davidson chopper. She had been the last person to see him alive after he had headed out early one Sunday morning for a ride to blow away the cobwebs. She had been worried when he hadn’t returned several hours later and wasn’t answering his phone. They found him an hour later, his bike having struck the central reservation barrier which sent him sailing over the opposing lane and onto the grass verge. There were no eyewitnesses, and Reece was pronounced dead at the scene.
One of the officers who attended the scene had found an errant smear of blue midway up the jet-black petrol tank, the only suggestion that his accident may not have been a solo venture. The paint matched up to that used on the powder-blue Ford Focus, one of the most popular cars on t
he road at the time, and virtually untraceable.
Reece, too, had been approached with an offer for his businesses, according to his wife. Unlike Murphy, Reece had given it serious consideration, but had ultimately turned it down. He had made a passing comment to her about the buyer not being a man he wanted to do business with but hadn’t elaborated. Her husband had been in the ground less than a week when Locke made an approach. She was left with two young children and no idea how to run a business that size, so had taken his offer without hesitation.
Porter could feel the excitement building as he listened. He knew that none of this was enough to build a case against Locke, or any of his associates. There wasn’t the slightest provable fact in any of it, but it settled the question in his own mind about the kind of man Locke was. He had been willing to concede the possibility, however slim, that Bolton, Davies or both had been operating their own sideline without Locke’s knowledge. The circumstances surrounding the expansion of Locke & Winwood made that impossible in Porter’s opinion.
He made a mental note to dig out details of the local officers that worked each of the deaths and see if they could add anything. He would have to tread carefully, and not mention his suspicions about Locke to any of the locals. He didn’t want them getting excited at the prospect of a suspect in an unsolved death, and word getting back to Campbell just yet that two more murders might be pencilled in against such a pillar of the community.
Porter stood up and turned to face the other three detectives. He gave a summary of their trip to Wales, ending the account by producing the photograph from a nearby folder, like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat.
‘That’s all very well and good, but what can we make stick?’ said Anderson, folding his arms over a chest that made his shirt strain at the buttons, the centre line parting at each one to reveal a flash of brown flesh.
Porter decided to let Anderson’s pessimism go by without a challenge this time.
‘From all of that? Nothing at the moment. We can speak to whoever investigated the deaths and the fires, but it’s that long ago they might not even be on the force still, let alone able to tell us anything useful.’
Anderson’s features softened ever so slightly, as if that was what he wanted to hear.
Jesus, he really doesn’t have the stomach for a big case before he cashes his chips out.
Porter kept his thoughts to himself and just shrugged in acknowledgement. ‘We might be able to use it to rattle Locke or his boys, though, put them on edge. People under pressure make mistakes. Maybe we let a few details slip when we pay a visit to Atlas and see if it gets back to them?’
‘Speaking of which, how are we slicing that up?’ asked Anderson. ‘We can do the drive-bys on Atlas while you two check up with the locals on those cases if you like?’
Porter nodded. ‘Yep, thanks mate. That’d be good.’
Maybe he was judging Anderson too harshly if he was offering to do the legwork. That would give him and Styles a chance to work out where they went next with Natasha’s case, and he hadn’t had time to track down Will Leonard for the report on the scene at Taylor Fisheries.
His phone vibrated and he glanced down at the screen. It was a text from Campbell.
In my office when you have 5.
Had he spoken to Milburn already? When Campbell had recovered from his embarrassment at misreading the photograph, he had dismissed Porter, promising to ring Milburn straight away. In Porter’s experience, Campbell rarely tended to be the bringer of good tidings, and almost never this quickly. He excused himself and headed to find out, mentally preparing his plan B if the answer wasn’t in his favour.
Porter debated sending Campbell a reply saying he had left the building and was tracking down Will Leonard first, but thought better of it. No sense in delaying potentially bad news, and if Campbell found out he had fobbed him off, he would be even harder to win round. No sense swimming against the tide unnecessarily.
The door was slightly open, but Porter knocked anyway. Campbell was staring intently at paperwork on his desk, and spoke without looking up.
‘Come in, have a seat. I’ll just be a second.’
Porter sat as instructed and waited patiently for Campbell to finish. Porter didn’t know how he could do it. He couldn’t think of anything more soul-destroying than having budgets as your number one adversary, instead of the actual lawbreakers they were here to police. Someone had to do it, he supposed, and was just thankful it wasn’t him. He would rather follow Anderson into the sunset than chain himself to a desk.
Campbell finished whatever he was reviewing and scribbled an intelligible signature at the bottom like a child’s doodle.
‘Ah, Porter.’ He sounded almost surprised to see him even though he’d sent the summoning text.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Yes. I’ve just come off the phone with Milburn. We’ve agreed to run a joint taskforce taking what happened to Gibson and Simmons into account. Anderson will still lead on the drugs angle. You and Styles will follow up on Gibson, Simmons and that other chap. You’ll do daily briefings for myself and Superintendent Milburn at the end of each shift to make sure there’s no unnecessary overlap.’
Porter didn’t react. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted but it was enough of a happy medium for him to work with. He would rather be setting the direction for the case as a whole instead of part of it, not for any personal gain, but to put it simply he just didn’t have the confidence in Anderson that his superiors did.
‘What about our other case, sir, Natasha Barclay?’
‘What about it, Porter? That can wait, quite frankly. This takes priority.’
‘But, sir, the links between them are—’
‘The links between them are weak and circumstantial, Porter.’ Campbell’s voice cut across Porter’s. ‘We have no body, no firm evidence apart from that which points to her own father, which by the way you’re now suggesting may not in fact be a suicide, the more I hear.’
Porter opened his mouth to speak, but Campbell wasn’t finished. His voice reminded Porter of the whiny drone of hedge trimmers.
‘We’ve got two murders to solve already without turning a perfectly good suicide into a third, and adding a missing person on top. What we need is to close the book on whoever attacked our officers, and to establish how far up this drug ring goes.’
Porter stared at Campbell now with undisguised contempt.
A perfectly good suicide?
Had he really just said that? That was as clear an indication as to where Campbell’s priorities lay as any Porter had ever witnessed.
‘Until I’m convinced otherwise, we do not go anywhere near Alexander Locke. That’s one political applecart I don’t intend to upset unless or until we absolutely have to. For now, Bolton is our chief suspect, and I expect you and your team to focus all your attention on him and his associates. We get the evidence and we bring them in, but not before. I don’t want that prick Jasper looking that smug again. Ms Barclay has waited thirty years for somebody to ask where the hell she’s gotten to. I’m sure she can wait another week or two until we clean up this mess. Are we clear?’
Porter swallowed down a dozen more colourful career-limiting responses, and nodded slowly.
‘First briefing five o’clock today, then, please.’
Campbell smiled and held Porter’s gaze for a few seconds before turning his attention back to his beloved paperwork. Porter saw it for the dismissal it was and headed out to find someone to vent to.
Styles held out a mug as Porter walked past, like a caffeine version of a marathon runner visiting a water stop. Porter slowed as the cup changed hands, and completed his circuit of the desks until he reached his own and sat to face his partner.
‘Well? Did the Man from Del Monte say yes?’
Porter’s mouth twitched at the corners, stopping short of a full-blown smile.
‘Yes and no.’
‘Oh, you know how I love it when you go al
l cryptic and mysterious.’
This time Porter couldn’t help but smile. He quickly filled Styles in on his conversation with Campbell.
Styles shrugged. ‘You win some, you lose some. Could be worse. So we’re shelving Natasha for now?’
Porter shook his head. ‘No, we can work both. As long as we make enough progress on the murders to keep Campbell and Milburn happy, we can use whatever spare time we have to crack on with Natasha.’
‘Since when do we have spare time?’ scoffed Styles.
‘We’ll make it work,’ Porter said simply.
‘But Campbell said not to bother Locke while—’
‘Campbell said not to bother Alexander Locke. He said nothing about his wife,’ said Porter, a look on his face like butter wouldn’t melt.
Styles tutted loudly. ‘I bet you weren’t disciplined enough as a child. You’ve got a naughty streak in you a mile wide. Did your parents spare the rod?’
‘I’m just taking the man at face value, albeit quite literally.’
‘What’s the angle, then? We’ve already been to see her twice.’
Porter took a loud slurp from his mug. ‘You saw how nervy she was last time, and how she clammed up as soon as his lordship came home. She knows more than she’s told us, maybe not enough to crack the case, but she knows something. Maybe she even knew about Natasha and Bolton? Maybe she and Daddy disapproved of their blue-eyed girl sleeping with the stepdad’s help and made her break it off with Bolton? Maybe that’s what triggered the argument and struggle at her place?’
‘That’s a lot of maybes,’ said Styles, leaning back, arms folded behind his head. ‘And “crack the case”? Really? Has anyone actually used that since Columbo?’
Porter scrunched up a scrap of paper from his desk and flung it at his partner’s head. Styles ducked easily out of the way and grabbed at a folder on his own desk. Porter flinched instinctively, but Styles leant forward and handed it to him instead. Porter eyed him suspiciously as he took it. Styles feigned a hurt look.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 18
