What Falls Between the Cracks

by Robert Scragg

  From his brief glance up the wide valley of a central aisle that carved the building in two, Porter had seen that it ran the full length of the structure, smaller aisles feeding in from left and right like tributaries. Up ahead, an orange forklift proudly held a crate high above its body, an offering to the shelf above. The driver, unaware of the approaching officers, lowered it gently onto a ledge twice Porter’s height, backing away, fork lowering like a retreating servant bowing to its master.

  Movement to his left. He spun around, nervous energy coursing through him, but it was only Whittaker waving an arm to attract his attention. Had he seen something? Porter took a few steps towards him before Whittaker called out, ‘Clear.’ He pointed ahead.

  Porter stared for a second, then realised the waving had simply been to attract his attention. He had been staring at the forklift and Whittaker must have thought he’d spotted something or someone. Porter cursed his own stupidity and gave himself a mental slap. He couldn’t afford any distractions.

  There was a chance, he conceded, that Bolton had made it out of the building. There could be any number of fire exits or other doors ahead. He would have to put his faith in the others who had stayed outside to check the perimeter. He prayed that wasn’t the case, and that Bolton and Stenner were somewhere up ahead. He had the utmost confidence in those outside; his hope, his need, for Bolton to be inside was purely selfish. He wanted the confrontation. Instinct and adrenaline were in the driving seat now, a hunter and his quarry.

  Lurking behind that desire to call him to account for his actions was a voice that whispered of the blurred lines between justice and revenge; to hit back against a bully who had hurt, maimed and worse. Porter only hoped he could keep the voice to a whisper when the time came.

  Daniel Stenner’s expression made Bolton look over his shoulder, expecting to feel a heavy hand grabbing at him. Nothing. Only a forklift nosing out from an aisle fifty yards behind him. He was level with Stenner now, right by the door. It was still closed in spite of Stenner’s hand pumping the handle up and down. Even Locke looked uncharacteristically concerned. Then he knew why Stenner’s eyes were wide in alarm, the first syllables of a curse on his lips.

  No time for pleasantries, Bolton moved shoulder to shoulder with Stenner, a tap by his standards, but the contact sent Stenner stumbling sideways. He grabbed at the handle. It turned, the door moved. An inch of daylight, no more. A metallic clang, dull and hollow like an old church bell. He pushed again, sounding the gong for a second time. Again, shoulder to the door, grunting as he threw his full weight into it. He may as well have been throwing himself against the wall rather than the door.

  He stopped, breath ragged through snarling lips, squinting through the narrow gap. What he saw made sense of his failure. Vertical grey ridges, a shade darker for being so close, the echoing chime as the door struck.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Bolton, drawing out the vowel.

  ‘What? Can you budge it?’

  ‘Some dozy bastard’s gone and parked a bloody container against it.’

  Bolton slapped a palm against the door, regretting it as it sent another chime bouncing down the aisles.

  ‘Where now, then?’

  ‘Plan B.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Bolton’s face split into a maniacal grin. ‘I’ll let you know when I figure it out.’

  Porter was so focused on the aisles that he didn’t see the fire exit in his peripheral vision until he was past it. He checked his run and bounced back towards it, trying the handle. It turned, but the door stopped after a few inches. He put his eye to the crack, seeing metal draped in shadow, daylight lurking just out of reach. No way anybody left through here.

  Styles moved a few paces ahead, signalling the all-clear. First Whittaker, then Palmer followed suit, the world’s smallest Mexican wave. Porter looked up ahead, breathing short and shallow. There couldn’t be more than six or seven more aisles to check. He sensed the end of the chase was around the corner, quite literally.

  He moved quickly, expecting to see Bolton charging towards him round every corner, but met with disappointment after disappointment. Empty, all except for the third from last. A man in his forties, standard-issue luminous vest and hard hat balanced on his head, watched them nervously as they ran past.

  Porter rounded the final turn, looking the full width of the building, seeing nothing but the other officers appearing a split second later. He swore under his breath and grabbed his handset.

  ‘This is DI Porter. No sign of suspects inside. What’s happening out front? Over.’

  He looked behind him, back along the route they had run, the full length of a building eerily deserted for a place so alive with noise.

  ‘Crawford here, guv.’ Porter recognised the voice of the young PC. ‘No sign of any of ’em. No one’s tried to get out front.’

  Porter turned a full circle, looking around as he tried to work out what they had missed. They had to be in here somewhere. He decided to retrace their steps, and signalled to the others to follow him back towards the front of the building, breaking into a trot. They were almost halfway back to the doorway that led to the offices, when Whittaker’s voice burst over the radio.

  ‘He’s here. Left-hand side of the building. Bolton’s here.’

  They skidded to a halt, Styles ploughing into Porter’s shoulder, knocking him against the corner of a shelf. They barely had time to separate when Porter heard the first shot.

  Porter ran down the left-hand edge of the building, his jacket peeling away on both sides, threatening to wrap around his hands every time they brushed past. He knew Styles and the two AFOs were behind him. Their footsteps overlapped the beat of his own. He scanned ahead for signs of activity, saw figures up ahead. Crouching? Sitting? Hard to tell from here. There had been five shots, maybe six. It was hard to tell with the acoustics in a place like this. Nothing since, though.

  He was within fifty feet now, and saw there were two men up ahead. One slumped against a stack of wooden pallets, the other kneeling over him. The man kneeling looked around at the sound of Porter’s approach. It was Jon Whittaker, eyes wide, looking from Porter, then back to the man beside him. Porter slowed as he approached, seeing what had caused the panic on his face. George Carmichael was alive, barely. His eyes fluttered behind closed lids. His mouth a pale blue line, pursed in pain. Whittaker’s tie was wadded in his hand, pressed just above Carmichael’s collarbone, slick with blood. Porter fancied he could see more coming through the gaps in his fingers.

  ‘Where’s Bolton? What happened?’ said Porter as he crouched down on one knee.

  ‘Bastard was hiding between the crates. They all were. Came out of nowhere. Grabbed Palmer’s gun and sent him flying before we knew what was happening.’

  ‘Palmer? Where the hell is he, then?’

  ‘Bolton got a few shots off. Carmichael went down, he nicked my arm with one as well, then they all fucked off down the far end. Palmer took Carmichael’s gun and went after them.’

  ‘Them? Locke and Stenner as well?’ Porter noticed Whittaker’s arm for the first time. The sleeve of his jacket was torn near the shoulder, ripped fabric matted with blood.

  Whittaker nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He looked back at Carmichael. ‘I should have gone after them as well, but I couldn’t leave him, not like this.’

  ‘It’s fine, Jon,’ said Porter. He turned to Styles. ‘Tell the paramedics to get their arses in here once they arrive. You stay here. Take over from Jon. His arm’s fucked. Get some pressure on there.’ He saw the hesitation on his partner’s face at the thought of being left behind, but Styles did as he was told. Porter motioned to Everett and Kaye to follow him up the aisle. Everett tapped Porter on the shoulder.

  ‘If he’s armed, guv, you’d better let us go first.’

  Porter nodded and let them sweep past him, stocks of their guns pressed into their shoulders. They cleared the next three aisles before Porter spotted the doorway in the far corner of the building up ahead.
He gave a low whistle to get the attention of the two AFOs and nodded towards it. They positioned themselves one either side, gave a silent countdown on their fingers from three to one, before Everett grabbed the handle and flung it open. Porter half expected a hail of bullets to fly in and ricochet around like pinballs, but there was nothing. Only the metallic clang as the door went a full one-eighty and hit the outside of the building.

  Porter’s breath roared in his ears, and he felt a suicidal urge to dive through the door first. Every second wasted was an extra yard between him and Bolton. He forced himself to wait until Everett and Kaye went through, but was close enough behind them to reach out and touch the back of their Kevlar vests if he wanted to. They both spun a tight semicircle, guns covering every angle as they took in their surroundings.

  Porter whipped his head left to right, hoping for a glimpse of Bolton. Three articulated lorries were parked up to their right, rows of shipping containers stacked to the other side. They sat two, sometimes three high, narrow dark alleys disappearing between them. Where the hell were they? And where was Palmer, for that matter?

  ‘Palmer, do you copy? What’s your location?’ Porter’s eyes kept darting from side to side as he spoke. Palmer’s voice came back almost immediately.

  ‘Containers by the rear left corner of the building, guv. Could do with a hand.’

  ‘On our way,’ said Porter.

  He kept pace with the AFOs this time, ignoring the sharp glance from Everett, and they had almost reached the first line of containers when he heard four more shots, grouped close together, like a melodic door knock. Tap, tap-tap, tap. They made their way into the alley, Porter sandwiched in the middle, Everett taking point, and Kaye covering the rear. Porter visibly flinched when he saw the boots sticking out past the end of the container, à la Wicked Witch of the East. Please let that be one of them. But he recognised the standard-issue footwear.

  They reached the corner and saw Andy Palmer, face down. He had one arm tucked under his body, the other outstretched as if he’d been reaching out for something. Porter crouched beside him, feeling for a pulse, but fearing the worst as blood crept out from underneath Palmer and snaked its way towards Porter’s shoes. Everett and Kaye moved past him as he pressed his fingers to Palmer’s jugular, counting a full ten seconds. Nothing. Not a single beat. He let out an angry grunt and bounced back to his feet to follow the others.

  Porter saw Kaye take a left up ahead, presumably following Everett as he was nowhere to be seen. What would he do if he were in Bolton’s shoes? There must be another way out of here. They were armed now, or at least Bolton was, and if his plan was just to shoot his way out, he’d likely take his chances and head for the front door. A long, mournful bass note sounded from a boat battling its way along the river.

  ‘The water,’ he muttered. ‘He’s heading for the water.’

  Porter looked around in frustration at the dull corrugated metal walls penning him in, remembering the river had been to his right as he entered the warren of containers. He came to the junction the others had disappeared down but they were nowhere to be seen. No time to waste. He bore right, speaking low into his mic.

  ‘Everett, Kaye. They’re going for the river. Repeat, head towards the river.’

  Up ahead he could see the opposite bank of the river, the ash-grey water drifting sluggishly seaward. He burst out from between the last two containers, half expecting Bolton to be waiting for him, pistol sighted on his forehead, but it was empty. He heard footsteps and looked over his shoulder as Everett and Kaye joined him.

  ‘You got eyes on ’em, guv?’ Everett asked, his own eyes anywhere but on Porter, scanning for signs of a threat.

  Porter shook his head, advancing across the concrete. They were penned in on three of the four sides of this concrete square. A tall wire mesh fence marked the boundary of Atlas property off to his left. The containers sat behind them, and the river blocked the way forward. He looked at the one route out that led back towards the front of the building. An obvious choice, but his gut still told him the river was the best bet. Twin metal loops sprouted from the concrete edge closest to the water.

  Porter trotted across, motioning Everett and Kaye to follow. He slowed as he approached, hearing a low grumbling noise coming from down by the water. He stopped a few feet short of the edge, seeing the first rung of a ladder leading downwards. He peered over and saw a speedboat moored at a small wooden jetty. Stenner was at the wheel, with Locke sitting at the rear near the idling twin engines. Bolton was still on the jetty, hunched over a thick rope that coiled around a rusty metal loop protruding from the wooden boards. Everett and Kaye flanked Porter now, both sighting their guns on the men below.

  ‘Armed police!’ Porter shouted. ‘Hands where I can see them. All of you. Now.’

  All three snapped their heads around at the sound of Porter’s voice. Bolton stayed crouched down, but glared up at Porter with a fierce scowl.

  ‘Hands where I can see them,’ Porter repeated. ‘Don’t make me ask again.’

  ‘Or what, Detective? Are you going to shoot us? I’m not armed,’ said Locke. Was there a tremor in his voice, or was it just distorted by the engine’s low rumble? Porter couldn’t tell.

  ‘I’d rather not, Mr Locke, but that all depends on what you fellas decide to do next.’

  Bolton started to straighten up and Porter sensed the men either side of him tense up, and saw why. A pistol, Palmer’s Glock, dangled from his left hand.

  ‘Put the gun down, Jimmy. It’s over. We found her,’ said Porter.

  Bolton looked at him blankly. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Found who?’

  ‘Natasha. We found Natasha. Not even Jasper can help you talk your way out of this one, Jimmy, and that’s before we even get started with the officer you killed back there. Then there’s the two you wounded. Assuming that was you, of course, and not either of them.’ He nodded towards Locke and Stenner. ‘Why don’t we all have a trip to the station and talk this through before anyone else gets hurt?’

  For the first time he could remember, Porter saw surprise on Bolton’s face. What was it he had said that got the response? Was it Natasha’s name, or was it the mention of two injured officers? Did he think they were all dead?

  ‘Natasha who?’ said Bolton, but his face lacked the confidence his dismissive tone was aiming for.

  ‘Natasha Barclay. We found where you buried her, Jimmy. You and your pal Olly. Me and my partner had a trip out to the woods at Ruislip. Oh, and did I forget to mention we’ve got you on CCTV chucking Owen Carter out the window as well?’

  Bolton’s hands stayed by his side but he turned slowly, angling his body sideways, looking at the two men in the boat then back to Porter. That last comment wasn’t entirely true, of course. They had Bolton on camera, but all it showed was him watching, not actually doing anything. All the same, if it got a reaction then where was the harm? Shoes scuffed softly against concrete as Everett and Kaye fanned out, moving six feet or so either side of Porter, he assumed to make it trickier for Bolton if he decided to start shooting. Bolton looked back at the boat again, the Glock tapping a gentle tattoo against his thigh. When he turned back, Porter fancied he could see a hint of a smile in the crinkles around Bolton’s eyes.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got me lock, stock and barrel there, Detective. I’d better come quietly then, hadn’t I?’ he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘There’s just one thing that bothers me about all of those things I’ve allegedly done.’

  ‘What’s that, then, Jimmy?’

  ‘Let’s continue this at the station, Detective,’ said Locke, rising to his feet. ‘Mr Jasper can meet us there, and we’ll see just how strong a case you have.’

  Bolton cut in before Porter could respond. ‘If it’s all the same to you, boss, I’m quite happy chatting here for now.’

  ‘Keep your hands where we can see them, Mr Locke,’ Kaye barked.

  Locke gave a tired smile, keeping his hands by his side, palm
s opening like a magician on the verge of a trick.

  ‘You see, Detective,’ Bolton continued, ‘I’ve done some nasty shit in my time, most of which you fuckers, sorry, fine officers of the law, have no idea has even happened. Natasha Barclay was an interesting one, though.’

  ‘Interesting, how?’ asked Porter. Sweat pricked his back and forehead, but he resisted the urge to scratch at it.

  ‘I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Sorry to disappoint,’ he said with a shrug. ‘No, it’s interesting because I don’t believe for a second you just happened to stumble upon her, not after all these years. Interesting because, the way I hear it, only four people knew where she was. Olly was one, but you couldn’t have heard it from him. He’s long gone, as is one of the others. According to you I’m allegedly another one, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t hear it from me either. So if you’re right that would only leave one person who could have led you to her.’

  Bolton looked back towards the boat again, turning his body sideways this time instead of just looking over his shoulder. Porter couldn’t see the gun any more, Bolton’s left hand hidden from view now.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’d have any idea who that might be, boss?’ Bolton practically spat out the last word.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, James,’ said Locke. ‘Or him for that matter,’ he added, nodding towards Porter. ‘Now I suggest you stop running your mouth off. I’ll call Jasper and we’ll be walking out of the station within the hour.’

  ‘Not this time, Mr Locke,’ said Porter. ‘This one’ll take a little more clearing up, even for your little lapdog Jasper. Funny thing, though,’ he said, brow creasing as he feigned deep thought. Locke was impatient now, and jumped into the gap he left.

  ‘Come on, then, Detective. Dazzle us with your wit. What’s so funny about you threatening me at gunpoint?’

  Porter smiled, seeing it for the attempt at baiting him that it was. ‘Not that kind of funny. No, the funny thing is that when I just told you that we’ve found the body of your wife’s stepdaughter after thirty years, you didn’t react. Nothing. You didn’t even ask where she was. It’s almost as if you knew we were going to find her.’