‘Mr Baxter? Mr Baxter, this is DI Porter. Everything alright in there?’
He switched position, put his ear to the opening. Waited all of two seconds and turned to Styles and the two constables.
‘You hear that?’
He saw confusion on their faces, shrugged and turned on his heel. His foot connected with the door just below the lock. It splintered with a crunch like snapping twigs but held. Second time was the charm, and the door cannoned open, shuddering as it slammed into the wall, bouncing back.
Porter turned back to his audience of three, backing into the open doorway as he did. ‘Sounds of a struggle, reasonable grounds.’ Their expressions were almost identical, somewhere between surprise and disbelief. If he had this wrong, he owed Baxter a new door, and Milburn had yet another reason to throw him to the wolves. He was halfway down the hallway before he heard any footsteps following him.
‘This is DI Porter, Met Police. If there’s anyone in the building, make yourself known.’ He cocked an ear. Nothing except shuffling feet behind him.
‘You sure about this, guv?’ Styles whispered over his shoulder.
‘Yep,’ he replied, although he felt anything but.
They moved quickly from room to room, clearing them one at a time. The place was like a show home. Handfuls of magazines on the coffee table, squared into neat piles. Dish rack by the sink screamed singledom. One plate, one cup, knife and fork.
‘You reckon he has a cleaner?’ said Styles as they moved into the living room. ‘This place could pass the white glove test.’ He ran a finger along the mantelpiece to prove his point.
‘There must be another way out,’ Porter said, turning to Williams. No need to come out and say it. That he’d disappeared on their watch.
Williams looked at Waters, and back to Porter, face reddening as if she’d been slapped across the cheeks. ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t … there’s a door in the kitchen?’
The four of them migrated through to the rear of the flat and Porter peered through the window, out into the back yard. A trio of bins, bottles poking from under the lid of what must be the recycling one. Nothing else except a bottle-green door, padlock speckled with brown liver spots of rust. Porter tried the door that led out to the yard. Unlocked. It felt like a bricked-up oasis when he stepped outside. Traffic from the main road was little more than a murmur. He walked over to the door, took the padlock between finger and thumb, pulled against it and watched as it swung open.
Waters and Williams were framed in the window, Styles towering above both as he turned to them, gesturing at the lock, giving them a you had one job look. They all trooped out to join him. He twisted the padlock enough to let it slip off the catch and opened the door that sounded like it hadn’t been oiled since Blair was in Downing Street. A quick glance into the back lane confirmed his suspicions. Same as the front street: only one way out.
‘Styles, back out front with me. You two’ – he shot a stern look at both constables – ‘get out in the lane. We’ll knock on a few doors, you check back yards. If he’s there, we might flush him out to you.’
They scurried out into the lane, and he strode back through the flat, Styles in tow.
‘What’s going on, guv?’ he asked. ‘The place is empty. What did you hear?’
‘No time for that now. We need to find him, now.’
That last word came out hard, a command, and Styles knew better than to waste time asking more questions. Porter took the steps back down to the street two at a time and was halfway to the next door along when his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. Max’s home number.
‘Max? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘It’s me, Jake – Jen. You have to do something. Oh my God, you have to help him.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
July 2009
General Patton once said that pressure makes diamonds. When extreme pressure is applied to anything, it either breaks under the strain, or sometimes it can transform into something else, something stronger. It’s literally that binary. When it comes to people, if they embrace it, incredible things can be achieved under pressure. Some crumble, others rise to the occasion.
He surprised himself with how methodical he had been. He’d found a pair of gloves under the sink. Both glasses were washed, dried and put away. He examined the one that he’d thrown, amazed to find no damage. Must have made contact plum on the thick base. What else had he touched since he came in? Not much, but better safe than sorry. A rag from the same kitchen cupboard doubled as a duster, and he wiped down every surface he’d been near.
The job ad was folded up, tucked away in a pocket, to be disposed of later. He tried to keep focused but kept glancing over to where Fletcher lay on the floor, expecting to see him stir, hear him moan in pain, but he might as well have been carved from stone. Checked again for a pulse, but this time nothing. Even though he knew that had been a likely outcome, it still hit him like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. His breathing faster, shallower. He didn’t ask to be put in these situations, yet here he was again, victim of other people’s choices.
No turning back now. But what to do with the body? He didn’t much fancy dragging it outside, arms around it like a scene from Weekend at Bernie’s. He cocked his head to one side, lost in thought for a few seconds. Five minutes later, the contents of the oversized fridge were in two bin liners, shelves removed and stashed in a cupboard. The sole item now being chilled was Fletcher himself, back flush up against one wall, knees tucked up foetus-like, forehead resting on them. He assumed the cold would delay any decomposition as well as hiding it from anyone who might come looking.
Another idea occurred to him, most likely from one of the many police dramas on TV these days, and he grabbed another bin liner, filling it with anything that looked valuable. He found Fletcher’s wallet in a jacket by the door. Phone and laptop went in as well, along with a stack of paperwork and a leather Filofax.
As an afterthought, he went back to the fridge. Even though the contents should be no surprise, it was still surreal to open the door and see him wedged in place. The Breitling on his wrist could be a fake from a Spanish beach for all he knew, but a robber wouldn’t leave it behind, so neither could he.
He was breathing heavily now, his back cold and clammy, shirt sticking to it like blotting paper. One last look around. From show home to crime scene and back again. The only sign anything had happened was the cracked coffee table, but he could hardly do much with that. He felt self-conscious as he hefted the bag of Fletcher’s possessions over his shoulder. Might as well have ‘swag’ written on it. He switched to an underarm grip. Much better. Paused as he saw his own reflection in a mirror by the door. His face was a blank canvas, but inside, his guts fizzed like fireworks.
‘I did not ask for this,’ he heard himself say, but the voice sounded unfamiliar, a dry whisper. ‘None of it.’
That may be the case, but it had sought him out, just like the warehouse all those years ago. He was a survivor then, and he’d survive this, whatever it took.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Max gazed out of the window as they cruised along the dual carriageway. The flow of traffic growing sluggish as the clock ticked down to the start of rush hour. They had been driving east for around an hour. He’d tried to press DI Lumley for more information, but Lumley had insisted that Porter had a fuller picture to share. He wondered how Jen was taking this; barely back from her own ordeal, then whisked off like this with little or no information. He reached into his pocket, unlocked the screen and tapped to dial Jen’s number. From the corner of his eye he saw Lumley’s head twitch towards him, then back to the road.
‘I’m just going to give my girlfriend a quick call,’ he said. ‘Don’t want her to worry.’
‘They shouldn’t be far behind us. Might have even picked her up by now,’ said Lumley, but Max already had the phone to his ear.
‘Hey, Jen, it’s me. You still at your mum’s?’
&n
bsp; ‘Yeah. Dad’s going to drop me off in about an hour. I’m thinking takeaway tonight? Noodles from the Dragon?’
The Flying Dragon wasn’t the closest to their place, but their Singapore chow mein was worth the trip, and Max’s mouth watered at the thought.
‘I’m all for that. Listen up a sec, though, honey. Nothing’s wrong, but I need you to do something for me.’
‘Nobody ever starts a sentence with “nothing’s wrong” if nothing’s actually wrong,’ said Jen.
‘I’m with one of Jake’s guys. They think they know the guy who’s behind this. They’re tracking him down now, but they’re worried he might try something.’
‘Oh my God! Who is he? Where is he now?’
‘Don’t know yet. Hoping Jake might be able to tell me a bit more when I see him. They’re taking me to a station near Dartford to meet him, and they’re going to send a car to your mum’s as well, so stay put till they get there, and don’t worry.’
‘OK, babe,’ she said, a slight tremor in her voice. ‘How long before they pick me up?’ She sounded so vulnerable, unsure of herself. He moved the phone a few inches away from his ear, tilting his head towards Lumley.
‘How long did you say for their car?’
‘Half an hour tops,’ he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘Tell her to stay inside till the officers get there.’
‘Did you catch that?’ Max asked, lifting the phone back up, but all he heard was static. ‘Jen? Can you hear me? Hello? Think the signal’s going.’ He was about to end the call and redial when he heard it, a half-choked sob. ‘Jen? Everything OK? Can you hear me?’
‘His voice,’ she said, low enough that she was almost whispering. ‘That’s … his voice … it’s his voice.’
‘Can’t understand you, honey,’ said Max, sticking a finger in his opposite ear to block out the noise of the car as best he could. ‘Say that again.’
‘The voice, Max. It’s him. I never saw his face, but that voice …’ She trailed off, two more seconds of silence, then an urgent whisper. ‘Run, Max. You have to run!’
‘Slow down, Jen. What’s happened?’
‘It’s him, Jake, it’s him. He has Max, and I don’t know where they are or what to do.’ Her words gushed out like water from a burst pipe.
‘It’s who? Who has Max?’
‘It’s the same man, the man who took me, who had me …’ Punctuated by sobs, the last part dissolved into tears.
‘Jen!’ It came out harsher than he’d intended, but he needed her to cut through her fear. ‘Was it Max you spoke to, Jen? What did he say? Think carefully and tell me exactly what was said.’
He thought he’d lost connection for a second, but a loud sniff nearly deafened him, then what sounded like a strong wind blowing in the background. Her breathing hard and heavy against the handset, trying to pull herself together.
‘He just said he loved me too. That he’d see me later. That was it. It just went dead after that. Why would he say “love you too” when I hadn’t said it first? I mean, I do, obviously, it’s just—’
‘Shh, Jen, it’s OK,’ Porter said, even though it felt like the polar opposite. ‘We’ll trace his phone. We’ll find him, I promise.’
He tried to pump confidence in his words, to at least reassure her, even if he couldn’t reassure himself.
Time stopped. For the briefest of instances, it actually stopped. He’d swear to that on a stack of Bibles. Jen’s words made his breath catch in his chest, throat close up like a collapsed mineshaft. It was as if the world outside was freeze-framed for that single second, and he saw it all so clearly. The red Royal Mail van in the wing mirror. Fine spots of rain, like scratches on the windscreen. Grey clouds hanging above like dirty rags waiting to be wrung out.
Everything inside the car was different. It was more the things that he couldn’t see, things that weren’t there. A radio, for one. Even unmarked cars had them in, whatever set-up they had to keep in touch with control. Why had that not registered when he’d got in? He’d ignored what was right in front of his face.
His voice. It’s him.
Had he reacted when her words hit home? Had he flinched, or stiffened as they dug hooks into his brain? Did Lumley – no, not Lumley – did the man in the driver’s seat pick up on any of it if he had? No way of knowing, but he had to get off the phone before Jen’s voice got any louder. Loud enough for the man to hear.
‘OK, love you too, honey,’ Max said, forcing a smile. ‘Yep, see you in a bit.’ He aimed for casual, but it felt awkward, stilted.
‘Everything alright?’ the man asked.
‘Yeah, she’s good,’ Max said, keeping his gaze fixed ahead, feeling his left leg start to jiggle up and down with nerves. ‘Well, I say alright, she’s a little bit freaked out, but who wouldn’t be. She’ll be fine once she’s picked up, though.’
His thoughts were like a washer on spin cycle gone mad. What if it wasn’t just this one guy? What if an accomplice was headed to pick up Jen right now? Not much he could do while travelling at sixty on the motorway. She wasn’t due to be picked up for another thirty minutes. Better to wait until they stopped, he thought, but what if they stopped in the middle of nowhere?
Think, man! Think!
‘Hmm, looks like trouble up ahead,’ the driver said absent-mindedly.
Max saw the brake lights up ahead, blinking like lights on a Christmas tree. A row of cones began shepherding them all into the left-hand lane. He had no idea how much time he had, where they were going or what to expect when they got there. Not exactly spoilt for choice when it came to options in the meantime.
He turned towards the driver. If this didn’t work, he was just going to have to ride it out and see where he was being taken.
Porter sent his phone spinning across the top of the dashboard, slapping a palm against the wheel in frustration.
‘What did he say?’ asked Styles.
‘No grounds for a warrant,’ said Porter, puffing up his chest, sounding pompous as he mimicked Milburn. ‘How can we assume Baxter knew we even had people watching him, for him to slip past them?’
He didn’t tell Styles the rest. That Milburn had ordered him to report back to the station. That kicking down the door would probably have him stuck to a desk for the foreseeable. He knew that claiming he had heard someone calling for help was weak at best, and he wasn’t about to ask Styles or the others to stick their necks out for him when he knew damn well there’d been nothing to hear. Nothing except the voice in his head telling him Max was in danger.
‘So what now?’
‘We can trace Max’s phone, but we can’t touch the flat,’ said Porter, looking wistfully over at the open front door. ‘Not enough to say we’re dealing with the same man, according to Milburn.’
Heavy emphasis on the last three words. He was about to say something less than flattering about the super when his phone rang, vibrating on the dashboard like an angry insect. Jen.
‘Has he called back?’ No sense wasting words on pleasantries.
‘No, no, but there was something.’ She sounded breathless, desperate to force her words out faster. ‘Something else he said. He said Dartford. They were driving to somewhere near Dartford.’
‘Whereabouts near Dartford?’ It was a start, but too vague, and he knew it.
‘That’s all he said. That’s all. Find him for me, Jake. You have to find him.’
Porter ended the call, closed his eyes, pushed hard against his headrest. Milburn had left no room for error. He was to hand over to Styles and report back to the station immediately. Milburn was an arrogant self-serving bastard who would probably sling him under the bus anyway. There was no telling where Max was now, what danger he was in.
He looked over, saw his partner looking at him, waiting for an update, for him to spring into action. He knew exactly what Max would do if roles were reversed. Screw Milburn. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try, if anything happened. He cracked his door open a foot, shouting b
ack at the two constables to stay put. Pulled it closed again and turned to Styles.
‘Sod the flat. Let’s go.’
They pulled into a parking space opposite the rows of pumps at a Shell petrol station. Roadworks signs promised disruption for the next five miles, and Max had used that as an excuse to ask for a pit stop. Lumley, or whatever his name was, had said they were only ten miles or so away from their destination, but Max insisted, starting a little shuffle in his seat to emphasise the urgency of the stop.
‘Toilets must be inside,’ he said, peering out of the window. ‘You want anything from the shop? I’m going to grab a coffee.’
‘No, I’m good, thanks,’ said the man with a polite smile.
Max fought the urge to look back as he walked towards the entrance. What the hell should he do? This was the man who had taken Jen, maybe even assaulted him. Who had posed as his father. In all likelihood, the man who had killed Harold Mayes. What did he want with Max? Did he have a weapon? Max liked to think he could take care of himself, but was getting back in the car even an option? If he didn’t there was every chance the guy would get away, assuming that he’d bolt and not come looking for Max, of course. Fight or flight?
Hands curled into fists inside his pockets. Getting back in the car meant no guarantee of his own safety. Wherever the man was taking him, it was hardly going to be for tea and biscuits. The car, plate and hopefully both their faces would be on CCTV now. Would that be enough for Porter to figure out who he was?
He was the only customer in the shop, and the assistant looked up from a magazine as he approached.
‘Can you point me in the direction of your toilets, please?’
The bored kid, late teens, with a million places he’d rather be, pointed towards a door in the far corner. Max pushed through it, and into a short corridor, two doors either side. Ladies’ and gents’ toilets on the left, disabled and a door marked Staff Only to the left. He looked from side to side, as if getting ready to cross a road, then spotted the fifth door, straight ahead, at the end of the corridor. He peered back through into the store, but the assistant was buried back in the pages of his magazine.
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