All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

‘There’s not a lot to go on for an ID,’ she said, ‘although there were a few bits she was buried with: clothes and a purse.’ She gestured to a tray across the room, where the girl’s last few possessions were laid out. ‘Might be enough when we put the pictures out there, see if anyone recognises them and calls in. I’ve not looked inside the purse yet, but it’ll all be sent off for testing today.’

  His phone buzzed. ‘Thanks, Bella,’ he said, holding it up, showing her Styles’s name flashing. ‘I’ll get him to take your lunch order when I’m done with him.’

  She waved him away, smiling. ‘Just put it on the tab for now.’

  He headed out into the corridor, tapping to take the call.

  ‘You enjoy your lie-in?’ he asked.

  ‘I wish,’ Styles said. ‘Don’t get them as it is, and damn sure I won’t be getting any for a few years soon enough. Where you at?’

  ‘Just been to see Bella. I’m heading back now, though. Can you get everyone ready for a briefing in half an hour? I meant to do it before I left, but I got distracted. Lots to catch you up on.’

  ‘Yeah, can do, but—’

  ‘I’m just heading to my car now. I’ll call you back when I’m on the road,’ said Porter, scanning a row of signs on the wall, looking for a way out from the rabbit warren of hospital corridors.

  ‘You’re gonna want to hear this now, boss,’ Styles said, all business, none of his usual jokes or banter on display.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Porter, slowing to more of an amble.

  ‘The midwife was ill, so Emma’s appointment was cancelled by the time we got there. Thought I’d swing by the park on the way back to the station. Seems it wasn’t just the one body out there.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Déjà vu for Porter as he stood, suited-up in the clearing, for the second time in twenty-four hours. Today had a different feel to it, though. Clouds replacing sunshine, squeezed in on top of one another like dirty grey marshmallows. They hung low and heavy, waiting for the first drops to fall that would drag the rest down with them.

  ‘How many are we up to now?’ he asked, feeling perspiration prickle, pulling his shirt against his back.

  ‘Eight more. Nine in total,’ said Kam Qureshi, with a loud sigh from behind his mask. Porter had worked with the CSI on dozens of cases, knew Kam had been forced to work some pretty horrendous scenes, but this one seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of him.

  There was something about the absence of violence in the clearing that gave it an eerie feel. It was an oasis of calm in the middle of one of the world’s busiest cities. When he’d first stood here yesterday, it had had a tranquil feel to it before he’d seen the first body, splashes of colour hidden away behind the cloak of green trees. Now, it was as if vandals had ripped up a garden. Around half of the rose bushes were dug up, lying off to the side. Mini trenches excavated where they had been. Eight black plastic sheets lay on the ground. Some were just bones, picked clean by time and insects. Others looked more recent. Still been there a while by the looks of things, but clumps and strands of muscle still clung to the frame, like dirty papier mâché.

  ‘What the hell happened here?’ he said, as much to himself as anyone.

  ‘We nearly missed it,’ Styles said. ‘Wasn’t until after they’d shipped the first lot off to the doc that Kam spotted it.’

  ‘Spotted what?’

  ‘They thought we had the lot, but there was another fragment sticking out. Looked more like a tree root, apparently. When Kam went back for it, turned out it was a finger, attached to a full left hand. Trouble was, there was a left hand in the batch that had already gone.’

  ‘Milburn’s going to have a fit,’ Porter said, knowing that his boss had a knack for looking past the human element, seeing the unsolved stats spiking upwards, one eye always on the headlines.

  ‘After that they worked their way around the place,’ Styles continued. ‘Looks like there’s two per bush judging by what they’ve found.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Porter breathed out.

  ‘Gets worse,’ said Styles. ‘They’re all kids. Every single one of ’em.’

  They stood side by side in silence for a time after that revelation, Porter finally breaking the silence.

  ‘Do have a best guess how long they’ve been there? Same as the first one?’

  ‘Some of ’em, yes. Others look a bit more recent, not fully decomposed. Nothing fresh, though,’ said Styles. ‘We’ve got fragments of clothing for most of them. Scraps really, all filthy, and no real identifiers so far.’

  ‘Hope Emma hasn’t got any more appointments for a while,’ Porter said, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene, like a macabre archaeological dig. ‘Think we’re going to be busy for a while.’

  ‘If you two have finished whispering sweet nothings, I’ve got something else you might be interested in,’ Kam called over his shoulder to them from where he knelt by the sheets of remains.

  Porter and Styles headed over, careful to stick to the path of clear forensic stepping plates laid out across the clearing.

  ‘What you got, Kam?’ asked Porter.

  ‘No idea if it’s significant or just a coincidence, but look here.’ He pointed at the remains furthest to the left. ‘Here, this first one looks like a girl from the pelvic bone. She was under bush number one with this one here.’ He pointed to the neighbouring plastic sheet. ‘Pretty sure number two is a young lad.’

  ‘OK,’ said Porter, drawing that last syllable out, making Kam look up, realising his point wasn’t landing.

  ‘It’s not just these two,’ he said. ‘All but the first ones are in pairs. One boy, one girl, a pair under each bush.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘First person I hear use the phrase “serial killer” has to stick ten quid in the jar,’ Porter said, looking from face to face around the briefing room, daring anyone to disagree.

  ‘What else do we call someone who stashes that many bodies, boss?’ one of the newer constables piped up.

  ‘We call them sick, twisted and wrong, Glenn, cos that’s what they are,’ Styles cut in. ‘But we don’t get the tabloids all excited by thinking they’re covering the next Hannibal Lecter.’

  ‘What if they ask us outright?’ Glenn Waters asked.

  ‘Ask us what, Glenn?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Whether there’s a serial killer wandering around London.’

  ‘Then we use the most wonderful two words in the English language, Glenn: no comment,’ Styles said. ‘Oh, and that’s a tenner in the jar as well, please.’

  ‘Eh? I never … argh. Really?’

  ‘Really,’ Porter said, straight-faced, but as Waters rolled his eyes and looked away, Porter looked to Styles, seeing his DS give a wink and nod.

  ‘You can pop it in on the way out when we’re done,’ said Styles.

  PC Dee Williams, next to Waters, gave him a playful punch as pockets of laughter drowned out his grumbling.

  ‘Enough of the small talk,’ said Porter. ‘Nick, take them through what we know so far.’

  Styles took a step forward. ‘We’ve got nine victims in total, eight of them buried in pairs. The first one we found was paired up. Odd one out is a boy. We’re waiting on results for any DNA matches in the database, and should have tests back on clothes by tomorrow. The doc will be able to give us ages for the rest, but what we do know is that our first female was around seven or eight when she died.’

  He paused, letting that settle in, seeing the rows of serious faces, all traces of laughter long gone.

  ‘DI Porter and I will be speaking to Ally and Simon Hallforth again, as well as Libby’s brother Marcus. Williams, Waters, the priority for you lovely lot is to start reviewing missing persons files. Whoever these kids are, someone has to have noticed they’re not around any more. We know most about our first girl so far, so let’s start with her and see where that takes us. We can focus on the others when we know more.’

  Glenn Waters didn’t exactly look thr
illed at getting grunt work, but he kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Gus and Kaja, you’ll be heading back to the scene to speak to the park manager. We need a list of employees. Can’t have been easy to get that many bodies over there. There’s every chance that one of them either knows something or saw something.’

  Kaja Sucheka was literally half Gus Tessier’s size. Half-Polish, less than twelve months on the force as part of a fast-track intake. Normally that brought with it a sizeable helping of scepticism from some of the longer-serving officers, but she had a way of getting people onside better than most Porter had seen. Good with people. Very good. She and Tessier would pair up well together.

  ‘You should all have heard by now that the sighting we had can be ruled out, but we still want any CCTV we can get our hands on from the park and surrounding area. That island has a garden of remembrance type feel to it. Whoever’s responsible might have been there in the not too distant past. Might feel like needle-in-a-haystack but it’s too high profile to cut corners. Waters, you and Williams can take that too. Work out between you who does what.’

  Styles nodded at Porter and took a step back, leaning against a desk.

  ‘Thanks, Nick. OK, we all know what needs doing. Twice-daily briefings until further notice, 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. No comments to the press. Any enquiries come through me. Questions?’

  Kaja Sucheka put a hand up. ‘What about the Hallforth case, boss?’

  Porter chewed on his lower lip. ‘Still very much active, but this takes priority until I say otherwise. DS Styles and I will continue to chase up any leads for now.’

  He hadn’t spoken with Milburn yet, and wasn’t sure how that would fly with his boss. The chances of not being collared for an update before he left the building again were slim to none. He’d work Libby’s case himself if he had to. No way he could give up on it just yet. Too much of a coincidence for them to be looking for a missing seven-year-old and find a DIY graveyard full of kids around that age.

  No more questions followed, and they dispersed in their pairs, leaving just Porter and Styles.

  ‘Did you check in with Evie yet, boss?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘About dinner?’

  ‘Oh, right, shit, no I didn’t but I’m seeing her after work.’

  ‘No worries, there’s no hurry,’ Styles replied.

  Porter hated letting things slip, no matter how small. He’d let a few little slips like that from Styles rub him up the wrong way, but he was getting just as distracted. Hard not to be when an already complicated case explodes in your face like an over-shaken can. One question kept circling, looking for a place to land. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but tried not to let it become an absolute in his mind.

  None of the bodies looked more recent than twelve months. Could someone capable of killing nine children really just stop like that?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘That poor woman,’ Evie Simmons said, scraping froth from the top of her latte with a teaspoon. The station canteen was no Starbucks, but it’d do. ‘Bad enough her daughter goes missing. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to still not know, everything getting splashed across the telly now.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  This about summed up his conversational skills today. She’d noticed in the months they’d been together that he could be like this. Not in the heat of the moment. He was as good under pressure as anyone she’d worked with. But these little troughs where you had time to sit and reflect, it was as if he couldn’t multitask, think and speak. Too caught up in untangling knots in his mind.

  ‘How did you leave it when you called her, then?’

  ‘Not a lot more I could tell her, really. They’re all too old to be Libby, so doesn’t matter to her what else we find out there.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ she said.

  He frowned. ‘What you do you mean?’

  ‘I’m just thinking that there aren’t many out there capable of doing whatever has been done to those poor kids. In one case you’re looking for someone who’s kidnapped a seven-year-old. In the other one you’re after someone who kills kids around that age. There’s no reason they can’t both be the same person.’

  ‘So, you’re saying he keeps them all alive for months before he kills them?’ Porter asked, scepticism clear to hear in his words.

  Simmons shrugged. ‘Can’t rule it out, least not until you know who they are, how long since anyone last saw them alive.’

  She watched the lines in his forehead soften as the logic in what she was saying sank in. He nodded, sipped at his coffee, splicing that possibility in with the dozen others jostling for position.

  ‘You’re right. Sorry, I shouldn’t try and shoot you down like that. I know you’re only trying to help.’

  She reached over, placing her hand over his. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

  So slight she almost didn’t feel it, but there was a definite twitch as she touched him. They hadn’t come right out and broadcast being a couple at work yet. It wasn’t an issue for her. Truth be told, she didn’t even think it bothered him that much, the thought of others knowing. More likely that it was a reflex he might not even spot himself. More to do with being with anyone, not just her.

  One of her best friends had likened him, and all men for that matter, to a pack of spaghetti. They could be brittle, not wanting to be forced into anything that wasn’t their idea in the first place. Let things simmer, though, low heat for a while, and they’d soften, bend and let you in.

  ‘The dad is a piece of work,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I saw him on his soapbox on Sky News earlier.’

  ‘Don’t get me started,’ he said with a loud sigh. ‘The son, Marcus, told Styles that his dad used to knock him around. Wouldn’t surprise me if he did the same with his wife, or maybe even Libby.’

  ‘He getting looked at again, then?’ she asked.

  Porter nodded. ‘If I have my way, yeah. The two of them alibi each other for almost the full day, and we’ve got nothing to prove otherwise. Won’t stop me from looking, though, assuming Milburn doesn’t kick it to the back of the queue.’

  They lapsed into silence for a moment, before Porter remembered his promise to Styles.

  ‘Oh, before I forget, Nick has asked if we want to have dinner with him and Emma this weekend.’

  ‘You asking me if I want to hang out with you and your mates in the park?’ Simmons said, straight-faced.

  A smile snuck around the edges, curling the edges of his lips upwards. ‘There’ll even be booze there. I can use my warrant card to get served in the shops.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, ‘I suppose I could cancel all those other grand plans I’ve got.’

  ‘What about grand plans for tonight?’ he asked.

  She squeezed his hand, then sat back again. ‘I’d love to say “none”, but a girl’s gotta work. I could come over later, though, if you’re not going to be tucked up with a cup of hot milk by ten?’

  ‘You know my routine so well,’ he said. ‘What you got on tonight, anything interesting?’

  ‘We’ve got someone inside Nuhić’s gang, low-level, but we’re wiring him up for a meeting tonight. We arrested a few of Nuhić’s dealers last week, and our man is in line for a promotion.’

  Branislav Nuhić was a Slovenian who ran one of the gangs that had risen to fill the void left by Alexander Locke, formerly head of one of the largest criminal organisations in London, if not the UK. He was dead now, killed by a stray bullet as Porter tried to arrest him. Simmons hadn’t been there to see the case through. One of Locke’s men had put her in hospital, comatose and surrounded by more beeping machines than a supermarket checkout line. Almost killed her. She’d practically had to learn to walk again after suffering a near-fatal bleed on her brain. It had taken months of recovery and rehab, and at times she wasn’t even sure she could come back, but here she was, trying to break up the multi-gang cockfight that Locke’s d
emise had set in motion.

  ‘You think Nuhić will be there?’

  She shook her head. ‘He keeps himself well insulated. Spends most of his time pretending to run the family bakery down by Creekmouth. We’ve still got a few rungs to climb before we’re close enough to bag him, but he’ll keep.’

  Porter drained what was left of his coffee. ‘Give me a shout when you’re done playing cops and robbers, then. Might see you later.’

  She promised to call him if she got done by midnight, and he headed off to see if Styles was still around. Simmons took the stairs down to the car park, texting her DI as she walked to her motor. Seconds later, an address popped up, the location of their surveillance van. She checked her watch. Traffic shouldn’t be too bad this time of night.

  With you in forty.

  She didn’t envy their inside man. Nuhić had a reputation for being creative with those who crossed him. No shortage of stories. One in particular stuck with her. There was little left by the time they found the body of a man who’d skimmed his own cut from Nuhić’s profits. On all fours, feet and hands cased in concrete, stripped naked, gravy poured over him like a basted joint to attract the rats. Getting someone to turn on Nuhić was about as easy as striking a match on a bar of soap, but they’d done it.

  The man in question, practically a kid really, Alfie Dean, had been making a few quid on the side selling his own product. Unfortunately for him, he’d been picked up doing it by one of the surveillance teams building a case on Nuhić. Simmons’s boss, DI Aaron Maartens, hadn’t expressly said as much, but Dean had been left believing if he didn’t flip and inform for them that Nuhić might be made aware of his extra-curricular activities. Rock and hard place.

  She pulled up on George Street, near Barking station, and a short walk around the corner from the apartment block at Anne Mews where tonight’s fun and games would take place. Five minutes later, she walked through the door of a third-floor flat, joining DI Maartens, two plain-clothes PCs and a nervous-looking Alfie Dean. Dean was early twenties but probably still got ID’d in bars. Sharp haircut, shaved around the edges and styled longer on top. He could have passed for your average man-scaped teenager if he hadn’t been sitting around a kitchen table with three coppers.