All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Perfect timing,’ said Maartens. ‘Say cheese!’

  One of the PCs spun a laptop screen around on the table to face her; there was a slight fish-eye effect, a little shaky but clear enough to recognise her own face staring back at her. From the angle, it had to be coming from somewhere around chest height on Dean, but try as she might, she couldn’t spot the camera. Good news for Dean was that if she couldn’t, chances were Nuhić’s men wouldn’t either.

  ‘Third button down,’ said Maartens, following her gaze. Dean smiled, but it was about as confident as a politician onstage, waiting for a count he knows he’s lost by a country mile.

  ‘Jesus, man,’ Dean said, nerves upping his voice an octave, ‘just me or is it hot in here? Can we just crack on?’

  ‘You’re all set, Alfie,’ said Maartens. ‘Now talk me back through it one more time.’

  Dean rattled off his instructions at a pace. Always try and face whoever he was talking to for the camera’s sake. Make sure there was at least one full sweep of the room. The meeting would be downstairs, in his flat on the second floor. After everyone left, he was to take the stairs back up here, where they would be waiting to retrieve the camera. Dean was moving up a rung, ready to run his own crew who would sell product in a defined area.

  ‘Come on, man, I gotta go,’ he said when he was finished. ‘If I’m not in my own digs when they rock up it’s gonna look weird.’

  Maartens gestured towards the door, and Dean scuttled off without another word, the picture on the screen bouncing all over the place as he trotted downstairs.

  ‘Knew I should have brought some teabags,’ Maartens said, looking longingly at the kettle.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Less than ten minutes later, the tinny echo of a doorbell rang out from the laptop, and Dean muttered under his breath, swearing his way along the corridor. His visitors were all chips off the same block. Clothes so similar it could be a uniform. Low-slung jeans, hoodies so baggy they looked like the ‘after’ part of a weight loss ad.

  Even though the whole thing was being recorded, Maartens scribbled notes in his mini Moleskine. He was old-school, a late joiner but with twenty years’ service now, and tolerated technology when he had to. The tricky thing with Nuhić was pinning anything on him. He insulated himself with more layers than a pensioner in winter, and tonight was just one more step closer.

  For God’s sake, take a breath.

  Might just be because she knew he was working for them, but he sounded nervous. Talked too fast. Laughed too loudly. Simmons noticed that while Dean dropped Nuhić’s name in a few times, the others just referred to him as ‘The Boss’. One of them raised an eyebrow as Dean name-dropped Nuhić for the third time in as many minutes.

  ‘Dial it down, Dean,’ Maartens muttered, picking up on the same nerves as Simmons.

  The door chimed again, and Dean jumped up to answer.

  ‘You expecting company?’ one of the others asked, a hard-faced lad with a boxer’s nose.

  ‘That’ll be the strippers,’ Dean chuckled as he walked down the corridor, laughing a little too hard at his own joke.

  Simmons looked from the screen to Maartens. Nobody else was due to join the meeting. This didn’t feel good. She held her breath as the picture all but disappeared, Dean flush up against the door, spying through the glass peephole, presumably. A loud sigh.

  ‘Not tonight, man, come back later.’

  ‘I’m here now, though. Come on, I need to restock. It’ll just take two minutes and I’m gone.’

  The voice was muffled from behind the door. Not one Simmons recognised. Maartens didn’t either from the frowns furrowing his forehead.

  Another loud sigh from Dean. They saw his feet as he looked downwards.

  ‘Two minutes, and I’m out of your hair,’ the voice said, knocking again.

  ‘Fine,’ Dean huffed, ‘but you wait outside. The usual?’

  ‘Please. Thanks, man! Appreciate it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Dean muttered, and they watched as he walked into his bathroom and lifted a mirror from the wall, exposing a hole behind, rows of small plastic pouches piled inside. Some had pills, others powder and, beside them, tightly bound rolls of banknotes.

  ‘This is just to keep my cover.’ Dean’s explanation for their benefit, whispered through the speakers. ‘One of my guys after more gear to sell. I don’t do this, they ask questions.’

  Maartens chuckled. ‘Selling a few pills is the least of your worries right now, mate.’

  Dean grabbed an assortment of bags, powder and pills, and headed back to the door. Simmons leant back, tipping her chair onto two legs, using the break in action to stretch, yawning so wide her jaw clicked. She watched as Dean opened the door. The face waiting in the corridor made her jerk forward, chair thumping on the floor. She’d seen it before. Earlier today on Sky News. He looked less riled up now, bluster all used up in front of the cameras. No mistaking the face, though. Grinning, shifting from foot to foot as if the floor was burning up. Simon Hallforth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Porter blinked in disbelief as he listened to Simmons. Simon Hallforth, whose daughter was missing. Working for Dean, who worked for Branislav Nuhić. The names crashed together in his head. What the hell was Hallforth doing mixed up with these men? What might it have cost him? Libby’s name flashed through his mind. Knowing the kind of man Nuhić was, Porter would put nothing past him. Had Hallforth betrayed him, sending Nuhić after his family, a greater punishment than any beating?

  ‘What does this Alfie Dean have to say about Hallforth?’

  ‘Just that he’s as much a customer as an employee. That’s why he started dealing, apparently. Needed the extra cash to buy his own gear.’

  ‘Well, this is going to make for an interesting chat with Mr Hallforth now, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Styles and I are following up with him and his ex-wife tomorrow.’

  ‘You can’t grill him on this, Jake, not yet.’

  ‘You said it yourself. If he’s in deep with Nuhić there’s a good chance Libby’s disappearance is linked. If it’s not then that’s one hell of a coincidence.’

  ‘And that’s why he can’t know about this. How else do you explain finding out about his little habit without exposing Alfie Dean?’

  Porter stopped in his tracks. He hated to admit it but she was right. As much as he wanted to grill Simon Hallforth, shut him in a claustrophobic room and look him in the eye when he asked if he’d put his own daughter in danger for the sake of a cheap high, he knew it’d hurt more than help at this stage.

  ‘Alright, fair point,’ he said. ‘But we can’t ignore the connection, so what do you suggest?’

  ‘How about letting me take a shot at the mum?’ she asked. ‘She’s clearly come to her senses if she’s left him. If we can get anything from her that sends us down the same path, then it’s fair game.’

  Porter mulled it over. Blurring of boundaries never sat well with Milburn. He’d left a voicemail for Porter to brief him first thing tomorrow, but he knew his boss was likely to insist all hands on deck for the Victoria Park case. Unlikely that he’d sanction Simmons’s time being spent on a five-month-old case instead, assuming he found out, that is.

  ‘It’d have to be an unofficial one for now. You know what the super will say.’

  ‘I can keep a secret if you can,’ she said.

  ‘Deal. If you can do that first thing, I’ll hang fire on speaking to the dad again in the meantime.’

  ‘So now that we’ve practically solved the case,’ she said, ‘I think a celebratory drink is in order.’

  ‘Think we’ve missed last orders,’ he said, knowing full well what she was getting at.

  ‘I’ll take my chances your place doesn’t get raided, then.’

  ‘I’ll make sure your name’s on the VIP list,’ he said.

  He ended the call and peeled himself off the couch, picking a cushion off the floor, sca
nning the room, remembering the mess he’d left in the kitchen, crumbs and empty packets. Demetrious watched him through slitted eyes from his spot on the armchair.

  ‘What?’ Porter asked the cat. ‘Just picking up a few things so it doesn’t look like a squat. You might think about pulling your weight round here one of these days.’

  A long, slow blink was all he got in response. As he hastily worked his way around the flat, making the place presentable, he peeked around his bedroom door, spotting the wedding photo he’d left out. Back it went into the drawer, and he was surprised to note that it didn’t feel wrong to stash it. Maybe this time it could stay there. Should stay there. They’d been together almost eight months, depending on when you class the whole ‘couple’ thing becoming unofficially official, and Evie was spending more and more time here after work. The photo had become more of a habit and less of the crutch it used to be.

  He heard Holly’s voice in his head. She could still make him smile.

  About bloody time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was a misunderstanding, he tells himself. The girl from the fairground. Nothing wrong with his eyesight, just that sometimes everything goes into soft focus, like an old home movie. Not the first mistake he’s made. Hopefully the last, though. There had been such a strong resemblance. Uncanny, the way she’d looked, moved even. If he could only get five minutes with her. Explain what this was doing to him. Being kept apart from his children. It’s a physical pain, an ache in his gut, as if he’s been sucker-punched if he thinks too hard about it.

  That’s the problem, though. He can’t find her. Each time he’s seen the children, she’s never around. They’re always on their own. That, or with other people, strangers, like she’s farmed them out. Too busy to take care of them herself, too precious to leave with him. She’s careful, alright. Moves around as much as he does, keeping one step ahead.

  He’s pretty sure he saw his son yesterday. Right here in Oxford. What were the chances, that he just happened to be here working for a few days? All happened too quick to be sure, the boy sitting on a double decker bus, framed in the window, generic-looking school uniform on. It pulled away from the stop, driver oblivious to his waving. He’ll wait there tomorrow. Same time, same place. The following day too if he has to. When it comes to his children, there’s nothing he won’t do. Nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Your concerns are duly noted, DI Porter,’ said Superintendent Roger Milburn, chair creaking like a floorboard as he leant back. ‘I’m not saying the Hallforth case is dead in the water, but even you have to admit, an island full of bodies trumps it for now.’

  Even you. The inference being that he was an outlier, a dissenter. Like his opinion was at odds with the entire Met Police force.

  ‘I’m not saying it doesn’t, sir, but—’

  ‘Then why is there a “but” at all?’ Milburn shot back.

  ‘I just think it’d be wrong to shelve it when it’s back in the public eye after the reconstruction.’

  ‘And you think it’ll stay that way once the Evening Standard is running headlines about serial killers?’

  Porter toyed with mentioning the ten quid fine rule, but knew it’d cost him more than it’d cost Milburn.

  ‘We didn’t have anything tangible on the parents at the time, sir, but now we know the father has links to Branislav Nuhić, that opens up a whole new line of enquiry …’

  ‘… that you cannot use as leverage with Simon Hallforth,’ Milburn finished for him. ‘I will not have you torpedo one case to chase another, all the while leaving potentially the biggest murder inquiry you’ve ever worked on to gather dust. That’s assuming you still want to work it, of course?’ Milburn raised his eyebrows in challenge.

  Porter knew what his boss said made sense. He genuinely believed he could work the two, but recognised the look he was getting for the you just try me that it was. Styles would follow Porter’s lead, do whatever he could to keep all plates spinning. That plus Evie’s help might just be enough. Regardless, it wasn’t worth losing the Victoria Park case. Pick your battles, he told himself, and this isn’t one.

  ‘Course I do, sir. You’re right.’

  The last few words felt awkward, but Milburn swallowed them down, happy that, once again, he’d got his way. Porter left him be, after promising to update him personally after each briefing, including the one he was heading to now.

  Styles had been tasked with herding everyone in for the morning briefing, and Porter was pleasantly surprised to see not only were they all there, but that Styles had a spare coffee waiting for him.

  ‘How was our glorious leader?’ he asked.

  ‘As glorious as ever,’ said Porter, squashing down a dozen more accurate replies. ‘Right, let’s get cracking. Gus, Kaja, you’re first up. What did our park manager have to say for themselves?’

  ‘Oh, he was a barrel of laughs, boss,’ said Kaja Sucheka. ‘Poor sod couldn’t have been more nervous if we’d slapped the cuffs on him. Didn’t help that he kept looking at Gus like there was a chance he’d end up under a rose bush if he didn’t cooperate.’

  Tessier shrugged. ‘Dunno what his problem was. He’d be safe. I hate gardening.’

  ‘We did get a list of names, though. They use a mix of permanent staff employed by Tower Hamlets Council, plus some third-party contractors. There’s a dozen in the first pot, and we’re waiting on word back around how many contractors. They use a company called Nexon.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ said Styles. ‘Think they’re a French company. Got a load of contracts in the public sector.’

  ‘OK, good work. Let’s get those dozen interviewed ASAP, and we can work on the contractors when we get the info through.’ He turned to Waters and Williams now. ‘How about you two? How big a list do we have reported missing in the right age range?’

  Dee Williams beat Waters to the punch. ‘So, going off the age plus how long she’s been down there, we’ve got a total across the thirty-two local authorities of seventy-four. Should be able to narrow that down later today or tomorrow when we get results back around ethnicity and any more distinguishing features like that leg break.’

  ‘I’ll check in with Dr Jakobsdottir. Might even spring for dessert if we get our tests back today,’ he said, looking towards Styles.

  Williams, however, didn’t get the reference, but smiled anyway. ‘Will do, boss.’

  Porter debated sharing the intel they now had on Simon Hallforth, but decided against it, for now at least. The more who knew, the higher the chance that word might get around. These things had a way of bubbling to the surface, and as much as he wanted to force it down Hallforth’s throat to find out if it had a bearing on Libby, he couldn’t let Evie down like that.

  ‘OK, lots to crack on with,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’ll see you all back here for five, and remember, if any press asks, what have we not got on the loose?’

  Silence all round. They were fast learners, even Glenn Waters. No extra cash heading into the charity jar. Styles hung back.

  ‘You want to head and speak to the parents first thing, or you want Milburn to see us working the park case first?’

  He signalled with a flick of eyes, and Porter saw Roger Milburn from the corner of his eye, walking the length of the office, glancing his way but not bothering to stop and talk.

  ‘Oh, you know me,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘Perception is reality.’

  Styles recognised one of Milburn’s own overused quotes, and bit back a smile until the superintendent was out of sight.

  ‘You remember to speak to Evie yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yeah. We’d love to. Let me know when works.’

  ‘Emma said to suggest this Saturday. Any good?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds good.’

  ‘You know,’ said Styles, leaning in, about to share a secret, ‘I had Unsworth in my old team ask me about you two today. Seems there’s a scandalous rumour going around tha
t you two might even be …’ He paused for effect, looking both ways, before whispering, ‘An item.’

  Porter rolled his eyes. ‘And it’ll be all over Hello! and OK! magazine before you know it. It’s like being back in the bloody playground.’

  ‘I might be able to make a few quid,’ said Styles. ‘I can be that insider they always quote from. You know, “a source close to the couple said …”’

  ‘Oh, speaking of Evie, she’s doing us a little favour this morning.’

  Porter ran him through what he and Evie had agreed last night, how it needed to stay between them for now. Not for onward distribution, and definitely not for Milburn’s ears. Styles mimed pulling a zip across his lips. Porter checked his watch.

  ‘She should be there now in fact. I say we give her an hour, then once she’s checked in we go and speak to Simon Hallforth. Actually, scratch that. Divide and conquer. You take Hallforth. I’ll take the brother, Marcus. Lemme just check in with the doc and then we’ll head.’

  Isabella Jakobsdottir picked up on the first ring. ‘Spooky,’ she said. ‘I was just about to call you.’

  ‘That’s what they all say, but then they never call.’

  ‘Really? That’s not what I hear these days, Detective,’ she said, but carried on speaking before he could ask what she meant. ‘Some interesting little titbits for you to start the day. First things first. Cause of death looks the same on all nine. Same inward lateral compression fracture of the hyoid. Should have toxicology back this afternoon, but in the absence of anything contributory showing up, I’d say it looks like straightforward strangulation on all.’

  Death broken down into a series of clinical observations, as if it was the most everyday of occurrences, mundane. Although good to have confirmation, Porter had second-guessed this, so it didn’t come as a huge revelation. The time passed since death was a significant complication. Had they been recent, the bodies could have held a wealth of clues. Marks on a neck to indicate hand size. Skin under fingernails from a struggle. Most, if not all of that would have long since deteriorated, beyond use.