What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  A shout came from the hallway, Stenner’s voice bellowing a warning.

  ‘Coppers outside. Head for the back. Go, go, go.’ Short, to the point.

  If Anderson had moved fast, then Bolton was a blur. He was around the desk and in Anderson’s face, the detective still distracted by Stenner’s yell. Anderson felt, rather than saw, a hand that might as well have been a brick slam up underneath his jaw. It felt like the back of his head would touch his spine as it whipped back between his shoulder blades. He staggered back, bumping against the door frame. The hand came under the jaw again, this time pushing upwards and staying there, stretching his chin skywards. Anderson slapped ineffectively at the arm, but it was like trying to fell a tree with a flyswatter.

  He couldn’t see Bolton’s free hand, but screwed his eyes closed, waiting for the punch that never came. Instead, he felt the briefest sting, followed by a tugging sensation just above his belt. It came again, and a third time before the palm withdrew, pressure released, and Anderson’s head dropped forward, eyes opening. Bolton was gone. So was Locke. He heard footsteps, loud but growing fainter. A fog hung at the edge of his vision, eyes watering from the strike to his chin. Movement, a shape crossing from left to right. Patchett veered into sight, ruined nose poking through gaps in his fingers, wiping away blood as he ran.

  Anderson shot out a hand to stop him, at least he swore he had, but Patchett ran on past unimpeded, disappearing around the corner, footsteps mingling with the echoes of Bolton’s. The sound of raindrops, fat and heavy. His wheezing cough was the only noise in the empty room, empty save for him. The others would be inside any minute. He shouted to draw their attention, bring them to him, welcome him into their pursuit, but no words came out. He looked down, eyes widening with surprise, understanding, and finally acceptance. His hand reached down, pressed against his shirt, came away stained red.

  Shouting from outside, a door banging, enough footsteps to pass for a centipede in Doc Martens, but Anderson could only slide downwards, his back against the doorjamb. His hands scrabbled at his shirt, pulling it up and out of his trousers, watching his life pulse away in steady beats of crimson. The fog rolled gently across his vision now, squeezing it into smaller and smaller tunnels, until they too winked out into nothing.

  GEORGE – APRIL 1983

  He swirls the glass in a lazy arc, ice cubes chasing each other around the bottom. The warm whisky fuzz usually spreads through him like melting butter, but not tonight. He’s been on edge since making the call. The drunk at the end of the bar isn’t helping. George glares at him for a full five seconds, but the man either doesn’t see him, or doesn’t care. His grey hair is all waves and angles. An explosion of burst blood vessels in his nose suggests he’s no stranger to the booze, and his anti-Thatcher rant has all the logic of a five-year-old arguing against bedtime. The barman nods and smiles on autopilot, shooting a what can you do glance at George.

  He hopes today’s tip-off is enough to settle his account, but he knows that’s probably wishful thinking. Knows he needs to figure out how to get a guarantee that he’s free and clear. Now he’s a copper he can’t keep moving in those circles. He taps his glass against the bar, gives the universal same again nod. The barman looks relieved to escape the drunken diatribe for a spell. George fishes in his pocket, pulls out a fistful of shrapnel, pokes through it with his finger and stacks the right change on the bar just as his drink arrives.

  He tells himself it’s none of his business what will happen to the girl and her father. They might get warned off. Roughed up. He bows his head over the glass, starting to imagine that, and a whole lot worse. Pictures them coming in to make a complaint. Asking how Mr Locke had caught wind of them speaking to the police. Wonders if fingers will be pointed at him. He’s careful to keep work and personal separate, but it wouldn’t take too many layers to be peeled back to see that he’s made some questionable choices as to who he plays cards with, and who he loses to on a regular basis. He tells himself the fact he’s a copper protects him, debt or no debt, but he has no desire to put that to the test. He should have left that all behind him when he joined up. Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve.

  What if they get more than a warning? More than a slap on the wrist? It’s selfishness that pushes him up from his stool. Self-preservation. He should never have made the call. It could come back to bite him far too easily, but it’s not too late. He knocks back his whisky in one gulp, welcoming the burn at the back of his throat, and heads out into the car park. There’s nobody at the payphone and he taps in the number, clearing his throat as he counts the rings.

  ‘Hello?’ More of a snap than a greeting, but then again it was almost eleven o’clock.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. It’s, uh, it’s George.’ He hates how weak his voice sounds.

  ‘What do you want, George?’

  ‘The thing I called about earlier. I, um, I was just thinking …’

  ‘It’s a little too late for thinking, George.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sorry for calling so late. It’s just that …’

  A soft chuckle cuts him off. ‘When I say it’s too late, I mean just that. It’s too late.’

  The emphasis on the last two words stops him cold. ‘What have you done? What have you gone and done?’ His voice rises, a worried edge to it.

  ‘Goodnight, George.’

  Click. The line goes dead. He stares at the receiver for a second then drops it, bolting for his car. The ignition coughs a few times, and starts grudgingly. He narrowly misses reversing into a bin, but puts it down to mild panic as opposed to whisky. He’s driven in far worse states, another thing he adds to his I must stop doing list. The address she gave on her statement is around twenty minutes from here, but he shaves a couple off his time, thanks to two debatable amber lights and cornering like a Formula One driver. His is the only car on the road as he turns onto her street. Did she say number 42 or 62? Condensation has crept across his windows as he’s driven, and it’s like looking through fog. He rolls down the window with one hand, steers with the other, squinting like Mr Magoo to see door numbers.

  One minute the road is empty, the next she’s there, like a magic trick minus the smoke and mirrors. George blinks and it’s like snapping a picture. His headlights illuminate her like a leading lady. Her eyes are wide, mouth open, moving, but he can’t hear what she’s saying. A small smudge of something dark on her cheek. Make-up? Blood? Her arms are behind her back as if she’s got a surprise for him. He flinches, spinning the wheel to the left as he slams on the brakes, but it’s a futile gesture. The sickening thud that goes through him is off the Richter scale. The front bumper almost misses her. Almost. The corner catches her across the knees, chops her down, bounces her backwards off a dirty yellow car. He doesn’t see her rebound, but feels a second impact towards the back of his vehicle.

  From silence to chaos, and back again in seconds. The seatbelt has knocked the wind clean out of him and he gulps in a hungry lungful. He flings the door open and tries to get out but the belt pulls him back in. He stabs a thumb at the button and falls out onto the road. She is lying on her side, face mercifully covered by a veil of hair, torso twisted at an unnatural angle. George feels the hot bile scald his throat as it wells up, splattering on the tarmac, splashing his hands like warm rain.

  Footsteps running towards him, skidding to a halt. He looks up, the confusion and bad lighting giving him a few seconds of grace before he sees their masks, and realises how well and truly fucked he really is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  James Bolton’s feet moved fast, but his mind moved faster, jumping from one problem to the next. The crumpled lump of lard that used to be Anderson was already purged from his thoughts.

  Evade and escape, in that order. If anyone got in his way, well, he’d deal with that when it happened. All coppers were smart-arses in his book, always thinking they were one step ahead. That applied in the interrogation room as much as out in the real world, so he knew they’d start by covering
the exits and trying to flush him out. They’d expect a big lad like him to fight his way through their lines, which was precisely why he wouldn’t do it.

  Bolton was no fool. As big as he was, if they cornered him with enough bodies, he’d go down eventually, no matter how many he took with him. Even King Kong let go of the Empire State eventually. You didn’t last long in this business without a healthy dose of paranoia, and with paranoia came contingency plans. He could have done without Locke to worry about. His boss was in good shape for his age, but they could have moved much faster without him. He toyed with suggesting that Locke stand his ground and wait for the coppers. They were here for him, not Locke, and he might even be able to buy them extra time. No, scratch that. There was a dead copper, at least he hoped Anderson was dead, in his warehouse. They’d not overlook that in a hurry, even if the copper in question was as dirty as a pair of wellies at Glastonbury. Locke was in this with him for now whether he liked it or not.

  Stenner was waiting up ahead, holding open the door that led to the warehouse. He was already vaguely aware of footsteps behind him. Could be Patchett. Could be coppers. No time to check.

  ‘Boss,’ Stenner barked as Bolton passed him.

  Bolton turned, seeing a flash of yellow. Confusion gave way to understanding. The luminous work vests would fool no one close up, but from a distance they’d stand a chance of blending in. He handed one to Locke, pulling on his own as he ran, one arm in, the other flailing behind, searching for the sleeve, no time to stop.

  Stenner made a beeline for the right-hand side of the building, Bolton and Locke not far behind. It faced off into the main compound outside, home to row upon row of shipping containers, stacked like Tetris blocks. There was a fire exit two thirds of the way along the wall. If they could reach that undetected they’d have a fighting chance.

  A twitch of optimism at the corners of his mouth was cut short by the realisation, sudden, cold, like an ice bucket challenge, of a move forgotten. Bolton grasped at his pocket, coat trailing behind him as he ran, like a superhero cape. He thrust his hand in, fingers grasping at nothing but the lining. His pace slowed, remembering his mobile perched on Patchett’s desk. Fuck! He tried to remember when he’d last cleared his email trash folder. A few days at least. There would plenty there he would rather the police didn’t get to see. Then again, they were after him for murder. How much worse could it get?

  If they could get to the rear of the building, there was a boat moored on the river they could use to get away. Bolton kept a spare key hidden on the boat for just such an occasion. Nothing else to be done. Backwards wasn’t an option. Locke had drawn ahead of him and he picked up his pace again to catch up, shelves and aisles blurring past.

  Porter burst through the doorway hot on the heels of two of the armed officers, Styles close enough behind to reach out a hand and touch his shoulder. Voices barking ‘Armed police!’ seemed to come from every angle. The reception area he remembered from their first visit was unmanned, and he placed both palms on top, swivelling his body sideways to vault over rather than waste time fiddling with the catch on the gate. A corridor led straight off the reception area to another door.

  Porter chanced a look behind him to see who else had kept up with his charge. As well as Styles, who had himself just cleared the counter, two of the younger officers were coming through the main entrance. The door was unlocked and Porter found himself in another corridor, this one with two identical doors on either side, and a fifth at the end. The furthest door on the left was open, the light from the room carpeting the corridor and, more tellingly, the crook of an elbow jutting into the corridor by the base of the door frame.

  Porter skidded to a halt, looking down, registering Anderson slumped, unmoving, then up, scanning the room for potential threat. Empty.

  ‘Jesus, Anderson, what did you do?’

  He crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to his neck for a pulse, taking in the scene as he waited for the familiar thud from the carotid. Papers had been scattered from the desk like oversized confetti. Anderson’s once white shirt, now stained red like he’d spilt a bottle of wine down the front. Blood pooling on the floor in the V-shape of his legs, splayed out in front of him. Anderson had stuffed his left hand inside his shirt, a futile attempt to stem the flow that still ebbed weakly from the angry gashes the knife had made.

  The fact that there was still a flow registered before Porter actually felt the pulse, weak as it was, more of a flutter than a beat. He looked around for something to use, and settled on his tie, sliding the knot part way down and off over his head. He bunched it up and pressed it to the wound. He felt Anderson flinch as he pushed.

  ‘C’mon. Eyes open. Who did this to you? Where is Bolton?’

  Anderson’s eyelids yoyo’d up and down as he tried to focus. When he spoke it was barely a whisper. ‘Locke. He’s … they … gone … Locke.’

  ‘Bolton,’ said Porter, shaking his head. ‘Locke can wait. We’re here for Bolton. Where did he go?’

  ‘He’s here,’ said Anderson, hair matted to the sweat on his forehead. ‘Locke. He was … here.’ His eyelids fluttered back down.

  Porter used his free hand to gently nudge Anderson’s cheek. ‘Come on, mate. Talk to me. What happened?’

  Anderson moved his head slowly back and forward, coughing with the effort.

  ‘I tried … tried to arrest him. Didn’t work out so good.’ Anderson tried to smile but wore it more like a grimace.

  Porter grabbed his handset, palm slick with sweat from Anderson’s face, and barked his message to the team.

  ‘This is Porter. Bolton confirmed on site. Be advised Locke is with him. Repeat Locke is with him. I want eyes on him ASAP, but Bolton is still the target. I need an ambulance here, now. Officer down.’

  Anderson’s head rolled slowly to one side, a stalactite of spittle dangling from his lip. Porter looked around frantically. He couldn’t leave him here alone, but he was itching to get back in the chase.

  ‘Dawson, here, take over,’ he shouted to one of the officers who had caught up with him. ‘Hold this here till the paramedics arrive.’

  Styles had already moved past him. Porter heard him talking into his handset, low and urgent, as he checked the next room along. Porter stood up and went to join him, leaving Dawson crouching over Anderson. They checked the other three doors on the sides of the corridor, sacrificing stealth for speed. Nothing. Piles of cardboard boxes stacked too low to offer any cover to a man like Bolton. They’d all be searched eventually, but their priority today was the man, not his product.

  The final door at the end of the corridor was locked. Porter took a few steps back, lifted his knee up to waist height, and tilted his hips forward, channelling all of his bodyweight into the kick. It landed flush beside the handle and the lock gave way. The door flew open, catching something unseen behind it and juddering back towards them. The loud crash faded, replaced by the low hum of activity in the warehouse beyond.

  Porter placed a hand on the door frame and leant his head first to the right, then the left. No sign of Bolton. He stepped through into the warehouse itself, with Styles close behind. It reminded him of a trip to Costco, wooden pallets on the ground nestled underneath shelves bolted together, reaching up like the skeleton of a skyscraper towards the ceiling. They stretched off in both directions, punctuated by gaps that he assumed were aisles up which the forklifts he’d seen outside could drive to deposit their cargo.

  Styles drew level with him, and he sensed more movement on his right, turning to see Jon Whittaker flanked by four AFOs, Carmichael, Palmer, Everett and Kaye, Heckler & Koch MP5s held at shoulder height. Porter whispered hasty instructions, sending Carmichael and Palmer scurrying away to the left with Whittaker, while Styles, Everett and Kaye followed him in the opposite direction. The right-hand path would take them to what he hoped was a central aisle, ploughing a furrow the length of the building. With two men hugging the left, and more down the centre and right, they would catc
h anyone lurking in the rows of parallel aisles from both sides, penning them in.

  They reached the break in the towering shelves and turned a sharp ninety degrees, stopping abruptly to avoid colliding with two men slouching around the blind corner. They both wore hard hats and luminous vests, like bees that had lost their stripes. The man closest to Porter flinched and blinked like he was transmitting in Morse code. They spoke in tandem, words overlapping.

  ‘Whoa, watch where you’re going mate,’ from the closest man.

  The other, clipboard in hand giving him the pretence of authority, spoke in a haughtier tone. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’

  ‘Police,’ Porter snapped. He didn’t recognise either man. ‘James Bolton. Daniel Stenner. Alexander Locke. Where are they?’

  They stared at him blankly, clipboard man breaking first with a shrug. ‘No idea. You tried the office?’

  Porter didn’t dignify it with a response, pushing past them, breaking into a trot as he headed over to the right flank. A chaotic symphony of sound masked his steps, layered over the incessant hum of a busy warehouse: the thunk of a crate or pallet dropping into place, the monotonous beeping of a reversing forklift. They would cover his approach, but it worked both ways, his ears failing miserably to filter out the white noise, leaving him with nothing useful.

  Porter reached the far wall ahead of Styles and turned to check the others were in place. A hundred yards away, Whittaker raised his arm, giving him a thumbs up. The shrunken figures of Carmichael and Palmer followed suit. Porter returned the gesture and they set off at a brisk walking pace, slowing down as they reached each junction, glancing along, seeing only familiar faces of other officers, and moving on.