What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  The sergeant asks her to explain, again, exactly what she heard. She lets out a heavy sigh through pursed lips, like air escaping from a tyre. Tells him for a second time what she heard. Tells him that James will be giving her dad a choice. Sign or suffer. Something about shipments starting in two months, and that it has to be done by then. Nathan explains to the sergeant that Locke had made him an offer for his business the week before. Well below market rate. He stops short of telling the officer that he nearly took it. Doesn’t tell Natasha that he’s so deep in debt that he can barely breathe when he thinks about the numbers. He simply smiles and tells the policeman and his daughter that it’s all some sort of misunderstanding. He tells them he’ll pop round and see Alexander the following day and straighten all this out.

  The sergeant lays his pencil down on the pad, and gives a gentle shake of the head. He tells Nathan these things are best handled by the authorities. He’ll look into it first thing. Tells Nathan he isn’t to approach Locke under any circumstances, and that they should keep this to themselves for now. Nathan leans back, arms crossed, and stares at the officer for a moment, then agrees to bide his time with a slow nod. Natasha looks far from happy. She’s still protesting as Nathan ushers her down the steps of the station and into his car.

  They’re a hundred yards down the road by the time the young sergeant hustles through the door. They don’t see him head in the opposite direction, towards a phone booth two streets away. He lifts the receiver, glancing both ways as he punches in a number from a scrap of paper.

  The voice that answers sounds impatient. He identifies himself, short and to the point. ‘You’ve got a problem.’

  The man on the other end of the line listens to what he has to say. A few seconds of silence, then, ‘Hmm. Interesting. Thank you.’ A disconnected tone tells him the conversation is over. He makes his way back to the station, wondering what will happen to the father and daughter. He shakes his head to clear the thought. None of his business. Wouldn’t want to be in their shoes though. No siree.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘So are you going to tell me what we’re doing yet, or do I have to play twenty questions?’ asked Styles.

  Porter kept his eyes fixed on the road as he spoke. ‘I couldn’t say anything inside in case anyone overheard, but if I’m right we’re off to see Bolton.’

  Styles’s eyes widened. ‘Just the two of us? Where is he? I’ll tell Anderson and Whittaker to meet us there.’

  ‘No,’ said Porter, turning his head sharply, ‘don’t do that. Besides, there’s no need, Anderson will be there before us.’

  ‘So if you’ve told him, why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Porter gripping the wheel tight, knuckles blanching white. ‘I didn’t tell him. That’s his Honda four cars up.’ He nodded at the line of mid-morning traffic ahead.

  ‘C’mon, cut the cryptic bullshit. What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s Anderson. Anderson is the leak.’

  ‘Jesus, are you sure?’

  Porter thought for a moment. ‘Not one hundred per cent, no, but I’m up in the nineties at the moment.’

  He filled Styles in, starting with the conversation at Gibson’s funeral, the lies about the informant intended to distract Porter by giving up Gibson as a dead end, and ending with a lie of his own.

  ‘I told him I had a lead on a possible location for Bolton, but I needed to run something past Campbell first.’

  ‘What kind of a lead?’

  ‘That’s kind of my point. There is no lead.’

  Styles’s mouth rounded into a perfect goldfish-style ohhh. ‘So now we see if Anderson is headed to talk to people he shouldn’t be talking to.’

  ‘It was the only thing that made sense, the only way Bolton could have known we were listening in through Carter, or that we were going to pick him up at his club. I figured the only way to test it out was to feed him a line. Stands to reason he wouldn’t make contact from his phone; too easy to trace if anyone looked. My guess was he’d either call from a payphone, or he’d go and see him in person, warn him off.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he was out the door within five minutes of me spinning him the lie. I watched him go across the road into the shopping centre and use one of the payphones, then jump in his car. That’s when I came and got you. Best case he’s leading us to Bolton; worst case, if it’s someone lower he’s meeting with, we snap a picture to confirm, then stick him in a room when he gets back until he gives us what we need.’

  ‘What about Campbell? Does he know?’

  ‘Not yet. That’ll keep till we know for sure.’

  ‘You know there’s a chance that either he or Milburn will try and sweep it under the carpet, don’t you?’

  ‘At this stage I don’t give a shit about what happens to that tub of lard up there,’ he said, gesturing towards the Honda. ‘All I want is justice for Evie and Natasha, and that means Bolton behind bars; Locke too if he ordered it. I’ll worry about making sure Anderson gets what’s coming to him after that.’

  Styles nodded. ‘Alrighty then.’

  The rest of the drive was in relative silence, neither of them relishing the idea of taking in one of their own. They almost lost him once, but caught up thanks to a fortuitous set of traffic lights. Porter ran through a mental list of potential locations for Bolton, weighing each up against the direction they were headed. He glanced at a sign for a roundabout ahead: four possible exits. Anderson’s indicator flashed to show he intended to take the first and head left. Left would send him towards Gravesend.

  ‘He’s got some balls, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Who, Anderson?’

  ‘No, Bolton. Five minutes’ time, you watch, we’ll be at Atlas.’ Porter gave a humourless smile. ‘Size of that place, even he can find a corner to crawl into. Think about it, they must have hundreds of shipping containers out in the yard, never mind the warehouse.’

  ‘So what’s our play when we get there?’ asked Styles.

  Porter thought for a second. ‘I’ve not figured that part out yet. Let’s see what options Anderson gives us.’

  Porter nodded with grim satisfaction soon after that. The roof of the Atlas warehouse poked over a treeline up ahead. There was only one car between them and Anderson now, so Porter decided to hang well back. He knew where to find him now if he lost sight of the Honda.

  Anderson made the turning Porter knew he would, stopping for a few seconds at the barrier, its gate rising and falling like a clapperboard on a film set. Porter slowed to a crawl, pulling over to the kerb two hundred yards away. He reached over to the glove box and pulled out a small black pouch, ripping the Velcro flap open and taking out a compact set of binoculars.

  ‘Aren’t we the good cub scout?’ said Styles. ‘Been shopping?’

  Porter grinned. ‘Army and Navy store. Ten of your finest English pounds. I figure your camera will still zoom in enough to make an identifying shot if we need it, but I can focus better with these.’

  He was about to get out of the car when Styles put out a hand to stop him. A dark four-by-four had appeared at the far end of the road, indicator blinking, preparing to turn to face the Atlas barrier. Porter snapped the binoculars up to his eyes, massaging the focusing wheel with his middle finger, melting the blurriness away. Even at this distance, even with the driver blocking part of the view, Porter could make out the hulking shape of James Bolton in the passenger seat. A confusion of shapes flashed across the lenses, and Porter peered over the top to see the four-by-four disappearing under the barrier.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has entered the building.’

  ‘That who I think it is?’ asked Styles.

  ‘Yep. C’mon, let’s see if we can get a snap of the two of them before they go inside. Shaking hands would be nice, but even just a side profile would do for now.’

  They stuck close to the fence line, the angle of their approach and the closely grouped steel palisade fencing posts
meaning that they could barely make out the outline of the warehouse until they got within fifty yards of the barrier. That worked both ways, though. Anyone looking out at the main road would see a flicker of shadow between posts at best.

  Porter stopped behind a lamp post and Styles nearly walked into him. He raised his binoculars again, only squinting through one lens this time, pressing it up against a gap in the fence. The black car, he could see now, was a Land Rover, the dark green ellipse of the badge recognisable despite the distance. It pulled up next to the white Honda that Porter had begun to think of as more of a light grey with its film of grime.

  ‘Quick, give me your phone,’ he said to Styles, holding his hand palm up behind him, eyes front, like a relay runner waiting for the baton.

  Styles slapped it into his palm and Porter brought it up, resting it on top of the binoculars. He kept one hand on them, pinched fingers spreading out to zoom in on the phone screen. With the cars parked side by side, the two doors opened like pinball flippers. Anderson got out first, Bolton unfolding himself from the passenger seat to tower above him. Porter hit record and the clock onscreen counted off the seconds. He’d give the proverbial right arm for sound as well, but the footage would be damning enough without it.

  The two men exchanged the briefest of handshakes and disappeared inside, followed by Bolton’s driver, who Porter recognised as Daniel Stenner.

  ‘Call it in,’ he said, no triumph in his voice despite the net closing. The fact that a copper was involved was bad enough. That he was partly to blame, even just by association, for what happened to Simmons and Gibson got Porter’s hackles up. If you can’t trust your fellow officers, then the world becomes an even darker place than he already knew it to be. He waited, watching the doorway through the binoculars until Styles placed the request for backup, then climbed back in the car to wait for the cavalry.

  Anderson was used to being the bigger man in most situations, quite literally. He hadn’t been south of two hundred pounds since Tony Blair won his first election, and the years that followed had seen slow but steady expansion, waistline creeping forward like a glacier. Even seated, James Bolton made him feel like David eyeing up Goliath. It wasn’t just the simple maths, his height and weight. Christ, the man was big enough to have his own postcode. It was more the physical presence he exuded, the unspoken threat in a simple stare, the knowledge of what he had done, and might still do. Anderson watched in silence as Bolton sent Andrew Patchett packing from his office and took the still-warm vacated chair as his own, while Anderson made do with an older leather swivel chair, arms worn where a hundred elbows had rubbed.

  ‘So, Detective Anderson, what news do you have to share that you had to drag me away from my little hideaway?’

  His expression was somewhere between amusement and boredom, as if the manhunt for him was a game he could step in and out of.

  ‘One of the other detectives, Porter, he got a tip where to find you.’

  ‘And?’ Bolton spread his hands. ‘Should I be concerned? Was he on his way to slap the cuffs on me when you called?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He needed to run it up the line first, apparently.’

  ‘So you had me leave somewhere that might still be perfectly safe, on the off chance that some little shit on a street corner says he knows where I am? I pay you for quality information, Detective Anderson, not a half-arsed rumour. Anyway, as you know, people don’t tend to feel inclined to speak up against me too often.’

  ‘Owen Carter did,’ said Anderson, regretting it as soon as he spoke the words.

  Bolton scowled, eyes narrowing. ‘Mr Carter was … unfortunate. He made some bad choices that didn’t work out too well for him. You, on the other hand, have made good choices, so far.’

  The last two words hung in the air. Had anyone else spoken them Anderson would have been on the offensive, asking if they were threatening an officer. He’d seen first-hand what Bolton was willing to do to a police officer, and asked himself, not for the first time, what the hell he had been thinking to do a proverbial deal with the devil. His deal had been struck with Alexander Locke, but in his own way Locke was more of a monster than the behemoth sitting in front of him.

  A black-and-white photograph flashed across his mind. Post-divorce days, hazy drunken nights and bleary-eyed mornings. One small moment of weakness leading to one major lapse in judgement. A call to a number found online, the petite brunette at his door an hour later, the need for physical contact, fuelled by single malt, overcoming any hesitancy. The burning shame the morning afterwards, multiplied a hundredfold when Locke’s man approached him soon after. The copied birth certificate saying she was fifteen. The feeling of falling down the rabbit hole with no means of return. The money he had been paid since had helped cover his alimony, but it was a sweetener, nothing more. They had him by the balls. He wasn’t even sure they’d let him go when he retired. That was a bridge he would have to cross soon, but soon seemed like a lifetime away for now.

  Anderson tried to placate him. ‘You pay me to keep you one step ahead. I might not know where they’re heading, but I know where they’re not.’ He tapped his finger against the armrest of his chair. ‘Here. And if you’re here then you’re safe.’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Because this was one of the places I was sent to look for you, and because I called in the all-clear before you turned up. As far as the rest of them are concerned, I’ve searched this place from top to bottom.’

  Bolton flashed a begrudging smile. ‘Well, what do you know, maybe you’re good value after all?’

  Anderson gave a nervous laugh. He hated being beholden to anyone, least of all a low-life like Bolton, but he had to play the cards he was dealt till the end. Who knows, when he was strolling down a sunny fairway a thousand miles away, maybe an anonymous tip would get called in. Maybe some information on the less well-known aspects of Bolton and Locke’s businesses would get spilt. Nobody on the force knew Locke smuggled immigrants in on some of his ships, for example. Yep, they’d regret treating him like an errand boy. Shame he wouldn’t be able to take credit for it, but sometimes you have to be satisfied with having the cake, and take a pass on the eating.

  He started to push himself up from his chair, but Bolton held up a hand.

  ‘Not so fast. The boss wants a word with you before you swan off back to the station.’ He looked up at Patchett. ‘Call him. Tell him he’s all clear to come in.’

  Patchett nodded and started tapping at his phone.

  Anderson sat back down with a meaty thump. ‘He’s here? Now?’

  ‘Five minutes away,’ said Bolton. ‘He asked me to get you round here for a chat.’

  ‘Chat about what?’ Anderson asked, hairs prickling on the back of his neck. He heard Patchett mumbling into his phone, but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  ‘That’s for him to tell you,’ said Bolton.

  ‘Bit risky him being here if you are as well, don’t you think?’

  ‘We’re safe here. You said so yourself, didn’t you? He’s close. Far enough away to be safe, though, if there’d been any bother.’

  Bolton looked over at Patchett for confirmation. Patchett nodded. ‘He’s on his way. Five minutes. Ten, tops.’

  Bolton gave a smile that would have passed for a grimace on anyone else, and switched his attention back to Anderson. ‘Tell me about Detective Porter. He seems like a persistent sort.’

  Anderson swallowed. He’d had his differences with Porter, sure, but he didn’t wish the guy any actual harm. If he painted too flattering a picture, Bolton might see him as someone who needed taking out of the equation. After all, what’s one more dead officer when you’re already wanted for murdering the first? Maybe that’s what Locke wanted to speak to him about? He gave Bolton a very brief summary of Porter, all the while wondering if this might be the last time he had to jump through the big man’s hoops, or if he’d find safety in retirement. Safety, maybe. Salvation? Un
likely.

  NATASHA – APRIL 1983

  She sits with her hands curled protectively round a mug of tea that went cold ten minutes ago. Sue Lawley mimes the headlines from the muted TV in the corner, but Natasha is miles away, listening again to Alexander’s words trickling over the gate to where she had stood.

  Sign or suffer. See that he understands what not signing means.

  She has never liked her step-father, but she’s never feared him either. Not until today. She wishes that she had suggested sleeping at her dad’s tonight. She worries about him at the best of times, let alone when he’s been threatened. What were the shipments Alexander was talking about? What switch is flicked in some people’s heads that makes them see the world through a violent lens like he must? Aside from for her dad’s sake, she wishes she was there tonight for selfish reasons too. There’s something comforting about knowing your parents are within earshot if you need them, although she suspects he is in greater need of her at the moment, even if he doesn’t show it.

  It’s days like this that she wishes her mum was still around. Mary has tried her best over the years to fill impossibly big shoes. Still does, even though she’s traded up and switched Nathan for Alexander. There’s no substitute for the real thing, though. She’s not sure whether her dad is working too hard or if it’s just loneliness, but his salt and pepper moustache and the ever-deepening worry lines eroded into his forehead add a good ten years. She checks the clock above the fireplace. Quarter past ten. Tiredness washes over her like a wave and she closes her eyes. Just for a moment, she promises herself, then she’ll head to bed.

  She wakes with a start, sloshing cold tea into her lap. She swears under her breath, goes to stand up, but something makes her freeze. A noise from down the corridor. Something softly scraping. Cold tea forgotten, she treads softly towards the hallway. A snick-snick of metal on metal is coming from the front door. Her mouth flops open as she watches the handle on the front door twitch, wind a quarter turn like the hand on a clock. She feels like she’s moving in treacle, paralysed with indecision as she processes what’s happening.