All That Is Buried

by Robert Scragg

  She disappeared from sight, angling towards the entrance, and Porter wandered down the corridor to let Marcus know she was there. He paused by the door, looking in to see Marcus lying on the bed, Libby curled up against him. He was reading to her from her Harry Potter book, and Porter could see from her face that she’d dived head first back into the world of wizardry and witchcraft. Ally would be here any minute. He’d decided to drive them all to the station himself. That’d give them a window to breathe, soak in the new world view, contemplate the scrutiny of their lives that lay ahead.

  As he watched Libby and her brother, he reminded himself that this outcome was beyond his wildest expectations. She was alive, and unharmed, physically. This was a win, so why was it starting to feel like something less?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  The last seven days had been like being swept up in a whirlwind, buffeted on all sides by a horde of people wanting a piece of him. Since Libby’s re-emergence the day after a suspected serial killer was taken into custody, the press had been hailing Porter as a hero. Doorstepping him at home, chasing him for a quote on his way into the station. He’d even made an appearance in the Sunday Times, a satirical cartoon depicting him being sworn in as the replacement for St Jude, patron saint of lost causes, holding a clipboard mandate to find the £350 million that the Brexit Leave campaign had promised would find its way to the NHS.

  Needless to say, that had prompted a wave of piss-take at the station. Someone left a framed mock-up of a Hello! magazine cover, cartoon at the bottom, his head photoshopped into a picture, shaking hands with the Pope.

  Saint Jake negotiates world peace, impeaches President Trump and secures Christmas number one.

  Never underestimate the creativity of bored coppers.

  Interviews with Marcus, Libby and Ally hadn’t revealed a great deal more than he’d been able to pick up last week in Marcus’s flat. It wasn’t complicated. Marcus admitted he’d planned things to an extent. The what, more than the when. Stumbling across Libby, cornered by the man who Marcus had identified as Gibson from photographs, had been the proverbial straw that broke things. Seeing how far removed from parents Ally and Simon were being, he’d acted on instinct, jumped in his girlfriend’s car and taken Libby home with him. The mystery of her phone, cracked screen, the blood, was solved too. Dropped on a long detour to the car park, the screen had smashed and she had cut her finger trying to swipe it back to life.

  Between he and Susie Lim, they’d basically stepped in as parents for the last five months. Bought a load of clothes from charity shops, set her up in the spare room, explained to her that Simon worked for some dangerous people. Marcus had planned to somehow get Chloe out as well, but that, he said, would have looked too suspicious coming so soon after Libby. Besides, after Ally kicked Simon out and started to sort herself out, Marcus had seen a future where he could eventually come clean, tell her what he had done. That Libby was safe.

  Throughout Libby’s interviews, she’d stuck up for her brother all the way through. Said it had been like a long holiday, that she’d enjoyed learning stuff with Susie more than she ever had at school. It was harder to get her to open up to questions about Simon. Porter had seen the wariness drop over her face like a mask. Even when she was told that Simon had been arrested, that he couldn’t hurt her, it took a while to coax answers out.

  What Porter hadn’t seen coming was the approach from the solicitor that Marcus had instructed. A young lady called Amina Baqri, from Pringle & Bailey, had been kicking up a fuss on his behalf, asking some pretty searching questions about how the Hallforth family had been let down so badly, victims of a broken system that should have protected all three children, long before one of them cracked under the pressure and took matters into his own hands.

  She was also shining a spotlight, albeit not quite as bright, on missed opportunities by the Met. They’d searched Marcus’s flat when Libby first went missing, but knew now that Susie Lim had taken her round to her place for the day. Could they have done more? Porter genuinely didn’t think so, but even if they had, would that have worked out best for Libby? She would have been returned to Ally and Simon. They might never have found out about his links to Nuhić, the threat he posed to his own children.

  Porter didn’t want to jump the gun, but with Baqri snapping at the council’s heels, public pressure mounting, social media sparking all sorts of debate around public interest and whether punishing a young man for protecting his sister was serving it, anything was possible. If he was honest with himself, once he got past the initial sting of having been lied to, he didn’t see any good coming from splitting up the siblings that Marcus had risked everything to keep together. If everything aligned, if Marcus walked free, if the family were left to rebuild and restart, he would be at peace with that.

  Styles would be off for another week’s worth of paternity, but he’d insisted Emma was OK with visitors. Evie had tried to mask the smile, but her face had lit up at the prospect of going to meet the new addition. When Styles came to the door, he looked like he’d just made a breakthrough after an all-nighter at the office. Tired, but looking a little smug. He shook Porter’s hand, gave Simmons a hug and ushered them both inside.

  Emma looked up as they entered the living room, rocking ever so lightly back and forth, baby draped over her shoulder. She had that same look of exhausted happiness, and Porter couldn’t help but smile as Styles crouched down beside them, pulling back a corner of muslin cloth. The little face he revealed wasn’t as smushed-up as the one from the picture. She’d filled out a little, tiny chest puffing in and out at a fair pace. Reminded Porter of a little bird, so frail-looking, hands encased in scratch mitts, cheek pressed against Emma’s shoulder making for a scrunched-up face.

  ‘Allow me to do the introductions,’ Styles said, clearing his throat like a master of ceremonies announcing the special guest. ‘May I present Hannah Ruth Holly Styles.’ He half-bowed to complete his act.

  ‘She’s adorable,’ said Simmons. ‘And you look amazing,’ she added to Emma.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Styles, jumping in. ‘I’ve been using this new moisturiser, takes five years off, they reckon.’

  She and Emma shot him the same glance, shaking heads, attention going right back to the baby.

  ‘Hannah Ruth Holly,’ said Porter.

  ‘My dad’s mum was Hannah, and Em’s mum is Ruth,’ said Styles, the third one needing no explanation.

  ‘And I’m sure the initials being HRH is just a happy accident?’

  Styles couldn’t hide a half-smirk. ‘Yeah, I can’t lie, that sold me on having the three. She’s going to have one hell of a signature.’

  He followed Styles into the kitchen, catching him up on the latest with both cases. Graeme Gibson still hadn’t woken up. Porter had been in to see him twice on the off-chance, but both times he just stared at the tubes and wires, wondered if it would be kinder to pull them all out. A different brand of justice.

  By the time they wandered back through, Simmons had taken up residence on the couch next to Emma, and had commandeered the baby, cradling her in her arms, talking softly. Porter stared for a moment, imagining what could be, somewhere down the line. She looked up, as if she’d felt his gaze. Smiled at him, and he felt the faintest of flutters.

  Standing there, watching domestic bliss unfold before him, he was sure there’d be some wisecrack from Styles any second, but it never came. Instead, Styles patted him on the shoulder, and gestured towards the baby.

  ‘You want a turn next?’

  ‘No rush. Let Evie have a spell first.’

  ‘Don’t use me as your excuse,’ Simmons said, rising to her feet and sliding Hannah into Porter’s arms.

  She was so light, he barely felt anything, like holding air. She stared up at him with wise eyes, the occasional slow blink, sizing him up.

  ‘We were wondering as well,’ said Styles, clearing his throat, ‘if you’d do us the honour of being her godfather?’

  Not of
ten it happened, but Porter was lost for words. He just nodded at first instead, then found his tongue.

  ‘Not sure I’ll be the best influence ever, but yeah, I’d love to.’

  That prompted grins all round. Even looked like they were getting one from Hannah.

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Jake,’ Emma said. ‘It’ll just be wind.’

  More smiles. After the maelstrom of the last few weeks, he could do with more days like this. A buzzing broke the spell, and he looked around for his phone.

  ‘Think I left it in the kitchen,’ he said, offering the baby back to Emma, but Styles had already disappeared to fetch it. Porter heard him speaking to someone, and when he came back in, he held out the phone, hand covering it and speaking in a stage whisper.

  ‘It’s the gaffer, your gaffer, I mean. Sounds a bit weird.’

  Hannah screwed up her face as he passed her over to her mum, a cry starting low, working its way up, like an air raid siren. Some set of lungs on her for one so small.

  ‘I’ll take it outside,’ he said, lifting the phone to one ear, poking a finger in the other to block out Hannah’s wail.

  ‘Boss, it’s Porter, What’s up?’

  ‘Where are you, Jake?’

  Porter picked up the vibe that Styles had. The super sounded a little off, distracted. The use of his first name wasn’t the norm either. Clearly there was about to be an ask of sorts, some kind of favour. He opened the front door, wandering halfway down the garden path. When he turned, he could see the others through the window, Emma in the act of passing Hannah to Evie for a second bite of the cherry.

  ‘It’s my weekend off, boss. I’ve popped round to visit Nick and his wife, meet the new baby.’

  ‘I know you’re not due back in till Monday, but I need to see you, today if possible.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It might be better if we spoke in person.’

  ‘And it can’t wait until Monday?’

  ‘I don’t think that’d be a good idea.’

  ‘What about DI Pittman?’ Porter asked. ‘He’s covering. Can he not pick up whatever it is?’

  ‘I’m not trying to assign a case, Porter; this is something different, personal.’

  So, his gut had been right. Something personal, something he wanted doing off the books as a favour maybe. He genuinely toyed with the idea of a brush off, of calling his bluff and just saying he needed downtime after everything that had happened, but he knew he’d never hear the last of it.

  ‘I haven’t got my car here, sir. By the time I make it home and drive back in it’d be over an hour. Give me the headlines over the phone and you can fill me in on the rest when I get in.’

  Seconds of silence as Milburn hesitated. Had it not been for a slight rasp in the super’s breathing, Porter might have thought he’d hung up. Porter heard a deep breath being sucked in, let out in one long sigh. When he eventually spoke, it reminded Porter of his press-conference voice. Slow, deliberate, as serious as a judge dishing out a sentence.

  ‘There’s been an assault, near Clapham Common, early hours of this morning. Young man, no ID yet.’

  ‘Any witnesses?’ Porter asked. ‘Do we have a timeline?’

  ‘No to both.’ It was as if Milburn was choosing his words carefully, keeping something back.

  ‘Look, boss, it’s OK, I’ll pick it up. I can take my time back next weekend instead.’

  ‘I, ah … I can’t let you do that. Pittman’s already on the scene.’

  ‘Then why do you need me?’ Porter was lost as to the point of this entire call. Was the victim someone Milburn knew? Someone he was close to?

  ‘The young man, we got a hit on his prints.’ Milburn hesitated again.

  ‘Who is he?’ Porter asked, wishing his boss would just cut to the chase.

  ‘We don’t have an ID. The hit was from an old case. I’m just going to come out and say it …’

  Finally, Porter thought.

  ‘They matched the prints we found in the car that killed your wife, Jake. Whoever he is, he was also in the car that killed Holly.’

  Porter was looking through the window as Milburn dropped the bomb. Watching them inside, laughing. Hannah back with her mum now. Evie still cooing over her, one of her fingers held tightly in Hannah’s fist. His future framed inside, behind a pane of glass, while out here, his past came pouring back, washing over him, a coating of all the old anger, grief and frustration. A wave smashing into a ship that hadn’t long been steadied.

  Milburn’s voice chirped away in his ear, asking if he was OK. He felt scooped out. Hollow. Only one way to fill that void back up. Justice. Revenge. Somewhere on that sliding scale would do.

  Whatever it takes.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It’s still a little surreal to think I have anything published, let alone the fact that this is my third book. As ever though, it’s far from a solo journey, and there’s a long list of thank yous to dish out for folk that have helped me along the way.

  My agent, Jo, and all the team at The Blair Partnership, thank you for helping Porter and Styles continue to find a home on bookshelves.

  The team at A&B – Lesley, Kelly, Susie, Daniel, Kirsten and Christina, thank you for everything you do to help polish, shape and release the books into the wild.

  To the Durham Crime Book Club at Waterstones, led by the force of nature that is Fiona Sharp, thank you for your continued support and shoutouts on social media.

  To all the other booksellers and bloggers who help not just me, but countless other authors, to get our stories heard, you folks rock.

  I’m lucky to have a very supportive family too. My mam and dad have always been there for me whenever I’ve needed support or advice on anything in life. Hope I’ve made you both even half as proud of me, as I am to be your son.

  When I wrote the acknowledgements for Nothing Else Remains, my daughter Lily hadn’t joined the family officially yet, but now she’s here, along with Jake and Lucy, the three of them provide more than enough motivation for me to keep bashing these stories out in the hope that one day this writing lark might even become a full-time job.

  My in-laws, Jude and Malc, and my bro-in-law Mike, thanks for all your support, for reading some terrible early drafts, and Jude in particular for her part in persuading me not to kill off Evie Simmons in the first draft of book 1. Both she, and I, are glad I took the advice.

  To Mik, my festival partner-in-crime, and the man known universally in Harrogate as ‘that bloke in the dress by the bar’, it’s definitely been more fun becoming part of the crime-writing community with you along for the ride. Keeping everything crossed that you’ll be writing your own set of acknowledgements this time next year.

  No thank yous would be complete without the biggest of all to my wife, Nic. Jointly responsible for Evie Simmons being resurrected, my chief proofreader, confidante, fish to my chips, bread to my butter, and all-round soulmate. Love you, even if you do put the cream on your scone before the jam, when everyone in the civilised world knows that it’s jam first #teamjam.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ROBERT SCRAGG had a random mix of jobs before taking the dive into crime writing; he’s been a bookseller, pizza deliverer, Karate instructor and football coach. He lives in Tyne & Wear and is a founding member of the North East Noir crime writers group.

  robertscragg.com

  @robert_scragg

  By Robert Scr
agg

  What Falls Between the Cracks

  Nothing Else Remains

  All That is Buried

  COPYRIGHT

  Allison & Busby Limited

  11 Wardour Mews

  London W1F 8AN

  allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.

  This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 by ROBERT SCRAGG

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–2469–7