All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ Porter shot back as he sat down. Styles slid into the seat next to him, and Porter reminded himself there was a time and place for any recriminations, and now was neither.

  ‘Ally’s already given a statement that you assaulted both her and my colleague, so good luck with that. If I were you I’d be more concerned right now about what Branislav Nuhić will think when he finds out one of his men, and I use the term loosely, has been arrested.’

  ‘Don’t know no Nuhić,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll let you off with the double negative,’ said Porter, holding up a hand to Hallforth’s solicitor, a portly man by the name of Steven Linton, to acknowledge the grammatical swipe.

  ‘My client denies all knowledge of Mr Nuhić, and has no links to Mr Nuhić’s business, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Porter mused. ‘Be that as it may, you’re already charged with two counts of assault, and I think we both know not even Mr Linton here will help you wriggle out of those. All I’m bothered about today, Simon’ – Porter leant forward, low voice but no mistaking the hard edges – ‘is where your daughter might be right now. Let me tell you where I’m at with that, because the simplest explanations are usually the right ones. Now we know you have form for knocking around women and children, we’ll be looking at you again through a microscope. You can’t account for that entire day, and if there’s anything there to find, make no mistake, I’ll find it.’

  ‘Detective, please,’ Linton cut in. ‘As rousing as your soapbox moment is, my client isn’t under arrest in connection with his daughter’s disappearance. I’d suggest we keep on track here?’

  Porter gave Linton a polite, thin-lipped smile. ‘Let’s do just that, then, shall we? The other school of thought is that Libby’s disappearance has something to do with Branislav Nuhić, either at his command or because of the ongoing struggles he’s currently having with rival gangs in the area.’

  ‘At the risk of sounding like a broken record, Detective, my client denies—’

  ‘All knowledge of Mr Nuhić, and his business interests. I know, I remember that part. What I’m curious about, then, if your client has no links to the biggest drug lord in the area, is where he got the stash we found in the wheelie-bin lock-up behind his flat?’

  Linton turned to Hallforth, who said nothing, his face dropping a few shades on the Dulux colour chart.

  ‘Did I forget to mention, Simon, we got a warrant to search your premises, including your little lock-up? Nice little nest egg there. So, now you’re either competing against Nuhić, and I’m not sure he’d take kindly to that, or you’re on his team. But like I said’ – Porter leant back, as relaxed as if he were having a natter across the dinner table – ‘I’m all about Libby here. There’s something about that day you’re not telling us. We know you and your wife weren’t together the whole time up until Libby’s disappearance.’

  Linton leant in, speaking into Hallforth’s ear, too low for Porter to hear. Hallforth wouldn’t look Porter in the eye as he listened, turning to whisper a reply to Linton. They repeated this three more times, until Hallforth finally looked back at Porter, leant into the table and spoke.

  ‘I don’t know no Nuhić,’ he said, speaking slowly, as if to a child. A pause, his mouth twisting as if what came next carried a bad taste. ‘Stuff in the lock-up, s’mine. The day at the fair, I was, ah, I was off selling to customers. My customers, no one else’s.’ He sat back, arms folded, but the body language was all wrong. Far from confident, one tic after another, nose twitching, licking lips, eyebrow raised.

  ‘You’re your own boss, then?’ Styles chipped in, clear from his tone he didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hallforth.

  ‘And who were these customers you sold to?’ Porter asked.

  Hallforth rolled his eyes, looking over Porter’s head. ‘I dunno all their names, do I? Don’t have to. They know me, they know where to get their gear.’

  ‘So, what, you took out an ad in the Evening Standard saying you’d be there, big sale, one day only?’

  Hallforth smirked. ‘No, but I like that. Maybe I’ll do that next time.’

  ‘Your wife went to get coffee,’ said Porter. ‘You were apart for ten minutes, give or take. What did you do during that ten minutes? Where were you, who were you with?’

  The corners of Hallforth’s mouth curled into a cruel smile. ‘It’s not me you wanna be asking, mate.’

  ‘Who else should we be asking, then?’ said Styles.

  ‘You really think she went for coffee?’

  ‘You think she didn’t?’

  ‘I know she didn’t.’

  ‘And where do you think she was?’

  ‘Oh, I know exactly where she was.’

  Porter leant forward, tired of the verbal sparring. ‘Tell us, don’t tell us, I don’t really care at this point. You’re the one up shit creek.’

  ‘I know where she was because she was one of my best customers,’ he said, leaning back, hands behind his head, relaxed, just chewing the fat with his mates. ‘She was off shooting up. High as a kite she was. Could have done anything and she’d not even remember it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Two days by the same stop, same time. Buses came and went. A procession of blurred faces, but the boy doesn’t reappear. There’s a conflict in his mind he can’t quite reconcile. A disconnect. No tracking back to a last happy memory, unable to pinpoint when he last held them, heard their laugh, played with them. The version of himself he’s seen in the home movies looks younger than the face staring back at him from the mirror. How long has it been exactly since those were shot? Years. Then why does it feel like only yesterday when he watches them? Why are those versions of the children from years ago the same as how he sees them now?

  His memory is like an old TV set, tuning ever so slightly off, fuzz around the edges. Maybe that’s why he’s made so many mistakes. Last week wasn’t the first time he was certain one or both of the children were standing right there in front of him. It’s as if he gets caught up in the moment, overwhelmed by the thought of getting his life back, having them back as part of it, that it knocks the dials in his head a notch, skewing his vision. In those moments, his whole being sings with joy, reunited with his boy and girl, pieces of his life reassembled.

  The crash that follows is every bit as intense, only in reverse. The realisation that it’s somebody else’s child he holds in his arms. Disappointment and devastation, twin birds swooping in to peck away at his happiness, leaving him adrift, looking into frightened eyes. His own personal Groundhog Day, destined to replay until he gets it right. It’ll happen one day. After that there’ll be no more mistakes. No regrets.

  He looks around the hotel room, feeling as alone as he ever has. Click. The television pops into life, the newsreader’s voice better company than his own thoughts, even though he usually avoids it where he can. He wanders over to the kettle, stands as it grumbles into life, and stares at the small red light glowing near the base, until a series of words from the TV pops his daydream bubble.

  Nine bodies … Victoria Park …

  He whips around, trailing hand knocking the cup flying, spinning onto the floor. Sees a familiar vista on screen. An island in soft focus, behind a female reporter. A familiar face flashes on screen, the girl from the funfair. No mistaking her for Marie this time. Thinner around the nose, higher cheekbones.

  Children … Roses …

  His skin prickles, goosebumps popping like Braille. His garden. His children. Ruined. Spoilt. Shock turns to anger. Anger into resolve. Someone will answer for this. They don’t understand what he does, and why he does it. Who’s going to watch over them now they’ve been taken? He moves on autopilot, ramming clothes into a rucksack. One way or the other, he’ll have his children back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ally Hallforth pushed both palms against her temples, stretching the edges of red-rimmed eyes.

  �
��You don’t understand what it was like living with him,’ she said between sniffs. ‘He was the one who got me on the stuff in the first place. Next thing you know he’s giving me grief for using too much. I’m clean now. Have been for nearly five months, ever since …’ Her voice trailed off, fresh tears trickling down her cheeks.

  ‘What about your husband’s statement, then?’ Styles asked. ‘Had you in fact gone to inject heroin when Libby went missing?’

  Her head dropped forwards, shaking with silent sobs as she nodded.

  ‘He’s mixing with some bad people, Ally. Really bad. Bad enough to hurt him, or those close to him if they thought he’d done them wrong. I need you to tell us what you actually remember from that day.’

  ‘I hate him,’ she said softly. ‘Everything that’s happened, it’s all his fault. I hate him.’

  ‘What do you mean it’s his fault, Ally?’ Porter asked.

  She closed her eyes, exhaled loudly, and when she spoke, there was a dreamy lilt to it, like she’d just woken up.

  ‘We’d had a bust-up a few days before. I accused him of having an affair with Ellie from two doors down, and he wouldn’t give me any gear. By the time we went to the fair, I was all strung out, you know. Nearly didn’t even go, but Libby was harping on about it, doing my head in, about how we’d promised to take her.’

  Porter clenched and unclenched his fists under the table, anger bubbling beneath the surface, imagining Libby’s world, walking on eggshells with two junkie parents, left to wander off with God only knows who, while one dealt drugs and the other shot up.

  ‘I wanted to call you lot sooner. That part was true,’ she said, with a sad shake of her head. ‘But he convinced me that she’d turn up. That if I called and you lot saw me high like that, that you’d take her away. He’d get banged up, and then she’d have no one.’

  ‘So what made you come clean about his drug dealing now?’

  ‘I knew after Libby, I had to clean up for Chloe’s sake,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t leave me alone. Kept calling round, pestering me when I went out. I just want him out of my life for good.’ She looked up, nervous glances at both Porter and Styles. ‘What happens now? Am I going to be arrested?’

  ‘You’re not under arrest, Mrs Hallforth,’ said Porter, leaning forward, elbows on the table. ‘I will have to pass on this information to social services, though. They’ll want to speak to you and your ex-husband.’

  ‘But I’m clean now,’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘I don’t do that shit any more. They can’t take Chloe! She’s all I’ve got left. They won’t take her, will they?’

  ‘Not up to me, Mrs Hallforth,’ said Porter.

  The lack of any visible sympathy set off her sobbing again. Porter couldn’t decide whether she deserved his pity or not. She’d been dealt a crappy hand alright, but if your kids weren’t motivation enough to straighten yourself out, he didn’t know what was. She may well have found that strength for Chloe, but it had come way too late for Libby.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked once she had reined her emotions back in, for now at least.

  ‘Now we look at the possibility that your husband’s drug dealing played a part in your daughter’s disappearance,’ he said. ‘Simon has been charged with two counts of assault, and possession of Class A substances, but for now, you’re free to go.’

  He and Styles watched as Ally Hallforth was escorted out of the room by a uniformed constable. As soon as the door was closed, Porter dived in where he’d wanted to go all day.

  ‘Simple job, Nick, get an FLO there. Why was there nobody with her when Evie called round?’

  ‘Boss, I—’

  ‘You’ve seen what an odious little prick Hallforth is,’ he spat out. ‘They could both have been hurt, or worse.’

  ‘I know’ – Styles held up his hands in apology – ‘and I’m sorry. Had so much going on. I just forgot. Won’t happen again.’

  Porter had been spoiling for a bigger argument, but the fight went out of him as he looked at Styles, saw the genuine regret etched on his face. He stood up, clapped Styles on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on, let’s get this briefing done and get home. It’s been a long day.’

  They headed back to their desks, Styles popping around the others, tapping shoulders and pointing towards the room they had set up for the investigation. Porter had asked Dee Williams to check whether they’d had any more results back from the lab, and he assumed that was a yes, seeing her already in there, scribbling on the whiteboard.

  It took five minutes, Glenn Waters hurrying in last, clutching a takeout coffee cup from the cafe downstairs. Porter had seen him scurrying out as Styles was rounding them up. Priorities. He’d have a word later.

  ‘Looks promising, Dee,’ he said, as she clicked the cap on her pen. ‘Want to kick us off with what came back?’

  She looked tired, but her face brightened. ‘Bit of progress, actually, boss. The DNA profiles from all nine have been checked against the database, and we’ve got four matches,’ she said, tapping her pen against the board.

  She’d drawn nine columns, a picture pinned in place above each with a round magnet like a mini hockey puck. On the right-hand side, a blown-up aerial photo; numbered locations for each body fanned out in a semicircle on the east side of the island.

  ‘The aerial shot is Google Maps, last updated five years ago. Notice you can’t see the clearing, so that narrows down our window. No way those roses would have grown like that without the direct sunlight.’

  Porter nodded, impressed at her attention to detail.

  ‘Numbers one, three, four and six now have an ID,’ she said, with a single tap against each.

  Annelise, Shelley, Christopher, Francesca.

  ‘Of those, only two were reported missing in London, though. Numbers three and four lived in Peterborough.’

  ‘Shelley and Christopher Downes,’ Styles said. ‘Let’s use the names now we have them.’

  Williams lost her train of thought for a second, thrown off-stride, but recovered, nodding. Porter knew what Styles was getting at. They needed people to care about these kids. Not just the team around him looking for a killer, but the media, the public, anyone they’d be appealing to for information. Little things like this made a difference, humanised the victims, a constant reminder of who they did this for.

  ‘They’re the only actual brother sister pairing, though,’ she continued. ‘None of the others are related.’

  ‘Have the parents been contacted yet?’ Porter asked.

  She nodded. ‘We’ve been out and spoken to all three sets of parents. Peterborough sent someone to call round to save us the trip, but we’ll get up there and speak to them in person tomorrow.’

  ‘None of them went missing in or around the park, though, sir.’ Glenn Waters spoke up, clearly not wanting to be left out. ‘According to the parents, none of them had ever been to Victoria Park before.’

  ‘So what’s so special about the location, then?’ Porter asked, more of a rhetorical question, but Gus Tessier spoke up.

  ‘Definitely special to someone, boss. That rose garden would have taken a bit of work. Some thick branches cut through to make the space. It’s lot of trouble to go to, to bury a body.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Mmm, didn’t exactly look overgrown either. Whoever did this has been back to do a bit of weeding since he buried them.’

  ‘It’s like they’ve made a memorial,’ Styles said.

  ‘We’re looking for a keen gardener, then?’ said Kaja Sucheka. ‘Let’s get some surveillance on B&Q.’

  That got a chuckle from the room. You had to find humour where you could. A job like this would weigh you down without it.

  ‘Here’s hoping that’s exactly what it is,’ Porter said.

  ‘You honestly think he’d come back?’ Williams asked.

  Porter didn’t bother to pick her up on the assumption their killer was male. Statistically speaking she was on safe ground, but they couldn’t afford to rule out
a woman, however unlikely.

  ‘Maybe not literally standing on the shore of the lake, not with all the press coverage, but around the park somewhere, it’s a possibility. That place means something to them, enough to create their messed-up garden, so they might not be able to resist.’

  ‘Wonder what the press will start calling him,’ said Waters. ‘They love a good corny name for a serial killer.’

  Porter looked at Waters like he’d just farted. ‘That’s a tenner, Glenn, and a new rule while we’re at it. No nicknames. The press are bad enough without us dreaming up that shit. Anyone else wants to christen our killer, that’ll cost you another tenner.’

  Waters scowled at his own schoolboy error, digging through his pockets, a handful of change jangling as he counted.

  ‘No coins, Glenn. That goes for the rest of you too. I’m not having a jar full of pennies.’ Porter gave Styles an accusing look.

  ‘As if,’ Styles said.

  ‘Anyway, getting back on track,’ Porter said with a half-smile. ‘Anything else, Dee?’

  She shook her head. ‘Still waiting for results on the clothes and few possessions that they were buried with. Nothing conclusive from CCTV either. We’ve got footage on some entrances but not all.’

  ‘OK, let’s get some plain clothes in there to keep an eye. I want two in there on rolling shifts while it’s open, and any cars in the area keeping an eye when it’s not. Kaja, Gus, you’re next up.’

  They looked at each other, both standing up, turning to face the others, Sucheka dwarfed by Tessier.

  ‘We’ve run background checks on all of the permanent staff,’ Sucheka began. ‘Couple of them have form for minor stuff, one assault, one for possession, but nothing that stands out. Still digging, though, so watch this space. Interviewed ’em all as well. Apparently, the islands aren’t part of the regular park maintenance schedule.’

  ‘Something that anyone who worked there would know,’ Tessier chipped in. ‘Give us another day and we’ll have the contractors named and interviewed as well.’