Porter hadn’t clocked any surveillance when he’d parked up, or as he crossed the road. No bad thing. Hadn’t expected anything else. They were hardly going to be sitting across the road in a squad car with blues and twos flashing. Of course, he could be wrong. Might be that there were no eyes on the place. When Simmons had told him about the other night, she’d said that it seemed clean.
He walked straight up to the main doors and into a cramped reception area, complete with a woman behind the desk who looked like she’d been baked in one of the ovens herself. She was the sort of brown you can only get from being basted in a vat of fake tan, sixty-ish at a guess, and she stared at him over thick black-framed glasses.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, a hint of an accent blurring the words around the edges. Not strong enough to place, but he guessed it’d be Slovakian. Family business, family employees.
‘I’m here to see Mr Nuhić,’ he said, the smile on his face feeling about as genuine as a politician justifying his expenses.
‘Who are you, please?’ she asked, impatient, as if he’d interrupted another conversation she’d rather get back to.
‘Detective Inspector Porter, Met Police,’ he said, holding out his ID.
‘He is not here,’ she said, sounding proud to turn him away. Was she a relative? Porter wondered. Quite literally keeping it in the family.
‘Would the answer have been different if I’d been here to buy some bread?’
She shrugged. ‘He is not here. What do you want me to say?’
‘When will he be back?’
‘Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Who knows,’ she said, still seeming to take pleasure in her role as gatekeeper.
‘Could you call him, ask him for me?’
She shook her head. ‘Mr Nuhić doesn’t have phone.’
‘No phone?’ Porter asked, as if he’d not heard properly the first time. ‘No mobile?’
‘No.’ Another head shake, arms crossed, everything about her body language telling him to get lost.
‘Got to be kidding me,’ Porter muttered, turning away.
As he looked back towards her, a phone rang somewhere behind the counter. She answered, eyes fixed on him as she spoke in her native dialect, lips barely seeming to move. He listened intently, hoping that one or two words might be anglicised enough to get an idea of what was being discussed, but he was out of luck.
She didn’t so much replace the handset as drop it into place.
‘You wait. Someone will come.’
‘Someone?’
She didn’t answer. Just inclined her head and sat back down, only her head visible above the counter now. Clearly customer service didn’t extend to small talk. He looked around, but there was nothing else to see really. No window behind her into the bakery beyond. The far corner of the room caught his eye, though. A tiny black orb fixed to the ceiling tile. He couldn’t see the lens thanks to the dark glass, but he’d bet any money it was fixed on him right now. Made him wonder how much call a bakery had for security, and how easy it’d be to get into the building beyond for a look around.
Less than a minute passed before a door set in the wall behind reception opened, and a man stepped out. Porter recognised him immediately from pictures he’d seen. The man himself. Not a henchman in sight to play up a Bond villain image. Hard to say exactly how old he was, late fifties maybe, with a face that looked like he’d sucked too many lemons as a kid. Short greying hair, bordering on a military cut. Smart trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Not an imposing figure, at least not physically, but when you had men working for you who did the kind of things Porter had heard about, you didn’t need muscles to inspire fear.
‘Mr Nuhić,’ Porter said, a trace of surprise in his voice. ‘My name is—’
‘Detective Inspector Porter, yes, yes, I heard. You were looking for me? What could a policeman possibly want with a baker?’ Same accent as the receptionist, only stronger. All a bit Bond-villain-esque.
Porter took a step forward, hands on the counter. ‘I hear you’re a man who doesn’t waste his words, Mr Nuhić, so I’ll do you the same courtesy.’
Nuhić nodded, looking vaguely amused. Held out his hands in a be my guest gesture.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a young girl. She went missing five months ago. You might have seen on the news – Libby Hallforth.’
Nuhić folded his arms, and Porter could see the ghosts of old faded tattoos, the outlines but not the actual design.
‘And what has this girl got to do with me?’
‘One of your, ah, employees, Simon Hallforth. Libby is his daughter.’
‘My employee, you say?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I know every person who works here, and we have nobody by that name.’
‘I never said he works here,’ said Porter, his emphasis on the last word.
Nuhić just stared, with flat dark eyes that reminded Porter of a reptile. Cold, unblinking. After a beat he gave what Porter supposed was meant to be a smile, but looked more like he just had wind.
‘Why don’t we go back to my office?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘If it sets your mind at rest, I can show you my personnel records.’
He flipped the hatch over on the reception desk, took a step to one side and motioned with open palms for Porter to join him.
Why had he come here if not to speak to the man? Granted, heading into the belly of the bakery, with no idea what actually lay beyond the door and with a man of Nuhić’s reputation, it was a risk. Policemen were generally sacred, off limits, even to the most extreme of the underworld. Hurt a member of the force, and a wave of blue would crash down on you. Nuhić didn’t strike Porter as the most rational of men from the stories he’d heard, though.
If there were any of DI Maartens’s men outside, they wouldn’t be able to see him once he stepped through that doorway. Porter’s scalp tingled with nervous energy. He hesitated, only for a second, before stepping through the opening, hearing Nuhić follow, fighting the urge to look back as the door closed behind him and wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The biggest surprise was how normal it all looked. A dozen men and women in overalls, nets or paper caps pinning hair in place, stood at workstations. Some preparing dough, others shaping it, shovelling it onto wide wire trays and sliding them into huge ovens. The smell tickling his taste buds was enough to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast. He was doubtful that Nuhić’s hospitality would extend to a few slices slathered with butter, though.
They cut along the side of the building and finished up in an office, small and sparsely furnished. A desk with a chair either side, a laptop with the screen facing away from him and a row of three filing cabinets in the corner.
‘Please, sit,’ Nuhić said, walking round the desk and taking his own advice. ‘What makes you think this man, what’s his name again, that he might work for me?’ He started tapping at keys as he spoke, poking with both index fingers. He spun the screen around so it faced Porter. ‘You see, he isn’t there.’
A long list of names ran down one side, a mixture of surnames starting with G and H.
‘There’s only the two of us here, Mr Nuhić. I think we can dispense with the notion that the only way you make a living is from baking bread.’
‘You’re right, we make pastries as well,’ Nuhić said, looking almost amused at his own joke.
‘You just asked me what his name was again as you were searching, but you managed to get just the right part of the list to show me he wasn’t on it. Safe to say, he doesn’t bake your buns for you.’
Nuhić rasped a palm over the blanket of stubble covering his chin. ‘What exactly is it you think I do, Detective Porter?’
‘I’m not here for you,’ he said. ‘Or your men. I’m not wired up, trying to get you to incriminate yourself. I just want to find the girl.’
Nuhić gave him another poor attempt at a smi
le. More of a twitch around the mouth that never touched the eyes.
‘If you were wired, you would have set off sensors in my door,’ he said, nodding as if to confirm that wouldn’t have ended well. How many of the staff here weren’t just bakers? Porter wondered.
‘Let us say that I did know this man, Simon? Let us even say that he might have done some work for me. I’m a big family man, Detective Porter. The lovely lady on reception, even she is family, my cousin. But family and certain parts of business have to stay separate. So I ask you, why would his daughter have anything to do with my business?’ Emphasis on the his and my.
‘I’ve met Simon Hallforth quite a few times now. Let’s just say he’s no stranger to running his mouth off. Rubbing people up the wrong way, you know what I mean? We received a tip-off that he dabbles in selling drugs. One of our theories is that he might have pissed off the wrong person. That they might have taken her to teach him a lesson.’
‘And you think that I did this?’ he asked, an angry rumble to his words.
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ Porter said, even though he wouldn’t rule it out privately. ‘From what I hear, you’d be more likely to take it out on the man himself. But what if it was one of your competitors?’ He leant forward, trying to convey the urgency. ‘She’s only seven years old.’
‘And to come to me, you must be desperate, yes?’
Porter nodded, surprised by his own honesty. ‘Yes, I’d say we are. If there have been any … shall we say, disagreements between you and any competitors around the time she went missing, it would help our case considerably if you shared that information.’
Nuhić leant back, rubbing both palms together. ‘If I am the man you say I am, Detective, then you must know I’m hardly likely to speak out of turn about these things, these disagreements. No, that sort of man, he would sort things like this out his own way.’
‘You have two daughters,’ Porter shot back, Nuhić’s obtuseness starting to rub against him like sandpaper. ‘What would you do if this happened to one of them?’
‘No man would be foolish enough to touch my daughters,’ he said, evidently finding the notion almost laughable. ‘But if they did, I would do what had to be done, just like any father. Like I’m sure Simon will continue to do when he gets released from his cell.’
The reference made Porter’s thoughts grind to a halt for a spilt second, the inference clear. Nuhić knew they’d arrested Hallforth. What he’d do when Simon got out was anybody’s business.
‘He assaulted one of my officers,’ Porter said. ‘Nothing to do with your business. Things just got heated about his daughter’s case.’
He stared at Nuhić across the desk. As much of a dick as Simon Hallforth was, Porter didn’t want him in the firing line for this. He’d likely do time anyway for the assault on Simmons. There was a good chance that Maartens would offer him a deal to flip on Nuhić. That’s what Porter would do in his place. Chances are, though, Simon would rather do the time than have to look over his shoulder every time he popped to the shops for a pint of milk.
‘If you say so,’ said Nuhić, but Porter suspected he would be making enquiries of his own as to what Simon Hallforth had and hadn’t talked about. Maybe, though, just maybe, that would extend to looking at who Simon might have pissed off enough to lash out at his family. Nuhić wouldn’t tolerate anyone harming his people. They were an extension of himself, and if he let that slide, what message did it send?
‘All I’m asking, Mr Nuhić, is that if you did hear anything that could be linked to Libby’s disappearance, you could let me know.’
He pulled out a card with his details on, and slid it across the desk. Nuhić looked down, but didn’t make any move to pick it up.
‘You think she is still alive then, or …?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. I want to say alive, but she’s been gone a long time now,’ Porter said, hearing the regret in his own voice.
‘And if I did this, if I found anything that helped, you would what, owe me a favour?’
Porter’s turn to smile. ‘We don’t do favours, Mr Nuhić, but you’d certainly have my gratitude.’
Branislav Nuhić flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Gratitude, I have no use for gratitude, unless it brings favours; a mutual understanding, if you will. If I find this is the doing of a competitor, you would of course act upon this, yes? Lock them up and throw away the key?’ He mimed the action as he spoke.
‘As long as we have proof, yes, you have my word,’ said Porter.
‘And maybe even your colleagues that take such an interest in me would be grateful enough to find another hobby.’ Not even a question, Porter realised, just a statement of fact that he knew he was under surveillance. He made a mental note to mention it to Maartens.
‘You have my card,’ Porter said, rising to his feet. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘One question before you go, Detective Porter. You say you wonder if Mr Hallforth has offended anyone enough to go after his family. Has he said himself who he thinks may be to blame?’
Porter shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t even admit to knowing you, let alone your competition. Told us he works alone, and hasn’t got a clue.’
Nuhić shrugged. ‘Maybe he doesn’t work for me after all, then?’
Porter followed Nuhić as they retraced their steps back through the bakery, and it wasn’t until he was back in reception that he realised how warm he’d been back there. Whether it was heat from the ovens, or sitting across from a man they believed responsible for some shockingly violent acts, he didn’t know, but either way, sweat prickled his forehead and along his spine as the cooler air hit.
Nuhić held out a hand, and Porter felt the strength in his grip as they shook, resisting the urge to squeeze back. No time for pissing contests. He glanced back as he walked through the door and out towards the road, but Nuhić had already vanished back inside, leaving only the harsh stare of his cousin on reception.
No guarantees that Nuhić would give him the whole truth, even if he did find something. At this point, though, he’d grab that with both hands if it meant finding Libby, alive or not. More pressing would be the flak he’d almost certainly get from Maartens and Milburn. It was worth it to shake the tree, though. If it worked, most wouldn’t care how the results had been achieved. If it didn’t, he could live with that too. At least he’d have tried. What it’d cost him remained to be seen.
Branislav Nuhić watched the policeman leave, a grainy grey figure on a screen set into a bank of CCTV monitors. In his line of work − his real profession, not the bakery − attention from the police was a hazard of the job. This, however, wasn’t something he’d expected to land at his door. He’d only met Hallforth a handful of times. Remembered him as a talker. Running his mouth off about how he could sell ice to Eskimos and sand to Arabs. He’d made money so far, sure, but was it worth the hassle of detectives barging into his place of work like this? One of his other men had vouched for Hallforth. Maybe it was time to question the strength of that now.
A few of the screens were set up sequentially, covering the stretch along the front of the building and down along the side. The effect was such that Detective Porter seemed to walk through the side of one monitor and into the next.
Of course, Nuhić knew they were watching him. You didn’t get to where he was, do the things he’d done, without attracting the attention of the authorities. They had set up shop a few months back, in an old furniture wholesaler up the road. They’d been discreet about it, but they’d need to be far better to squat right on his doorstep and go unnoticed. They watched him, he watched them. He had a one-man outpost a few hundred yards further up the road.
If they were watching him, they would be looking for one of two things. A stupid mistake on his part, or a way in, to get close enough to where the mistakes didn’t have to be big ones to sink him. Even if Hallforth kept his mouth shut, he’d need to take extra precautions. Insulate. His man down the road ans
wered on the first ring.
‘The man who has just left. Follow him. I want to know where he goes, who he speaks to.’
‘Just follow?’
Nuhić watched as Porter pulled away and drove out of shot. ‘For now.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Despite years of living in London, this was Styles’s first visit to Kew Gardens. As he wandered through the triple-fronted Victoria Gate on Lichfield Road, he imagined himself coming back here with Emma and a faceless mini Styles. No idea yet whether they were having a boy or a girl. As tempting as it was to find out, it was one of life’s true surprises and neither wanted it spoilt before time.
He glanced at his phone, following the pulsing blue dot on the map, guiding him along a long straight path before cutting in to the right towards his destination, the recently renovated Temperate House. It made for an impressive sight as he came out past the flanking trees and into a clearing. The largest Victorian glasshouse in the world, it reminded him of a giant glass marquee tent. It stood almost twenty metres high, an elegant canopy of steel and glass, home to a vast collection of plants from around the world. Pity the poor bugger who had to clean the windows.
He’d agreed to call Marc Booth when he arrived, and when his host came out to meet him he wasn’t what Styles had expected after speaking to him over the phone. He’d sounded young, vibrant, full of life. He was definitely the latter two, but was pushing seventy. The outdoor life suited him, though, and he had as much exuberance about him as a man half his age.
‘Kam said this is to do with those bodies you found in Victoria Park?’ Booth asked, his accent the very definition of English country gentleman.
‘That’s right.’ Styles nodded. ‘They were planted above the bodies, and someone had been tending to the area, so we’re wondering if there’s anything special about them, any way to trace back to a supplier if they’re rare. That type of thing.’
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