All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  His voice tailed off, and Porter noticed a tremor in his hands.

  ‘Daniel, why don’t we take a break?’ asked Holmes, one last attempt to counsel restraint.

  ‘What’s the point, Stephen? Hmm? They know now, about him, about Samantha. And it’s not as if I’ve actually done anything.’

  ‘Why now?’ Porter asked. ‘If this happened six years ago, why go after him now?’

  ‘Couldn’t find him,’ Grantham said simply. ‘He worked alongside me for years. He was almost as good as me when it comes to roses. Almost. There was no way he wouldn’t drift back to it in some way, so I put out a few feelers, and just waited.’

  Watching him unload was a peculiar experience. Shrugging this weight off didn’t make him lighter. On the contrary, it was as if talking about it doubled the load, pulling him downwards, shoulders slumping, folding in upon himself. Something Grantham had said floated back to the front of Porter’s mind. He fired off a quick text to Dee Williams – one question – then turned his attention back to the two men opposite.

  ‘The crash, can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Samantha was a fighter,’ he said, sounding every inch the proud father. ‘He was a troubled man. Liked the drink too much, but she stuck by him. Even when he accused her of cheating on him, raised his hand to her, she stuck by him. I begged her to leave him. Even squared up to him one time. Told him to leave my girl be. They’d had an argument the day she died, a big one.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘She texted me. Asked if the children could come and stay the night. Said that she and Graeme had some things to work out. That was how she put it. Couldn’t even bring herself to slag the man off to me, not properly. I didn’t see the text till it was too late. I tried calling her, but by then … If I’d seen the message earlier, the children would have been with me. They’d be alive.’

  His words came laced with emotion now, voice thick around the edges, and Porter wondered if he’d opened up to anyone about this. Possibly not. Maybe not even to his own son, out of some misguided guilt.

  ‘Your son-in-law, is he a violent man?’

  ‘You want to know if I think he could be the one who buried those children in the park?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Grantham didn’t hesitate. ‘I want to say no, but I just don’t know.’

  Porter felt his phone buzz, glanced down and saw a reply from Dee Williams that stopped him in his tracks. A list of names, contractors from Nexon who had worked at Victoria Park. Nestled halfway down, there he was. Graeme Gibson.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  He listens to the newsreader’s voice drifting through the car speakers, regurgitating the same lies, carbon copies of previous hourly headlines.

  Police would like to speak to a man in connection with the investigation into the bodies found at Victoria Park. Graeme Gibson was found guilty of death by dangerous driving, in a crash that killed his wife and two children six years ago. Police have asked members of the public to contact them if they see Mr Gibson, but not to approach him themselves.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, so tight that when he opens them, pinpricks of light cartwheel across his vision. Why are they lying about his family? He would never hurt Ben and Marie. He has raised a hand to Samantha in a fit of temper, but he was another man back then. It must be the police, he decides. That detective. They don’t understand about his other children, the ones in the park. How he has cared for them better than their own parents ever did.

  Each time has brought conflicting tides of elation and hope, but ultimately regret. Their resemblance to Ben or Marie has been without question at the time. Spotted alone in shopping centres, out on streets, loitering in fairgrounds. Sometimes they come with him willingly, others need to be told, forcibly brought with him in some cases. Only later, in the quiet of his allotment, no longer caught up in the moment, do the masks slip away, replaced by frightened unfamiliar faces. Similar age, build, hair, but not them. Not his children. He tries to reassure them, comfort them. That’s when the edges blur, slipping into soft focus. When things snap back … well, he doesn’t like to dwell too much. All he can do then is look after them. Dress them up warm, like he used to his own children. Take them to the park, looking out over the lake that Ben and Marie love so much.

  Love, or loved? If the headlines are to be believed, everything about them is past tense now. It’s lies. Has to be. The detective, the one he has followed, is trying to lure him out. They don’t understand. The children in the park, they are better off with him than they ever were with their parents. People who left them to wander unchecked, unsupervised, unloved. He’ll never do that with Marie and Ben when he finds them again. Never let them out of his sight.

  He presses the heels of both palms into his temples. Tries in vain, as he has so many times before, to dredge up more recent memories than the home movies. Nothing. It’s as if he’s flicking through a book, but someone has torn out the last fifty pages.

  His children in the park have consoled him, been a comfort in his darker moods as he searches for his son and daughter. Listened to him ramble on, reliving moments spent with Ben and Marie. They’re as much family to him now as his own flesh and blood. He needs them every bit as much. They should be with him, in his garden, not hidden away in a dark room somewhere.

  The policeman, Porter. That’s the route to take. Everyone has something they hold precious, that they’d do anything for. For him it’s his children. He doesn’t know Porter as such, but he can hazard a guess as to what would compel the policeman to give his children back to him.

  Across the road, and a half-dozen doors down, two boys hustle down a short driveway, jostling for position. Even from here the similarities are unmistakable, each a clone of the other. A woman joins them, one hand jangling keys, the other elbow deep in a handbag. Doors open, slam and the engine purrs to life. Seconds later, the woman jumps out again, striding back to her front door, disappearing inside.

  He doesn’t hesitate, no pause for thought. He’s out of his own car and walking towards theirs a matter of seconds after she goes inside. ‘Whatever it takes,’ he mutters.

  An eye for an eye.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Styles clicked the icon showing a boxy camera, seeing a miniature of his own face in the bottom corner as he waited for Skype to connect. The melodic chimes seemed to tinkle for ever. Was that something on the corner of his mouth in his video feed? Remnants of breakfast? The call connected as he started to lean forward for a closer look, and he jumped back, shoulders squared, one hand brushing against the corner of his mouth, hoping he’d send whatever it was flying.

  A voice drifted through his laptop speakers as he waited for the video feed to kick in.

  ‘Hi … Hello … Can you hear me?’

  ‘Hi there, yep, I can hear you. This is Detective Sergeant Nick Styles. Thanks for—’

  ‘I can’t see you yet,’ the voice interrupted.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Styles said, and they both waited out the next few awkward seconds, like an uncomfortable silence on a first date.

  The face that popped on screen, looking a mixture of surprised and flustered, reminded Styles of Richard Branson. Well, maybe Branson if he’d let himself go a little. Thicker around the cheeks and neck, beard an inch longer, and wearing glasses with lenses thick enough to be spares for the Hubble Space Telescope.

  ‘Ah, much better. Hello, Detective.’

  ‘Hi, Doctor Larsson. Really appreciate you taking the time to speak to me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Larsson said, a hint of an accent around the edges that Styles couldn’t place. On the dove-grey wall behind him, one either side, were what looked like framed diplomas, like twin epaulettes on Larsson’s shoulders, although Styles couldn’t make out the writing.

  ‘The warden said you needed to speak to me about Graeme Gibson. He said it was urgent. Is he alright?’

  ‘What can you tell me about him, Doctor?’
>
  ‘That depends on why you need to know.’

  Styles paused a beat, deciding how much to share with Larsson.

  ‘We need to speak to him about a sensitive case we’re investigating. His father-in-law believes Graeme might still be …’ He paused, searching for the right words. ‘Suffering from his accident, from losing his family.’

  Larsson nodded slowly, leaning forward, elbows on the table, resting his chin on clasped hands.

  ‘Tragic, tragic thing. To lose your family like that …’

  ‘Mmm,’ Styles murmured in agreement, waiting for the doctor to speak again, but Larsson just stared back at him.

  ‘How long did you treat him for?’ Styles prompted.

  ‘All in all, around nine months,’ said Larsson. ‘His physical injuries had healed by the time he was sentenced − well, those on the outside at least − but his problems ran a lot deeper than that.’

  ‘How so?’

  Larsson gave a wry smile. ‘Come now, Detective, you know there are limits to what I can discuss about a patient.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Doctor Larsson, but there’s more at stake here than you realise.’

  ‘Has Graeme been arrested? Charged with a crime?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘There were many things discussed at his trial,’ Larsson interrupted. ‘That’s all public record. How his defence tried to argue diminished responsibility, using his bipolar as a mitigating factor. That I can talk about. What we spoke about in the sessions we had, I’m afraid that falls under doctor–patient confidentiality.’

  ‘In most cases that’d be true, sir, but I don’t believe it is here.’

  ‘And why would that be?’ Larsson leant back in his chair. Styles could practically see the condescension coming of him in waves, so sure of himself.

  ‘General Medical Council disclosure guidance, paragraphs sixty-three through to seventy. Disclosure is allowed in the public interest if it’s likely to prevent death or serious harm.’

  Styles kept glancing down at the notes in front of him, thankful this wasn’t a face-to-face so he could peek at his messy scrawl. He made a mental note to buy Dee Williams a coffee for raising the disclosure point before he made the call, giving him a chance to check and prepare.

  ‘Death or injury?’ Larsson huffed. ‘I must have done over fifty sessions with Graeme while he was here, and don’t get me wrong, he had his demons to battle with, but what happened to his family was an accident. He isn’t capable of actively choosing to hurt someone, let alone kill them.’

  ‘We have information that suggests otherwise, Doctor,’ said Styles.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid if you expect me to share my information without knowing yours, that’s just not how this works,’ he said with a shrug.

  Enough of the tiptoeing around. Who knew where Gibson was now, what the consequences might be of him being out there an extra day, maybe more.

  ‘Have you seen anything in the news about Victoria Park recently, Doctor?’

  Larsson’s eyes darted side to side for a second, widening as it hit home.

  ‘You don’t mean … not those bodies they found?’

  Styles said nothing, letting it sink in.

  ‘Surely you don’t think that Graeme could have anything to do with that? Losing his own kids almost broke him. I honestly don’t think …’

  ‘We’ve already released his name to the press as a person of interest, and yes, there’s enough linking him to the case to make us worried about what he might be capable of, so anything you can share that helps us understand him, maybe even find him, would be a big help.’

  Larsson looked off balance for the first time. ‘But by the time he was released, we’d made such progress.’

  ‘People have already died, Doctor. Children. I’d hate for any refusal to help us to come back and bite you, especially when, as you say, you’d done good work with him,’ Styles said, playing to the ego.

  ‘I … uhm … well, hmm.’ Larsson looked flushed now, leaning forwards, steepling his fingers, blinking furiously. Styles waited him out. Only took another few seconds.

  ‘If I share my thoughts with you,’ Larsson began, ‘I’m assuming my name could be kept out of any press releases.’

  Styles nodded. ‘You have my word.’ Chances were if Gibson was their man, Larsson would change his mind and look for a pat on the back for playing ball.

  ‘OK, well, let me see then …’ Larsson seemed to relax a little at the prospect of anonymity. ‘Graeme is a complex character. On one hand, he was all about his family. To hear him, they were his world, the kids especially.’

  Styles sensed a ‘but’ coming.

  ‘Things are rarely straightforward for people by the time they become a patient, though. With Graeme, he didn’t have the best childhood. Mother who left when he was eight. His father was an alcoholic, no other real family support network to speak of. That fractured family feeling echoed into his own marriage.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s unusual for a mother to leave her family. Far more likely to be the father. It was as if her leaving him behind with a father that spent as much time in the pub as with his own son, probably more, left him with a sense of fragility. That if she could leave him, anyone could. Sadly for him, and his family, it meant that he was looking for it around every corner.’

  ‘He thought his wife wanted to leave him?’

  Larsson nodded. ‘It was a vicious circle of the worst kind. He’d read into something and accuse her. She’d changed her make-up, bought a new dress, didn’t return his calls fast enough. Sent him into a spiral, accusing her, drinking more, even becoming physical on occasion. All things more likely to make her want to leave.’

  ‘And what can you tell me about the accident itself? What did he say about that?’

  Larsson shrugged. ‘Exactly what he said in court. That he didn’t remember getting in the car, let alone crashing it. He’d been drinking for hours before that at a local pub. She was late picking him up. One of the regulars was outside smoking when he came out, and saw him climb in the driver’s seat, kids in the back, threatening to drive off without her if she didn’t get in. The crash was a few miles from there. There was some footage from a dashcam coming the other way. Only a brief glimpse, but they managed to enhance the image. It showed his arm reaching over, looked like he had a handful of her hair. Arguing about something.’

  ‘So how do you treat someone who doesn’t even remember their crime?’

  ‘By looking at the root cause of his unhappiness. What caused him to behave like that. He might not have remembered the event itself, but he remembers his behaviour leading up to it.’

  ‘And from what you said earlier, you don’t think he poses a danger. Is that because the only trigger was his wife?’

  Larsson nodded. ‘Exactly right.’

  ‘So if he can’t remember the accident, did he at least show any remorse that his family were dead?’

  ‘That’s the thing, you see, Detective,’ said Larsson, shaking his head ever so slightly. ‘He wouldn’t accept that they were dead. Denied it right up to the day he walked out. He said it was all a cover-up, some sort of plot to help her leave him, that he’d been set up somehow.’

  ‘Set up?’ Styles said incredulously. ‘There would have been photos of the scene at the trial. How did he explain those?’

  ‘Said it was all manufactured. What I suppose you’d call fake news these days.’

  ‘So, he thinks what, that his wife and kids are in hiding somewhere?’

  Larsson leant back again, spreading his hands wide. ‘Nonsense, I know, but the accident caused severe swelling to his brain, bleeding as well. The brain, memories we have stored, it really doesn’t take much to shake something loose when it comes to car crashes. It might have come back to him by now, who knows?’

  ‘When he left your care, would it be a leap to say he might go looking for his family?’

  ‘I’d say that’s e
xactly what he’d do. In fact, he talked about it frequently. I think it’s more of a leap to say that he might start hurting people, children.’

  ‘All the kids match the ages of his children, and he had access to the park after hours. Let’s just say we’d love to rule him out, but we need to find him first. Did he say anything about what he planned to do after he was released? Where he might go?’

  ‘Nothing specific, no.’ There was little of the confidence left in Larsson’s voice, as if mention of the children had brought home how serious this was. ‘But he was adamant that he’d find a way to make things right. To get his family back together, no matter what it took.’

  The silence that followed those final five words hung heavy. Styles focused on them, and the man who had first said them. Reunite a family at all costs. One that didn’t exist any more except in Graeme Gibson’s mind. A man who had done terrible things, suffered unimaginable loss. Styles’s thoughts flicked to the island garden. Its inhabitants buried close, each one touching distance from their neighbour. A family plot.

  ‘Not my preference to have shared Gibson’s name with the press,’ Porter said to the room. ‘But who am I to question our illustrious superintendent?’

  ‘Do we drop Grantham now?’ Sucheka asked.

  ‘Not drop, but shelve for now. It’s still all circumstantial with him, but we can put Gibson in the park. He will have had access to the place after hours as well, easier to move bodies around.’

  ‘What about motive?’ asked Tessier.

  ‘Nick’s had some interesting calls today,’ Porter said, indicating for Styles to share. His phone rang as Styles started to speak, Kat’s name and picture lighting up his screen. He hit reject, knocked it onto silent, and carried on.

  ‘Spoke with his probation officer, and a psychiatrist based at the prison he did his time in. Seems that the car accident that killed his family left him with selective amnesia. When he came round after the accident, he refused to accept his family were dead. Said it was all lies to keep his kids away from him.’