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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Porter & Styles
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
A parent's worst fear is realised when seven-year-old Libby Hallforth goes missing at a funfair; no witnesses, no leads, and no trace. Months later, after the trail for Libby has gone cold, DI Jake Porter and DS Nick Styles find human remains but that's just the tip of a gruesome iceberg. Everyone is a suspect, nobody can be trusted, including the Hallforth family. The chances of getting justice for Libby are fading fast, along with Porter's chances of stopping a killer before they strike again.
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Seitenzahl: 451
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ALL THAT IS BURIED
ROBERT SCRAGG
For my wife, Nic, the best partner-in-crime a writer could wish for
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
He can’t remember exactly when he lost his children, only that he has. Lost? No, she took them. Cut them from his life, and he from theirs. How long has it been? Even now, the memories are hazy, painful to touch, a wound that won’t ever scab over.
Around him, the ebb and flow of people is a chaotic palette of colour. Sounds swirl, overlap, conversations impossible to separate from the cloud of white noise as he picks his way between rides. Oversized teacups spin in lazy circles. Squeak of socks on rubber as children launch themselves skywards on a bouncy castle. Seems like the entire village has been lured out by the promise of fun in the sun.
How long since he’s seen them? Too long. Months? Longer? Today will be the day though. Today he gets to take them home. He looks around, smiling at the wide-eyed wonder of the children that pass, nibbling at clouds of flamingo-pink candyfloss larger than their own heads. Rows of stalls plug the gaps between rides. Hook-a-duck, Tin-Can Alley, and a dozen more like them, all promising prizes for those willing to part with pocket money. Behind these, the woods, pressed up against the back of the stalls and tents, stretching back half a mile, maybe more.
Up ahead, he sees her. Breath catches in his throat. Could that be …? Is it …? The blonde ponytail is a carbon copy of the one in his memories. She’s peering over a counter, watching tiny plastic horses race towards a finish line, calling for number four to hurry up. No sign of her brother or their mum. What to do? Wait and greet them together? He’s more nervous than he thought he’d be. Stands for a full minute, frozen by indecision as the next race runs. This time, she doesn’t hand over any more money. Instead she spins away, looking left and right. Maybe she has lost them?
There’s a bounce to her step that seems to keep time with his heart. He’ll follow her to them. They’ll turn and see him. Smile at him. Both kids will run towards him, clamping to him like barnacles to a rock. She’ll see how much they love him. Might still have feelings for him herself. Maybe enough to paper over the cracks. He can’t even remember what they argued about, only that it was his fault. His mistakes to make right.
Her head is down now, bowed over a phone as she walks. He doesn’t remember her owning one. Since when has she been allowed that? He’ll speak to her mother about it when the time is right. Not today though. No disagreements today. He frowns as she pauses to take a picture, a selfie judging by the way she’s angling it, half a smile visible as she turns her head. She repeats this twice more, in front of another stall, and one of those image-warping fairground mirrors. After that, some furious tapping on her screen. Sending a picture to a friend, maybe. She angles left, around a corner and out of view, behind the tent flaps of a sweet stall. He picks up his pace so as not to lose her.
He hustles around the corner, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’s gone behind, and he turns left again, almost bumping into her where she stands, phone held at arm’s length, like she’s about to take another selfie, but there’s some sort of game on-screen now. It’s as if she’s using the camera, but with strange creatures superimposed in shot. A grunt of surprise pops out of his mouth and she turns to look at him, the spell of the screen broken.
Eyes blue as sapphires stare up at him, and a lump forms in his throat, corners of his eyes prickling. His baby girl. His little princess. He goes to speak, lips parting, but it’s as if he’s slipped into neutral and nothing comes out. Struck dumb by happiness. It’s her who breaks the spell.
‘Are you OK?’ she asks.
Her voice is like a splash of cold water, snapping him out of his trance.
‘I am now.’ He nods.
‘Are you lost?’
He shakes his head, feeling the beginnings of a smile tug at his mouth. ‘No, no. I was just looking for you and your brother.’
‘Why?’ she asks, a concertina of tiny creases on her forehead.
‘What do you mean why?’ he says. ‘I’ve come to take you home.’
‘I can’t go home with you. Mum always says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.’
‘I’m not a stranger, though, Marie, am I? I’m your dad.’
‘My name’s not Marie, and you’re not my dad.’
CHAPTER TWO
Jake Porter traced a lazy swirl across the back of Evie Simmons’s hand with his index finger. Three months in, and he still felt whispers of guilt in moments like this. Stupid, pointless even. Almost three years since he lost Holly. She of all people would have wanted him to be happy, to find someone else. Might be different if they’d drifted apart, broken up after a fiery run of arguments. Anything that might have given him a better sense of closure. As it was, whoever had been driving the car that mowed her down was still out there. Breathing, laughing, living.
‘Penny for them,’ Evie said, cocking her head to one side.
He blinked his way back into the room, forcing a smile. ‘Not even worth that,’ he said. ‘Sorry, just a bit tired.’
He felt about as convincing as a kid standing next to a smashed lamp pleading ignorance, but she mirrored his smile, covering his hand with hers and squeezed. Their waiter appeared at his shoulder like a genie, popped the cork from a bottle of red and poured half an inch into Porter’s glass.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he said, looking up, seeing disapproval in the waiter’s face. He’d never been one to do a swirl and sniff. To him it was red wine, nothing more. No base notes of blackberry, no hints of plum. Wine came in three types: red, white and rosé.
Across from him, Evie’s eyes twinkled as the disgruntled waiter poured, sensing Porter’s discomfort. He looked around the restaurant as her glass was filled, a lazy sweep of the room. No familiar faces, but then again why would there be? They were nowhere near the station, closer to her place than his. What would it matter even if there were?
It wasn’t as if they worked together. She was part of the drugs squad, while he was on Homicide and Serious Crime Command. No rules broken. More of a force of habit. Only a handful of people knew they were an item yet. Of those, only one was on the force: Porter’s partner, Detective Sergeant Nick Styles.
Evie raised her glass, holding it out towards him. ‘To a quiet weekend,’ she toasted.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said, his glass singing a clear note as it clinked against hers.
A waitress ghosted past them, plates stacked high, defying gravity as they balanced along a slender arm. Porter caught a glimpse of a juicy-looking steak and a mini haystack of skinny fries that only served to remind him of how little he’d eaten today. A plate like that would do him just fine.
Two large mouthfuls saw off half of his wine, and he’d barely had time for his glass to hit the table when he felt a vibration from his pocket. Whether Evie heard it or noticed him stiffen, he saw a tiny crease between her eyebrows. Disappointment, maybe, but she knew he had to take it.
‘DI Porter,’ he said, looking longingly at his glass, wondering if he’d get the chance to finish it.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘It’s DC Benayoun. I tried to get DS Styles first, but he wasn’t answering.’
‘It’s OK,’ Porter said, wondering what his partner was up to, wishing he’d taken a leaf out of his book and not answered. ‘Everything alright?’
‘Not really, sir,’ she said. ‘Missing child, seven years old.’
CHAPTER THREE
Voicemail. Again. Where the bloody hell was Styles?
‘Call me when you get this.’
Short, brusque, to the point. Porter clicked to end the call, and got out of his car. The block of flats loomed high above him, each floor a slice of pale green and dirty cream, layers on a cake. Named after a former councillor, John Walsh Tower and its neighbour, Fred Wigg Tower, dominated the skyline. Both looked in sore need of TLC. Porter had even heard talk of demolition and rebuilding. Two patrol cars bookended the path leading up to a set of steps. Seventeen storeys, and they just had to live at the top. Porter’s silent prayer to the lift gods was answered, and he waited patiently as the gears groaned their way upwards.
He worked his way along the corridor, knocked on the door and was greeted by a young female officer he recognised from a previous case. PC Dee Williams nodded and stepped aside to let him in. First thing that hit him was stale cigarettes, the kind of ingrained odour that takes years of dedication to seep in. A sweeter base note too, though, suggesting it wasn’t just tobacco that had been smoked.
This was a part of the job that never got easier. Different from the death knock, delivering the news that a loved one was never coming home. Missing persons meant hope. A chance, no matter how slim. When it was a kid, that hope was all that kept some parents from sliding over the edge.
A young woman sat hunched forwards on the sofa, elbows on knees, paper hankie scrunched like a loosely packed snowball in one hand. Mid-thirties he guessed, no make-up, hair in a tight ponytail, and a pink tinge around nose and eyes. No mistaking her for anyone else but the child’s mum, Ally Hallforth. A second officer perched next to her – family liaison officer, most likely.
By the window, a man paced back and forth, stopping when he realised somebody had joined them in the room. Presumably Simon Hallforth. He had a lived-in face, deep lines scored across his forehead. Fingers twitching by his sides as if playing a keyboard. Eyes that wouldn’t look out of place on a rat: small, close-set, dark.
‘Mr and Mrs Hallforth,’ Porter said, making no attempt to sit. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Jake Porter—’
‘Have you found her then?’ Simon Hallforth cut in before Porter could say anything else.
‘Not yet, sir, but it’d really help if we can have a chat, help us get to know a bit about Libby, any friends she might have wandered off with. The majority of these situations end up being along those lines, but it goes without saying we’ll pull out all the stops to find her and bring her home safe.’
‘Yeah, that’d be just like her,’ Simon sneered. ‘Wandering off without a care in the world. She’s done it before a few times at the supermarket. She knows it winds me up. Probably done it for a laugh this time. I tell you, if she’s done this on purpose …’
He stopped short of finishing the sentence, and Ally’s head snapped up, glaring at him.
‘You’ll what, Simon?’ She stared him out until he dropped his eyes and turned back to look out of the window. ‘She’s a good kid, Detective,’ she said, dabbing at her nose with the hankie. ‘Ignore him. He’d already got out of bed on the wrong side before any of this.’
Porter looked over at Simon Hallforth. Watched him clench and unclench his fists. Anger wasn’t the norm in these circumstances. Fear, yes. The anger usually came after any search failed to find the missing person. He used the lull now to introduce himself to the FLO, DC Moira Kelly, then took a seat in the chair opposite Ally Hallforth.
‘I know you’ve already been through this with one of my colleagues, Mrs Hallforth, but if you could walk me through Libby’s day, when you last saw her, what she was wearing, whether you saw anybody acting suspicious.’
She nodded, took a deep breath and puffed it out loudly, steeling herself to go over it again.
‘There’s a fair at Epping Forest, near the visitor’s centre. Libby’s been harping on about it all week.’
‘You can barely call that thing a fair,’ Simon cut in. ‘I said we shouldn’t have gone. I told you.’
‘Enough, Simon,’ Ally snapped. Porter looked at her, then back to her husband. Something in both faces, a subtext they weren’t sharing with him. Her anger gave way quickly to uncertainty, like a line had been crossed. His expression was more one of surprise, possibly not used to his wife snapping at him. Either way, Porter doubted they’d played happy families even before today.
‘She’s a good girl, Detective. She doesn’t wander off. Does as she’s told.’
‘When it suits her,’ Simon muttered, but this one went unchecked.
‘And what do you remember leading up to Libby disappearing?’ Porter asked. ‘Take your time.’
Ally Hallforth had a thousand-yard stare now, unfocused, playing back loops in her head.
‘She hadn’t even been on many of the rides,’ she said in a faraway tone. ‘Just stuffed her face with candyfloss and watched other kids, mainly. Said she wanted to watch all the rides before she made her mind up. I only took my eye off her for a second. Just wanted to grab a coffee, told her I’d only be a minute, and then …’
The rest of the sentence disappeared behind a veil of sniffles. This would be the perfect time for Simon Hallforth to swoop in, curl an arm around her, tell her their baby girl was safe, that she’d be home soon. Instead, he huffed out a loud breath, pulled an e-cigarette from his pocket and started puffing away. Clouds of fruity-scented vapour shrouded his face. Porter couldn’t stand those things, and kept his focus on Ally.
‘She was watching that horse race one, you know where you back a colour and the little metal horses race along a track. You win a prize if yours finishes first. One minute she was there next to me, then she was just gone. Do you think someone took her?’
She came back alive for that last sentence, eyes snapping into focus, voice trembling at the very real possibility.
‘We can’t rule anything out, Mrs Hallforth,’ Porter said with a shrug. ‘Statistically most missing children have just wandered off. Either that or run away. Can you think of any reason why she’d want to run away?’
‘And what the bloody hell do you mean by that?’ Simon barked between angry puffs. ‘You’re saying we had something to do with this?’
‘I’m not saying that at all, sir,’ Porter said, keeping his tone level. In reality, though, he couldn’t rule that out at this stage. Tia Sharp, a high-profile case back in 2012, had proved that families are capable of doing awful things, even to ones they’re supposed to protect. Something about the dynamic between Simon and Ally was off. Not necessarily enough to have caused Libby to go missing, but definitely something Porter would have to follow up on.
‘What about friends?’ he asked. ‘Were there any other kids she knew at the fair? Friends, or friends’ parents? Anyone she might feel comfortable wandering off with.’
‘She doesn’t have many. Just a couple of other girls from school really, but I don’t think any of them were there today,’ said Ally.
‘It’d be helpful if we can get their names to follow up just in case,’ he said, and waited as she scribbled on a Post-it note, idly looking around the room. A picture behind the sofa caught his eye.
‘Libby’s brother and sister?’ he asked, gesturing towards it.
Ally nodded. ‘I was only nineteen when I had Marcus, same age as he is now. Chloe turned four last month.’
‘Are they here?’ Porter asked.
She shook her head. ‘Marcus moved out last year. Got a flat in the block next door. My mum came around and took Chloe for a walk. Didn’t want her seeing me upset.’
Porter’s phone purred in his pocket before he could ask anything else about the other children.
‘Excuse me just one second,’ he said, sliding it out and seeing Styles’s name blinking at him. Nick would have to wait. Disrupting the flow of a sensitive debrief like this could mean facts were missed, misremembered, even embellished. He rejected the call and fixed his attention on Ally again.
‘And what did you do when you realised you couldn’t see her any more?’
His phone buzzed again: same caller. Porter felt his hackles rising. Styles should know if he didn’t take the call there would be a damn good reason. Seemed lately that his partner’s judgement was just a fraction off on the little things. Understandable to a degree, baby on the way and all, but little mistakes could easily add up, make life difficult, cases harder to solve.
‘I really am sorry about this. Let me get rid of the call,’ he said, pressing to answer.
‘DS Styles, I really can’t talk right now. I’m interviewing the parents.’ Formal title in place of a Christian name intended to send a message.
‘I know, boss, and I’m sorry to be a pain, but it’s about the girl. We’ve found something.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Anger leached from Porter, heat draining from his cheeks. He tried to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to give anything away to Libby’s parents.
‘Go on,’ he said, offering a silent prayer that his partner had misspoken, that it was a someone, not a something.
‘It’s her mobile phone, boss. Smashed up pretty bad as well.’
‘Where?’ he asked, instantly regretting his choice of word, seeing Ally Hallforth’s eyes widen. He mouthed the words Not Libby, saw a fresh wave of disappointment crash over her.
‘Hundred yards or so from the edge of the fairground. Screen’s all cracked, but it still powers up so we should be able to check through it fairly quickly.’
‘OK, good. You out there now, or did someone reach you at home?’
‘On my way to the scene now,’ Styles said, puzzled tone to his voice. ‘I was at the midwife’s appointment with Emma. Remember, I told you about it last week.’
Porter had a flashback to a conversation over a coffee. He had mentioned it alright; Porter had just forgotten, preoccupied with a hundred other thoughts.
‘Yeah, of course I do. I’ll see you back at the station when I finish speaking with the parents.’
He ended the call, feeling bad for doubting Styles, but didn’t have time to dwell as both parents peppered him with questions, volume rising to be heard above each other. He held up both hands.
‘That was a detective sergeant on my team. We’ve not found Libby yet, but we have found her phone.’
‘Her phone?’ Ally said. ‘Where?’
‘Not far from the fairground.’
‘So, she did wander off then,’ Simon said. ‘Wandered off and lost her bloody prized possession that cost me a fortune. That’s what all this is about. She’s either still out there in the bloody long grass looking for it, or hiding cos she knows she’ll get a bollocking for losing it.’
‘What if someone took her?’ Ally sniffed. ‘Took her and got rid of it so the police can’t use it to find them?’
‘I know you’ve got questions,’ he said, addressing both of them, ‘and I want to get you answers, believe me I do. But trust me when I say that second-guessing things like this isn’t going to help.’
‘And neither is sitting here chatting like we’ve got all the time in the world,’ snapped Simon, grabbing a photo frame from a shelf. ‘You know what she looks like, you know where she was. Us telling you what a great kid she is won’t help you find her any quicker.’
Porter felt his hackles rising. He’d dealt with his fair share of anger being thrown his way. Criminals, relatives, witnesses; he crossed paths with people at their worst or most vulnerable, liable to lash out at the nearest target. There was something about Simon Hallforth, however, that suggested that Porter could walk in here any day of the week and get the same reception. Quick to anger, to lash out. What kind of husband and father was he behind closed doors?
Porter decided to change tack. He didn’t have time for this angry little man routine. Not with a seven-year-old girl missing.
‘You know what, you’re right, but first, may I?’ he said, gesturing to the picture with his phone.
Simon took a second to realise what he intended to do, but handed it over, and Porter took a picture. All three wore beaming smiles, sitting on a beach somewhere. Had to be fairly recent from the ages Ally had given. Happier times.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing it back, watching as Simon practically thumped it onto the shelf. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head out there now and help look for her.’
He stood, walked over to where Simon Hallforth leant against the wall and held out a hand. Simon left him hanging for a second longer than necessary, and when he did grip Porter’s hand, he went for the testosterone option. Porter squeezed back just as hard, then added a few extra ounces of pressure for good measure. Still on the right side of the professional line, just. Hallforth was first to release, scowling as he turned away, sucking in another lungful of whatever rubbish was in his e-cigarette.
‘I’ll leave you with DC Kelly. She’ll be able to arrange a time for you to finish giving your statement down at the station.’
Ally Hallforth nodded and smiled, rising to see Porter out, but Porter was more interested by her husband’s reaction. The mention of a station visit creased his forehead. Not something he was keen to do, presumably. Had he been inside one before, for the wrong reasons, maybe? Easy enough to find out. He’d already shown he had a temper. Maybe he had form for losing it as well. Five minutes in an interview room would be enough to see for himself. Definitely hiding something, that one.
CHAPTER FIVE
Styles was leaning against his car when Porter pulled up. He peeled himself away, straightening up as Porter approached, like a Transformer unfolding, to reach his full height. At six-four, Styles had a clear five inches on him but often seemed to slouch to minimise it, as if he was self-conscious.
‘Sorry about before,’ Porter said as they shook hands. ‘Just wound up a bit too tight, what with it being a young ’un.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine, guv, I should have reminded you yesterday,’ said Styles, waving away the apology. They’d worked together for around four years now, and he’d always had Porter’s back. There had been one misunderstanding a few months back, when Porter had thought Styles was feeding information back to Superintendent Roger Milburn, Porter’s boss, undermining him. There had been tension there, sure, but he’d been wrong, and had admitted as much to Styles. Water under the bridge.
‘What do we know, then?’ Porter asked, scanning the car park and surrounding area, taking in the unmanned stalls and silent rides. A group of people, a couple of dozen maybe, milled around just beyond the line of police tape. ‘And who are the spectators?’
‘They’re the people who own this lot,’ Styles said. ‘All ecstatic at losing the afternoon’s takings, as you can see. I’ve tried pointing out there’s more serious things going on than whether some bloke from Chigwell can buy two and a half minutes of peace for a fiver so his kids can spin round in a giant teacup, but I must be losing my touch.’
Porter looked at the crowd again. A small sea of scowling faces, pacing, muttering, racing their way through a day’s worth of cigarettes.
‘Tough. They can get back over here when we’re finished.’
When that might be was unclear. With so many vehicles, stalls, no CCTV and no clear picture of exactly how Libby Hallforth had disappeared, the scene would take a fair chunk of time to process. Two roads penned in the long green triangle of grass where the fair had set up shop. Behind him, a few hundred metres of open ground. Over the far side of the fair, the Kings Oak Hotel. All in all, a tiny patch carved out of over three hundred square kilometres of woodland.
‘What have we got in motion so far?’
Styles rattled through what he knew. Crime scene manager logging everyone in and out. Names of staff and customers, over a hundred combined already. Number plates from the car park. Twenty officers making a start on searching nearby woodland. The only CCTV was at the hotel. No one there had seen her, but they’d asked for copies all the same.
‘Does anyone remember seeing her? Her mum mentioned she was keen on some horse racing game at one of the stalls.’
Styles nodded. ‘Spoke to that guy myself. He remembers a girl who matched her description. Said she stuck in his mind cos she reminded him of his granddaughter. Didn’t see anyone with her, though, or anyone that looked out of place hanging round. He also remembered her because she was on her own the whole time she was at his stall.’
That sparked something at the back of Porter’s brain. ‘Ally Hallforth told me she’d been with her there, and then walked off to get a coffee.’
Styles shrugged. ‘The guy must see hundreds of people a day. If she wasn’t playing, he probably wouldn’t pay as much attention.’
‘No, it’s not just that,’ Porter said, shaking his head. ‘She said she’d been standing next to her, told her she was going for a drink, then left. He would have seen them talking.’
Ally Hallforth had lied to him. Her little girl missing, and she’d lied within five minutes of him walking through her door. What could be more important than telling the truth with so much at stake? The same thought he’d had in the Hallforths’ living room swam to the surface. Even families are capable of doing awful things to those they love.
CHAPTER SIX
Porter sent a pair of constables over to the hotel to speak to staff and guests. They’d already searched the place before Porter arrived in case she’d wandered over and decided to explore any of the rooms. Apart from her phone, though, there was no sign she’d even been at the fair. What he’d give for this to have happened in a street full of CCTV, or for her to have kept hold of the phone so they could put a trace on it and go straight to her. He and Styles took the opportunity to speak with a few more of the fairground staff, but with the exception of the man Styles had already interviewed, none of them remembered seeing anyone matching her description, although Porter worried that some of the answers were a little too quick for his liking. Too keen to move them along to the next person. He could have sworn there were a couple of dozen people here before, maybe a few more, but now he counted only nineteen. No matter; they’d have names from the list taken earlier.
Follow-up conversations with the Hallforths needed to happen, and fast. Libby had last been seen by the stall owner a little after one this afternoon. Ally had called up to report her missing around two hours later. Porter checked his watch. Almost 8 p.m., and the sun had long since sunk behind the treetops; the sky behind them was a dark, inky black. Seven hours missing, give or take, already. If Libby was out there, lost in the woods, she’d be scared witless by now.
Please let it be something stupid. An argument with her mum or dad, and she’s hiding somewhere to teach them a lesson.
‘Are you OK to stay here and coordinate the search?’ Porter asked Styles. ‘I need to go and speak to the parents again, clear up the part of the mum’s story at the stall.’
‘Yeah, I’m good to stick around,’ Styles replied.
‘There was something off with the dad as well. Really weird vibe going on between him and his wife. He was an angry, mouthy one. Seemed more pissed off that Libby was causing hassle than actually worried about her. The glances they were giving each other, though, it’s like they were trying to tell each other things they didn’t want to say out loud with me in the room.’
‘Could be a run-of-the-mill domestic, guv?’ Styles asked. ‘Her giving him evils for saying the wrong things, and that pisses him off cos she’s making him look bad to us, so he gets angrier.’
‘Yeah, maybe, maybe not. There’s a brother as well,’ said Porter, snapping his fingers. ‘Moved out and lives on his own, but they didn’t say if he’d been out with them today. Can you pick that up first thing tomorrow? Track him down and have a chat?’
‘Yep, no worries,’ Style replied. ‘Oh, before I forget, Emma asked me to invite you and Evie around for dinner this weekend if you’ve got no plans.’
It seemed surreal to be discussing something as casual as dinner plans in the middle of working a potentially delicate case like this, but Porter was used to Styles having no filters most of the time. It didn’t mean he was any less concerned about Libby Hallforth. He just had a habit of spitting out thoughts as they popped into his mind.
‘Don’t think we’re doing anything. I’ll check with Evie and let you know tomorrow if that’s OK?’
Saying her name triggered his own memory. Shit, he’d said he would call and let her know if it was worth her staying over at his tonight, or whether he’d not be back till late. He was still feeling his way around the idea of being in a relationship again, and with a job like this, there were always plenty of distractions to push all thoughts of home life from your mind.
Styles’s phone buzzed. ‘Lorna, that’s a new record. I’m guessing I owe you a week’s worth of coffees for this one?’
Lorna Shields worked in the lab that processed most of the evidence gathered on their cases. The rule of thumb was the faster the evidence came back, the more it cost you. Porter was sure she had a soft spot for his DS. He seemed to be able to get her to overlook that at times, to undercharge and overdeliver. She was in her early sixties, and he was happily married, so not that kind of soft spot. She had told him that he looked like Denzel Washington, if Denzel had been stretched on a rack for a week, and that he was lucky she wasn’t thirty years younger.
Porter watched Styles’s face as he listened. Saw his expression darken, fresh furrows appearing across his forehead. He waited until Styles ended the call.
‘What’s up?’
‘She’s been taking a look at Libby’s phone.’
‘And?’
‘And there’s more than just cracks on her screen. Says there’s some photos on there we need to see.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Porter called DC Moira Kelly on the drive back to the station, and she promised to bring the Hallforths along to the station to take their full formal statements. He smiled at the thought of Simon Hallforth walking into a small boxy interview room. If the look on his face earlier was anything to go by, it’d be like sticking a claustrophobe in a suitcase.
The rest of his drive was more sombre, though. Lorna hadn’t elaborated on what the pictures showed, apart from to say they’d been taken in the half hour leading up to Libby’s disappearance. Could be the best insight they’d get into where she’d been, what she’d seen. How did the phone get cracked in the first place? he wondered. Maybe wherever she was, she had a story ready about some bigger kids stealing it. Maybe it had been forcibly taken away from her.
He shook the thought away. This was the kind of hopeful tangent Ally Hallforth would explore. He needed to stick to the facts, and the simple truth was they were already well past the golden hour: that crucial sixty-minute window that starts when an offence is committed, before evidence gets trampled, witnesses wander off or a suspect vanishes. The longer that clock ticks, the harder a case will be to solve. Not that he would admit as much to the Hallforths, but once it went past twenty-four hours with children, especially as young as Libby, forty-eight tops, the chances of a happy ending dropped like a stone.
He did a double take as he walked into the office. Simmons sat there at his desk, sipping from a cardboard cup, holding a matching one out to him as he approached. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into the customary tight ponytail. His sister, Kat, had said on more than one occasion that she had something of a young Audrey Hepburn about her.
‘Figured you could use a coffee before you speak to the parents,’ she said.
‘How did you …’
‘Know you were on your way in?’ she finished his sentence for him. ‘I’m a detective, sir. It’s what we do,’ she finished with a wink. ‘Guessed you’d be on a late one, so thought I might as well catch up on some admin myself. That, and Styles texted me about dinner at theirs, and mentioned you were heading back in. Must have figured you’d forget.’
There weren’t many others in at this time of day, but Porter did a quick check of those closest, looking for a reaction, anything to show they might have heard about the dinner plans.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, leaning forwards, talking in a stage whisper. ‘We’re not office gossip just yet.’
‘Hmm? No, no, it’s not that I … well, you know what it’s like. It’s just easier if we keep this to ourselves for now.’
She leant back, held her palms up, smiling. ‘It’s all good. I get it, and that’s fine with me.’ The cheeky glint came back in her eyes as she leant in again. ‘It’s actually more fun that way. You know, illicit.’
He felt his cheeks burn, hating that he was so easily embarrassed, but didn’t try and hide his own grin. ‘I might be a while in there,’ he said, gesturing towards the interview room.
‘That’s fine.’ She shrugged. ‘Not like I have anywhere better to be.’
He toasted her with the coffee cup. ‘Better get started then. Thanks for the cuppa.’
Wandering over to the door to interview room five, he felt a lightness to his step that hadn’t been there when he’d trudged up the steps at the entrance. He liked that about her. The effect she could have, even just in small doses. He’d had that with Holly. Hadn’t thought he’d find it again. He still wasn’t sure what they had, or where it might go, but for now at least it felt right.
Ally Hallforth visibly jumped as he opened the door and strode in. Just her and DC Kelly. Simon Hallforth was in another room down the hall, as per Porter’s instructions. Better to hear both sides without the background static of a domestic. That, and both of them had set him on edge a little. Different reasons for each, but he’d learnt to trust his gut. Still needed to tread carefully, though. Even if they were coming across as obstructive or evasive, it wouldn’t do to have a complaint land on Superintendent Roger Milburn’s desk. He’d become Porter’s boss after a case that exposed corruption in the team, and had taken some convincing that Porter’s methods were the right side of the line. They seemed to have reached an unsteady truce, for now at least.
Ally had changed since he’d seen her at her flat, now wearing jeans and a baggy plum-coloured jumper. Same eyes, though, heavy with worry, like clouds ready to burst.
‘Here’s the info you asked for, boss,’ said DC Kelly, handing a folder to Porter. He flicked through it quickly as he took a seat. The contents of Libby Hallforth’s phone: call log, texts, photos, browser history. A couple of items caught his eye, and he filed it as something to ask about, along with the other questions he’d composed in his mind on the drive over.
‘Mrs Hallforth, sorry you had to wait. Can I get you another drink?’ he said, gesturing at the almost empty water beside her.
‘No, I’m alright, thanks. I’d just like to get this done, so I can go and pick Chloe up from my mum’s.’
‘Of course,’ Porter said with a reassuring smile. ‘Won’t keep you any longer than we need to. We just need to finish walking through what you remember, then I’ve got a few extra questions. After that you’ll be free to go. How does that sound?’
She nodded, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Good, OK, we’ll make a start then,’ he said, starting the recording, calling out the date and time, then identifying the people in the room.
‘So, Mrs Hallforth, you said earlier that you saw her next to the stall that ran horse races. She was there when you went to get a coffee, and when you came back, she was gone.’
She nodded, but said nothing.
‘How long would you say you were gone for?’
She frowned. ‘Only a couple of minutes. Two or three, maybe.’
‘But before that you were standing at the stall with her?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘How long would you say you were with her for at that stall?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Why is that important?’
‘I just want to build up a picture of the events leading up to her disappearing.’
‘I don’t know, maybe another couple of minutes. I can’t remember exactly.’
‘Where was your husband when you and Libby were at that stall? Did he have Chloe on one of the other rides?’
‘No, she was with me. He kept wandering off then coming back,’ she said. ‘He kept moaning that Libby was wasting her time, that she should try some rides.’
‘But he wasn’t with you all of the time?’
‘Why do you keep asking about us?’ she said, a hint of anger creeping around the edges. ‘Aren’t you meant to be working out where she went?’
Porter gave a patient smile, the kind that said he’d done this a hundred times before, that he knew what he was doing.
‘Like I said, Mrs Hallforth, the more we know the better. We weren’t there, you were.’ He left it there for a few seconds, giving her time to wind back in. ‘How far away was the place you got your coffee? I’m just wondering how big a window she had to wander off in.’
‘Over towards the cars,’ she said. ‘Can’t remember the name, but it wasn’t that far. Fifty metres away, maybe.’
The fair had been sandwiched between two roads, a hundred metres or so apart at their widest. Stalls and rides were arranged in four rows at that end, narrowing to just two near the point of the grassy triangle. He had made a beeline for the horse race stall earlier. Made a point of mapping out what was around it, the line of sight to and from other parts of the fair.
‘Really?’ he asked, sounding surprised. ‘You went all that way for a cuppa? Why not just get one from the place next to the stall where Libby was?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking wary, unsure of herself.
‘I mean there was a place right next door. You even had to walk past it to get to the one you went to. Why go that far away when you could have stayed a few feet away?’
Her mouth opened, closed, and she started to blink her confusion like Morse code. ‘I, ah, I don’t remember … I didn’t see that other one. The place you said.’ A tremor in her voice, barely audible, but there nonetheless. ‘I must have just been looking the other way.’
Her shoulders, tense and squared, eased a touch, happy that she’d batted back his question.
Porter nodded and leant back in his chair. ‘OK, yeah, that makes sense.’ He looked over at DC Kelly for the first time since he’d started with his questions. Saw it in her face that she wasn’t sure he was fishing in the right direction, but she knew better than to interrupt.
‘I went out there to look around. Bumped into one of my colleagues, who spoke to the owner of that stall. He remembers seeing Libby. Funny thing is, he doesn’t remember anyone being with her.’
‘Well, he’s wrong then, isn’t he?’ she said, and Porter fancied he saw a flash of fear in her eyes, glinting like gold in a pan.
‘Mmm, could be,’ Porter said, rubbing a hand over the first prickles of stubble. ‘Here’s the thing, though – I don’t think he is, and I’ll tell you why. I asked him about her, and he could describe her to a T. What she wore, the bobble in her hair, the lot. Wish all my witnesses were that good. But what he remembers thinking in particular is that no one was with her. She only paid for one race that he remembers. On her own the whole time though. Stood out because of it. Not many kids that age get left on their own.’
She was shaking her head now, creased ridge between eyebrows. Small movements, like watching the world’s smallest game of tennis.
‘She was there, at that stall. I definitely saw her there,’ she mumbled.
‘Saw her but weren’t right next to her?’ he asked. ‘Possibly standing off to one side?’
‘I might not have stood next to her at the stall,’ she admitted in a quiet voice. ‘We were walking past, and she ran over to it. I remember Simon saying something about it being a mug’s game. How the man could fix the winner depending on how the punters bet.’
‘So, Simon was with you at that point?’
‘At that point, yeah.’
Something about the way she said it, all the emphasis on the second word, make Porter pause a beat.
‘But not all afternoon?’
She looked down at her hands again. Started worrying away at the edges of a nail. What was she not telling him?
‘What about after you left her at the stall?’ he asked. ‘Did Simon go with you for the coffee?’
‘No, he can’t stand the stuff. He went off to get a beer, I think.’
Porter felt heat in his cheeks. He wouldn’t wish their situation on his worst enemy, but the pair of them had left a seven-year-old girl to her own devices, with no regard for who might be lurking around.
‘And remind me, Mrs Hallforth, this happened just after one this afternoon?’
She nodded, but said nothing.
‘Can I ask you why you waited as long as you did to report her missing?’ he asked, a little more steel in his voice.
‘Pardon me?’ she said, looking startled by the question.
‘The stall owner saw her around one this afternoon, but you didn’t report her missing until just after three.’
‘We, um, I just thought she was messing around. She couldn’t have gone far. You just never think … I wanted to call it in sooner, but …’
She stopped mid-sentence, and Porter saw something flash across her face; a split second, then it was gone. Not the same fear he saw there when she talked about Libby being missing, but not far off.
‘But what?’ he prompted.
‘I tried, but … I just …’
Porter glanced down at the printouts DC Kelly had prepared for him, spun one around and slid it towards her.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘That is a call log from 999 earlier today. This’ – he tapped – ‘is the call we took from you a little after three, and this’– he slid his finger down to the next line – ‘is a 999 call made from your mobile at quarter past one, not long after you last saw her.’
He saw colour seep from her cheeks, lips drawn in a tight line, eyes flitting across the page.
‘Now what I’m hoping you can help me understand, Mrs Hallforth, is if you were worried enough to call us at one-fifteen, why you hung up and waited another two hours to actually tell us your daughter was missing?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ally Hallforth looked from Porter to DC Kelly, then down to the sheet of paper. When she picked it up, he could see a tremor around the edges. She chewed nervously on her bottom lip, staring with such intensity at the page, as if doing it could make it read differently.
‘Mrs Hallforth?’ Porter prompted. ‘Anything you can share could make a difference in finding out where Libby is. Why did you end that first call?’
She swallowed hard, coming to a decision. ‘I didn’t.’
Porter shook his head. ‘Why you did, only you can say, but this’ – he reached over and tapped the top of the page – ‘proves that you did.’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not what I mean, Detective. The call was ended, but not by me.’
‘Your husband?’
She nodded. ‘He said she was just messing around, overexcited. She’d probably turn up any minute, and he didn’t want us looking stupid by panicking and calling the police over something as silly as that.’
The instant dislike Porter had taken to Simon Hallforth grew, morphing into outright anger. His own stubbornness might well have put his daughter in danger, but hey, as long as it didn’t make him look stupid.
‘You were obviously worried enough to have tried that first call. Why didn’t you call back?’
‘He took it.’
‘Your phone?’ Porter asked, incredulous.
‘Mm-hm. I called you as soon as he gave it back.’
‘He kept your phone for two hours?’ said Porter, careful not to let any anger at her husband seep through into this conversation. ‘Seems an extreme thing to do. The controlling type, is he?’
‘I know what you must think,’ she said, ‘but he does what he thinks is best.’
‘And what about you, Mrs Hallforth? Do you think it was a better idea for us to start searching when she went missing, or wait a few hours?’
He knew he was close to crossing the line now, that he should rein it back in. He could practically see the complaint on Milburn’s desk already. That last question hit home, and he watched as her eyes filled, tears streaking their way down her face. DC Kelly reached over, put an arm around Ally Hallforth’s shoulder and looked over at Porter.
‘Maybe a good time for a break, boss?’
Porter nodded. Good time to switch rooms and speak to her husband.
‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he assured her, ‘but I need you both to be honest with me. Libby needs you to be honest with me.’
He left her dabbing at her tears with an already grubby hankie, and headed along the corridor to where Simon Hallforth waited. He wasn’t quite the cornered rat that Porter had expected, having checked for prior arrests and seen form for minor offences. Nothing huge in the grand scheme of things: arrested fifteen years ago for possession of cannabis, picked up a few times drunken and disorderly, and one arrest for assault, but charges were dropped.
Hallforth was early forties, but it was unlikely that anyone would peg him for that. Scores of frown lines criss-crossed his forehead. Dark hair and darker eyes. Definite contender for little man syndrome.
‘Why are we in separate rooms?’ he asked as Porter sat down.
‘Helps with the statements,’ he said. ‘Avoids one person filling in the other’s blanks with things they might remember differently.’
‘I dunno what more you think we can tell you,’ said Hallforth. ‘Like I said before, you’d be better out there looking for my daughter.’
‘And the more we know, the better we can direct the search. Now why don’t we start with why you stopped your wife calling us two hours earlier?’
Straight in, no messing around, Porter slipped it in under his defences like a punch to the liver.
‘You what? What the bloody hell are you trying to say?’ Hallforth stammered, volume rising, folding his arms like a shield across his chest.
‘I’m not trying to say anything,’ Porter said, keeping his tone level. ‘I know for a fact there was a call from your wife’s phone to 999 around quarter past one. It was terminated pretty much as soon as it was answered, and nobody picked up when they called back. Why would you not want us looking for her sooner?’
‘Cos she’s a bloody liability that one,’ he said, angry at being put on the spot. ‘Working herself, hiding around the house, hiding my packet of fags. That’s just what she does.’
‘Seems your wife thought differently. She wanted to call us. Why did you stop her?’
‘Didn’t want to get in trouble for wasting police time,’ he said, with a smug smile like he’d just won a battle of wits.
‘It’s Libby’s time you’re wasting, Mr Hallforth,’ Porter said. ‘Every minute she’s out there, we’re a tiny bit further away from finding her. Who else knew you were at the fairground?’
‘What? You think someone was stalking her?’
‘Please, sir, if you can just answer the question.’
‘I dunno, it’s not like I took out an ad in the paper,’ he said, with a forced grin again, like the whole thing was one big joke.
Porter had already strayed far from his usual approach with parents of a missing child, but between the two of them they seemed to be holding back for whatever reason, answering his questions with ones of their own.
‘How about friends, family, neighbours? Anyone who might have taken a particular interest in Libby?’
‘Nope,’ he said; short, to the point, as if Porter was an inconvenience.
‘And how are things at home?’
That got a rise from him, more than Porter expected. ‘No, no, no. You don’t try and turn this round on me.’ Simon Hallforth wagged a finger at him, like telling off a naughty schoolboy, eyes wide with indignation.
‘If she has run away, these things tend to be linked to home or school. That’s not to say you or your wife have done anything wrong, but right now, I need to rule things in or out as quickly as possible. So, I’ll ask again, how are things at home? Could she have seen anything that would upset her enough to run away?’
Hallforth huffed out a loud breath. ‘Gets upset at anything, just like her mother. Pair of ’em can barely watch a Disney film without tearing up.’
‘What about her older brother, does she see much of him?’
‘Hmph, comes round when it suits him.’
‘Quite young to move out. Nineteen, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right yeah.’
‘Is he at college, university?’
‘Got himself an internship at some software company. Always been too clever for his own good.’
‘Have you got his contact details? I’d like to speak to him too.’
Hallforth copied out a number from his own phone, and scribbled an address beside it. ‘Waste of time speaking to him anyway,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t even there. Libby had texted him yesterday, but he said he had to work.’
‘Still,’ said Porter, ‘I always try and speak to everyone in the family. Have you let him know what’s happening?’
‘Yeah,’ said Hallforth, almost begrudgingly, ‘his mum called him on the way here.’
