All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Where you at, fellas?’ Porter called into the treeline.

  ‘Bang in the middle, boss,’ Tessier’s low rumble came back, sounding fairly close.

  Porter found them in a matter of seconds. The island couldn’t be more than twenty metres by forty, give or take, but with a dense cluster of trees and bushes. Porter was surprised to walk out into a clearing of sorts. Couldn’t have measured more than five metres square, but when he looked back, already the shoreline was practically hidden from view.

  Gus Tessier stood in the middle, a giant of a man. Styles’s height but twice the width. Half-French, half-Ghanaian, the kind of guy you’d want to have your back if things got physical. Porter clocked the look on his face. Solemn, serious; the usual perma-grin he wore was nowhere in sight.

  ‘What is it, Gus? What have you found?’

  ‘A body, boss. We found a body.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Tessier nodded to where Holloway knelt off to one side, and for the first time Porter noticed the flowers. Roses, lots of them. A cluster of rose bushes, blazing colour. Must have been what Tessier had glimpsed. A mixture of blood reds, soft whites, pale peaches and buttery yellows.

  DC Zach Holloway knelt by the base of the right-most plant. He stood up, sidestepping out of the way as Porter approached. Holloway held up his makeshift spade: the lower half of an empty Coke bottle.

  ‘Don’t worry, boss, I haven’t touched it. The soil by this one looked fresher dug than the others. Just looked weird, you know. I mean, what the hell’s going on here? It’s like a private garden. So I thought I’d take a look, and I found this.’

  Porter took another few steps forward, keeping as much distance as he could while still getting close enough. Holloway had scooped out a hole the size of a football. Jutting out by the base, Porter saw the skull, partially exposed. Dry brown earth packed into eye sockets, dark and solid like glass lenses. Bone stained grey-brown from the dirt packed around it. It was small. Not an adult. Could it be Libby? If it was, then the sighting today had been false. This had been buried a while. If not her, then who the hell was it, and if the remains had been there for a while, why had the soil looked recently turned?

  With this discovery, the case had sprouted heads like a Hydra. Too many for Porter to wrap his own head around in the moment.

  ‘Don’t touch anything else,’ he said to the two officers. ‘Williams, get back in the boat. We need to get this place locked down. Find out who’s in charge of the park – a manager, groundskeeper, anyone like that.’

  He took in the rest of the clearing, noticing for the first time how carefully shaped it looked. Surrounding trees had been pruned back, branches cut on angles to let sunlight get to the roses. Not pared back completely, though, as if whoever had done this wanted it screened from nosy eyes. This clearing, garden, whatever it was, looked man-made for sure.

  ‘Let’s make sure every boat is off the water. I want CSIs across here within the hour. Doesn’t change the fact that our witness claims to have seen Libby. We treat this as a new case until we have a reason to link them. Whoever that is, it’s not the kid that Madeline Archer saw.’

  A sharp crack, somewhere in the trees beyond Holloway. All three heads snapped towards it. Porter tensed, took a few steps forward, holding out a hand to signal the others to stand their ground. A chorus of crunches, cracks and rustling followed, voices muttering, getting closer. There, in the trees, pale between the branches. A face.

  Porter cursed under his breath as Amy Fitzwilliam pushed past the last few branches, joining them in the clearing. ‘Fuck’s sake. You need to leave. Now.’

  Without being asked, Gus Tessier stepped around the rose bushes, blocking any view of the hole. The nameless cameraman already had his lens pointed at them, scowled at Tessier and tried to sidestep him. Tessier held both arms out to the sides, a one-man crowd control.

  ‘You heard DI Porter. I’m gonna need you to head back to your boat.’

  ‘What’s all …’ Fitzwilliam’s voice drifted, taking in the clearing, forgetting about her own camera for a second, then snapped back into focus like she’d been rebooted. ‘Detective Porter, what have you found over here? Anything yet to confirm the sighting of Libby?’

  She peered past Tessier, through the gap under his arms to be precise. Stick him in a white shirt and black overcoat, he could double as a doorman. Barrel-chested, biceps straining against his jacket.

  ‘Pan around, Jamie, get a shot of all this,’ she said, eyes roving upwards, turning a slow circle, before looking back down at the flowers. ‘Whatever this is.’

  Jamie the cameraman followed suit, panning around in a lazy arc. Tessier stepped forward, his hand the size of a hardback blocking the cameras view. Amy Fitzwilliam moved quickly, taking advantage of the big man’s attention being on the camera, ducking under an outstretched arm and past the flowers, stopping only feet away from Porter.

  He instinctively glanced down, and wished he hadn’t. Her gaze followed his, dropping to the mini excavation by Holloway. He knew straight away that she’d clocked it, seen exactly what was in there. Eyes and mouth widening in tandem. Looking like she wanted to speak, but the words had gotten snagged on the way out. They stood, as if someone had pressed pause, and stayed like that for the full five seconds it took her to find her voice again.

  ‘Is that her? Is that Libby?’

  Shit. No putting this cat back in any kind of bag.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Styles stood alone on the side of the lake as Porter rowed back across. Off to the left, Amy Fitzwilliam and her cameraman were taking baby steps along the shifting jetty, deep in conversation. The damage was well and truly done. Porter knew she’d already broadcast one live segment earlier, confirming their tip-off about Libby. He was pretty sure Tessier’s bulk had blocked the remains on the island from being captured on camera, but the young female reporter wasn’t going to unsee that any time soon.

  An ache spread down his neck, radiating out across his shoulders, moving upwards, a dull drumbeat of a headache. Shit, he thought. In the rush to get across to the island, he’d forgotten to call Ally Hallforth. Please God, don’t let her have been watching the news in the last half hour. He dipped the oars, using them to brake, and bumped the boat against the side. Styles reached down, pinning it to the shore as he stepped out.

  ‘That looked interesting,’ he said, nodding over to the Sky News team. ‘What have they found, anyway?’

  Porter told him about the clearing, the roses, what was buried beneath one of the bushes. Styles looked back over to the reporter. ‘How much of it did she get?’

  ‘Just a general shot, not the skull, at least I don’t think so. Bad enough that they’ve gone public with the Libby angle, though.’

  ‘Like you said, though, that can’t be her, not if what Madeline Archer says is on the money.’

  ‘And?’ Porter asked. ‘Is it?’

  Styles shrugged. ‘She believes what she’s saying. Described Libby quite well, but then again, her picture was all over the papers at the time, and the same piccies were on Crimewatch last week. Could be that she’s just projecting.’

  ‘Any luck with the rest of the search yet?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Styles. Porter noticed his DS peering a little more closely at him. ‘You OK, boss?’

  ‘Course I am. Why?’

  ‘Just look a little tired, that’s all,’ said Styles.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Porter said, a little too brusquely. ‘Just fools like those two winding me up.’

  Back towards Grove Road, the retreating figures of Fitzwilliam and her cameraman merged with a copse of trees as they disappeared through them.

  ‘Listen, Nick, I need to go and see Ally Hallforth. Can you stick around here, coordinate the rest of the search? Think it’s mostly the north-east part left. I’ve left Tessier and Holloway across there to guard the scene until the CSIs get here.’

  ‘Course, boss. Get yourself away,’ sai
d Styles, clapping a hand on Porter’s shoulder.

  Porter thanked him and turned to leave. He pulled out his phone as he walked. Face-to-face was always best, but it was worth checking Ally Hallforth was in before he made the journey. Before he could call her, he spotted a missed call from Superintendent Milburn. Rarely good, but it could wait.

  Ally’s number went to voicemail. Sod it, he’d go there anyway. He owed her that much. He quick timed it back to where he’d left his car on Old Ford Road. A scrap of paper fluttered under his wipers. An unsigned note from one of the lovely residents calling him ignorant for parking on the residents-only side of the street, threatening to call the police if he did it again.

  Yeah, good luck with that, he thought, scrunching it up and tossing it in the back seat. A text chirped as he slid his phone into the cup holder. Evie, wondering if he wanted to meet for a coffee. He fired off a quick reply saying he was tied up, and connected to Bluetooth to call Milburn along the way.

  Sack off your girlfriend, and snap at your DS. Now you get to head round to drag a poor woman back into the same dark place you left her months ago.

  Fair to say he’d had better days. Unlike Ally Hallforth, Milburn picked up after one ring. Must have been sitting with his hand practically hovering over it.

  ‘Ah, DI Porter. So glad you found time to check your phone.’

  Roger Milburn took passive aggressiveness to an Olympic level. Porter couldn’t quite get a read on him. Milburn was straight down the middle, called a spade a spade, qualities that Porter believed they shared. At times, though, it was as if he chipped away for no reason, trying to get a reaction, to prove that everyone had shortcomings.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I was dealing with a situation.’

  ‘So that’s what you’re calling it.’

  Porter knew then that Milburn had either seen or been told about the run-in with Sky News, and subsequent broadcast.

  ‘Sir, if I can explain. The—’

  ‘The only explanation you need to give right now is to that girl’s parents,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve had the father on the phone, reading the riot act, threatening to go to the papers about how you practically accused him of kidnapping his own daughter back then, and that we didn’t even have the decency to tell him she’d been spotted.’

  ‘Sir, we couldn’t confirm the sighting. Our witness is sketchy at best.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Milburn continued as if Porter hadn’t even spoken. ‘He’s an odious little man, but he shouts loud enough and this will make us look insensitive and incompetent. I only hope for your sake that he doesn’t follow through and sell his story.’

  Porter had never ruled Simon Hallforth out in his mind, but fought back the urge to lay into the man now. He’d heard that tone from Milburn too many times. More politician than policeman, all about the image. His and the Met, probably in that order. Porter had gotten on the wrong side of him last year, after a colleague turned out to be on the take from one of the biggest organised crime bosses in London, and Milburn had viewed everyone with suspicion. Guilty until proven innocent.

  ‘Top priority is for you to speak to the parents. They should hear these things from us, not a bloody reporter.’

  ‘On my way to see the mother now,’ said Porter.

  ‘Good. Right, I’m at a charity do with the assistant chief constable in an hour, so I’ll leave you to it. Let’s have an update first thing tomorrow morning.’

  Porter swore as he ended the call. His boss had the knack of making him feel like a chastised child at times. Rattling off lists of tasks, as if Porter didn’t have the experience or the brainpower to work his own cases. What was already a shitty day took a turn for the worse when he hit traffic. A handful of motorcycles and Deliveroo riders whistled past him while he inched forwards, tortoise to their hare.

  Maybe just as well he didn’t see Evie tonight. The day’s events hadn’t exactly left him in a sparkling mood, and it wouldn’t be fair to take it out on her. What could take fifteen minutes on a good day became a forty-minute snail’s pace of a drive along Eastway, past signs for Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, bumper to bumper, cars shuffling along like a production line.

  He pulled up outside John Walsh Tower, under the watchful eye of a trio of kids on bikes. The eldest couldn’t have been more then twelve, the others a few years younger. The smallest of the three pedalled towards him, weaving around a blanket of glass fragments glistening in the disappearing sun like a layer of frost.

  ‘Look after your car for a fiver, mister,’ he piped up, glancing back at his mates, as if to say, See, told you I’d do it.

  ‘You give police discount?’ Porter asked, pulling out his warrant card.

  The boy stared for a second, eyes widening in surprise, before whipping his front wheel around and heading back to join his mates. The other two watched him as he walked off, and he wondered if his car would get any special treatment. Banana up the exhaust, snapped aerial, dog shit placed carefully under his wheels.

  No officer answering the door this time. Just Ally Hallforth. She looked smaller than he remembered. A sad smile when she saw who was at her door. The kind that said she’d accepted her new reality. The one where her eldest daughter had no place, where she had no resolution.

  ‘Mrs Hallforth, I don’t know if you remember me, I’m—’

  ‘Detective Porter,’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember you.’ The briefest of smiles, then the realisation that a policeman was at her door again. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said, following her inside.

  As he walked into the living room, it was the absences he noticed. No overpowering nasal bashing from a liberal dousing of stale cigarette smoke. No undertone of weed. No obnoxious husband. Had Simon stormed out in a fit of the temper Porter had seen flashes of himself? A tinny melody made him whip his head around. Chloe Hallforth sat cross-legged, oblivious to his presence, holding a moulded plastic book, new nursery rhymes starting with each turn of a page. Ally looked tired, as if just dragging herself through the day was an effort. She tried a tired smile when she offered him a cup of tea, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  He waited while she pulled clinking mugs out of the cupboard, squeezed teabags against the edges and carried their cuppas through to the living room. He realised then that she hadn’t actually asked him why he was here today. That could only mean one thing.

  ‘Simon called me,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa. ‘I’ve asked him not to ring. I’d usually ignore his calls, but he withheld his number. Anyway, he told me what he’d seen on the news, that a lady had seen our Libby. Is it true?’

  This last bit came out as a loud whisper, rough around the edges.

  ‘It’s true we got a response from last week’s re-enactment,’ he began, not wanting to give her too much hope without cause. ‘A lady claiming she’d seen Libby, red coat and all, walking in the woods at Victoria Park.’

  ‘He told me I needed to switch the telly on. Watch it for myself. I tried, I wanted to, but I just couldn’t do it, you know?’ Her words were heavy with emotion, brittle, bordering on breakable. ‘It’s taken me this long to even start to get my head around the fact I might not see her again,’ she continued. ‘I say “get my head round”, more like admit to myself that it’s possible.’

  ‘We’ve not given up on her yet, Mrs Hallforth,’ he said, sitting down next to her. ‘I haven’t given up on her. You shouldn’t either.’

  ‘He tried calling back again, about ten minutes before you turned up. At least I assume it was him. Didn’t answer that one, though. What exactly did this woman see, then?’ she asked.

  Her words came out shaky, tentative, not wanting to put it out there that she believed there could be any truth to this.

  ‘Honestly, not much more than you already know,’ he said. ‘The lady was out walking her dog. Says she saw a young girl, and that it reminded her of the reconstruction. Similar age, similar hair colour, similar coat. She called out
her name, but the girl disappeared behind some trees, and she didn’t see her again.’

  ‘Could it have been her, do you think?’ she asked.

  Talk about rock and hard place. Do anything except sit on the fence, and he’d raise her spirits or undermine her hope. If he didn’t commit, she stayed in limbo. He went with door number three, the lesser of three evils.

  ‘It really is impossible to say just now, Mrs Hallforth. I’ve got two dozen men searching the park, and we’re pulling CCTV from the streets around it.’

  She leant forwards slowly, elbows on knees, palms flat together prayer style, eyes squeezed tight shut. So much to dredge up again. He tried to put himself in her shoes, imagining the choice she must face every day. Living in a constant state of hope, feeling hollowed out every day that passed with no news, or accepting your child wasn’t coming home, hating yourself for giving up on them.

  Chimes echoed down the hall, followed in quick succession by hammering on the door. Ally Hallforth jumped like she’d been plugged into the mains as the muffled voice shouted from outside the flat.

  ‘Ally, it’s me. Simon. We need to talk. You have to let me in. Please.’

  That last word almost sounded sincere. Not one Porter would have used to describe the Simon Hallforth he remembered.

  Ally stayed sitting, all the while looking ready to bolt, like a cornered animal. Porter wondered again what their marriage had been like when it was just the two of them around, no witnesses. There was no mistaking the nervousness. It came off her in waves. Eyes darting towards the door then back again, fingers on one hand rubbing at the knuckles of the other.

  ‘Why don’t I get the door?’ said Porter.

  ‘Just leave him be,’ she said, almost a whisper, shaking her head. ‘He’ll just go away if we leave him.’