Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  DI Marsh looked across at Wild with his feet neatly under the table and let out a sigh. “Please take a seat. DS Wild will keep you company before we start your voluntary interview.” As Nathan Porter sat down, Wild looked behind him to see Marsh miming a mouth being zipped before she closed the door.

  Nathan smiled awkwardly and nodded. “You must get all sorts in here.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real microcosm of life — saints and sinners.”

  Wild didn’t know why he said it and couldn’t think of a follow-up line, so they sat like an old married couple in a restaurant, avoiding eye contact by looking around one another. Each of them turned eagerly to the door when DI Marsh returned.

  Marsh took the lead, ousting Wild from his chair so that she could set up the recording equipment. “This is a voluntary interview with Nathan Porter. Also present are Detective Inspector Marsh and Detective Sergeant Wild. Nathan Porter has stated that he does not wish to have a solicitor present. Nathan, I would remind you that you are under caution and that anything you say during this interview may be used as evidence. Also, as you are here voluntarily you are free to leave at any time.”

  Wild noted the way that Nathan tensed up at the words ‘caution’ and ‘evidence’ and cradled his tea in a death grip. DI Marsh leaned back, opened her notes and simultaneously nudged Wild’s foot — show time. Wild summarised what he wanted Nathan to know, nothing more. This was a game played in definite stages. They were investigating the death of Mr Porter in suspicious circumstances and there were a number of blanks in his life where they hoped Nathan could provide details. He held back on the curious matter of the two wills because it occurred to him that Nathan might not be the beneficiary of another one, somewhere in the queue. He went on to say that they’d picked up Nathan’s phone message on his father’s answering machine and that they hadn’t been able to make sense of it.

  Besides a few murmurs and confirmations, Nathan hadn’t said much yet, which struck Wild as odd. Although he’d come in voluntarily he’d actually volunteered very little, which suggested an ulterior motive — probably trying to suss out what the police knew. DI Marsh let Wild’s chain extend to the full length she had allotted him and then tapped his foot again to send him back to his kennel.

  “So, Nathan, as DS Wild indicated, we recovered a telephone message from your father’s phone — and bear with me here as I read your message back from the recording notes: ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? I thought I could sort it out. I’ll be in touch when things have died down. Just give me a little more time. Bye.’ Nathan, what precisely did you mean by that?”

  Nathan froze for a moment and then he danced to order. “Yeah, of course . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck as if it was aching. “I promised my dad I’d come down and see him because it had been a while. Only it’s been manic at work with an unexpected export order for Norway and everyone’s expected to put their lives on hold. And when Shannon — that’s my boss — came down with flu, well I had to go in . . .”

  Wild glanced up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the ceiling and blinked twice. Too much information, so as to bury the lie. Marsh let Nathan’s mouth run its course and then politely coughed.

  “Well, we certainly appreciate you coming in like this, Nathan, and at such a difficult time. Obviously you’ll want to finalise arrangements once we’ve concluded this aspect of our investigation.”

  Nathan’s eyes narrowed at the word ‘investigation’.

  Wild got in his next sentence quickly. “Perhaps you could fill in some details about your father’s life for background purposes.”

  Nathan’s gaze returned to that far-off place for a little while, as if he were gathering his words — or concocting them. “There’s not much to tell really. We come from a long line of farmers, but Dad quickly decided it wasn’t for him and rented out the land instead. Mum was a music teacher — taught piano at home when I was growing up — and Dad, well, he liked to try different things.”

  “Like a businessman?”

  Although Nathan laughed, his face told a different story. “You could put it that way, only not a very successful one. Big dreamer was Dad. Never seemed to stick at anything long enough to make a go of it.”

  “Why didn’t he sell the land if he was never going to farm it?”

  Nathan looked at him with incredulity. “Sell the land that’s been in our family for generations? You’re not from the countryside are you, DS Wild? That’s not what people out here do.”

  “What took you to . . . ?” Wild fiddled with his notes for effect, knowing full bloody well where Nathan had relocated.

  “Kilmarnock. An engineering job came up a couple of years ago. Seems like longer now.” His voice dropped suddenly, like a dodgy connection.

  “What did you do before then?” Marsh spoke quietly, her Glaswegian brogue lending the words intensity.

  “I worked in moulded plastics locally — at Hardacre’s, till they made me redundant.” His face suggested pride and regret.

  Wild leapt back into the silence. “And what about your dad? Did you see much of him or was it more of a fortnightly catch-up phone call — like me and mine?”

  Nathan shifted in his chair a little, making the padded vinyl squeak. “Dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. He could be a difficult man to get on with.”

  Wild juggled ideas in his head. Marsh hadn’t briefed him on what she wanted Nathan to know, so he figured he’d follow her lead. When Nathan Porter looked at his watch for a second time, DI Marsh took the hint.

  “I think we’ll leave it there for now. Thank you for coming in. We will be in touch when we want to speak with you again.”

  Wild smiled: when, not if. She didn’t seem the sort for a slip of the tongue. He showed Nathan to the front desk and signed him out, returning to the interview room where the DI was gazing at her notes. He shut the door and sat opposite her.

  “Not exactly the grieving son, ma’am.”

  “You noticed that, eh? Quite a puffy face, though. Didn’t figure him for grief-stricken. We never got a credible answer for the phone message, so what’s your theory, Detective?” She ended with a hint of a smile, but he knew he was being tested.

  “Well, he’s obviously lying or obfuscating.” The word felt and sounded heavy on his tongue. “He’s apologised for something that has involved Porter — or affected him directly. And at the point of Porter’s death, he hadn’t sorted it out. And he sure as hell doesn’t want us to know what it is.”

  Marsh tidied her paperwork. “See if you can find out about Nathan’s work history at Hardacre’s — ask around discreetly and also check with the team. What can Nathan have done that impacted on his dad? I can’t see Porter lending his son money. Looking at his home he didn’t have a pot to piss in.”

  Wild shook his head. “It has to be money.”

  Marsh murmured. “Get Ben Galloway to follow up on Porter’s bank statements. Maybe there’s a money trail. Right, we’re done here.”

  Chapter 14

  Gordon Elleth’s house sat squat on the landscape, like an unwelcome guest. Wild stopped the car in the lane within sight of the farmhouse. He could hear Ben Galloway’s breathing and feel the wind outside rocking the car. Wild had already gone through the running order a second time. Galloway didn’t seem keen. Or maybe he thought visiting farmsteads was beneath him now he was a DC.

  “Okay, any last questions before we go in?”

  “No, Skip — you’ll lead and I’ll keep my mouth shut.” He looked happy remembering the drill, like a child who’d managed to count backwards from ten.

  Wild threw him a courtesy bone. “And is there anything else I need to know?”

  Galloway thought for a moment. “I s’pose you realise Mr Elleth is a church man?”

  Wild cocked his ear, waiting for the significance.

  “God-fearing, you might say. So no cursing, no coarseness, and no . . .”

  “I get the picture.” Wild turned the key in the ignition
and aimed for the grey slab up ahead.

  Gordon Elleth arrived at the five-bar gate and leant over it as if to reaffirm his ownership. He nodded curtly and drew the gate back, the loose diagonal piece moving at its own separate pace with the momentum. He pointed to a level piece of land where they could park. As Wild clambered out of the car, he looked across the nearby fields to the heavy fencing that surrounded Porter’s land — so close and yet so far, judging by the change in wills.

  Elleth approached without a handshake, standing before them in judgement. “You’d best come in.” He shot a cold glance at Galloway that Wild took for abject disappointment.

  Two black Labradors emerged as the front door opened, took one look at their master and thought better of it, scuttling back into the house.

  “Kitchen,” Elleth muttered as he led the way, leaving Galloway at the rear to close the door.

  Wild clocked the cooking range, the dogs sitting expectantly in the corner of the room, and a table set out with blue and white china. He might as well have landed on Mars.

  “Sit ye down then.” Elleth waited and then leaned across his guests to pour the tea.

  Wild toyed with, ‘You have a lovely house,’ but saw no reason to take the piss. Well, not unless it provoked a useful response.

  Elleth filled a fourth cup and added milk. “I’ll just take this up to Elizabeth — she’s reading.” The way he said it made it sound like a commitment, or an achievement. Wild couldn’t tell which.

  He fought the urge to ask if it was Bible studies, and instead played a game in his head of spot the antiques.

  Galloway cleared his throat. “What do I do if Mr Elleth engages in conversation?”

  “Maybe, I dunno, talk back?”

  “But you said . . .”

  Wild rolled his eyes. “Use your initiative, Ben. Detect something.”

  Galloway brightened at that, which irritated Wild all the more. He distracted himself by tracking Elleth’s heavy footsteps as they echoed across the ceiling and down the stairs. One of the dogs braved the space to greet its master and Elleth gave it a single stroke on the head before it returned to its companion.

  Elleth took his place at the table. “I’ve known Alexander Porter a long time, and his father before him. It seems to me that the family lost their way.”

  Wild let him talk about the old days and farming, and a roll-call of family members long past, waiting for a gap in traffic.

  “But it’s not for me to judge, Detective Wild. Only God judges,” Elleth finished at last.

  Wild took his chance and asked, “Mr Elleth, do you ever frequent the George?”

  Elleth smiled, his mouth transformed into a sickle blade. “Oh, yes, I visit the George from time to time — wouldn’t see my neighbours otherwise!” He laughed to himself and Galloway tried gamely to share the joke.

  “What about the night he died?”

  Elleth gazed skyward. “I did not see Alexander Porter in the George that night.” He lowered his head in Galloway’s direction. “Haven’t seen you in church these past few weeks, Benjamin.”

  Galloway reddened. “I’ve been on courses, Mr Elleth, and then there’s follow-up work. Not as much free time since I made Detective Constable.”

  Elleth nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose we can serve the Almighty in different ways. And what about you, Detective Wild — are you a believer?”

  Wild’s gaze was drawn behind Elleth to a black cross nailed to the plaster, not dissimilar to the one on Porter’s wall. “I try to keep an open mind.” He rearranged his face to conform to the lie because there was little sense in antagonising the old goat.

  “Well, there is always space at St Matthew’s on Sundays. Benjamin can tell you all about it.” Elleth collected the empty cups and placed them carefully in the sink. Their time was up. As soon as Wild stood, the dogs went into a frenzy.

  Elleth let them get on with it until his patience ran out, commanding them with a grunt.

  Galloway seemed sheepish on the walk back to the car.

  Wild chose his moment. “Never had you figured for one of the God Squad, Ben.”

  Galloway looked affronted. “Spare me your mockery. It’s about community and people coming together. Don’t suppose that’s possible in a place as big as London.”

  Wild unlocked the car. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He smiled to himself. Yeah, there’d been the community of junkies outside the burger bar of a night-time, and the sex workers who plied their trade near Camden Square Park. And not forgetting the community of embittered coppers, for whom Steph had approved his membership. “What’s Elizabeth Elleth like?”

  “She’s a good sort. She helps with the flowers in church.”

  Wild’s nose crinkled at the thought.

  Chapter 15

  Wild found a note on his desk: My office, as soon as you’re in. DI Marsh’s domain had the blinds down, so Wild drew his own conclusions: a bollocking awaited. He figured she’d probably heard him outside. He knocked on the frosted glass.

  “Come in.”

  He wasn’t sure how to play it. Last he’d checked he hadn’t screwed up anything for at least a couple of hours. Maybe Gordon Elleth had taken offence at his manner. Wouldn’t be the first time. He racked his brain and came up with nothing.

  The door wrenched open. “Are you planning on joining me any time soon?”

  An empty seat looked as inviting as quicksand. She closed the door after him, talking her way back to her desk. “I had a meeting while you were out — with Christine Hardacre, no less.”

  Wild blinked his ignorance.

  “Come on, Craig, you’re supposed to be a detective. Christine is a big noise around here. Her family owned Hardacre’s, where Nathan Porter worked. It seems he was a little economical with the truth.”

  Wild looked for a reason for this to fall on his shoulders and failed. Always a good time to ask questions. “Uneconomical, how?”

  “You’ll recall Nathan telling us he was made redundant? Well, that’s not entirely true — he was paid off but it was more than a little shady.” She swung to and fro in her chair. “I got this off the record so it goes no further, understood?”

  He chose to enjoy the flicker of camaraderie while it lasted. “This Hardacre woman is a friend of yours?”

  DI Marsh tapped her index fingers together. “More of an acquaintance — in my professional women’s network, if you must know. See, Hardacre’s had intended to let Nathan go a little while before redundancies were on the table, because of his financial impropriety.”

  “You mean he had his hand in the till?”

  “No, not quite. It seems Nathan had borrowed from his workmates, across the board. It was only when one of them confided in another that they realised he’d shat on a whole bunch of them. Although Christine Hardacre found out about it, she parked a disciplinary because she knew the firm was heading down the river.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I’m still missing something.”

  “Redundancy, remember? Christine Hardacre fixed it so that Nathan received a redundancy payment like all the others — on paper — on condition that she facilitated the transfer of payments to people he owed.”

  “But, surely, it was her firm’s money . . .”

  “Aye, well, she alluded to some sort of insurance arrangement, which I don’t think merits our attention. The important thing is that he lied. He did have money problems then, so . . .”

  “So we bring him in again for a chat.”

  “Precisely. And this time I won’t be my usual friendly self.”

  Wild wondered what the Glaswegian word was for schadenfreude.

  Nathan Porter arrived in a police car, and the duty solicitor promised to be there in twenty minutes, although Wild knew it would’ve felt like an hour. While Nathan was emptying his pockets and getting acquainted with the finer points of processing, Wild nipped up to the canteen — mobile on and volume up, ready for Marsh’s call. As he sat by the window, watching another couple of pl
ods looking towards his car, he reflected on the situation. Nathan might still have money problems locally — that could explain why Kilmarnock, wherever that was, seemed an attractive proposition. What it didn’t explain was the message on Porter’s phone. But . . . but Nathan had rung the police from a mobile, hopefully now downstairs under lock and key, so the location data could eliminate Nathan as a suspect on the night Alexander Porter died. Or at least provide an alibi for his phone.

  The two plods drifted closer to Wild’s car, not quite looking at it. Where were binoculars when you needed them? A chair scraped back on the other side of the table. Wild looked up to see Marnie Olsen standing before him, tea in hand.

  She smiled awkwardly. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Be my guest.” He shifted his seat to face her.

  “How is everything — with the investigation?”

  “We’ve bought Porter’s son in — he’s downstairs awaiting his brief.”

  “Everything you need to know will be on his phone.”

  He raised a tea toast. “Spoken like a true techie.” Speaking of which . . . “I don’t suppose you’ve some time free this evening?” He watched her eyes become saucers. “No, nothing like that. I’ve got an IT problem — something I don’t want to talk about here. Only if you’re not busy . . . you know . . . jumping out of planes or whatever you do for kicks . . .”

  “No, yeah, I can spare you an hour.” She lowered her voice, even though the nearby tables were empty. “At your place?”

  He nodded. “Ta. Text me whenever’s good for you.”

  She didn’t bother checking whether he had any other commitments. His mobile broke into song, an escalating ringtone that couldn’t fail to annoy. “I gotta go. Let me know, okay? Doesn’t matter if it’s late. Thanks, Marnie.”

  By the time he reached the canteen door a table of three coppers had started whistling London Bridge Is Falling Down. Wild placed a mocking hand on his heart. Such rapier wit.

  Marsh met him on the stairs. He noticed her change of glasses — blue-rimmed, like a mandrill’s arse. Nathan’s previous bonhomie had evaporated. He sat against the wall, sullen-faced, staring at the table. The solicitor greeted DI Marsh and shook her hand. Another professional acquaintance, Wild surmised. He sat beside Marsh, out on a limb, hands to himself.