CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
John Walsh and Fred Wigg Towers, twin castles guarding the edge of Wanstead Flats. They barely cast a shadow in the midday sun. No kids playing outside today, as he headed up to the top floor to see Ally Hallforth. Milburn was due to speak to the press at two this afternoon, and as part of that would be talking about the discovery at the allotments, and the ongoing search for Libby, who they now believed to have been another of Gibson’s victims. The last thing he wanted was for Ally to get yet another update via Sky News. She deserved to hear it face-to-face. That, plus he wanted to look her in the eye, tell her he wasn’t giving up, that her daughter wasn’t getting pushed to the back of a queue.
He rapped on the door, waited, knocked again after thirty seconds, and was ready to try third time lucky when an old lady came out of the lift, looking like she was dressed for an Arctic winter and laden with shopping bags.
‘If you’re looking for Alison, she’s not in.’
‘I was starting to wonder,’ said Porter. ‘Don’t suppose you happen to know when she’s due back?’
‘Don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘She’s not been gone long. Said she was off to see her boy, no idea when she’ll be back, though.’
Porter thanked her, offered to help her in with her bags, but she puffed out her chest.
‘I can manage just fine, but thank you for offering, young man.’
Been a while since anyone called him young. He checked his watch. Still enough time to catch Ally at Marcus’s place. Two birds with one stone. He jumped back in his car, using the journey to map out what he could do while they waited for Gibson to wake up. Every place he’d worked at would need to be checked. Tessier and Sucheka had ticked a few off the list yesterday, but Nexon had confirmed it wasn’t just confined to London. They’d need to reach out to other forces, coordinate multiple locations. Porter hoped it would be a fruitless exercise. That the Victoria Park location was the only one special enough to warrant Gibson creating his garden. If what he said was true, he wasn’t a predatory killer, preying on victims at random for the sheer thrill of it. He’d believed, at least for a time, that he was reunited with his own children, thanks to the still-scrambled signals in his brain. After the illusion wore off, what else could he have done? This misguided notion he had that they were better off with him than their families, even if that meant being part of his garden, had fuelled what happened.
Marcus answered quickly, already wearing a jacket as if he’d been hovering by the door, expecting someone.
‘Marcus, can I come in?’
‘I’m heading out actually. Going round to see Mum.’
‘I can save you the bother,’ said Porter. ‘I’ve just been round to hers and a neighbour said she’s on her way here. I wanted to see you both anyway. We OK to wait inside?’
Marcus didn’t look happy at the prospect, but opened the door anyway.
‘Living room’s in there. Back in a sec, I’ll stick the kettle on.’
Porter wandered through into a living room that was surprisingly tidy and well decorated for someone of Marcus’s age. Looked cleaner than Porter’s own place if he was being brutally honest. He heard the whisper of the kettle kicking into life, and footsteps disappearing down the hallway, to the bedroom or bathroom presumably. He made himself comfy on the sofa, taking the time to reply to a few texts and emails. Marcus reappeared a few minutes later, passing him a mug of tea, enough steam rising off it to fill a sauna.
‘There you go. Be with you in two mins. Just need the loo.’
He disappeared again, leaving Porter to search for a coaster. None in sight, so he made do with a folded copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard. His eye was drawn to a frame on the far wall, collage style, pictures of Marcus and Libby. A single one dead centre with Ally in too, but in the main it was all brother and sister shots. He was still staring at it when he placed his cup on the paper, not realising his hand had strayed too far. The edge of the cup hit the bump of the fold, and the top inch of tea spilt out in a tan-coloured mini tsunami, pooling on the coffee table, splashing the nearby TV remote.
‘Shit,’ said Porter, jumping up, picking up the remote, shaking it as if that’d fix everything. He used the edge of his hand to drag the edge of the spreading pool back, stopping a waterfall hitting the carpet. He shook his hands out, droplets flying everywhere, and headed into the kitchen to find something to mop it up with. A quick scan of the counter and he grabbed an oversized kitchen roll, and used a few sheets to blot up the bulk, a few more to wipe the streaks away. As long as the remote still worked, Marcus would be none the wiser.
He headed back into the kitchen to hide the evidence, and pushed the pedal to open the bin, dropping the stained pale-brown soggy sheets in. He’d removed his foot and half-turned away, when he paused, frowning. Turning back to the bin, he pressed to open it again, reaching in, moving the balled kitchen roll to one side.
No. Fucking. Way.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Porter heard Marcus call out, presumably from the living room, wondering where Porter had gotten to.
‘In here, Marcus. I’m in the kitchen.’
Marcus’s face appeared around the door, looking deeply suspicious, as if he’d found someone rooting through his stuff.
‘What you doing?’ he asked.
‘I spilt my tea. Needed something to mop it up,’ said Porter.
Marcus’s frown disappeared at the innocent enough explanation, and Porter let him have it with both barrels.
‘Where is she, Marcus?’
Marcus stared at him, face a blank mask, but only for a second. ‘Where’s who? My mum, you mean? She ain’t here yet, you know that.’
‘Where is she?’ Porter repeated.
‘Who? Who are you on about?’ Marcus spoke slowly, like talking to a difficult child.
‘Your sister,’ he said simply.
‘Man, you must have hit your head on something, cos you’ve lost the plot.’
‘Really?’ Porter asked, with raised eyebrows, taking a step towards Marcus, bringing one hand from behind his back. ‘Then I guess it’s you who wears the bright red hair bobbles, then? Funny, didn’t think you’d have the length to manage a ponytail.’
The frayed, snapped ends of the red bobble hung down over his fingers like a worm. Marcus’s eyes bulged when he saw it. His breathing picked up pace, and his tongue darted in and out, licking dry lips. Porter tensed, ready for him to either lunge towards him or bolt. Fight or flight. But instead, Marcus did something Porter hadn’t expected. He started to cry.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Five months ago
Libby sees something move, a reflection in her camera screen. She turns, looks up at the man standing behind her, phone dropping to her side, all thoughts of Pokémon Go forgotten. He makes a surprised noise, as if she’s magically appeared out of thin air. He has sad eyes, staring at her. Looks like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out when his mouth opens.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
It’s like someone pressed play, starting him up again. ‘I am now.’
‘Are you lost?’
‘No, no. I was just looking for you and your brother.’
That’s a weird thing to say. She doesn’t even know him, so why would he be looking for her? Maybe Marcus knows him?
‘Why?’ she asks, in that blunt way only kids can.
‘What do you mean why? I’ve come to take you home.’
Alarm bells sound, heart fluttering in her chest like a butterfly beating its wings. She knows she isn’t meant to talk to strangers. She’s already broken that rule. But going home with him? No way. She leans to one side, looking beyond him, back to the safety of the fairground. Sees flashes of colour as people breeze past the gap between stalls. Wishes she hadn’t wandered off.
‘I can’t go home with you,’ she says, hearing the wobble in her own voice. ‘Mum always says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.’
‘I’m not
a stranger, though, Marie, am I? I’m your dad.’
Her heart changes from a butterfly to a hammer. Feels like it’s about to bash straight through her chest. She notices now how nervous he looks, the way he shifts from one foot to the other, as if the ground is too hot. Her churning stomach feels like that time she ate too many sweets and was sick all over the couch. There isn’t much room to squeeze past him. What if he reaches out and grabs hold of her? She could turn, run, find her mum and dad, but it’s as if her legs are carved from stone.
‘My name’s not Marie, and you’re not my dad.’
He gives a weird kind of laugh, and she feels goosebumps pop along her arms. Something about the way he’s staring at her. Like he’s looking through her, not at her.
‘Come on now, sweetheart. Let’s not be silly, eh.’
‘My mum and dad will be looking for me,’ she says. ‘I need to go and find them.’
She takes a half-step back, but he reaches out before she can take another, grabs her by the arm. She opens her mouth to scream but before she does, there’s a blur of movement, someone bustling along the gap between stalls, bumping into him. No, not bumping. Shoving. It’s her brother, Marcus.
‘Whoa, what you doing, man? Get your hands off her.’
The man lets go of her wrist, staggering into the side of the stall. Marcus doesn’t hang around. He takes her hand, tugs her around the corner and out of sight.
‘Come on,’ he says, and she glances back over her shoulder as she follows. No sign, and they whip around the next corner, heading back to the main stream of people. They burst out, almost knocking a little boy over. Would have if he hadn’t been holding his mum’s hand.
‘Sorry,’ they call in unison, him trotting and her skipping their way back towards the car park.
They don’t stop until they get to the rows of cars, and he hunkers down, bringing himself to her eye level. She likes that he does this. Makes her feel as big as him.
‘Where are Mum and Dad?’ he asks. ‘They should have been looking after you, not leaving you to wander off with blokes like that.’
He sounds angry, and she feels her eyes begin to fill now that the excitement of their escape is wearing off. Her bottom lip starts to tremble, and she bites down, holding her breath to try and stem the tears, but they come anyway.
‘I wasn’t going anywhere with him, I promise I wasn’t.’
‘I don’t think he was going to give you much choice, Lib. Proper creep, that one.’
She sniffs, long and loud. ‘Can we go and find Mum and Dad now?’
He looks around as if he’s scanning for their faces, but when he looks back at her, he’s smiling a sad smile that confuses her.
‘Marcus?’
‘I’ve got a better idea, Lib. Why don’t we go back to mine, get some popcorn and watch a movie?’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Porter waited him out, gave him time to regain his composure. Marcus sniffed loudly, dragging the back of a hand across his nose.
‘I had to. Had no choice. If I’d left her there, he would have beaten her the same way he beat me, or worse. Mum might be clean now, but she wasn’t strong enough. Not back then. This was the only way out, the only way she’d be safe. You think – what? That I should have left her there with him? Nah, man, no way.’
‘Marcus …’ Porter began.
‘No, you don’t understand, man. I lived that, the life she would have had. Took me years to get out. Couldn’t even tell you how many times he got heavy handed. Do what you want with me now, but I did what needed to be done.’
‘Marcus, please tell me you haven’t …’
Marcus’s face contracted into a cobweb of creases. ‘Whoa, wait, you think I would hurt her? You lost your mind? She’s fine. She’s here.’
‘Here?’ Porter said, pointing a finger towards the floor. ‘In this flat?’
Marcus nodded. ‘She’s in her room.’
Porter followed Marcus down the short corridor and into a small bedroom. No sign of a little girl. No pictures on walls. A plain cream duvet. No toys, nothing. Marcus walked over to some double doors, a walk-in wardrobe, maybe, and Porter waited in the doorway as he knocked gently.
‘Libs?’ he called softly, resting his head against the door. ‘I’ve got a, um, a friend here. It’s OK to come out.’
Porter swallowed, breath catching in his throat, as the door opened, just a crack at first, then a foot. A small face peered out, like an animal emerging from hibernation. She looked even younger than the pictures he’d seen, if that was possible. Her hair was darker, not blonde any more. More of a mousey brown, and longer, down past her shoulders. She was cross-legged, sitting amongst a castle of cushions. Stuck on the wall was a round LED push button light. In her hand a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.
‘This guy is a policeman, Libs. It’s OK. He’s going to keep you safe.’
Marcus hunkered down, held his arms out to her. She looked at Porter, sizing him up, then back at Marcus. Trust in her brother won out, and she rolled forward onto her knees, closing her book, and crawled out towards him. Marcus scooped her up, bouncing her in his arms, trying to keep things light, no easy feat in the circumstances.
‘This is Detective Porter. Detective Porter, this is Libby.’
‘Hey, Libby. How you doing?’
‘I’m OK,’ she said, resting her head against her brother’s.
‘I’ve been looking for you for a very long time,’ he said, feeling a little tongue-tied. He had always assumed if he’d found her, it would have been in a locked room somewhere, kept captive, frightened for her life. But this was a new one.
‘Looking for me?’ she said. ‘I haven’t been anywhere. Just here.’
Such a beautifully simple view of the world. Got to love kids and their no-nonsense way of seeing things.
‘Well, it looks like your brother has been taking good care of you.’
‘He has,’ she said. ‘Marcus has been teaching me how to make my own games, and Susie’s going to teach me how to ride a horse.’
Porter’s eyebrows raised at the mention of Marcus’s girlfriend, something to shelve till later. ‘That sounds fun. Not in the flat, though, I hope?’
Libby laughed. ‘No, silly, in a field.’
‘Ohhh, of course. Makes sense. Probably couldn’t get up the stairs to get in here anyway.’
He looked at Marcus, saw the nervous smile. There would be no quick, clean way to put the pieces back together, or to sugar-coat for Marcus how bad this looked for him.
‘What now?’ he asked, as Porter came into the room, peering into the wardrobe.
‘That’s my den,’ Libby said proudly.
‘Looks like a good one,’ said Porter, turning back to Marcus. ‘“What now” is I have to call this in. We have to let your mum know that Libby’s alright, then we all need to head down to the station, take statements and see where we go from there.’
Porter left out the fact that someone from child protection would be called in. That this might be the last time Marcus saw his sister, for a little while at least.
‘Why do you need to let Mum know I’m alright?’ Libby asked.
‘She’s been worried about you, Libby. She thought something bad had happened to you.’
‘Something bad?’ Libby said, screwing her face up. ‘Why would she think that?’
‘Because you’ve been with Marcus for quite a while, and she didn’t know where you were.’
Libby gave him an oh, is that all? look. ‘It’s OK, she knows I’m here. She said it was OK for me to stay. She’s coming over soon. You can ask her then.’
Porter clocked the moment Marcus’s face fell, eyes closed, a soft exhale.
‘That right, Marcus? Your mum knew all about this?’
‘Not at first,’ he said, sounding like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Not till after all that stuff with the park. She was clean by then. Really trying, you know. When she thought that …’ He left it hanging, no
t wanting to spell it out with Libby there. ‘That nearly broke her all over again. I was worried she’d slip back, so I brought her over, told her what I’d done. We agreed Libby would stay here till things died down again.’
Jesus, Porter thought. Could this get any more convoluted? Libby needed to be the focus, though; everyone else could wait.
‘Tell you what, Lib, how about you read some more while me and the detective have a chat in the living room?’
Libby settled back into her den of cushions, instantly lost in the pages, and Porter followed Marcus back out along the corridor.
‘If anyone gets in bother for this, it should be me,’ said Marcus, back in the living room. ‘Mum didn’t know, not back then. How bad will it be for me?’
Time to rip off the plaster. ‘Honestly, not great. Don’t get me wrong, she looks well cared for, well looked after …’
‘We’ve been home-schooling her and everything,’ said Marcus. ‘Me and Susie. She’s never been left on her own, or anything like that.’
‘We’ll need to speak to Susie as well. I know you did what you thought was right, Marcus, but there were other ways to handle this. You could have called child protection, you could have—’
‘I did that already. Twice. Nobody did anything.’
That tweaked a memory. The two anonymous calls social services had taken. Missed opportunities to have stopped this in its tracks, way back.
‘I’ll be honest, and it won’t be me that decides this, but there’s a good chance you could be looking at charges for wasting police time at the very least.’
‘Ah, shit, man.’ Marcus stomped over to the window. ‘If I get banged up, if you go after my mum as well, Libby’ll have no one. She’ll get farmed out to some foster family. You know what, though?’ He turned back, and Porter saw the fierce look in his eyes, fanatical almost. ‘If it gets Dad out of her life for good, it was worth it.’
Marcus headed back into Libby’s room as Porter started making calls. Setting wheels in motion that might ultimately keep a family apart, instead of reuniting. He couldn’t just brush it under the carpet, though, not with something that had been so high profile. He stared out of the window as he spoke, seeing Ally Hallforth appear around the corner. She walked with a spring in her step. Why wouldn’t she? She was on her way to see her baby girl, blissfully unaware that yet another hand grenade was about to be thrown her way.
All That Is Buried Page 27
