MARY – APRIL 1983
She is careful. She waits until she hears the snick of the latch closing before she swings her legs out of bed. She hopes she’s wrong, partly because she hasn’t the faintest idea what she’ll do if she’s right. Confront him? What if he isn’t alone? What if she is there, whoever she is? Mary hopes she doesn’t exist. Hopes that it’s just work. She doesn’t ask too many questions about what he does. Learnt to take a healthy disinterest years ago, but the late-night calls set her insecurities scurrying in all directions like an Andrex puppy with loo roll in tow.
She grabs her silk robe from the back of the door. Alexander brought it back from a business trip to Hong Kong. Not one she would have picked for herself. It’s too bright, too garish for her. Crimson, splashed with ash-white flowers she takes for azaleas. But she wears it for him. To keep him happy. Story of her life.
Mary is halfway downstairs when she sees the swoop of headlights arcing away from the house through the frosted glass of the front door. She picks up her pace. Pulls a jacket from the peg by the door, keys already strategically placed in the pocket. She’s been doing this for two weeks now, ever since she decided that ignorance was no longer bliss. The coat slides over the silk robe with a whisper and she’s in her Mini Cooper, engine running, before the twin ruby pinpricks of brake lights have turned the far corner. She keeps her headlights off until he’s out of sight, then starts to mentally rehearse the excuse she has prepared in case she’s rumbled. Splitting headache. No paracetamol in the house. Keep it simple.
She’s relieved to see there’s still enough traffic on the road that she doesn’t stand out too easily. Mainly taxis, but at this time of night all Alexander will see in his rear-view are headlights either way. She mutters to herself as she drives. Tells herself again what a bad idea this is, but curiosity drives her on. She reminds herself it also killed the cat, but carries on undeterred. Mary sees him make a turn. At least she thinks it’s him. She reaches the junction, sees that she was right, and panics because there’s nobody else on the road now. Just him and her. She eases up on the accelerator, staying far enough back that she gets palpitations every time his lights disappear around a corner, not letting up until she rounds the bend.
She frowns as she sees the sign at his latest detour. Ruislip Lido. Her father used to bring her here as a child. At least once a month, weather permitting, she and her sister would squeeze into the back seat of her dad’s pale cream Austin 7 and spend the day exploring the woods or splashing in the waters of the lido. It’s seen better days, though. Not that Alexander would be heading there for a swim at this time of night, anyway.
She flicks off her headlights, coasting at little over ten miles per hour as she sees him pull into a car park ahead. Street lights hover overhead, casting an amber glow like giant fireflies, dim, but enough to make out three men waiting for Alexander as he gets out. She recognises two of them as men who work for her husband. One is the brute that Natasha had a thing with a few months back. The other has a mean face that only a mother could love. The third man is a mystery. He looks nervous, fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot. She doubts that she could hear what they are saying even if she got out of the car, and is deciding what to do next when she sees the big man pop the boot open, stoop down, straighten up with something over his shoulder.
It looks like a roll of carpet, kink in the middle, draped over front and back. Then she sees it. The hair. There’s somebody in there. A woman. Not quite the rendezvous she thought she would be gatecrashing. There’s something familiar about the hair, even in this pale yellow light. Long coils of it spill out like oil slicks, bouncing against his back as he turns towards the woods. It can’t be, can it? Flashes of family photos in her mind. Hair, spread like raven’s wings on her stepdaughter’s shoulders. She curses her overactive imagination. Tells herself she needs to turn round and drive home the first opportunity she gets.
Up ahead, she sees her husband put an arm around the mystery man’s shoulder, steering him towards the pub a little way back down the road. The other two men have faded into the treeline. She stares into the shadows, willing them to take form, to let her see where they’re going. She has to know. Is it her? Was she hurt? A glance back to the pub confirms Alexander has disappeared inside, and before she can convince herself it’s a stupid thing to do, she’s out of the car and moving towards the trees. Every stone she kicks, every twig she steps on, seems to echo like a gunshot. The path ahead fades to black after a hundred yards, and the men ahead are shapeless lumps of black, just out of reach. Just a little further, she tells herself. Repeats it over and over like a mantra.
She steps carefully, lifting her feet now to avoid scuffing against anything. She has gotten her wish. There isn’t anyone else. No matter who that is up ahead, she wishes now more than ever that life was simple, and that her husband was having an affair. That she could deal with. But this? This is something else entirely.
GEORGE – APRIL 1983
George sees the man walk through the door and realises why Locke has asked him here tonight. Nathan Barclay doesn’t recognise him at first. Must be the lack of uniform, but by the time he gets within handshake distance, the confusion on his face tells George he’s been made. Barclay stares at him for a few seconds, then looks to Locke. Realises he’s standing beside the young sergeant, and tries to process what that might mean. Bolton and Rat Face, who George now knows is Oliver Davies, occupy the flanks.
The warehouse is empty at this time of night, and despite the cavernous open space, the five men gathering together so conspiratorially feels almost claustrophobic. George fights the urge to break ranks and head out, anywhere but here. He looks at Barclay’s face, seeing it properly now that he’s closer. Muscles in his jaw twitching back and forth, as if he’s grinding his teeth. Plum-coloured shadows under his eyes. Barclay’s whole body is rigid, and George struggles to read his expression.
‘Nathan,’ says Locke with what George guesses is meant to pass for warmth. ‘Glad you could make it,’ he says, holding out a hand.
‘Where is she?’ Barclay asks. It’s barely above a whisper, and George stiffens. Just the mention of her, even unnamed, is enough to unnerve him.
‘Have you brought it?’ asks Locke.
Barclay doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out an envelope and gives it to Locke. George feels like an intruder. Like he has no part in whatever is going on here. Like it or not, though, he is involved. He is the reason this man’s daughter isn’t with him tonight. He isn’t sure what haunts him more: the memory of Natasha splayed on the road, or what he saw in the flat in the hour that followed. What they did.
‘Hope this is all in order, Nathan. We wouldn’t want to have to send you another one.’
George tries not to react. Tries to pretend he doesn’t know what Locke is talking about. Tries and fails to block out the memory of Oliver Davies coming back from what he now knows was the bathroom. Shirt speckled red like a butcher’s apron. Feels light-headed as the image of a disembodied handshake swims before his eyes, her hand dangling from his, minus the one-fingered message intended for her father.
‘It’s done. Just tell me where she is.’ Barclay’s words are dripping with worry.
Locke opens the envelope, scans the contents, nodding in approval. Looks back up at Barclay with something of a twinkle in his eye.
‘It’s not that simple any more, Nathan.’ He inclines his head towards George. ‘You went to the police, after all. What’s to say you won’t try again? I can’t very well have you talking to someone less …’ He pauses, searching for the word. ‘Less understanding than George, here.’
At the mention of George’s name, Barclay eyes him with an et tu, Brute? look laced with contempt. George wants to apologise. To tell him he was trying to help the girl, but he knows how hollow that will sound. Barclay is breathing loudly through his nose, lips twitching as if he’s swallowed something live and wriggling.
&
nbsp; ‘This is all I have. What more could you possibly want?’
‘I want you gone,’ Locke says with as much emotion as if he were ordering a pint at the bar.
George watches as parallel troughs crease Barclay’s forehead. Leave the man be, for God’s sake, he thinks. He’s already lost too much in the last twenty-four hours, more than he realises. He has no more to give. Then Locke explains. A gun beyond the door. Only one bullet in case he gets any ideas. Paper and pen to leave his daughter a note. The only way to secure her freedom.
George watches as Barclay goes from denial right through to acceptance It takes no more than two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds to deconstruct a man, to break him down to his basest level, where all that matters is a father’s love.
The door closes behind Nathan Barclay and, even before he hears the shot, George realises that his eyes have misted over. Sees for the first time that James Bolton is holding a camera, and wonders why. It seems so out of place here. He swallows hard, tensing himself for the sound. Praying it doesn’t come. Knowing it’ll take a lot more than a few prayers to make this right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Porter watched from the back of the room as Deputy Commissioner Adam Nesbitt scanned his notes. Wouldn’t do for the star of the show to forget his lines at a press conference. Nesbitt looked up, caught his eye and beckoned him over. Porter weaved amongst the reporters looking for seats, and headed for where Nesbitt was tucked away in a corner, now studying his phone.
‘Sir?’ Porter said as he approached. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Ah yes, Porter.’ Nesbitt looked over Porter’s shoulder as he spoke, making sure the journalists were out of earshot. ‘When’s your appointment with the counsellor?’
‘Three this afternoon, sir.’ Porter wasn’t a fan of the sessions, but they were mandatory for any officer involved in an incident like that.
Nesbitt nodded. ‘Good, good. Might feel like a pain in the backside, but the sooner you get it done and get their thumbs up, the sooner you can get back to work properly. It’ll be good to put this mess behind us.’
Was that it, Porter wondered? Was Nesbitt trying to show his softer, caring side? He doubted Nesbitt would be calling it a mess to the dozen microphones shoved under his nose in a few minutes. How would it go? Something along the lines of best-in-class collaboration to bring down a nationwide criminal network.
‘Speaking of putting things behind us,’ Nesbitt continued. Here we go, thought Porter. ‘I was in a meeting with Superintendent Milburn this morning. He asked me to pass on his thanks for a job well done.’
Milburn had profited from Campbell’s downfall, annexing his command in addition to his own, at least in the short term. Since the debacle at Atlas, he had ordered the place pulled apart by forensics. Every crate opened, every shipping container checked from top to bottom. Anderson’s supposed protection had made them careless, and the quantity of drugs seized had astounded even Porter. Or was it Campbell giving them that feeling of smug security? How far the rot had set in with each of them was yet to be determined.
‘Goes without saying, we won’t be drawing anyone’s attention to Mr Locke too much, or those pictures of him posing with me. Anyone mentions it, I can barely recall meeting him anyway. One face in a thousand, that type of thing. Anyway, the evidence doesn’t support Locke being the one pulling the strings, so tomorrow’s headlines will be about James Bolton.’
Porter was stunned. He might be dead, but that didn’t mean Alexander Locke should keep his reputation. One he’d bought with drug money, at that. ‘But sir,’ Porter protested. ‘What about the interview with George Evans? Locke’s been at this for years. What about the fact he had some of ours on his payroll? Senior officers? He confessed to hiding Natasha’s body, for God’s sake!’
Nesbitt frowned, looking past Porter’s shoulder. Porter looked to see what had distracted him, and saw a couple of the journalists in the front row trying their best not to look like they were eavesdropping. He was fairly sure his voice hadn’t carried that far, but took a deep breath and lowered the volume.
‘We can’t just ignore that, sir,’ he urged.
‘And we haven’t. We’ve considered that, along with the rest of the evidence, and there’s nothing to tie Locke directly to any of it. The few employees we arrested all went through Bolton, or that other fellow we have in custody, Patchett. We have nothing usable to tie Doug Anderson or George Campbell directly to Locke, yet, either. Campbell’s lawyers have worked out a deal with Superintendent Milburn. Can’t go into all the detail, non-disclosure and all that. He’s confirmed Bolton, Woodley and Davies being there the night that girl died, though, not that we can do much with Woodley. He had a heart attack a few years back. We do, however, know that Locke gave the order to have her picked up to blackmail the dad with. Campbell was there when her father topped himself as well. Nudged in the right direction by Locke, but he pulled the trigger himself, it seems.’
‘You’ll be telling me next we’re not even charging Campbell with anything,’ said Porter.
Nesbitt shrugged. ‘There’s nobody left to contradict him. No forensic evidence to use against him. And he’s managed to give us enough of what he’s picked up from Locke over the years that should help mop up what’s left of the business. He’ll be out of a job, that much is a given, but it does us more harm than good to crucify him in public with what we have.’
‘Bullshit,’ Porter hissed. ‘I was there. He killed her. He nearly bloody killed me. He needs to answer for that. And what about Doug? He led us to Atlas for one thing. He led us to Bolton.’ Porter could already feel himself swimming against the tide of a mind made up.
‘Everything George has said in his statement will be fully investigated while he’s on a leave of absence pending his enforced retirement. As for Doug, could have been there at the warehouse following up a line of enquiry as part—’
‘He was there because of the fake line I fed him about Bolton.’ Porter felt the warmth in his cheeks, fighting to keep his anger in check. ‘The pair of them are a disgrace to the force.’
‘And you think that’s strong enough to justify the kicking this lot will give us?’ Nesbitt said, nodding sharply towards the waiting journalists. ‘You think if Doug was alive, that the CPS would prosecute with that evidence?’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter what they did, Porter. It matters what we can prove. We can prove Bolton was a bad man. All we do by dragging Locke, Campbell and Anderson down with him is to hurt ourselves.’
‘And if anyone gets wind of us covering this up, what do you think that’ll do to us?’
‘It would only get out if one of us puts it out there. And I don’t know about you, but I’d say that anyone who wilfully did something like that to hurt our reputation, that took the shine off the good work we do, well, I’d say that they weren’t cut out for a career in the police force. Wouldn’t you?’
Had Nesbitt really just threatened him at a press conference? Of course not. In Nesbitt’s own words, it would be what Porter could prove. This wasn’t the time or place to say anything more, though. Porter saw the danger lurking in Nesbitt’s eyes, almost willing him to keep going, to say enough to give him an excuse to make Porter’s life hell at some point down the line.
‘I suppose so, sir.’ He tried to wrap as much disrespect around that last word as he could.
‘Good. Glad we’re in agreement. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’
Nesbitt breezed past him and up onto the raised platform. The excited hum of the journalists behind ebbed and flowed as they jostled for pole position with their questions. Porter stayed with his back to them, composing himself, not turning around until Nesbitt spoke into the microphone. He strode down the side of the room without turning a single head.
The walls of the hallway felt like they were closing in as he headed for the front door. He needed to get away from here. From people. Get away to somewhere he could shout and swear with impunity. His hands unconsci
ously clenched and unclenched as he made it out into the fresh air, as if closing around Nesbitt’s neck. He breathed in deeply, and out again, Twice more. Felt his head clearing. What made him even angrier was that part of what Nesbitt said kind of made sense. It would have been a hard conviction to secure if Locke had survived, but he would have given it a damn good go.
As far as the thing with Anderson and Campbell went, it stung him to admit it, but there was some truth to what Nesbitt was saying. There was nothing to be gained unless they could prove any of it, but it didn’t stop Porter feeling betrayed. He and Anderson hadn’t exactly been best pals, but Porter would put his life on the line for any one of his fellow officers, and he expected them to do the same for him. Not to stab him in the fucking back. As for Campbell, you took it for granted that even those who became pen-pushers and politicians were still on the right side. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner, for not questioning why Campbell had been so obstructive when it came to Locke.
It was a fucked-up finale, that much was for sure. The fact that politics and perception were going to trump holding people to account for Natasha, and everything that had happened since, left him feeling hollow, like he’d been sucker-punched. If this was how policing worked now, he didn’t know if he wanted any part of it, but that was a decision for another day.
Porter headed out into the car park. He needed to get away from here, just for an hour or two. He’d be back in time for his session. His mind wandered to Mary Locke. How could she have lived with that secret for over thirty years? Granted, she’d been working on the basis of a few assumptions: that it was definitely Natasha; that Locke and/or Bolton would have done something to her or Gavin if she’d spoken up. Porter shook his head at the thought. It spoke volumes as to just how complete Locke’s influence over her was that she’d kept her mouth shut all these years.
What Falls Between the Cracks Page 33
