Long Shadows

by DEREK THOMPSON

  The first thing DI Marsh did, after the formalities, was put her mobile on the table in front of them. “I’m expecting information that is pertinent to this investigation,” she explained.

  Nathan’s face paled.

  Wild wondered whether Nathan would ‘no comment’ everything or equally disappoint them with a carefully prepared — and therefore bullshit — statement. He hoped not because he wanted to see the DI in full flow.

  “Now, Mr Porter, when we met last time I asked you about a message you left on your father’s answering service. Would you like me to refresh your memory with the content of that message?”

  Nathan shook his head and his solicitor, taking her cue, piped up, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “So perhaps you would like to reconsider your previous answer and explain your message for me again?”

  Nathan moistened his lips. “A while back I had some money problems, nothing major.”

  Wild and Marsh exchanged a look, and Wild took a congratulatory sigh. “And what was the nature of your money problems?”

  “I used to gamble. That’s all in the past. I’m on a twelve-step programme now.” He read their faces. “I’m serious — you can check my phone. A local group has a WhatsApp community and my key ring—”

  DI Marsh glanced at her phone. “Your key ring was noted when you were booked in. We’ll get to your phone, don’t you worry. And what do you expect we’ll find there?”

  Nathan pressed his hands on the desk, as if to steady himself. “I’m not saying Dad and me didn’t have our difficult moments but we were still family. He acted as guarantor for a loan and, well . . .” He choked on a breath. “I let him down. I fell off the wagon.”

  Wild wondered if you could have a wagon for gambling but kept his thoughts to himself. “How did your father react?”

  “How do you think? He was really pissed off. Sorry, can I say that on tape?”

  Marsh nodded. “Nathan, I noticed that your face is still a little swollen. Have you been in an altercation recently?”

  He touched his cheek. “Yeah, I got in a bit of a row at a pub. My own fault for shooting my mouth off.”

  Marsh leaned in. “Any other injuries? Bruises on your abdomen, perhaps. Maybe a medical examination . . . ?”

  Nathan started undoing his shirt buttons.

  Wild filled in the blanks for the benefit of the recording. “Nathan Porter is voluntarily showing us his upper torso, where bruising is evident.”

  “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “No, it’s fine. It was an argument that got out of hand. Too much drink and too little sense.” He laughed at his own joke. No one else did.

  Marsh’s mobile flashed. “Excuse me, I need to attend to this. Interview suspended at 15.20. At this time Mr Porter will be returned to a cell.” She hit the switches. “I’ll not be long.”

  Wild acted as chaperone, arranged tea and biscuits, and then went to meet Marsh in Room T2 — T for Technical. He knocked and went inside. He’d expected the kiosk device to be larger but it sat on the desk and took up about as much space as a tablet, sucking the data out of Nathan Porter’s phone. A technician stood beside Marsh, tapping through the inventory for her. Marsh looked pleased.

  “Nearly done, ma’am,” the technician said. She gave Wild a cursory glance. “Once we’re finished we’ll transfer it onto a USB, and we’ll print anything you need for interview — or court.”

  Wild got the impression she was putting on a show for the new bloke.

  Marsh turned to him. “So, we have corroborative evidence that he has used this phone to call his dad. And we can tell . . . hold on, scroll back a bit . . . he called this other number several times in the week prior to Alexander Porter’s death but only once afterwards.” She made a note of the number and blithely passed it to Wild. “Get Galloway to check the number and also see if it’s on the database.”

  Wild nodded, eyes still on the technician.

  “Now would be good. Then come straight back here.”

  Wild put on his best impression of messenger boy and scurried off.

  When he found the DC, Galloway did something strange. Stranger than usual. He looked at the mystery number once, blinked a couple of times, and then dashed away like a scalded cat. Wild was intrigued, but he didn’t have the time right then.

  When he got back to DI Marsh, she held a collection of printed pages depicting the inner workings of Nathan Porter’s life: mobile calls made and received, emails, web history, WhatsApp messages, texts, all laid bare. Wild almost felt sorry for him.

  Marsh led from the front when they were all back in the interview room. “Now, Mr Porter, having accessed your mobile phone data, new information has come to light.”

  Nathan shifted uncomfortably. Wild smiled to himself. He still enjoyed this part — confronting a suspect with irrefutable evidence. Bang to rights, as they used to say back home.

  “For the benefit of this recording, the medical officer has examined you at my request and we’ve recorded your injuries. Do you know who assaulted you?”

  “I can’t remember. I was drunk.”

  “See, here’s the thing, Nathan. Your late father also showed bruising consistent with an assault, shortly before he died.”

  Nathan became more alert. “Someone beat up Dad?”

  Wild could see the wheels spinning in his head. That was either news to Nathan, or the best act he’d seen in a long time. Time to take advantage of Nathan’s distress.

  “Have you ever seen your father’s shotgun?”

  Wild tried to ignore Marsh’s sudden out-breath, like she’d taken a punch.

  Nathan thought for a moment. “Yeah, Dad kept it upstairs, under lock and key.”

  Wild and Marsh exchanged a knowing glance. He gestured to her: after you, boss.

  “And when did you see it last?”

  “I don’t know, it must be years ago.”

  Wild tracked through the folder of paperwork Marsh had collected from Nathan’s mobile. “Who’s the G-man? There are multiple emails to and from the G-man, mostly discussing payments outstanding.”

  “He’s no one, just a mate who helped me out.”

  Marsh jabbed at a sheet with a finger. “Some of these texts don’t look very friendly to me. ‘Bring your account up to date or there will be consequences.’ What might they be? Is that why you took a beating?”

  Nathan twitched. “No comment.” He seemed shocked at his own outburst. His solicitor dropped her pen in surprise.

  “Tell you what, Nathan, how about you spend a little more time in your cell while we chase up this G-man. We’ve got hours yet on the clock — it’ll give you time to reflect.”

  Nathan glowered. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I owe some money, that’s all.” He shared eyebrow semaphore with his solicitor, who shrugged noncommittally.

  Wild pushed his chair back. “Up you get.”

  Nathan made another silent plea to his solicitor, which went nowhere. “Alright. He’s someone I grew up with. It’s G for Guitar Man . . .”

  Wild shifted in his seat.

  “I just fell a bit behind.” If Nathan thought he’d avoided a police cell he was sadly mistaken. In the absence of any timescale, his solicitor went off to support another stand-up member of the community.

  DI Marsh regrouped her team upstairs. “Come on then.” She clapped her hands like a weary schoolteacher. “What else do we know? Ben, any joy with the most dialled number?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, not yet. I’m waiting for the mobile service provider to get back to me.” He looked like someone whose new lottery numbers had come up the week before.

  Wild decided to throw a theory on the pile. “Okay, both Alexander Porter and his son have bruises, but I can’t see old man Porter putting up much of a defence. And going on the pathologist’s report, are we looking at two separate events?”

  Marsh’s head wobbled in time with her thinking. “That would be quite a coincidence. Unless they we
re connected — same perpetrator?”

  “Why go to the trouble of beating up Alexander Porter?”

  Ben put his hand up. “To teach his son a lesson.”

  Wild shot him down, considering it a mercy killing. “Seriously? Pay me now or I beat up your dad? And so, what, Nathan steps in and then he also takes a hiding?” In the silence that followed, Wild played with the hypothesis in his head and found a golden nugget. Say it was true . . . “That would put Nathan down here from Kilmarnock before his father died, which is not what he’s been telling us so far.”

  Marsh continued memorialising the team’s output on a whiteboard. “In any case, the mobile mast data will tell us where the phone was, immediately prior to Porter’s murder. And where is his bloody shotgun?”

  Wild stood up again. “I don’t see it,” he blurted out. “I mean, yeah, it would make sense to take his gun if you used it, but how would it have gotten to the field in the first place? It’d have to be a burglary in advance or someone collected him and his gun. Either way, that’d be premeditated.”

  Marsh waggled her marker pen the way a cat flicks its tail. She closed her eyes. “Okay then, anybody . . . why take the bloody gun if it’s not the murder weapon?”

  Ben Galloway coughed. “I’ll try the phone company again.” He left them to it.

  Marsh turned to — and on — Wild. “Have you been overworking him? He’s not his usual chirpy self.”

  Wild seized the moment. “Maybe his car got scratched.” The tension in the room was palpable. Wild allowed himself a sly smile. And the case rests for the prosecution.

  Marsh snapped the lid back on her marker pen. “Right, chop chop. Let’s move this investigation along. You,” she pointed randomly, “bank records.” She turned slowly, playing spin the bottle with orders. “You, speak to the local force in Kilmarnock. Find out whether Nathan Porter is known to them for anything, even as a witness. After all, we know he’s not squeaky clean.” As if cueing herself, she turned at last to Wild. “And you’re with me — I have a special job for you.”

  Out on the stairway she issued her instructions. “Nathan’s phone is unlocked, right, so get a message to this G-man telling him you want to make a payment in person.”

  “Isn’t that entrapment?”

  “No. We’re not accusing him of anything at this point. But he might shed light on our investigation. Take a uniformed officer. Take Marnie along — she seems to be more tolerant of you than some at the station.”

  “Glad you’ve noticed that too. I was beginning to feel paranoid.”

  “Craig, you don’t need a psychology degree to read people.” She paused for a moment. “Sorry. That was inappropriate. Forget I said it.”

  “Already forgotten.”

  “See, DCI Rodin was right — you are a fast learner.”

  Wild swallowed his contempt. So much for Londoners sticking together. In his case, Rodin had just stuck him on a train.

  Chapter 16

  Wild kept the message short and sweet: I have money, can we meet today?

  He figured the G-man would jump at the opportunity, and if his hunch was right that meant a second appearance from the courtyard musician. In the meantime he put Ben Galloway in charge of Nathan’s mobile. “Let me know the second you get a response.” Galloway didn’t look too thrilled at babysitting a phone, but tough luck. On the plus side, the bank came through in a couple of hours with Nathan’s statements. They showed a steady flow of mostly regular payments to the same account, usually in blocks of fifty pounds.

  Wild’s mobile bleeped for attention. Olsen had texted that she was going off shift. He rang her straight back. “Where are you? Have you left the building?”

  “I’m heading out the door. I haven’t forgotten about your IT issues.”

  “Wait there, I’m coming down.” He took the stairs in twos, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the admin staff. As he reached the car park, Olsen was fastening her biker’s jacket.

  “What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”

  He tried to catch his breath. “Two things. I might have an opportunity for you to do some real police work later.” He grinned, still struggling. “And secondly, I wanted to fix a time for my computer. But the first thing might get in the way of the second thing.”

  “Will I need to change back out of civvies?”

  “No, what you’ve got on is fine for blending in. You could say we’re going on a stakeout.” Yeah, he thought to himself, you could if you were desperate.

  “Should I hang around, then?”

  That was the question and of course he didn’t know the answer, or how far away she lived. He mulled it over for two seconds. “Tell you what, I’ll call you. Be ready to go — if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She nodded, satisfied with his offer, and put her helmet on. Wild went back inside.

  Galloway was practically incubating Nathan’s mobile phone. Wild startled him. “Any joy?”

  Galloway looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind. Wild had seen that face before — on suspects. Galloway was hiding something, he’d bet his stripes on it. He checked that no one else was in the vicinity.

  “Have you got something to say?” He followed Galloway’s gaze to the phone, like guilty gravity. “Or do I need to put the mobile back on the machine?”

  Galloway caved. “Can I trust you, Skip?”

  Wild looked into his earnest face and decided to take a chance. “Is Nathan’s phone fully charged? Let’s take this conversation somewhere more private.”

  Galloway followed him out to the car park. Wild figured that even if they were on CCTV — in which case surely his car vandal would have been caught by now — at least no one could hear them.

  “Come on then, out with it. What are you not telling me?”

  Galloway’s face hardened. “It’s nothing. I think I’ll leave it unless it becomes relevant.” He handed Wild the mobile.

  An email from the G-man had come in five minutes earlier: 7.30 tonight. Wild did his thinking on the hoof and typed back Where, while Galloway looked on, open-mouthed.

  The G-man wasted little time: The Wheatsheaf. Ring me when you get there and I’ll come outside. The postscript was the real surprise: Sorry about your dad.

  Wild offered the phone back to Galloway who declined. “I’ll hold on to it then, and if you change your mind about talking to me, let me know.”

  Although the bank statements showed evidence of money being transferred regularly, they gave no clues as to the recipient. Wild already had solid suspicions — he was suspicious by nature.

  DI Marsh was waiting for them inside. “I didn’t think either of you smoked, so where have you been?”

  Wild pushed Galloway on through with a hand at his shoulder and adopted the conciliatory tone that had never worked with his superiors in London. “I was spending a little quality time with one of the team.”

  ”Well, make sure you remember which side of the divide you’re on. I don’t take well to my sergeants keeping secrets.”

  ”Understood, ma’am. By the way, Marnie is off shift now and I’d really like the opportunity to speak to her before we go looking for the guitar man. Could you spare me for an hour? If anything comes up, I’m on my mobile.”

  She sighed through her nose, like an angry horse. “Fine, only be quick about it.”

  Wild was on the phone to Olsen before he reached his car. “Hi, it’s me again — give me a call when you pick this up. I’m heading home now. Can you get there as soon as? Cheers.”

  Chapter 17

  Perhaps Wild should have been surprised to see Olsen’s motorbike outside his house when he arrived. He wasn’t, though. He knew how keen she was to show her capabilities. And if that meant tear-arsing across town, so be it. Logically, she must have lived relatively close to his place, but that didn’t stop him taking the piss.

  “There’s probably a career for you in traffic, policing the motorways.”

&nb
sp; She gave as good as she got. “I hope not. I’d much rather be a detective like you — the hours seem shorter and the expectations lower.”

  He let her have that one without comment and unlocked the door, flashing a grin so she knew he didn’t have the hump. He went straight to the kitchen and put the kettle on. When he returned, she was looking at his bookcase.

  “You must like your own company. Most of these books look like they’ve seen better days and you have an impressive DVD collection.”

  Own company. That was a joke but the right marriage to the wrong woman had eventually taken care of that.

  ”If I told you the truth you wouldn’t believe me.”

  She turned and smiled. “Try me.”

  “Tell you what, you want to be a detective . . . you come up with a plausible theory while I make the tea.”

  When he returned she was seated in the armchair, hands threaded together like a mafioso.

  He put the tea down and switched on his computer. “And your conclusion is?”

  “I reckon you bought the lot at an auction, or maybe someone died and left them to you and you can’t bear to part with them. I can’t see otherwise how anyone would be into science-fiction, military history, autobiographies, and Jane Austen.”

  He handed her some chocolate. “Not bad, Miss Marple. Although the truth is sadder than that. One of Steph’s many complaints,” he enjoyed saying her name aloud, like tempting the Devil to appear, “was that I didn’t read enough. Magazines sure, but never books. So what I did — and still do from time to time — is visit charity shops and buy three or four books, usually on the same theme.”

  “So why don’t you take them back once you’ve read them?”

  He took a sip of near-scalding hot tea and tried to look enigmatic.

  “Because you haven’t actually read them!” She blew sharply across her tea like a gunslinger.

  “In my defence, I have two or three books on the go on my bedside cabinet. I can prove it.”