All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  ‘We’ll take your car. You drive. I see anything that suggests you’re not doing exactly what I need … well, I don’t think either of us wants to see what happens then.’

  ‘I want to help you, Graeme, but if you hurt me, I can’t help you get them back.’

  ‘There’s plenty more of you who can,’ he said, flat, no emotion. ‘The tall one you had coffee with, the woman who you met at the park gates the other morning. If that’s what you want, I can leave here now and go find one of them to take your place?’

  Not an option, least of all because Gibson wasn’t about to leave Porter alive and well, and able to call for help.

  ‘Alright, Graeme. We do it your way. Can I get my keys?’

  ‘You won’t need them.’

  Gibson’s vehicle, then. Mistake number two would be letting him see what he was driving around in. Halfway along the corridor, Gibson a few steps behind, Porter paused, mind flashing back to when he first came home. Why he came home.

  ‘Where’s my cat?’ he asked. ‘What have you done with him?’

  He turned to see Gibson looking genuinely hurt. ‘You have a cat? I’ve not seen any cat. Wait, you think I would …?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Even if I had, I wouldn’t hurt it. I’m not a monster.’

  Porter almost laughed out loud. This man who had done unspeakable things, however noble the reasons in his own twisted mind, was taking the moral high ground. Gibson reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder, pausing him by the front door. He grabbed one of Porter’s jackets, draping it over his hands, covering the cable tie.

  Porter looked both ways along the street as they made their way down the path, mind working overtime to figure out how to play this. Gibson held out a key fob, clicked a button and a white van parked nearby chirped in response. He started to usher Porter towards the rear doors when Jake’s phone rang. It sounded unfeasibly loud, amplified by the tension. He looked back, seeing Gibson shaking his head.

  ‘Leave it. Just drive.’

  ‘That’ll be my partner,’ he said. ‘We’d arranged to speak. If I don’t talk to him now, he’ll just keep ringing. He’ll think something’s happened.’

  Gibson looked spooked, on edge. It just re-enforced Porter’s feeling that he was balancing on a razor-thin line of self-control. Wouldn’t take more than an ounce of pressure to push him off.

  ‘I won’t say anything. You have my word, I’m not going to risk the boys’ lives.’

  That seemed to strike a chord with Gibson, and he took the phone out from Porter’s pocket with one hand, opening the passenger door and gesturing for Jake to get in with the other, pruning saw held just between thumb and forefinger for a few seconds. For the briefest of seconds, Porter considered making a grab for it with his tethered hands. Not worth the risk. Not yet.

  ‘Make it quick,’ he said, tapping to answer and putting it on speakerphone, glancing around to scan the street.

  Porter nodded his thanks, slid onto the seat, and tried his best to sound nonchalant as he spoke.

  ‘Nick, what’s up?’

  ‘Hey, boss, just checking in to see if you’re still heading back to the station. Emma’s fine, not a contraction in sight, so I’ve got the all clear to come back out to play.’

  ‘You know what, I’m just gonna call it a day,’ said Porter. ‘See if I can get some sleep, and just be ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘You sure?’ said Styles, sounding surprised. ‘There’s got to be more we can work our way through. Kaja and Gus should be back in soon as well. It’ll be interesting to see where they got to with that list of his previous jobs.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure, mate. Why don’t you have the night off as well? I’m just going to kick back here, wait for Holly to get back from work, and have a quiet night in,’ Porter said.

  He held his breath, waiting, hoping that Styles was astute enough to pick up on the nearest to an emergency flare he could think to send up. If he answered without thinking, contradicted in any way, there was every chance Gibson would see it as a betrayal, and Porter didn’t want to think about what that might mean.

  The next words out of Styles’s mouth could literally mean life or death for him, for the boys.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  ‘I’m just going to kick back here, wait for Holly to get back from work, and have a quiet night in,’ said Porter.

  Styles frowned. His gaffer had clearly been working too hard. Initially his mind went to a dark response, to tell him he’d be waiting a while, but there’d be no real humour in that. Even he had standards. Why would he say something like that, then? After watching how difficult it had been for him to come to terms with losing Holly, this just didn’t seem the kind of slip of the tongue he would ever make. Why, then? What possible reason could … unless …

  The call went dead, no standing on ceremony, no goodbyes. Maybe he was seeing things that weren’t there, but the reference to Holly really bothered him. The only explanation that made sense was that Porter had meant to say something else. Had wanted to, but couldn’t for whatever reason. Styles looked out of his car window, at the closed curtains, a soft glow around the edges. Emma was already expecting him to head back into work for a few hours. Wouldn’t be so different if he used the time to check up on Porter. Best case, he’d casually drop by and have his boss give him a funny look on the doorstep. Worst case, well, no sense in letting his mind run away with itself just yet, although the knotting feeling in the pit of his stomach kept getting heavier, tighter. Not good.

  He put the car into first and pulled away, calling Porter back. If the boss sounded weird again, he’d not question it, just see it as confirmation that something was definitely wrong. Voicemail. He didn’t bother with a message. Emma was next.

  ‘Hey, Em, just popping over to Jake’s for an hour, maybe less.’

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s all good. Just need to prep for tomorrow. Work out what he wants to do.’

  ‘Why not ask him round here instead?’ she said. ‘There’s plenty left over from tea.’

  ‘Nah, just as quick for me to pop round.’

  ‘What do you mean just as quick? I’ve just seen you drive off.’

  ‘Exactly, I’m on my way now.’

  ‘What are you not telling me?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Well, probably nothing.’ God, he hated the fact sometimes that he couldn’t lie to her. Was he so bad at it, or was she so good at sniffing him out? He told her about the reference to Holly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘Me neither, but he’s been under a lot of pressure, even before the boys were taken, and he’s not picking up now. I just want to make sure he’s alright, then I’ll be straight back home.’

  ‘Alright then,’ she said, but sounded far from convinced, worry creeping in around the edges. ‘Call me when you’re heading back.’

  He promised to do just that and ended the call, trying Porter one last time, but same result. He debated trying again, but opted to concentrate on driving instead. This wasn’t like Porter in so many ways. To come out with a bizarre statement like that, then not take his calls.

  Probably nothing, he kept telling himself.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Styles’s name flashed up a third time.

  ‘No,’ said Gibson from behind him. ‘Just get in and sit down.’

  He opened the double doors of the van, and Porter was halfway to ducking his head as he climbed in when he saw them. Tom and James were up at the far end, backs against the wooden panelling. They had carbon copies of his cable tie restraints, and each had a rag stuffed in their mouths, brown packing tape holding them in place.

  Porter had seen some pretty horrific things in his time on the job, things that had squeezed a tear out of some of the hardest officers he’d known. He’d walked through the lot. Only losing Holly had cut him deep enough to draw tears, but this felt pretty damn close.

  They looked terr
ified, eyes wide, at once taking in who was joining them and pleading for help. Tom saw him first, muffled grunts the best he could manage. James looked up at the noise, seeing his uncle, blinking back fresh tears. Porter bit down hard on his bottom lip, shaking his head.

  ‘It’s OK, boys, it’s going to be alright.’

  He did his best reassuring gesture, holding his hands up, regretting it when the sight of his own bound hands seemed to spark them off, chests heaving, sucking in air through their snotty noses, breath crackling. Porter turned to Gibson, gave him a glare that could cut glass. Gibson said nothing, just raised the pruning saw, using it as a pointer, directing Porter inside. Porter heard him climb in behind him, and tensed as Gibson grabbed him by the loop of his restraints. Gibson produced another tie from his pocket, threading it through a steel loop set into the wood panel, fastening Porter in position to the left of the boys. He tested it once, twice, then retreated out of the van, slamming the door behind him.

  Porter looked down first at Tom, then at James, as the van started up. He was facing front, not enough leeway in his restraints to even think about reaching them to peel the tape from their faces. Instead, he just spoke to them, a soothing voice trying to transport them away from all of this. Talked about their mum, how happy she’d be to see them again. How they’d go to the Chelsea game this weekend, burn their mouths on hot chocolate and slop match-day pies down their tops. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, they started to calm down, uncoil from their shells, breathing slowing. He lost count of how many times he told them everything would be alright, hoping that his words conveyed how serious he was. That he’d do whatever it took to keep them safe, even if it meant putting himself in harm’s way.

  A small window set in the same internal wall gave him a view of the street. Not far off eight o’clock, and the sun had dipped low behind the cityscape. Every time they came to a junction Porter scanned ahead, watching, looking for anyone close enough who might look into the car. Would they even be able to see this far into the vehicle?

  If this had been tomorrow, Porter’s phone and his every move could have been tracked, guiding Gibson into a net he didn’t even know was closing. As it was, they moved quietly through the city, unnoticed, unobserved. Whatever went down tonight, he was on his own.

  By the time they approached St Leonard’s, Porter felt surprisingly calm, as if his body had adjusted to this new norm. He noticed that Gibson had parked along the side of the building, rather than the front. No real surprise there. He’d hardly want to announce his arrival or intentions. Porter had spent the journey trying to figure out how Gibson would play this. Would he leave them tied up, march in and take what he wanted by force?

  Up ahead, a door slammed shut. Footsteps along the side, and Porter saw Tom and James tense up as the rear doors were pulled open. He turned to see Gibson climb in, face blank, on autopilot as if it was just another day at the office. One hand held the pruning saw, the other a pair of secateurs, and Porter instinctively moved his body across to try and shield the boys.

  Gibson didn’t seem to notice, instead moving to Porter’s right, sliding the secateur blades either side of the cable tie anchoring Porter to the van, snipping it and leading Porter outside to fresh waves of groans from the twins.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘When we go in, this stays on.’ He tugged at the original tie binding Porter’s hands. ‘If you speak out of turn, they die. If you try and warn anyone, they die. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Look at me,’ he said, stepping to within a foot of Porter. ‘Look at me, and tell me if I’m lying.’

  Gibson’s eyes stopped their usual wandering, fixing on Porter, boring into him with a force that left little room for error. No mistaking his tone, either. He would follow through, and not lose a second’s sleep because of it. Porter nodded.

  ‘We do it your way, Graeme. Nobody else has to get hurt,’ he said, all the while working the angles. If they went inside, if other people became involved, Porter couldn’t guarantee how they would react. All that mattered right now was getting the boys to safety. Any have-a-go heroes inside could put them, and him, in jeopardy. He had to do something before they got inside.

  Gibson turned side-on, tossing the secateurs back inside, transferring the pruning saw to his left hand and reached out to close the doors. Porter moved on instinct, lifting his hands to head height before slamming them towards his stomach, popping his shoulder blades towards each other. He grunted with the impact, the tie pinging apart. Gibson spun back to face him, blade in the hand furthest away. Only one door had been shut, and Porter could see the twins over Gibson’s shoulder, faces now a mask of panic, about to watch their would-be saviour fight for his life and theirs.

  The force he’d used to break his restraints had left him bent forward, and he used this to his advantage, charging forward, below Gibson’s swinging arm, catching him in the chest and driving him back against the door. Porter heard both the loud ooofff as air was driven out of Gibson’s lungs and a muted crunching sound, ribs maybe. He pulled back six inches, digging a shovel hook into Gibson’s side, but Gibson twisted a fraction. Porter’s fist landed square against the door, and white-hot lances of pain shot through his fingers and up his arm.

  Gibson pushed Porter away, swinging a punch of his own that Porter was able to slip easily. The counter was there for the taking, but throwing it would mean using his injured hand. It throbbed as if he’d dipped it in a deep-fat fryer. He used it to feint instead, flicking a jab towards Gibson’s jaw, following it up with a cross that connected with Gibson’s cheek, but it wasn’t a clean shot, and he seemed unfazed.

  Porter’s eyes flicked down to the weapon in Gibson’s right hand as his opponent finally seemed to remember he was armed. Gibson opened his stance, whipping the blade in an upwards arc. Porter jerked away, but a fraction too late, feeling a sting across his cheek. He staggered backwards and to the side, tripping over the kerb and onto the pavement, one hand out to break his fall, the other going to his face, coming away red.

  He felt the impact before the pain. The hand he’d put out was the same he’d punched the side of the van with, and as soon as his weight bore down it buckled like wet cardboard. He gasped, rolling over onto his side, away from the van, from any follow-up strike. When he looked up, Gibson had moved in, standing over him, breathing hard, in through the mouth and out through the nose, like he was psyching himself up.

  ‘I told you,’ he said in a voice ragged around the edges. ‘I told you, all I wanted was my children, and you had to … you couldn’t just …’

  His head weaved from side to side, forehead creasing like crumpled paper, as if trying to work out how he’d got here, where it all went wrong.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt them,’ he said. ‘None of them. I thought they were … they looked like them, like my Ben and Marie. I just wanted to bring them home, and you,’ he said, pointing the blade at Porter, ‘all you had to do was give them back. I’m all they’ve got. They need me.’

  He sounded pleading now, losing what tenuous grip he had on reality, spare hand rubbing at his temple. Porter looked beyond him. Guessed the van to be about ten feet away now, Gibson halfway between him and the twins.

  ‘We can still get them, Graeme. We can go in there now and bring them out,’ Porter said, pushing up on his good hand, pointing with the broken one towards the building.

  ‘That’s what you said before,’ Gibson sneered. ‘Then you did this, tried to ruin it all. No, this time I do it myself. You don’t get to ruin this.’

  ‘What now, then?’ Porter asked.

  Gibson looked down at him with sorrowful eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Truly I am,’ he said, changing to a reverse grip with the blade, moving towards Porter. Jake watched as it came closer, the teeth of the saw arcing in a wicked smile. Everything seemed to slow, and all he could think was that he hoped the boys wouldn’t suffer. That Kat would forgive him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Gibson had covered half the dist
ance to where he lay when Porter heard it. Loud, blaring: a horn. Gibson slowed, looking up, and Porter saw lights swooping past him, washing over the road, across Gibson’s body. An engine roared, the light doubling in intensity, searing Gibson’s eyes closed. Porter whipped his head around, saw the vehicle hurtling towards them. He threw himself to his left, away from the road, reaching out with his injured hand without thinking. The pain was white-hot, liquid, flowing up his arm. Barely time to process it when he heard the impact. A sickening symphony of crunches and cracks. Something landing further along the pavement like a sack of wet laundry. Tyres screeching, metal scraping against metal.

  Porter moved using his heels and good hand, pushing backwards crab-style, and looked back towards the van. A second vehicle, another van, had collided with Gibson’s, front wheel up on the kerb, driver’s side pressed up against the rear corner of the parked van.

  Gibson lay motionless on his side, facing away and almost wedged up against the side of the building, looking of all things like he was in the recovery position. Even from his low vantage point, Porter saw a dark stain spreading over pavement. He sat up, holding his injured hand to his chest, wincing, teeth gritted. Only for a second, though. The boys. They’d still been inside when the van hit! The impact had sounded harsh, enough to throw Gibson ten feet. He went to scramble to his feet as he heard a door open.

  The man who slid out the passenger side, his saviour − Porter had seen the face before. The last sixty seconds had shaken his head like a snow globe, and he frowned, trying to place it. Short hair, bordering on military. Boxer’s nose, teeth stained like a forty-a-day smoker. It wouldn’t quite register at first, but as he stared, brain on overdrive, it clicked into place with sickening clarity. The face, the white van. The man who had been following him. Not Gibson. Who, then? No time for small talk. The man reached into his inside jacket pocket, and Porter readied himself for one last charge.