All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  An image flashed in Styles’s mind. The clearing. Contrast of colour against green. Blooms arcing around in a semicircle, reaching up to the sunlight.

  ‘It was well hidden,’ he said finally. ‘Well looked after, too, like someone had been tending it.’

  ‘And it was on an island, you say?’

  He hadn’t – said it, that is. He hadn’t mentioned it. It’d been all over the news, though. Grantham could easily have seen it there.

  ‘It was, yes.’

  ‘Those poor, poor children,’ said Grantham. ‘All that time just a stone’s throw away from people walking past, or sat drinking their coffee.’

  ‘Have you been to the park before, sir?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  The older man looked like he’d been somewhere else, eyes snapping back into focus.

  ‘You said “drinking their coffee”. There’s a cafe that looks out over that part of the lake. I’m just wondering if you’ve been there yourself?’

  ‘Not for a long time,’ he said. ‘I used to take my grandchildren there, when they were younger. They used to love to feed the ducks, even though they’d end up eating as much of the bread themselves.’

  Styles saw he’d lost him again, eyes drifting off a few inches as he strolled through the memory.

  ‘Do you still get to London often, then?’ Styles asked, not quite sure of where he was heading with this himself. Those bodies hadn’t been there more than five years. The idea that this old man could, even back then, have broken into the park, hauled them over there, dug graves, just seemed ludicrous. Yet here he was, standing with the person who had created the original versions of the flowers that had grown around bone and skin, who knew the location. Freely admitted having been there. Would he really do that if he was responsible? It took all sorts. Whoever had put those kids there wasn’t of sound mind, so who knows what they would or wouldn’t do. Some liked to go back to their own crime scenes, even ones the police were still cataloguing.

  Could Daniel Grantham be both that man and the one stood here today? It wasn’t even like there was an easy way to start probing without just asking him outright. It’s not as if they had a specific time of death for any of them to ask him outright where he’d been. Styles filed it away for now as something to mention to Porter. There were subtle enquiries they could start off with. Find out what he drove, check any ANPR and CCTV that went back far enough for the first body. The former was kept for up to two years, so worth a punt.

  ‘No, I haven’t been into the city since the start of last year. Like I said, my son deals with most of the business side now. I’m getting lazy in my old age. Tend to wait for folk to visit me instead,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘These flowers, then; if they’re a step removed from your originals, is there any way to determine who it was that bred these versions?’

  ‘That’s like showing an artist a forged painting and asking them to tell you who drew the copy,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘Course, I’m not saying just anyone can do this, at least not professionally anyway, but no, I couldn’t tell you just from looking.’

  Styles shrugged. ‘I did think it was probably a long shot.’ He began bagging up the flowers, slipping them back into the evidence box.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t help more,’ Grantham said. ‘On the plus side, it’s the most excitement I’ve had in months. If you leave your details, I’ll get my son to email over the list of customers.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then, sorry to bother you,’ said Styles, picking up the box and turning to leave. His foot caught on something, making a scuffing noise as he almost stumbled and put a hand out against the bench to steady himself. He’d managed to stand on the fingers of one of those extra-long gloves he’d seen when he first came in, his other foot snagging in the opening.

  ‘These look a bit posher than the black rubbery ones my mum wears,’ he said, picking it up and laying it on top of its twin. ‘Leather?’

  Grantham nodded. ‘Goatskin.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘You’re sure?’ Porter asked, regretting the stupid question as soon as it popped out.

  ‘Because of course I’m usually the poster boy for wild speculation.’ Kam Qureshi’s response was pure sarcasm with raised eyebrows thrown in for good measure.

  ‘How about I just shut up and listen?’

  Kam inclined his head, placated. ‘So, as I was saying, not only were they all wearing pyjamas, but they were matching. Boys match with boys and girls with girls. Same type of cotton fibres. Don’t get me wrong, most of them are a bit worse for wear, but a couple of the labels are intact, and I’ve been able to do some magic with imaging on the writing. All of ’em are from Next.’

  ‘Great work, Kam,’ said Porter, but even as he did, common sense kicked in. All well and good knowing the source, but that in itself didn’t get them much closer to their killer. Those pyjamas had likely sold in their hundreds, thousands even, at a national retailer like Next. No, it was more of an insight into the mind of who was doing this, rather than their identity.

  The chances of all nine of them being taken while wearing the same outfits was astronomical, so Porter felt on fairly safe ground assuming that they’d been dressed like that by whoever killed them. Before or after death? Impossible to tell after this long. The layers of ritual were building up, though. Buried in pairs, one boy and one girl. Each pair around the same age. Each wearing mirror image outfits. Laid to rest, as opposed to buried to cover up; at least that’s how it was beginning to feel. Their killer saw them as children, not just victims. The way they’d been buried preserved that notion in Porter’s mind.

  ‘Don’t think it’s going to help us much at this stage,’ Kam said, as if he read Porter’s mind. ‘Not unless you bust into a house and find a stash of last season’s PJs.’

  ‘Nah, maybe not. Could come in handy later, though. I’ll take anything I can get at this point.’

  ‘You manage to speak to Marc Booth yet?’

  ‘I sent Nick to see him,’ Porter said. ‘Had something else I needed to handle this morning.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Anything interesting?’

  It was as if they had rehearsed the timings as he saw Styles walking into the office. Saved by the bell, no need to offer up an explanation.

  ‘Speak of the devil, Kam, he’s just walked back in. Gotta go, but thanks again.’

  Styles walked towards him, narrowing his eyes, giving a disapproving parent to naughty child look.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve spoken to Evie, then?’

  ‘She called me when I was driving back from Kiln Green.’

  ‘Where the bloody hell is Kiln Green?’ Porter asked. ‘You were meant to be at Kew.’

  ‘I went there first, then … Never mind changing the subject. I could have come with you, boss. Why didn’t you just take me along?’

  Porter felt a genuine twinge of guilt, knowing if the roles were reversed that he wouldn’t have been happy being kept out of the picture.

  ‘No point us both getting in trouble.’

  As true as that was, it wasn’t the only reason. Styles had gotten hurt pretty badly when they took down Alexander Locke and his gang. His wife had gone as far as trying to persuade him to transfer back to Specialist, Organised & Economic Crime Command, where he’d started off his career. Porter already felt responsible for him, for his safety, even before he learnt Styles was going to be a dad. Doubly so now. Chances of Nuhić doing anything stupid for the sake of a fishing expedition had been pretty slim in his opinion, but with Emma weeks away from giving birth, he’d sooner stick himself in harm’s way than face her if he let anything else happen to her husband.

  ‘And are you? In trouble, that is? What’s Milburn had to say?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but I’m sure he’ll take great pleasure when he does. Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘No, literally just got back.’

  ‘Come on then, my shout. Let’s catch up over a bite.’


  They headed along to Bake & Cake on the corner of Edgware Road and Broadly Street, Porter going first, describing the encounter with Nuhić as they waited to get served.

  ‘You think he knows more than he’s saying?’ Styles asked.

  ‘Well he’s saying nothing, so wouldn’t take much, but yeah, wouldn’t surprise me if he does.’

  ‘What about Hallforth? You think Nuhić believes he’s keeping his mouth shut? Wouldn’t want to be in his shoes either way.’

  Porter shrugged. ‘He as much said that if it was anyone in his crew, he’d want to take care of it himself. Swear I saw his eyes light up at the thought that it might be one of his competition, thinking that we’ll do him a favour and take one of them down for it.’

  ‘What’s our play now, then?’

  ‘Depends if Hallforth gets bail. If he does, and Nuhić thinks he’s guilty, he’ll try and clean house to stop us looking too closely. We keep an eye out and see what happens. If it’s one of his rivals, there’s a chance he’ll reach out, let us do his dirty work.’

  ‘And if it’s neither?’ Styles said, letting the elephant well and truly into the room.

  ‘If it’s neither, then …’ Porter didn’t want to admit it, but if the Nuhić angle didn’t play out one way or the other, it’d put them right back where they were before the false sighting. ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, what about you? How was Kew Gardens, and what the hell is at Kiln Green?’

  Styles gave him a summary of his mini road trip as they headed back into the station, not looking convinced by his own theory about Daniel Grantham, but Porter nodded along, letting him finish before chipping in with questions.

  ‘It’s as good as any lead so far. We might not be able to pinpoint our guy from his DIY roses, but it’d be a pretty big leap to think Grantham has no significance at all, even if it’s just that we’re looking for one of his customers. Not as if they can just go to B&Q and grab a few of his, is it?’

  ‘He’s sent over a list of people who’ve bought any of those varieties from him, but it’s going to take some going through. Tell you what, though, lovely place he’s got there. Might take Emma for a trip up after the baby’s here. Her mum’s into her gardening, and Em’s been stuck for ideas for a birthday present.’

  ‘Chat with a scary gangster, wander around a rose garden?’ Porter made a weighing-the-scales gesture with both hands. ‘Sounds like you’ve had the rough end of the deal.’

  They exited the lift, heading back towards their desks. Milburn walked towards them from the far end, beckoning towards his office with an imperious flick of the hand.

  ‘You can mock all you like, but I nearly went down in the line of duty out there. Tripped on one of these massive leather gloves he had. Reminded me of the ones vets wear, you know when they’re shoving their arm up a cow’s backside.’

  Porter started to laugh, but it caught in his throat.

  ‘Leather gloves? Wasn’t goatskin by any chance, was it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Styles, looking as impressed as a kid who’s just seen the rabbit pulled out of the hat. ‘How did you know that?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Sweat cools on his back, a hundred tiny pinpricks of relief. The detective walked right past him and didn’t so much as glance in his direction. From his table outside the Maitrise Hotel, he watches him walk back towards the station. He isn’t alone. A tall black man ambles alongside him, both clutching matching sandwiches and takeout coffee cups. Doubtful that they’ll have his children inside the police station. No, more likely they’ll be in a hospital somewhere. Lying on a cold table, nobody close by to take care of them. Ripped from the comfort of their garden. Sadness and anger swirl around him in equal measure.

  He has nowhere else to be today. Only has eyes for this building, and the man who might lead him to his children. There is another thought that circles like a shark hemming in a shoal. The notion that they might be beyond his reach for good. That he has failed them, the same way he has failed Marie and Ben. Even the hint of it, allowing the possibility to squat nearby, makes a lump form in his throat. After everything he’s been through, the catalogue of mistakes he has made, he isn’t sure how he could cope with that. If he could cope at all.

  Unable to visit them, unable to take care of them, to whisper to them, reassure them. Pressure starts to build, beginning in the pit of his stomach, swelling up through his chest, beating its fists at his temples. They’ve been part of him for so long now, a plaster over the wound of his own fractured family, that the absence of them is a physical ache, only surpassed by his longing to see Marie and Ben. That ache grows as he watches the two policemen disappear into their building, swelling, taking on dark form.

  He has experienced troughs to rival the deepest ocean trench over the years, but nothing quite like this. The pressure becomes a buzzing in his head, and the white noise of the city around him fades until nothing else remains. The policeman can’t stay in there for ever. He’ll be waiting right here until he does, and he’ll find a way back to his children, all of them, no matter what the cost.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Milburn glared at him as he entered the office, and Porter clocked Maartens over to the left, standing, arms folded like a bouncer about to take great delight in telling a spotty teenager to get lost.

  ‘You can stay standing,’ Milburn said in a clipped tone that Porter recognised from previous bollockings. ‘I’m guessing you might have an idea why DI Maartens is here? Why he’s pissed off?’

  Porter pretended to think for a second. ‘Did he not manage to get Take That tickets for the gig at the O2?’

  Roger Milburn sneered, glancing over to Maartens as if to say, Can you believe this one?

  ‘You think pissing your colleagues off and pissing all over their hard work is funny?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I—’

  ‘That’s one thing you’ve not shown any of today, DI Porter. Respect.’ Milburn shot him down before he could finish his sentence.

  ‘Six months we’ve been on Nuhić. Six bloody months, to get a man in there without him raising an eyebrow, and now he’s going to think that every Big Issue seller on the street is a copper with eyes on him.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if you think I jumped up and down on your case, Aaron, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he knows you’re there already. He said as much this morning.’

  ‘He what? What the bloody hell did you tell him?’ Maartens took a step closer, working his jaw from side to side.

  ‘What did I tell him? Come on, Aaron, I’m not an idiot. I ignored the comment. If I’d denied it, I’d have looked defensive; if I’d confirmed it, I’d cock up your surveillance. I’m not bloody stupid.’

  ‘Yet you went to see the head of one of the biggest organised crime gangs in London, when you knew the case against him was at a delicate stage. If you’ve jeopardised that in any way, or put our informant in danger, I’ll see that you’re held to account, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘There’s no risk to your inside man,’ Porter said, looking over at Maartens. ‘I have Simon Hallforth’s ex-wife, a witness independent from your case who gave us the drugs angle, so there doesn’t have to be any overlap, and it’s currently the best line of enquiry we have into Libby Hallforth’s disappearance. You both remember her, don’t you? I know she’s not making the news this week, but doesn’t mean I’m going to sit on any possible line of enquiry while there’s a chance we might find her.’

  ‘Oh, come on, man, she’s most likely dead and you know it.’ Milburn was usually one to hide any anger behind a more officious tone, but there was a real snap in his voice now. ‘The immediate threat to our informant and the people who shoot up that crap Nuhić peddles, not to mention the person who killed nine kids is still walking the streets − all of that outweighs that girl now. I know you find that unpalatable, but that’s just the way it is. We all have to make hard choices, and this is one of those.’

/>   ‘You’re suggesting I stop looking for the girl, sir?’

  Milburn glared at him. ‘Don’t you get clever with me, Porter. I’m telling you to prioritise how you spend your time, and not run around like a law unto yourself. We’re a team here,’ he said glancing over to Maartens. ‘Even if you’re not acting like part of it at the moment, that’s what we are, and I’m telling you now, you’d better bloody well get yourself back on board with the rest of us.’

  Porter stared at a spot just over Milburn’s head, his face impassive, but inwardly slating his boss. Of course he would rather Porter spent all his time on the Victoria Park case and forget about Libby. That’s what was getting the tabloid inches, so that’s what he’d bang his drum about. All about the optics, that one. It wasn’t that Porter didn’t want the park case solved as well. What Styles had uncovered this morning definitely had legs, as good as anything so far, but there was something about Libby’s case that niggled him like sand in a shoe after a beach trip.

  Everyone close to her had lied in one way or another. You’d think when a loved one disappeared, a little girl, that self-preservation would be sent to the back of the class like a naughty kid at school. But they had all held back, partly lies, some just selectively withholding. Either way, it had cost them valuable time. Might even have cost a seven-year-old girl her life.

  ‘Are we clear?’ Milburn sat back, arms folded in a here endeth the sermon pose.

  Porter nodded, biting down, swallowing the answers he’d much rather give.

  Milburn glared at him, eyebrows arched, waiting to hear the words.

  ‘Yes, clear, sir.’

  ‘Good, now where are we with the park case?’

  Porter brought him up to speed on the morning’s findings, outlining plans to dig into Grantham, continuing to pursue identification on the other bodies. Milburn nodded, asked a few questions, finishing up with a veiled threat, his usual style.

  ‘Of course, if you’re struggling with both cases, I can always reassign one of them?’ The inference being that Porter couldn’t cope, or that he wasn’t up to the job. No way was he about to give Milburn an easy stick to beat him with.