‘I don’t get out much these days,’ said Styles. ‘When I couldn’t reach you last night, I ended up online. Bit of Facebook, little bit of Instagram, you know how it is. Don’t do much personally, but you’d be amazed how handy it can be for work. Take Susie, for example – she’s got her profiles wide open. Don’t even have to be her friend to see her posts or pictures. All just there for anyone to scroll through.’
‘You been stalking my girlfriend?’ Marcus shot back, any trace of the helpful teenager long gone.
‘Stalking’s such a strong word, Marcus. I didn’t even start off looking at her. Shall I tell you how I ended up on her Instagram page?’
‘Do what you like,’ said Marcus, setting off back in the direction of his flat. ‘I ain’t got time to stand around and listen, though.’
Styles caught him up in a few long strides, keeping pace as he talked.
‘Seems the funfair was part of an Epping Forest Council series of events. They even had their own hashtags. Wasn’t quite big enough to get the fair trending, but when I had a search for the “Epic Epping” hashtag, corny I know, you’ll never guess whose face I saw.’
Marcus clutched the bag to his chest, picking up his pace. ‘No idea.’
‘If you were at home with Susie all day, Marcus, then why are you on one of the Instagram posts from the fairground?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘It’s not what you think,’ said Marcus, all traces of attitude gone, bag and cup hanging by his side. He practically vibrated on the spot, and Styles tensed in case he bolted.
‘Then why don’t you tell me what I should be thinking, Marcus.’
Marcus Hallforth leant back against the nearby wall, letting his paper sack of food flop from his hand onto the pavement, cup still in the other hand. He breathed out, loud and heavy, looking both ways along the street. Styles moved in a half-step, into his personal space, letting him know he was within reach if making a run was his plan.
‘I went there to keep an eye on her,’ he said at last. ‘Dad was being a dick about Libby going. Mum was all kinds of strung out, like she hadn’t had a hit in days. I was amazed they still went. Least I was until I saw him dealing behind one of the stalls.’
‘Do you remember who he was selling to?’ Styles asked.
Marcus shook his head. ‘Wasn’t close enough, and besides, I was trying to keep an eye on Libby.’
‘Did she know you were there? Libby, I mean.’
A rapid shake of the head. ‘Nah, she wouldn’t have left me alone if she’d seen me. Wasn’t worth the kick-off there would’ve been with Dad if that happened.’
‘So if you were there keeping an eye on her, how come you didn’t see where she went?’
‘I just lost her in the crowds,’ he said, taking a long pull on his drink. He was still looking anywhere but at Styles, barely making eye contact, bordering on impatient, as if this was an inconvenience.
‘You just lost her?’ Styles repeated back to him.
‘Yeah.’
‘And did you look for her?’
Marcus gave him a look like he’d just suggested the earth was flat. ‘What? Course I did. Why would you even ask that?’
‘Oh, I dunno, Marcus, maybe because I still think you’re not being completely honest with me. Maybe because you could have told me this months ago and had your sister safely back home.’
‘And said what? Dad might be a dick, but we both know who he works for. What they do to people who talk to the police. All I could have told you was that I saw a few deals. That doesn’t bring Libby back. All that does is land me in the shit with bad people. People worse than Dad, who hurt other people for fun. You think I wouldn’t have told you this back then if it made even a tiny bit of difference?’ he said, holding up finger and thumb a centimetre apart. ‘I’m out of there now, away from Dad and his mates. Trying to make something of myself, and I ain’t getting dragged back in for some bullshit like this.’
‘You finished?’ Styles said, leaning in, one hand on the wall, towering over the younger man. Marcus went to speak but thought better of it, clamping his mouth shut again.
‘Here’s what happens now,’ Styles said. ‘I’m going to need you to come and give a revised statement down at the station. Maybe it helps us, maybe it doesn’t, but it sure as hell isn’t going to hurt Libby, is it? That’s who this is about. You with me?’
Marcus nodded, sullen like a scolded schoolboy.
‘You say you only saw a few deals. What’s to say Libby didn’t see the same? What if one of Simon’s customers didn’t like being spied on by a young girl? You see where I’m going with this? So we’re going to talk it all through, get descriptions of anyone you remember, and see where that takes us.’
Marcus agreed, but it was with all the enthusiasm of a man consenting to a root canal without anaesthetic. Styles stepped back and watched him hustle down the street like he was on fast-forward. Did he think Marcus could have hurt his sister? Styles still thought not, but there had been something else. Styles wouldn’t have expected him to be exactly in his comfort zone, blindsided outside McDonald’s and backed up against a wall, but if he had to plant his flag anywhere, he’d say that the kid had been scared. Plenty angry too, sure, a fair helping of indignation. But the way he acted, the way he spoke, Marcus Hallforth was scared, but Styles couldn’t escape the feeling it wasn’t just of Nuhić. If not him though, then of what, or of who?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Porter tipped a ladle-sized spoonful of Thai green curry sauce over his rice. Beside him, Evie Simmons shifted in her seat. Emma Styles had spent the last few minutes shuttling between dining room and kitchen despite her husband’s protests that he should do the running around, and Porter sensed Evie wasn’t comfortable talking shop in front of someone not on the force. Not specifics, anyway.
Emma finally eased herself into a chair, one hand rubbing her bump like a crystal ball, the other reaching for a mini prawn cracker, dipping it into the sweet chilli sauce. Styles moaned as an orange trail dotted across the tablecloth towards her, but she cut him off mid-grumble.
‘It’s not as if you’ll be washing the tablecloth anyway, so shush your face.’
‘You know I would if you’d let me.’
‘And I also know you’d put it in with your red boxers and stain it pink,’ she said, reaching for a second cracker.
‘Red boxers? We talking Spider-Man ones?’ Porter said, never one to miss a chance to poke fun at his DS.
‘Yeah, d’you want them back?’
‘Shush you two, and eat your food,’ Emma said, nudging her husband, knocking his forkful of rice back onto the plate.
‘Jesus, we can’t even keep the peace at the dinner table, never mind the streets,’ said Porter. ‘Speaking of work, any follow up from Marcus’s statement?’
Styles had filled Porter in on his walk-and-talk with Marcus Hallforth, but not the follow-up this afternoon at the station.
‘Said he saw Simon Hallforth selling drugs to two separate men. He gave us a couple of pretty generic descriptions that could fit half of London. Average height, average build, you know the type. Not much to go on, but I’ll get Sucheka or Williams to check against the list of people we interviewed at the fair back then.’
‘What’s your take on Marcus, then?’
Styles rested his fork on his plate. ‘If you mean could he have done something to his sister, nah, I don’t think so. Having said that, we know he’s held back on us already, and you should have seen him. Jumpy as hell when he knew we can put him at the scene. Suppose if I was his age and my dad worked for a bloke like Branislav Nuhić, I might be a bit skittish as well, though.’
‘How far off making a move on Nuhić are you?’ Porter asked Evie.
She pointed at her mouth, the universal I’m chewing sign. ‘A way to go yet,’ she said eventually. ‘He hardly ever pops his head up in person. If we moved now, we’d take out a half dozen of his men, but they’d be replaced before we go
t them back to the station.’
‘And there’s no way Milburn would let us anyway. No way he risks what you’ve built so far when I can’t even convince him there’s a link between your case and mine.’
‘You’ve been helping the guys out, though, I hear,’ Emma said.
Simmons shrugged. ‘Just a few bits, some intel and an interview.’
‘Mmm, Nick told me what happened at that block of flats. Are you OK?’
Porter saw Styles’s expression shift, uncomfortable, hoping his omission didn’t get another mention.
‘I’m fine,’ Simmons said. Porter didn’t doubt it. She was one of the most resilient people he knew. Didn’t stop him from worrying, though. ‘He was just an angry little man anyway. Besides, Nick was there a few seconds after I tackled him anyway.’
‘Oh, he’s all about the cavalry charge is my Nick,’ Emma laughed.
‘This is really good by the way,’ Simmons said, tapping her fork on the mound of rice piled on her plate.
Emma smiled her thanks. ‘Aw, glad you like it. This one would eat nothing but his grandma’s bloody recipes if he had his way, so it’s nice to mix things up a little when we have guests.’
Styles’s family were originally from Barbados, and his grandma Clara had given them a thick sheaf of photocopied recipes last time they visited. Her scrawl looked like a spider had walked in ink then breakdanced on the page, but Emma had managed to decipher it faithfully enough to do them justice. Porter had been a willing guinea pig on more than one occasion.
‘How long have you got left to go?’ Simmons asked.
‘Less than a fortnight now,’ Emma said, raising eyebrows in mock alarm. ‘I’m going to give him a few months off before we start trying again.’
Styles half-choked on his food, grunting to clear his throat, as Emma patted his back.
‘How about you, Evie? Do you want a family?’
‘Em,’ said Styles, recovered now. ‘Bit heavy to land that on them.’
‘Just blame it on the hormones. I can get away with most things these days,’ she said, winking at Simmons.
Porter felt his cheeks redden. Hard to tell if Emma was asking just to be nosy, or because she enjoyed making him squirm. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was in cahoots with Kat, after her attempts to broach the subject last night. He was still trying to come up with a suitable fob-off to change the subject when Simmons answered.
‘Not sure I feel grown up enough yet myself,’ she said, sidestepping for now. Definitely a conversation that couldn’t be put off for ever, Porter thought. He’d always seen one, maybe two in his future back when Holly was alive. That hadn’t changed. It just felt like more of an abstract concept that it would have to be with someone else. One for when it was just he and Evie, no prying ears.
‘On to more light-hearted matters – any news on the Victoria Park murders?’ Emma asked, taking the hint to change subject, throwing it out to the table.
Porter caught another of those looks from Simmons, one that said, Should we really be talking about this here? There were limits to what he’d share, but Emma was as safe a set of ears as anyone not on the payroll, and thanks to Sky News, most of the country had heard about the case. Seen footage of the secret garden.
‘We’ve identified a few of the bodies, but no real leads on who might have put them there yet. We’re hoping they might have been back to visit, maybe been caught on camera.’
‘All a bit creepy if you ask me,’ she said, shivering like someone had walked over her grave. ‘Building a little shrine like that. Takes all sorts. Those roses did look beautiful, though, like something fresh from the garden centre. All those different colours. So sad, though, to think of those kids buried there for so long. Bet their parents must have had such a horrible time.’
Something pinged in Porter’s mind halfway through Emma’s mini monologue. It wasn’t just that notion again that it was a place to visit, rather than just a dumping ground. No, it was the flowers themselves his mind flashed to. Emma’s comment about the range of colours. All the bushes had looked different. Porter had no idea how many different types of rose there were, but many killers had a signature. A method of killing, posing of bodies. What if the roses were somehow involved like that, linked in with the pairings, which he was sure also had to mean something?
The others kept talking around him, but his thoughts leapfrogged ahead as he kept tugging that thread, past the notion that they had to identify the victims first to be able to work back from there. The location wasn’t exactly an opportune spot to dump and run. It had been carefully chosen, crafted even. What if the roses had been picked just as carefully? An integral part of whatever their killer had created. It might be nothing, but Porter had a feeling nothing was on that island by chance. He filed it away to follow up on Monday morning.
Despite all the chatter about Branislav Nuhić, he couldn’t shrug off the feeling that the island was linked to Libby. That whoever had put those children there, it was too much of a coincidence to think they weren’t also the prime suspect for Libby’s disappearance. Problem with that, though, was he knew what happened to kids taken by that person. To go down that route meant admitting the chances of finding Libby alive were pretty much nil, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. Not yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Monday morning, and London slumbers as the sun flirts with the horizon a little after 6 a.m. Traffic on Old Ford Road is light, cabs mainly, paying no attention to the man with his baseball cap pulled low, hands in pockets. Although it would be barely any different if it were rush hour. He doesn’t attract a second glance, everyone else lost in versions of their world. Sitting on buses with heads in newspapers, or walking along, bowed over their smartphones.
A street sweeper rumbles past close by as he passes St Stephen’s Road, and along towards the Lord Morpeth pub, complete with its mural of the suffragette campaigner, Sylvia Pankhurst, that dominates one side of the building. Even with the tables outside cleared, the smell of stale beer soaked into the cracks makes him wince and want at the same time. When was it he last had a drink? Like many things these days, it’s hazy. He doesn’t remember it being a conscious decision, only that he’s a better man without it. Close to the man, the father, the husband they deserve.
The road bears right over the Hertford Union Canal, and the road begins to hug the edge of Victoria Park. He needs to be careful. The news footage showed plenty of policemen scuttling about like ants in the background, spoiling his island. Some of them might have stayed behind. He can’t risk being seen.
A steady pace takes him past the row of closed curtains, houses as asleep as their owners. Over in the park, a couple of early morning joggers wind their way around the path, headphones in, matching stride for stride, not looking at each other, let alone him. Up ahead, his destination rises above the row of townhouses, appearing like a magic trick. Lakeview Estate, a pair of matching tower blocks joined by a series of walkways between each floor. Eleven storeys of perfectly placed concrete perch, with a line of sight over the trees and across to the lake.
Less than five minutes later and he’s up on the roof, lying in a prone position like a sniper, focusing a compact set of binoculars past Grove Road and into the park. He sweeps around the shoreline, but barring a few ducks out for a morning paddle, it’s deserted. No sign of movement over on the island. Why would there be? They’ve taken his children. All the same, he had to come, has to see for himself. The island is calling him, a siren song too strong to ignore.
He runs his gaze along the perimeter, as far along Old Ford Road as he can see, and back towards the roundabout below him at Crown Gate East and Crown Gate West, each a trio of red brick pillars, topped and tailed in white, and his heart pounds out an angry rhythm as he sees the figures. Two of them, a man and a woman. The woman looks like the reporter he saw on the news a few nights ago. The man carries what looks like a camera on his shoulder. They go to cross Grove Road, over towar
ds the west gate, when another pair step out from behind a clump of what looks like pampas grass, just inside the park, arms stretched out, barring entry, moving them on.
Safe to assume the two inside the park railings are police. Who else would be hiding in there at this time of day? The park doesn’t have any security of its own. Neither looks like the man he saw on the news yesterday, Detective Porter. He is the one with answers. The one who will know where the children are. Will he come back today? No rush. He settles in to wait.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
‘You’ve got to be bloody kidding me?’ said Porter.
‘Wish I was, boss,’ Dee Williams replied. ‘Me and Glenn had the stupid o’clock shift keeping an eye out at the park. They pulled up right over there in their Sky News van, so hardly incognito if our guy had rocked up.’ She pointed over the road to indicate where she meant.
‘Thank God you did, or we’d being seeing footage of roses all over the breakfast news. What the hell good did they think filming an active crime scene would do?’
‘She reckons they were only going to do shots from the edge. To be fair, all the boats were locked up, so they’d have had a job getting over. I asked them to stay till you got here, but she blathered on about another story she had to chase up.’
‘You’d be surprised at how resourceful some of those bastards can be,’ Porter said. ‘Where’s Glenn now?’
‘I told him to get away to bed,’ she said. ‘Only needed one of us to brief you.’
Not for the first time, Dee Williams impressed Porter with how willing she was to stick her hand up for absolutely anything. She was one of those people who practically hummed with energy, like a live power cable. Did she ever run out of battery?
‘OK, thanks, Dee. You do the same. You must be knackered. I’ve got Glenn and Kaja on their way here now, so I’ll hang on till they get here.’
All That Is Buried Page 14
