‘So cynical. As if I would reduce myself to your level? Some of us would rather be doing police work. While you were off sucking up to Campbell, I paid Will Leonard a quick visit and got you some light bedtime reading.’ He picked up an identical folder of his own, holding it up to Porter like a referee showing the red card.
‘Crime scene report?’
‘Yep. That plus a little extra bonus, but have a look at the report first.’
Porter opened the file and scanned through Leonard’s summary. A single blow to the head had killed Gibson. He’d likely been unconscious before he hit the floor. Face-planting on the hard concrete had broken his nose and fractured a cheekbone, although he was beyond pain by then. The blow had been delivered Babe Ruth style to the base of his skull, causing a fracture and cerebral haemorrhage.
Carter had died from a full bingo card of injuries: head trauma, massive internal bleeding and punctured lungs where two broken ribs had driven through them like stakes. No real surprises there. Porter read on but stopped suddenly mid-paragraph and looked up at Styles.
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?’
‘Hang fire, you must be ahead of me.’
‘No way could that have been a bloody accident!’ Porter spat out angrily.
‘Eh?’ Styles was confused, but read on, and ten seconds later realised what had brought the outrage to Porter’s voice.
Cause of death for Carter was obvious. Gravity plus a concrete road tended to only end one way. What was less obvious were Leonard’s observations on how Carter came to do his Icarus impression. Fragments of a lightbulb had been found embedded in his hand, with the pale grey threaded section four feet away on the road. This, plus the arrangement of furniture on the third floor of the building, had led Leonard to surmise that one possibility was that Carter had been changing a bulb and had simply fallen backwards while standing on the desk to reach the fitting.
‘Death by DIY?’ Porter gave a sardonic laugh.
‘I know he’s got to consider all options, but that’s stretching it a bit, surely?’
‘More likely that things got rough and Carter smashed a bulb to use as a weapon.’
‘I’d want something a damn sight bigger than a lightbulb if that big bugger was charging at me,’ said Styles.
Porter shook his head in disbelief. He knew it would only piss Leonard off if he tried to poke holes in what he had written. The report wasn’t Leonard trying to give them a definitive answer. Bolton had left no prints behind, Porter assumed thanks to a pair of gloves, so Leonard was just interpreting the physical evidence he could see and laying out provable possibilities.
It left them without a solid reason to haul Bolton back in. Their only real chance as it stood was for Simmons to wake up and give an eyewitness account of what happened, but that could be days yet. That wouldn’t bother Milburn that much at this stage, and by extension Anderson, as it gave them a longer window to progress the drugs case, but it pissed Porter off. It made him want to lock Bolton in a dark room until he confessed, but knew Campbell and Milburn would make him pay dearly for it.
Styles noticed his partner’s darkening mood. ‘Don’t you want to know what your little bonus surprise is then?’
Porter had forgotten about the secondary comment Styles had made a minute ago.
‘What? Oh, yeah, come on then. It’s got to be better news that the lightbulb theory.’
‘Well, it’s nothing to do with this scene, but Leonard did find something unusual back at Natasha’s place.’
Porter’s expression changed, alert and inquisitive again in an instant.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, it turns out that when he ran tests on the blood from her carpet, there was a bit of an anomaly. They took the full slice of carpet to test. Turns out that Natasha wasn’t the only one to blame for the spillage. He found another blood type mixed with hers. Barely a trace, but enough to test.’
‘Who?’ Porter was all business again, his mini-rant forgotten.
‘Swings and roundabouts. We know it belongs to another person, but that person isn’t in the system, not for DNA, anyway.’
Porter had been expecting a name, and sat back again with a loud sigh.
‘I can tell you whose it isn’t: our favourite customer, Mr Bolton. He gave a sample with a previous arrest. Course we still have his fingerprints there, but they’re not quite so damning.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear that.’
‘I never promised you a conviction from it, but it’s something, at least, something more than we had this morning, anyway.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ll stop whinging now.’ He drained the last half inch of coffee from his mug, and leant forward to place it in his desk when he froze, still gripping the handle.
‘Jesus, I must be getting old. I nearly missed that.’ A smile crept slowly across Porter’s face.
‘Missed what? The desk with the cup? Even a blind quadriplegic could manage that one. You want a gold star?’
Porter shook his head. ‘Careful who you mock, young man. You’ve missed it as well.’
‘Come on, then, put me out of my misery.’
‘We can’t rule out Bolton, but we can rule out Barclay.’
‘How so?’
‘We don’t have a sample for him per se, but it would have shown up as a familial match if it was his, so whoever she struggled with it wasn’t him.’
‘Then what the hell was he apologising for in his note?’ said Styles.
Porter shrugged, but that didn’t really bother him that much right now. As far as he was concerned, that put Bolton squarely in the frame for Natasha. As much as he wanted to pin the others on him as well, he had to fight the urge to go and find him straight away. He knew he would get a slap on the wrist from Campbell if he did. He could live with that, but it was his own desire to make sure Bolton went down for all three deaths that won out.
It might only be a small step forward but it felt like the most progress they’d made in days.
They took a call each, Porter speaking to the local police force in Grimsby, while Styles tracked down the investigating officer in Grangemouth. Both cases had hit a dead end quite quickly and just gathered dust since. They were alike insofar as there being no witnesses to either death, and no real leads to speak of. The car that had hit Martin Murphy had no usable prints apart from those belonging to its owner, who had been at a football match with friends. The officer Styles spoke to in Scotland told him that they had checked local garages within a fifty-mile radius for any powder-blue Ford Focus in need of any bodywork or paint work. The only two they had tracked down were a result of separate incidents, each with another party, who could confirm how and where the damage was sustained.
‘What time can you get here for tomorrow morning?’ he asked Styles.
‘Any time, really. Emma’s up and out for yoga in the morning, so whenever. What you got in mind?’
‘Thought we might try third time lucky with Mrs Locke, if you’re game? Maybe park up early somewhere round the corner and wait till he heads out to work so there’s less chance of him interrupting us.’
‘Can do.’
Porter figured Locke would head out by nine at the latest. They could wait till then, speak with Mary Locke and be back at the station by mid-morning.
‘I’m assuming, with you being a master of interrogation, that we’re not just going to ask her outright what she’s hiding. What’s the plan?’
‘We’ve been fairly gentle so far,’ said Porter. ‘I think it’s time we throw a few surprises into the conversation and see what we can flush out. If she’s hiding nothing, we get nothing, but I bet you a bacon butty on the drive back that we don’t leave empty-handed.’
‘Yeah, what the hell, let’s do it. Maybe she’ll even confess and make it the best three quid I’ll have ever spent.’
Friday morning’s sky was a rumpled duvet of grey cloud as far as the eye could see, and a veil of diamante raindrops
studded the windscreen. They had been there for almost an hour and the clock on the dash read a little after eight. They had no idea what time Locke left for work and hadn’t wanted to take any chances of running into him as they parked up. Porter had reached for the lever to wipe the droplets away, but Styles had stopped him. The rain would blur the shapes inside the car to passers-by, while they knew which car to look out for, even with their rain-blurred vision.
Porter outlined his plan while they waited. They’d asked her last time if Natasha had been involved with anyone. That had been just before Locke had returned home. They’d allowed themselves to get distracted and left without an answer to that, for starters. She had seemed on the verge of unburdening herself, of what he didn’t know, but he was convinced she had something that could help them, however small.
‘I say we ask her straight up about Bolton as well.’
‘You sure about that, guv? What if she tells her hubby and he tells Bolton?’
‘Worth the risk,’ said Porter. ‘Besides, there’s worse things we could do than rattle a few cages. Other than that, let’s just play it by ear depending on what she says.’
Styles opened his mouth to speak when an arc of light swept around the corner of the street that led to the Locke house. Through the dawn half-light they could see the outline of a body in the driver’s seat as a jet-black Mercedes swung around the corner and headed away from them to God knows where. There was no mistaking the car, even in the gloom. The licence plate, L0CK3, was probably worth more than their unmarked car. They decided to give it ten more minutes to be sure before driving slowly up to the house.
The house looked deserted apart from the light outside the front door. As they got closer, though, Porter made out a faint glow coming from behind the living room curtains. It took Mary Locke a full minute before her voice came over the intercom. She sounded cautious, although Porter guessed most people would treat any pre-breakfast callers with suspicion. There was a hesitation while she decided whether or not to let them in. Porter stared intently at the metal grille of the intercom box, willing it to let him in.
The gate clicked open, probably because she couldn’t think of a reason to refuse them, or maybe just out of good old-fashioned British manners; Porter didn’t much care which. She appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of navy blue cotton jogging bottoms and a matching fleece, zipped up to the neck, hair tied in a short ponytail and make-up immaculate as usual. Porter was beginning to wonder if she slept upright so as not to ruffle her appearance.
‘Do you have any idea what time it is, Detective?’ she said with a shrill tone in her voice.
Porter saw it for the rhetorical question and expression of annoyance that it was, and left it unanswered when he responded.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Locke, but there have been a few developments and we need to ask you some follow-up questions.’
‘You’ve just missed my husband. Maybe it would be better if you came back this evening when you can speak to him as well?’
Porter smiled politely. ‘No need, Mrs Locke. You should be able to help us just fine. May we come in?’
She pursed her lips but relented and stood back to let them in. They followed her through to the now-familiar surroundings of the living room and took the same seats as last time.
‘I can only spare you five minutes, I’m afraid,’ she said, her fingers fiddling with the zip of her fleece. ‘I’m heading out to meet a friend. We go power walking twice a week.’ She gestured towards her pristine white Nike trainers that looked like they’d not trodden a path since leaving the box, as if to justify her less than formal choice of outfit.
‘That’s fine, Mrs Locke. We appreciate whatever you can spare.’
Porter kept the smile lingering as he talked. He wanted to relax her as much as possible in order to maximise any reactions if their questions threw her a curveball.
‘So, first off, last time we spoke I lost track of my questions a little when your husband turned up.’ He shrugged, the clumsy detective cleaning up from his previous visit. ‘We had just asked if Natasha had a boyfriend, or had been dating anyone around the time you saw her last. Is there anyone you can remember? Anyone who might have seen her more recently than you or your husband?’
Her expression changed, barely noticeable, but something passed across her face that he couldn’t read.
‘After you left the last time, my husband and I spoke for quite a while, about what you’d found, what you asked. I must apologise, but when I said the last time I saw her was around the time her father died, that wasn’t actually the case.’
She gave a weak smile, and Porter and Styles shot each other a quick glance.
‘Having the police turn up on my doorstep with bad news must have muddled my brain more than I thought. I did see her a few times after that. I took a few trips over to Poland, you know, just for a break. I stayed in a hotel and she came into Kraków to meet up.’
‘And you only remembered that after we left?’ Porter tried his best to keep any sarcasm from his voice, but felt like he failed miserably.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ She nodded rapidly as she spoke. ‘It was just two trips across, only for a few days each time. We met for dinner and wandered round the town for a while.’
‘So how long after her father’s death was this?’ asked Styles.
She shrugged. ‘Three months, maybe six. I don’t know exactly. It was a long time ago.’
‘I thought you said you two didn’t really get on, Mrs Locke?’
‘We didn’t, but you know how it is, I had to try. With her father gone, she didn’t have much family left, and we were family still, Gavin and I. We were all the family she had.’
‘Where did you stay when you went to see her?’
‘Oh, just some hotel off the main square,’ she said, crossing her legs, trying to look relaxed, and failing miserably. ‘It’s years ago. The name escapes me. Does it really matter?’
Porter gave a patient smile, the sort you might use on a five-year-old after they ask why for the ninth or tenth time. ‘You’d be surprised how helpful even the smallest of details can be, Mrs Locke. Is there any way you can check?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘It was a lifetime ago, Detective. I wouldn’t have a reason to keep that kind of information this long.’
Porter could tell she was getting impatient by her dismissive tone. He pulled out a small black leather notebook from his jacket and scribbled down a few words about the location of the visits, and approximate times.
‘Do you really think that’s relevant to the case, Detective?’ She craned her neck upwards in her best giraffe impression to see what he jotted down.
Porter nodded. ‘Anything that goes towards piecing together her whereabouts is helpful. What did she say about where she was living and working?’
‘Just that it was a school somewhere outside the city. She didn’t seem to want to share any more than that, and it was such a long time ago.’
Porter was getting a slightly defensive vibe from her. That could be because there were things that she didn’t want to say, or simply that she felt under pressure because she couldn’t remember more details. He couldn’t decide which, and decided to change direction again.
‘So back to what we mentioned before, we’re interested in speaking to anyone she might have been involved with before she left for Poland. Does anyone spring to mind?’
‘She hadn’t really had a boyfriend since school, Tim, or Tom something …’
‘Tom Wilton?’ asked Styles.
She thought for a second then nodded. ‘Yes, Tom Wilton. Lovely boy he was.’ She stopped, and gave him a puzzled look. ‘How do you know about Tom?’
‘We spoke to an old school friend, Rebecca Arnold. Anyone else, even someone she might have just dated a few times?’
She ran a palm back over the tightly drawn hair all the way through to her ponytail. ‘No … nobody springs to mind. Not that I know of, anyway.’
‘What
about James Bolton?’
A twitch of an eye, a flutter of eyelash, an extra second’s delay when she spoke. Porter knew he had struck a nerve somewhere deep down.
‘He works for my husband, Detective.’
‘We know that, Mrs Locke.’ Porter left it at that and waited her out.
She looked sharply away to the window and her ponytail danced in annoyance. ‘You want to know if Natasha knew him? I’m assuming the fact you ask means you know he did.’
‘And what was the extent of their relationship?’
‘Relationship?’ she scoffed. ‘There was no relationship. She tried to flaunt him in front of us, Alexander and me. Silly little girl, trying to rebel and show how grown-up she was.’ She looked back at them, anger in her eyes and her voice. ‘As far as I know they dated, if you can call it that, for a week, maybe two.’
‘How did your husband feel about that? Her dating the staff?’
‘Alexander said she was big enough to make her own decisions. She wasn’t his daughter, just as she wasn’t mine. He barely gave it a second thought. I suggest if you have any questions about it, you speak to Mr Bolton himself. Now if you don’t mind, Detectives, I really do need to head out.’
She stood quickly and stared at them until they followed suit.
‘Thank you, Mrs Locke, we’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.’
‘Hopefully not, Detective. It’s a long way for you to drive and there’s really nothing more I can think of to tell you.’
Unless you suddenly remember something later like you did with your Poland trips.
Porter kept his thoughts to himself, and smiled instead. He’d love nothing more than to continue the chat down at the station. See how aloof she was in an interrogation room. Four walls, a digital recorder and a mild dose of claustrophobia had a way of unsettling the most confident and self-righteous of people. He could imagine the look on Campbell’s face if he marched her in there, though. What he’d give for a boss that actually had his back. One that trusted him without worrying about pissing off the very people they were investigating. She ushered them out with a curt goodbye and no sooner had they turned their backs than the door clicked firmly shut behind them.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 19
