What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  A shake of heads all round. Porter licked his lips nervously.

  ‘Let’s get the party started, then.’

  They rounded the corner and crossed the road together. The black Mercedes was parked nose-first against the wall. As they neared the entrance, Anderson and Whittaker peeled off and headed around the left-hand side of the building. The glass doors parted with a whisper as they approached and Porter checked over his shoulder to make sure Sandford and Clarkson were behind him.

  A receptionist sat behind a counter off to the right. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, and her bright how can I help you smile faded into confusion when she saw Porter approach, warrant card out at arm’s length. She picked up her phone when Porter explained who he was looking for. He reached out a hand and pushed hers, and the receiver, back down.

  ‘It’s OK, no need to announce us. Where is he?’

  She’d last seen him going into the gym area of the club, and directed them through double doors off to the side. They found it easily enough, following the whir of fitness machines and upbeat music piped through speakers. The smell of sweat hung in the air as they crossed the divide from the freshness of the corridor into the stuffiness of the gym. It dwarfed the one Porter used at the station. Mirrored walls stretched the length of the room, men making entirely too much eye contact with themselves as they strained with weights bigger than their egos.

  Porter motioned for Styles to move down the right and he headed left. The room was an L-shape, the far leg of it disappearing round to the right. They attracted a few glances from the gym-goers but most were too busy preening in front of a mirror as they worked out. Of the dozen or so people he saw, only two of them were women. They both pounded out a beat on side-by-side treadmills, earbuds in, eyes front, ignoring the posturing alpha males.

  The hidden leg of the room came into view slowly as Porter edged along the wall. Four exercise bikes lined up in a stationary peloton. A man in his forties pedalled furiously, rocking side to side as each leg extended, a bloom of sweat staining a grey Nike running vest.

  No sign of Bolton. He turned to Styles, who shrugged back at him. Porter scanned the room. The only other door was marked Fire Exit, one with a horizontal push bar to open it. Styles came over to join him.

  Porter spoke into his handset. ‘This is Porter. Be advised subject is not in the gym. He may be trying to exit the building. Proceeding through fire exit towards rear of the building.’

  He pushed the bar down and the door swung open with no resistance, revealing a corridor with an identical fire exit door twenty feet away at the far end. He burst through it with Styles close behind, and almost ran straight into Anderson. They quickly disentangled from one another, and Porter stepped back.

  ‘Nothing?’ he asked.

  ‘No sign,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Sandford, Clarkson, anything?’ he barked into his handset.

  ‘Negative, guv,’ Sandford squawked back.

  Whittaker stayed on the fire exit, and Sandford on the front door, while Porter led the others on a room-by-room search. Bemused customers and staff members watched as they opened every door and looked around every corner. Porter had to laugh despite his frustration when he saw Clarkson look under a desk. A man of Bolton’s size would be more likely to wear it like a tortoise wears a shell than squeeze underneath it.

  Five minutes and another chat with the receptionist later, they stood out front. Porter stared at his own distorted reflection in the sleek black Mercedes.

  ‘He knew we were coming. That’s the only way. He knew we were coming.’

  ‘How could he, guv? We had the exits covered before we went in. Maybe he just left his car here while he went somewhere else?’ said Sandford.

  Porter shook his head. ‘Nope, the receptionist saw him go into the gym about twenty minutes before we got here. If he left, he left out the back door, but he did it before we got here, and the only reason he would do that is cos he knew we were on our way.’

  ‘But how could he know? Has he got someone watching us?’ asked Clarkson.

  ‘Fuck knows, but he did,’ said Porter.

  They headed back to their cars to split up and work through the remainder of the list, leaving Sandford and Clarkson to watch Bolton’s car. Porter thought back to Gibson’s funeral. The conversation with Anderson. The grass who gave up Mike’s name, however unsubstantiated. First Carter’s wire, and now this? If there was someone else on the inside, then he or she would keep the lowest of profiles after everything that had happened. It would be hard enough to track Bolton down without their every move being compromised. A man with Bolton’s connections and money could hide for months – years, even – without that kind of help.

  Porter felt the onset of a headache and rubbed at his temple. The day had started with so much promise, and now things were grinding to a halt again, derailed by an unseen adversary. He could only fight against what was in front of him. There had to be a way to draw his opponents out.

  They were half a mile away from the station after a fruitless afternoon when it came to him, and he smiled.

  Porter took the stairs two at a time in an effort to catch up. He reached the landing just as the door to the main office drifted closed, but he could see Anderson on the other side, and yanked it open.

  ‘Anderson, you got a second?’

  Anderson turned and shrugged. ‘Yeah, what’s up?’

  ‘Out here?’ Porter gestured towards the corridor behind him.

  Anderson followed him out and stood, arms folded, resting on top of his gut. Porter wondered if he could rest a pint glass on it the same way.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Porter looked both ways and leant in, the universal gesture of just between you and me. ‘That guy you mentioned, the one you told me about at the funeral. Can you talk to him again? I think we need his help. There’s no other way Bolton could have known we were coming.’

  ‘What, you still think they’ve got another one in their pocket?’

  Porter shrugged. ‘You got a better theory as to how he got out of there before we showed up?’

  Anderson stared blankly back at him. ‘Maybe we’re chasing shadows. Maybe there’s no big conspiracy and he just got lucky.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but that’s more maybes than I’m comfortable with. What’s your guy’s name? I want to see if he’ll talk to me about Mike. Maybe there’s something else he heard, something he doesn’t think matters, anything that might help us.’

  Anderson shook his head. ‘I gave him my word I’d keep him out of it unless we need him on the record.’

  ‘Then get him on the bloody record,’ said Porter, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice and failing miserably. ‘Look, can you at least go and see him, ask if he’ll talk to me. If he will, then great, but even if he’ll only talk to you, that’d be something.’

  ‘Sure.’ Anderson sounded exasperated. ‘If it’ll shut you up.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Jesus, you don’t want much, do you? My ex-wife was less needy than this. Yes,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m knocking off early today anyway, so I’ll go see him on my way home.’

  ‘Cheers, Anderson. I appreciate it.’

  Porter reached out and gave a friendly slap against the shoulder. He felt the soft, doughy arm under the shirt, and turned away, vowing never to let himself turn into a walking heart attack.

  Porter busied himself with paperwork for the next hour. He’d barely eaten all day and his stomach growled like an ill-tempered dog. Styles offered to get him something from the canteen, so Porter gave him a five-pound note and instructions to bring back whatever had the highest meat content.

  Styles had been gone less than a minute when Porter saw Anderson stand up, leaning his head to both sides, his neck cracking like popcorn in the microwave. He kept his head down, eyes focused on his screen, as the big detective lumbered past him.

  ‘That you done, Anderson?’ he asked without looking up.
>
  ‘Yep, catching a flyer today. I’m owed a few hours.’

  ‘Don’t forget to ask your guy if he’ll help out.’

  ‘How can I forget with you asking every five minutes?’ he asked. ‘Yep, I’ll ask. Let you know how I get on tomorrow.’

  Porter waited until the door had closed behind him then counted to twenty, grabbed his car keys and headed downstairs. By the time he reached the exit to the car park, he saw Anderson fumbling with his keys beside his car, a ten-year-old Honda that hadn’t truly been white since it left the showroom. Porter took his phone out and pretended to be studying it as two officers came in past him and disappeared up the stairs. He waited until Anderson’s car edged out of its parking space, then walked quickly to his own car. He gave Anderson a five count to get clear of the building before pulling out into traffic. Rush hour was fast approaching, and the traffic was visibly thickening, the roads like arteries carrying the life of the city in both directions becoming congealed and sluggish.

  He knew Anderson lived near White Hart Lane, but he didn’t seem to be taking a direct route there at the moment. Porter stayed a cautious three cars behind; far enough not to be noticed but close enough to nip through any changing lights or navigate busy roundabouts. His plan was simple. He would tail Anderson to his informant. After they parted, he would stay on the informant but call Anderson. If the news was good and the guy was willing to sit down with them, then there was nothing to worry about, and he would leave it to Anderson to arrange the where and when. If Anderson told him that the guy wasn’t willing to help, then Porter would follow him back to whatever rock he crawled under and try a little persuasion of his own; nothing physical, but Porter could be quite persuasive when he needed to be, and his need was as great now as it had ever been.

  He followed Anderson through a series of turns onto the A10, and along as far as Stoke Newington, before he finally saw the Honda pull into a parking space ahead on the left. Porter didn’t want to risk driving past. He didn’t know if Anderson would recognise his car, but couldn’t take a chance that he’d be spotted if he continued. He pulled sharply to the left with a flash of his indicator, and into a space a hundred feet behind Anderson.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what direction Anderson would walk when he got out, and frantically scanned the interior of the car, looking for something he could conceivably hold up to block his face. The best he managed was the service log from the glove box, but his fears were unfounded as he watched Anderson haul himself out and cross the road with something between a walk and a waddle. Porter shook his head. It was just as well the big man was retiring. He would have more chance of winning The X Factor than he would of passing another physical.

  Porter waited to see which way he headed before making a move himself. He was ready to open his door when he saw Anderson vanish into a cafe with a Turkish flag draped in the window, reappearing a few minutes later with a plastic bag big enough to pass as an emergency aid food parcel. He hoped, for Anderson’s sake, and that of his recently weakened heart, that he had help lined up to tackle it, maybe his mystery informant, maybe his girlfriend. He doubted that he would be spotted from this distance, but grabbed his hastily acquired logbook shield as extra insurance and peered around the edge to watch for the Honda pulling away.

  From there it was a non-stop trip to the terraced house on Portland Avenue that Anderson had once shared with his wife. He had remortgaged to buy her out, and bored every detective in the building with the details of the divorce more often than Porter cared to remember. The postage-stamp-size front garden overgrown with weeds, and faded green front door, suggested Anderson wasn’t exactly the house-proud type.

  Porter checked his watch as Anderson fumbled with his key ring; quarter past five. He decided to give it until six, figuring the food would attract a visitor before it got cold. Whether it would be a visitor he gave a damn about was another matter. He was proved right less than ten minutes later. A woman walked past him and turned into Anderson’s path, if you could call a six-foot strip of cracked concrete a path. She wore jeans tight enough to restrict her to a totter rather than a walk, low-heeled black shoes and a gingerbread-brown leather jacket that stopped at the waist. It didn’t take a detective to work out this must be the new lady that Anderson had mentioned, the lingering kiss she gave him as he let her inside confirming it.

  Porter cursed him under his breath and slapped a palm against the steering wheel. With a belly full of food and his lady-friend there, Anderson was going nowhere for the night. Why would the lazy bastard not play it straight? If he didn’t want to put the squeeze on his source, then why not at least let Porter have a crack? He might only have less than a fortnight left on the job, but Porter would be the one left holding whatever mess he left behind while Anderson waltzed off onto a golf course for the next twenty years.

  The rumble in his stomach almost registered on the Richter scale, and he wondered if whatever culinary delight Styles had chosen for him would be on his desk or in someone else’s stomach. He glanced at his phone. He had flicked it onto silent when they went into Bolton’s health club and hadn’t switched the ringer back on. One missed call, one voicemail, both from Styles.

  Porter looked over to Anderson’s house one more time, the curtains now drawn. He clipped the phone into his hands-free cradle, dialled Styles and pulled out onto the road. Anderson would keep until tomorrow.

  Anderson looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and Porter shuddered to think what the night might have entailed. He wore the same suit as yesterday, concertina folds across the bottom of the jacket from too many hours in a chair, and grunted a greeting at Porter as he passed.

  Porter waited for him to finish his usual morning ritual that consisted of heading straight down to get a coffee, then chewing the fat with whoever would listen to him until it was time for a second cup. Only then would he be ready to fight the good fight. Porter had calmed down some since yesterday. He had decided that going in with an attitude would be counter-productive. Most detectives were protective of any sources they had on the other side of the fence, and if he got Anderson’s back up then he would lose any chance he had of reasoning with him.

  ‘You got a minute?’ he said as Anderson traipsed past him, second coffee in hand, déjà vu.

  ‘Yeah, what’s up?’ said Anderson, wincing as he took a sip from his cup before he realised it was still a few minutes away from drinkable temperature.

  ‘Just wondered how you got on with your informant yesterday. Will he help us?’ Porter had already thought his approach through. He couldn’t very well say he knew the meeting hadn’t happened, and wanted to give Anderson the chance to make his excuses.

  ‘Yeah, it was a no go, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t show?’

  ‘No, he showed alright, but he won’t go fishing for us. Says he risked enough by telling me about Mike. He’s afraid that if he starts poking around they’ll get suspicious.’

  Porter tried not to let the confusion show. ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘I bought him a pint at the Black Horse after work.’ The Black Horse was a pub five miles from the station, five miles in the opposite direction to which he had driven yesterday.

  ‘Just the one or did you make a night of it?’

  ‘Nah, he wasn’t talking so I left him to it after the one.’

  ‘You should have said. If I’d known you were heading straight to the pub, I would have joined you.’

  Anderson smirked. ‘I’d have left you sat there as well. Had the missus coming round last night, and, no offence, but what she was offering trumps a pint with you and a petty criminal any day in my book.’

  Porter smiled, but his mind scrambled to make sense of the lie. He knew that the meeting hadn’t taken place, so why say it had? What did Anderson stand to gain by spinning him a line? Protecting a source wasn’t uncommon, but lying to another officer was another thing entirely.

  ‘Oh, I was talki
ng to Campbell as well and he said something about Locke’s missus having some dirt on him?’ said Anderson.

  ‘What?’ Porter was thrown briefly by the change of direction. ‘Oh, that. Yeah, maybe. I don’t know yet. Listen, I’ve got to go, but I’ll catch you later.’

  Porter moved away before Anderson could respond, an uneasy feeling making his scalp tingle as he walked. He’d considered a dozen angles to the case already, but a fresh one squatted front and centre in his mind now. It was there and couldn’t be ignored. He just prayed this one was as fruitless as the others.

  NATHAN – APRIL 1983

  He explains the family tree for a second time. That Natasha’s mum is dead. That Mary is both her stepmum, and his ex-wife. The young sergeant nods, crosses out the last few lines with his pencil, scribbles some shorthand hieroglyphics on the page. Nathan feels the fool as he runs through it again. There’s a good chance Natasha misheard. That Alexander was just mouthing off about him in general. They’d never exactly been best pals. How could you be, with the man who stole your wife? The man who wants to take over your business. A firm you’ve shed blood and sweat for. But not even Alexander is capable of this, surely?

  Nathan has heard rumours. Stories told in hushed tones over a pint down at the Brown Badger on a Friday night. Tales that Alexander isn’t the upstanding member of the community he seems to be. That’s all he has them pegged as, though – tales. Stories embellished by a few pints too many. If Natasha hadn’t already called the police after she spoke to him, he would have laughed it off, but this sergeant who had taken the call insisted on following it up.

  He glances at his daughter, and is struck as ever by the similarity to her mother, God rest her soul. He feels the briefest of tugs at his heart. Knows that he would do anything for his little girl, even soothe away her unfounded fears over what she thinks she has heard. He reaches across, takes her hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze.