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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Porter & Styles
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Ross Henderson was an influential vlogger rallying against the growing tide of the far right. As his audience tuned in to Henderson's latest live broadcast, they had front-row seats for his savage murder. Alongside this volatile case, Detective Inspector Jake Porter finally has a lead on the hit-and-run which killed his wife. With his life in disarray, he and his partner DS Nick Styles struggle to prevent full blown riots in the wake of the Henderson atrocity. And following the trail to his wife's killer will take its toll: Porter will have to act like a criminal in order to take down the person responsible, but there's no guarantee he will come out the other side alive.
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END OF THE LINE
ROBERT SCRAGG
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For Nic, the only woman for whom I would walk five hundred miles, and maybe even the same again
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
His footsteps echo off stark brick, bouncing off walls that once penned in prisoners, blind to any guilt or lack thereof. No matter how softly he treads, the tap-tap-tap of his boots races down the corridor ahead of him. Might as well be a base drum, beating out his approach to any security guards. A shallow trickle winds its way down a back already slick with sweat. He hefts his rucksack squarely back onto his shoulder and steps through the doorway.
The room beyond looks just like the pictures he’s seen online. Perfect. Seems so small a space to have seen such serious situations. A row of three chairs to his right where the magistrates used to sit, the central one high-backed, a throne compared to the two that flank it, surveying its wood-panelled kingdom. Twin strip lights dangle down from a glass dome in the centre, sunlight magnified through a thousand glass tiles, lighting the room up like a stage. Apt. That’s exactly what it’s 8about to become. A platform to launch his next attack, and this one could be a killing blow.
No time to waste. The court closed down a couple of years back, but there’s still a guard who checks up on the place. Not due for another hour, but why leave it to chance? His business here won’t take long. He shrugs off his rucksack, sliding out a collapsible tripod, positioning it on the table in the centre of the room. His smartphone fits snugly into the grip at the top, tapping the screen to flip it round so it shows his face. He takes a few steps back, studying the screen. Slides the legs a few feet further, allowing the royal crest on the wall above into shot.
Dieu et mon droit
God and my right
Gold paint is peeling away from the lion and unicorn like sunburnt skin. Like the rest of the building, the crest has seen better days.
That and the rest of the country, he thinks with a shake of his head. What he does today should go some way to righting the ship. He may have started small, but every broadcast he does hits seven figures now. One more glance around, weighing up light and shadow. Can’t be faffing about moving the camera once he goes live. Most of what he needs to say is committed to memory, but he mutters one last run-through nonetheless. He lays out his few props by the foot of the central chair. Feels right that he speaks from there. Today’s broadcast isn’t just getting up on his soapbox. No, he’s promised to bring those bastards at the English Welfare Party down more times than he cares to count. Today is more than delivering a judgement. Today he burns the whole fucking lot of them down to the ground. 9
He slides into the seat, hands dangling from the end of armrests, settling back like a monarch presiding over court. Closes his eyes. Deep breath. Hold for a three count. Out. Three more of the same. It’s time.
He reaches into his pocket, clicking the small remote. A switch flicks somewhere in his head. Showtime.
‘Evening all, this is Stormcloudz coming to you live and uncensored from right here in London. You folks best make yourself comfortable cos you’re in for a treat today. I’ll give you the tour later, but we’ve got quite a bit to get through today. These fools at the EWP have had their day.’
Even just the mention of the EWP makes him grimace. They’re everything that’s wrong with Britain. He’s on a roll and just finished his intro when the man appears in the public gallery. Not there one minute, staring him out the next. Words stick in his throat like a clogged drain, registering not only the figure now but the balaclava hiding his face. Fear sears the moisture from his mouth, and he licks his lips, rising slowly to his feet.
The man doesn’t move. Just stands there behind the glass panels. Slits for eyes, impossible to tell anything from them. He’s wearing some kind of boiler suit, dark burgundy with a logo on the breast difficult to read from this distance.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ he begins, hearing and hating the wobble in his voice, ‘I’m not doing this one solo. Looks like we’ve got a visitor.’
He clicks his remote again, flipping the camera around to take in the room, viewing gallery and all.
‘Say hello to the great British public, my friend.’
The figure is statue-still. Only sign they’re even breathing is a slight rise and fall of shoulders. 10
His own breath is shallow, tongue darting out to lick lips like a nervous lizard. Whoever the fuck this is, he isn’t here to sit and chew the fat, and he definitely isn’t the bloody security guard. Come to rob the building perhaps? Can’t be much of value left. Copper wiring maybe. He squints, trying to make out the logo, but the sunlight streaming in is bouncing off the glass, making an already hard task impossible.
‘You one of Winter’s boys, then? You don’t frighten me, mate. You’re streaming live on Facebook as well—’ He breaks off, leaning forwards to look at his screen. ‘One point three million people and rising. You see, my friends,’ he says, taking a half-step forward with new-found confidence. ‘This is how they work, Mr Winter and his jack-boot boys at the EWP. They intimidate. They try and silence anyone who disagrees, and not with logic or argument. With force. They’re—’
He stops mid sentence. The man has taken a step forward of his own, almost touching the glass now. Raises a clenched gloved fist to his own throat, drawing it across his neck with thumb pointing inwards like a blade. The same hand drops to his breast, tapping the logo, while the other reaches inside the boiler suit. The blade appears like a magic trick, impossibly long, a matt black curve of steel, punctuated by a row of tiny holes.
‘Holy shit …’ It comes out more of a whisper the first time. The figure taps the logo one more time. ‘Holy shit!’ Halfway to a shout now. He has walked the full building twice, plotting out escape routes in case the guard came early. For the man to reach him, he will have to smash the barriers, or run back out and around. Either way, time enough to grab his phone and make a hasty exit the way he came. 11
‘We’d best finish this up later, folks,’ he says, faking a smile to the camera, darting forwards to retrieve it. As he does, the angle of glare against the glass changes, and he sees the logo. The effect is instant. His eyes widen like saucers in recognition, any hint of the smile giving way to abject terror. Not one of Winter’s men. He’d happily take a kicking from half a dozen of Winter’s men than be here, now, with him.
‘Hate to cut and run like this, but something tells me he’s not just here for a cuppa.’ He’s an octave higher now, giving lie to his bluff of confidence. A quick glance over his shoulder as he heads for the door, waiting for the man to make a move that never comes. That’s what seals his fate, attention fixed on the immediate threat, his own voice masking the slightest of creaks from the other side of the open doorway that he should have heard.
He sees a hand jabbing towards him, holding some kind of device, but it’s too late. Staccato clicks like ball bearings raining on a tabletop. The pain is a thousand lances of shrapnel as the lights go out. He knows he’s falling, but any sense of where to winks out before he gets there.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Inspector Jake Porter had forgotten to breathe for a full five seconds.
They matched the prints we found. Whoever he is, he was also in the car that killed Holly.
Superintendent Roger Milburn’s words echoed in his mind on repeat. The worst kind of earworm. A double tap on the window snapped his head back around. Nick Styles looked out at him like a parent trying to figure out what their naughty kid was up to. He must have seen enough on Porter’s face though, hint of a smile giving way to concern. Porter looked past his DS, deeper into the house. Styles’s wife, Emma, cradling their newborn baby, as Porter’s girlfriend, Evie Simmons, pretended to try and extricate her finger from the little Hannah’s stubby fist, knuckles blanched white despite having just fallen asleep.
Holly Porter had been killed in a hit-and-run a few years back. They found the car a few miles from the scene. Nothing 13to indicate who drove, but a decent set of prints on the passenger dashboard. Trouble was, whoever owned them had never popped up for air. Until now.
He felt light on his feet, unsteady. He turned away towards the road, taking a deep breath. Tried to wrap his head round a moment he’d hungered for, but now it was here, it felt surreal. A glance back at the house. Evie’s face peered out from half-shadow, smiling but concerned. He flashed one of his own back that felt far from convincing and made his way back inside.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked, squeezing his arm as he came and stood beside her.
‘Yeah, uhm, I ah …’ Thoughts swirled around his mind, like Milburn’s words had pulled a plug and the life he’d rebuilt was circling the drain.
‘What did Milburn want? We got a new case?’ Styles asked.
‘Something like that, but he’s not going to let me anywhere near it.’
Three sets of eyes looked at him, waiting for an explanation.
‘The prints from Holly’s case,’ he said, hearing the strain in his own voice. ‘They’ve found him. The passenger from the car.’
The words settled heavy over the room, a wet blanket smothering the domestic bliss, snuffing out the sense of new beginnings. Nobody spoke for the longest of times as Porter looked at each of them. It wasn’t until he locked eyes with his partner that the silence was broken.
‘What we waiting for then, boss?’ Styles asked. ‘Let’s go and have a chat. Sergeant Rose on the custody desk owes me a favour. Milburn doesn’t need to know.’
‘If he was in any fit state to talk, I wouldn’t give a shit if Milburn knew or not,’ said Porter. ‘He’s in a coma. Burglary 14gone wrong. Guy whose flat he was trying to rob cracked him one with a baseball bat.’
‘Have they got an ID on him?’ Evie asked.
Porter nodded. ‘Young kid by the name of Henry Kamau. Runs with the Triple H gang apparently.’
‘I know them,’ Evie said. ‘Run by a guy called Jackson Tyler. Nasty piece of work.’
‘Well, they don’t tend to recruit for their people skills,’ said Porter, a little too harshly. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to snap like that. It’s just …’
She stood up, hand resting on the back of his neck, fingers rubbing a gentle circle. ‘It’s OK, Jake.’
‘We should go,’ he said abruptly.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Emma said. ‘That’s some fairly big news you’ve just had there. Let me top up everyone’s cuppas, and you just sit yourself down.’
Porter wasn’t great at sitting still at the best of times, least of all now. He felt like he’d been sucker-punched and needed to walk it off.
‘Honestly, I’m all good, thanks, Em. We’ll leave you to it. You need to take your rest when she takes hers,’ he said, nodding at the sleeping Hannah. He started towards the door before she or Styles could reply. Evie followed, looking somewhat stunned, not sure what to do or say.
‘If you’re sure,’ Emma called after him, sounding as convinced as if he’d just told her he was off to play chicken with the traffic outside.
He waited while Evie and Emma gave each other a brief hug. Heard Emma half whispering something about keeping an eye on him. Styles and Emma stood back, framed in the doorway. Well on their way to the two point four children and 15white picket fence. Family life. The kind he could have had with Holly by now. Should have had. That one gave him a twinge of guilt, thinking what the parallel universe version of he and Holly would be like now, while climbing into a car with Evie.
The journey back to his was predictably quiet. Evie tried to tiptoe around it. Told him it was fine to feel whatever he felt. He wasn’t even sure how to describe it to himself, let alone open up to her. They had been an item for around nine months now. Evie had made the first move. She was a copper too, working on the Drugs Squad, but it had taken Porter a while to open up to the idea of being with anyone post-Holly. Even now, as happy as he was, there were moments, only occasional, where he felt like he was living someone else’s life.
That initial spike of adrenaline that had come with Milburn’s news had sparked off a heat inside his chest, one that prickled all the way up the back of his neck, like goosebumps. Hearing that the guy was in a coma, that he might not regain consciousness, scratched away at that veneer of hope. What if he never woke up? Porter needed to look him in the whites of his eyes. A name. That’s all he wanted. The kid could skate on the burglary charge for all he cared. Porter just wanted the name of the driver.
That first flush had faded now, simmering back to an impatience. One he was used to, never one to let a case stagnate. The only direction is forwards. A mantra to live your life by. Did Milburn honestly think he could just stand on the sidelines and watch, as somebody else got to arrest a man complicit in his wife’s death? To hell with that – his wife’s murder? The boss told him not to meddle. Such a subjective term.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked finally, as they pulled into a space outside his flat. 16
‘Do?’ he asked. ‘I’m going to go for a jog. Need some fresh air.’
‘Who’s got the case?’
‘Pittman.’
‘Could be worse.’
‘Could be better.’
‘And I suppose you’re the man to make it so, are you, Jake? Come on, you know Milburn will have you trussed up like a turkey if you so much as breathe on that case.’
‘Who says I’m going to do anything?’
Evie fixed him with a withering look, shaking her head as they went inside.
‘Your poker face needs work.’
‘I’m not stupid, Evie. I’m not going to do anything that would jeopardise the case.’
‘But you are going to do something?’ she pressed him.
‘What do you want me to say?’ he snapped, skidding his keys across a narrow wooden table in the hallway, striding through into the kitchen. ‘That I’ll stay at home like a good little soldier while someone else gets justice for Holly?’
‘I just meant—’
‘It’s Pittman’s case, but I can’t just do nothing,’ he said, reaching into the fridge, twisting the top off a bottle of Corona. ‘For nearly four years I’ve not been able to put any kind of face to what happened.’
‘He was the passenger, Jake, not the driver.’
‘You don’t know that for sure. And even if he was, he’ll know who was sat two feet to his right.’
Even without seeing Henry Kamau, without knowing what he looked like, anger towards the man coursed through Porter, heat spreading across his cheeks, jaw tightening. Two 17deep breaths punctuated by a long swig from the bottle.
‘Thought you were going for a run?’ she said, but her attempt to change the subject and talk him down had the opposite effect.
The confines of the kitchen felt stifling. The call from Milburn had popped the lid off a jar of dark memories he’d not long managed to contain. He gave his best shot at a reassuring smile, hoping it didn’t look as forced as it felt.
‘Maybe later. Could do with some fresh air though,’ he said, clinking the half-empty bottle on the counter.
‘Want some company?’
‘I do, and don’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind if I just had a little wander myself first though? My head’s just …’ He made a swirling gesture by his temple with a finger.
She nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, stepping back to let him past. Porter leant in, kissed her softly, felt her relax into him.
‘I know it’s all kinds of weird. That was then, me before you. This …’ he said, waving a finger between the two of them, ‘is where I am now, but I can’t ignore what’s happened today. Just bear with me. Can you do that?’
She looked up at him, smiling, nodding, any tension around the eyes gone now.
‘Go on, get yourself away. I’ll finish that off for you,’ she said, gesturing towards his beer, ‘and we can do something when you get back.’
He angled past her, pulling the kitchen door closed behind him as he headed out, taking care when scooping up his keys so as not to jangle. He hadn’t lied about wanting fresh air, just hadn’t shared where he planned to sample it.
CHAPTER THREE
Nick Styles lay back against his sofa, legs tucked up and pressed together, making the angled platform on which Hannah Styles currently lay. Already, only seven days into fatherhood, anything that predated her arrival had a hazy hue to it, a part of his life he could never revisit, nor would he want to.
He’d been smitten the moment he first held her and, barring a trip to the shops and picking up a takeaway, he’d been happily wrapped up in the bubble of his new family life. Emma sat at the other end of the sofa, head against the armrest at an angle that made him wince, mouth half open. The snore that came out alternated between hibernating hamster and wildebeest. Hannah didn’t so much as twitch, even when her mum hit base notes loud enough to measure on the Richter scale.
He split his time between watching a muted recording of Match of the Day and glancing at his two ladies. Life felt pretty good right now. Could do with a few more hours sleep, but with 19Emma wanting to breastfeed, up God knows how many times during the night while he slept, he could hardly complain.
He had just started to consider a stealthy retreat into the kitchen to snaffle a sly cheese toastie when his phone began to flash. Work. Not a name, just the main station number. Sod that for a game of soldiers. He was due back on duty the next day. Nothing that couldn’t wait until then. Styles started the painfully slow process of Operation Toastie. One hand slid behind Hannah’s head, the other reaching under, palm against her back, unfolding his legs at a glacial pace, careful movements that a bomb disposal technician would be proud of.
As he edged towards the Moses basket, one tiny fist jerked out like she wanted to bump knuckles, but the eyes remained firmly closed. Lowering her in, he felt like a backwards version of Indiana Jones, returning the treasure to its pedestal.
He made it two steps into the kitchen before his phone flashed again. Milburn this time. Styles toyed with ignoring it. Easy enough to say he’d been busy changing the baby and hadn’t seen it until later. On second thoughts, having seen Milburn dish out grief for far less, he tapped the screen to answer.
‘Is Porter still with you?’
So much for any preamble, enquiring after the mum and baby, or anything else that might suggest the super even vaguely took an interest in his people’s personal lives.
‘No, he left about an hour ago. Everything OK, boss? He told me the news about Holly’s case. Anything I can help with?’ Styles asked, reasoning that if he could get a foot in the door, Porter might trust him to see things were done properly, rather than getting any ideas about sniffing around the case himself, like Styles knew he would. It’s what he would do himself if roles were reversed. 20
‘No, thank you, Sergeant. DI Pittman has it covered. Porter’s not answering my calls though, and I’ve got something else I need you two to pick up for me.’ The super paused, making Styles wonder if it was something delicate, needing to fly low on the radar. ‘Have you seen what I sent you yet?’
Styles frowned. ‘No, what have you sent?’
‘Just check the email, find Porter, then call me back.’
‘Um, sure, boss,’ Styles said, more than a little confused, about to remind Milburn that he was on paternity leave until tomorrow, but his super had already ended the call.
He opened his email to see Milburn’s message was a link to a Facebook page. The page had a striking cover picture. A 3D perspective of the UK, huge bank of clouds about to roll in from the east, forked fingers of lightning reaching out, striking the south coast. The banner across the top proclaimed it as the home of someone by the name of Stormcloudz. Made Styles picture a moody teenager trying to add attitude by slinging in a consonant that didn’t belong.
What the hell was Milburn wanting him to do with this? He dragged a finger downwards, scrolling through the posts, but pressed back down, halting the slide of information as the very first entry made his eyes widen, mouthing a silent What the …? as he tapped to expand the video.
The small red box in the top corner told him what he was watching wasn’t just a recording. It was live. This was happening right now. The young man sat in the high-backed chair, biting down on a cloth gag held in place with black tape, eyes rattling back and forward in sockets like ping pong balls. Cable ties looped around his wrists, pinning arms to the chair. He was bookended either side by two men in matching outfits. Boiler 21suits the colour of rich red Merlot, some kind of yellow graphic on the breast. Their faces were obscured by black balaclavas.
Styles grabbed his iPad from the kitchen bench, opening up the same link, freeing his phone up to call Porter. Ten tinny speakerphone rings, then voicemail.
Their captive looked mid twenties at a push, sandy hair flopping around his eyeline as he twisted his head, looking to either side of shot like watching a game of tennis on fast forward. His captors stood stone-still, arms crossed, against a backdrop of wood panelling. Where the hell were they? A mix of sad and angry emoticons bubbled up, floating off over the screen. Comments popped and scrolled down below. Reams of text exploded beneath the images.
Enough’s enough
Not funny
You wanna stop, mate, I’ve called the coppers
Slight wobble to the picture as the camera was slid back, widening the shot, the wannabe cameraman entering stage left. He wore the same boiler suit, face hidden. Half a dozen strides and he was up by the young man, a gloved hand resting on his captive’s shoulder. The mouth slit was so small, Styles couldn’t even see lips moving behind the black wool when he spoke.
‘For too long, Britain has been a club, wielded by America, against our people and our God. Like any other weapon, Britain can be broken. That starts today.’
Styles pulled the kitchen door closed, not wanting to wake Emma or Hannah, turning up the volume a notch as he tried Porter again, but the result was the same. Milburn would do again for now. 22
‘Have you found him?’ Milburn questioned, curt as ever.
‘Not yet sir.’
‘Are you watching this?’ asked Milburn, a little more muted, as if not quite believing what they were seeing.
‘I am, sir. Do we know the who and where?’
‘No, we’re busy trying …’
Milburn tailed off, and Styles tuned back into the diatribe coming from his phone, wondering what had distracted his super.
The knife looked too big to be real. Not even a knife, more like a machete. The matt black blade blended against the dark wool of the balaclava as the man held it up, middle section of what must border on two feet of steel seeming to disappear like a magic trick.
‘This is the first, but not the last.’
Styles saw the slight rise in the man’s shoulders, a deep breath, precursor to action. Jesus, was this really happening? The bookends each reached over, clamping the young man’s hands to the armrests. A half-step to his right, and he was behind the chair, one hand grabbing underneath the young man’s chin, the other bringing the blade around on the horizontal.
The petrified captive strained against his bonds, eyes bulging, rolling, reminding Styles of a spooked horse. Styles watched as the blade neared his throat. Watched as his head was pulled back. Watched as the masked man started to saw. Couldn’t watch past that.
CHAPTER FOUR
If you looked up anticlimax in the dictionary, this is what Porter fancied it would look like. Almost four years since Holly had been taken from him. How many times had he imagined what he would say to anyone responsible? What he would do to them? Yet here he stood, looking at the face of a man who at very least knew who killed his wife, but could even be that man himself.
Man? More like boy. Henry Kamau looked like he should still be at school. Actual age nineteen by all accounts. His head and most of the left side of his face were obscured by a surgical dressing. Foothills of dark swelling traced the edge of the gauze. The last time Porter had stood in a hospital ward, watching over someone like this, it had been Evie in the bed, more wires and cables bunched around her than an IED. He’d prayed for her recovery back then but couldn’t bring himself to utter the same words for the man before him now. The 24need to speak to Kamau, to ask him about that night, was a thing of substance, like jaws of a vice squeezing either side of his chest. Why had he run her down? Why had he not stopped? An educated guess at that last one was that his gang affiliation played a part. They recruited them young in Triple H. Chances are he had already been sucked into that life by the time it happened.
Shuffling of feet from behind told him DI Isaiah Pittman had dragged his size tens back from the canteen. Porter had watched him leave earlier before approaching.
‘Figured I had at least five minutes to get in and out before you came back,’ Porter said.
‘They’ve got no bloody sandwiches. Can you believe it?’ he said, in a voice that reminded Porter of Frank Bruno, every word rumbling with bass. ‘Otherwise you’d have had your five.’ He paused a beat. ‘You don’t need me to tell you, but you shouldn’t be here, mate. If Milburn finds out …’
‘We’d best make sure he doesn’t, then, hadn’t we?’ Porter replied.
‘I didn’t mean … He ain’t gonna hear it from me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way. Just needed to see him for myself. What do we know about him so far?’ Porter nodded his head towards the unconscious Kamau.
‘Spoke with Kelso in Organised Crime. They think he’s been in tight with the Triple H gang since he was fifteen. No arrests until now though, so this was the first time he’s had prints taken.’
‘What did the doc say? How bad is he hurt?’
‘Hairline fracture to the skull. Had a bleed in the brain that they rushed him into theatre for soon as he got here.’ 25
‘Take it he was unconscious when they found him?’
‘This is as talkative as he’s been,’ said Pittman, slurping a mouthful of coffee.
‘Anyone been in to see him? Family? Friends?’
‘Nope. Not sure what family he has, and can’t see any of his Triple H buddies popping by with flowers, can you?’
‘Who else is on it with you?’
‘I’ve got O’Connor, Ayla and Manfredo on door-to-door and taking statements. Guy who clocked him says there were at least two more, but they scarpered after this one hit the deck.’
‘What about Jackson Tyler? Who’s talking to him?’
Pittman narrowed his eyes. ‘For a man who’s staying out of my way, you seem to know entirely too much about my case.’
‘I know Milburn doesn’t want me anywhere near it—’ Porter began.
‘I don’t want you anywhere near it,’ Pittman said, prodding a finger at his own chest for emphasis. ‘I know that’s gonna be hard, because of your wife and all, but that’s the way it has to be.’
‘All I’m asking is that you let me know as things develop. Don’t make me have to wait to see it on one of the super’s press conferences,’ said Porter.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Pittman said, almost reluctantly. ‘No promises mind. Milburn’s already said he wants this done right, and not just cos of the connection to you. Triple H boys have been on his shitlist for a good while now. When this one wakes up, if he wakes up, Milburn’s already given the thumbs up to offer him a deal to talk.’
‘He’s done what?’ Porter asked, unable and unwilling to keep a rasp of anger from his voice. 26
‘We let him walk on the burglary if he gives us the driver of your hit-and-run, plus dirt on Jackson Tyler. Enough to haul him in.’
‘Walk on the breaking and entering, but not on Holly?’ Porter asked, not liking what he saw on Pittman’s face.
‘Depends what we get. If he gives us the driver plus Tyler, he walks on the rest. If we don’t get Tyler, the rest sticks.’
‘I don’t fucking believe it.’ Porter felt anger fizz in his cheeks, heat on the back of his neck. ‘He either drove or helped cover it up. Either way, he does time with his prints in the car.’
‘Chances are he wasn’t the one who did it,’ Pittman said, softening his words. ‘His brief will argue his prints were from a previous trip. Walking on the B&E is our leverage.’
‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Porter shot back. ‘There’s just as much chance he was the driver, panicked, wiped down the wheel but forgot about the bits he’d touched on the other side earlier and just ran off.’
‘Look, mate, get yourself away. He’s going nowhere for a good while yet,’ Pittman said, nodding at Kamau. ‘I’ll give you a shout after tomorrow morning’s briefing, let you know what the door-to-door turns up. How about that?’
Porter knew Pittman by reputation more than from experience. There just wasn’t much of a rep either way, that was the problem. Pittman was just a plodder, and if even half of what he’d heard about Jackson Tyler was true, it would take more than the threat of a short stint inside for B&E to get someone to turn on him. That called for some lateral thinking. There had to be a pressure point somewhere, but he wasn’t convinced that Pittman was the man to find it and apply any. Still, Pittman was right. Nothing more to be gained from 27hanging around here. Not until Kamau woke up anyway.
‘You’re right. I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Pittman’s half-smile suggested he was far from convinced of Porter’s ability to keep out of his way. He’d be right to be suspicious. Porter had no intention of being a spectator. He had to do something, just hadn’t decided exactly what that something was yet. He’d sleep on it, metaphorically anyway. He wasn’t a great sleeper at the best of times, but his head felt like today’s news had gone into a blender with the switch jammed on. Evie would have questions. Milburn and Styles too. How was he feeling? What was he thinking? Wasn’t sure he had answers for himself, let alone others. Why couldn’t this have happened earlier? Why now, when he’d not long reached a place where the past felt like it was in its rightful place?
He checked his watch as he came past reception. Head back home, take a walk somewhere with Evie, then work out his next steps. A figure unfolded itself from a slouch against the wall by the car park pay station, and he glanced over to see Nick Styles saunter over, hands in pockets.
‘Everything all right, boss?’ he said, looking borderline embarrassed to use such a cliché, knowing things were pretty bloody far from it.
‘All good. Just broke a nail but the doc fixed me up fine.’
Styles grinned. Porter narrowed his eyes. How had Styles known where to find him? Surely Pittman hadn’t sold him out already?
‘Evie said you’d gone out to clear your head. Didn’t take a detective to figure out where you might be. It’s where I would have come.’ 28
Porter nodded, sliding his ticket into the parking machine and popping a few coins to cover it.
‘Just had to see him for myself, you know. He’s just a kid, looks like he should still be in school for Chrissake.’
‘He talking?’
Porter shook his head. ‘There’s a chance he never will again. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m off home now. Get yourself away back to your ladies, and I’ll catch you tomorrow.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t just get dropped off here out of brotherly love,’ said Styles.
‘Milburn send you?’
‘Yeah, not because of who’s in there,’ he said, gesturing back at the hospital. ‘There’s a new case he needs us on.’
‘Tell him it can bloody well wait,’ Porter snorted. ‘You’re still on paternity, and I’m … well, let’s just say I’ve got a few things on my mind. There’s plenty of others on duty who can pick it up.’
‘We’re not exactly talking a missing cat here, boss. Here’ – he tapped his phone screen, reversing it, a video playing – ‘you’re gonna want to see this, and then you’ll probably wish that you hadn’t.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Porter watched for the second time as Styles drove. The footage was simultaneously sickening and oddly unreal. The first run-through had left him with a dry mouth and a feeling like he’d swallowed a cricket ball. His mind told him this couldn’t be real. Just a clever camera trick to shock. Get people talking and make it go viral. Styles wouldn’t have come out for that though. They had tasered the victim as he tried to escape. He’d been out cold as they strapped him to the chair, but he was painfully conscious now.
It took the hooded figure a good sixty seconds of sawing. Porter tried not to fixate on that part of the screen, instead seeing the smaller details. The way the victim’s hands scrabbled and scratched at the armrest. Fingers jerked in an irregular dance, playing air-piano. His eyes pinballed in every direction, looking for an escape. The gag in his mouth soaked up most of the sound, but Porter could still hear something between a 30gargle and a choking noise seeping out. That, and an occasional grunt from his killer were all he could make out, surprisingly loud in the otherwise quiet car.
Porter had never seen so much blood. The victim’s T-shirt, once white, had a red carpet running down the centre, spatter speckling either side. His attackers’ overalls by contrast, just looked damp in places, the already dark burgundy fabric stained darker by the spurts of blood. The killer centre stage looked to be largely shielded from any spray by the high-backed chair.
By the time the killer had finished, his victim had long since stopped twitching. The men either side moved away as the killer made his final stroke, head parting from body with a slight jerk, like snapping the top off a flower.
‘This is the beginning,’ said the killer, breathing heavier than before, holding the severed head out to the side by the hair like a trophy, before letting it fall to the ground, out of shot. ‘This is the beginning. There will be no end. Allahu Akbar.’
‘Jesus,’ Porter muttered under his breath as he paused it. ‘Where are we then? Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Styles said. ‘And not much in the way of information. I only found out the location on the way to pick you up. It’s the old Greenwich Magistrates’ Court on Blackheath Road.’
‘Didn’t they close that down?’
‘Yep, couple of years back. They still have a security guard who does the rounds there to keep the urbexers out.’
‘What the hell is an urbexer?’
‘Urban explorer,’ said Styles. ‘Quite popular apparently. People seek out old buildings, hospitals, prisons, factories. Sometimes to take pictures, sometimes just for the hell of it.’ 31
Porter wrinkled his nose, not exactly his idea of fun. ‘And what, we think the poor bugger getting his head hacked off was one of these Urbexers?’
‘No, we know who he is.’
‘Bloody hell, that was quick.’
‘That was the easy part. The live link Milburn sent me to watch was streaming from the guy’s Facebook page. Name’s Ross Henderson, but he goes by the name of Stormcloudz,’ said Styles, whacking plenty of emphasis on the final consonant. ‘He’s a gamer and political activist, and a popular one at that. More than ten million followers on YouTube.’
‘You mean to say ten million people watched that?’ said Porter in disbelief.
‘Not the full whack, but the viewing numbers were into the low seven figures when I was watching.’
‘Oh my God,’ Porter muttered. Strangers watching were one thing, but what if the audience had included any of the guy’s friends or family? The very thought made him shudder.
‘What’s Milburn had to say?’
‘Other than to find you and get our arses over there, not much so far. You’ll have the pleasure of his company soon enough though. He’s meeting us at the scene.’
That’d be right. Come out centre stage for the meaty ones. Milburn to a tee. Porter knew exactly why the super would want him on this. Distraction tactics 101. Throw him something big and keep him away from Holly’s case.
The sun had just dipped below the skyline as they pulled up on Blackheath Road. The old courthouse was a faded, dirtied version of its early twentieth century classical glory. Flanked on either side by what looked like townhouses, the entrance a slate 32grey dome that resembled a squashed down copper’s helmet. Up on the roof, front and centre, a now bare flagpole, candle on top of an out-of-date cake.
A cordon had been set up across the front of the entire building. Twin double doors either side of the main entrance, and walkways up to them, taped off like mini boxing rings. One lane of the road outside it was closed off too, one officer allowing traffic from either direction to alternate. A gallery of frustrated faces peered out as Porter walked past. All oblivious to the carnage carried out a stone’s throw from where their engines idled.
Across the road, a growing gaggle of press shuffled restlessly in the Kwik Fit car park. Never ceased to amaze Porter how quickly they sniffed out a story. One familiar face amongst them already. Amy Fitzwilliam from Sky News. A hungry up-and-comer who he hadn’t had the best of experiences with so far. She was good at her job. Too good. She’d buzzed around the edges of his last big case, a missing seven-year-old and a trove of bodies dug up in a London park. Caused him no end of bother, breaking stories live at the scene, using information that the police hadn’t released. He saw her clock him and looked away as he and Styles approached the edge of the cordon.
‘Detective Porter!’
He recognised her voice, glancing over even as he told himself not to react.
‘Detective Porter, is it true that this is the location Stormcloudz was broadcasting from? Are the men who attacked him still inside? Are they in custody?’
He gave her a half-smile, nothing more, and turned his attention to the officer controlling access to the scene. Pointless 33exercise, hurling questions like that, spitting them out like an involuntary tic. Did any of them honestly expect him to just stroll over and spill his guts, sharing everything they had? Not that they had much at the minute.
He and Styles signed in, walked into the lobby and suited up in disposable Tyvek all-in-one coveralls. The lobby floor was a work of art. Thousands of tiny mosaic tiles, enough to make his head hurt with the thought of how long it would have taken to lay. The wood panelling on the walls was identical to that he’d seen in the courtroom broadcast.
They made their way through a series of short corridors, entering the courtroom from the side. Porter recognised the public gallery that the first masked man had stood in, off to his left. That meant the magistrate’s chair the poor bugger had been tied in was behind the door to the right. Even before he stepped through, the smell was unmistakable. A coppery taint in the air, thick, soupy, like an invisible smog.
He followed Styles through the door, his view of the chair blocked by a pair of similarly suited figures with their backs to them. Porter took a moment to survey the rest of the room. A bizarre sense of déjà-vu washed over him. To have never set foot in here until now, but to have watched such a horrific sequence unfold in this room, gave it a surreal familiar quality. The phone that must have filmed every gory moment of it still sat clamped in a tripod on a table bang in the centre of the room.
‘Ah, I see you two finally decided to show up.’
Porter looked over at the voice, recognising his superintendent, Roger Milburn, and his holier-than-thou tone that always sounded like he was speaking to an audience. Probably used it even when he was alone at home with his 34wife. Porter opened his mouth to make up an excuse as to where he’d been, but Milburn just waved him over.
‘Come on, come on. Clock’s ticking,’ he said, making no effort to hide his impatience.
Porter worked his way around to the left, moving across a series of transparent raised anti-contamination stepping plates, so as not to smudge the blood spatter that decorated the floor. Didn’t need a scene of crime officer to work out who most or all of it came from, thanks to the live broadcast. Always a chance that one of the offenders had nicked themselves though. Paid to be thorough.
The sight when he got past Milburn’s shoulder was every bit as bad as he’d feared. The headless body, still tethered at the wrists to the chair by cable ties, was slumped forward ten degrees or so at the waist. Stains of all shapes and sizes blotted jeans and T-shirt like one big Rorschach test, darker now, drying from red to a rusty brown. Porter made a conscious effort not to stare at the neck, stomach on spin cycle. Behind him, he heard Styles breathing loudly through his mouth.
‘Nice to see you again, Jake,’ the figure next to Milburn spoke, and Porter smiled as he recognised the voice. Kam Qureshi was one of the best they had when it came to forensics. He’d made a career plucking needles from haystacks. If there was anything to find in all this mess, he was the man Porter would want searching for it.
‘Hey, Kam. How you doing?’
‘Better than our friend here,’ Kam said, cocking a thumb towards the body. ‘I was just telling the super that solving a murder is going to be the least of our worries.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Porter asked, puzzled. 35
‘What he means, Porter, is that our victim here was more popular than Ed bloody Sheeran.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir, Sheeran’s got thirty million—’
‘Never mind that, Qureshi. This chap has – had – millions of followers online. Seems he spent most of his time whipping them up against people like the EWP.’
Porter wasn’t massively political but had picked up enough about the English Welfare Party in the news to know they were the Marmite of English politics. They’d snatched the right-wing baton from UKIP, and from what Porter could see, took every opportunity to bellow out the rallying cry of Britain for the British, or a variation on a theme.
‘Bad enough that the EWP are gaining traction by hitching their wagon to the Brexit train,’ Milburn continued, ‘but that video is a right-winger’s wet dream. They’ll stuff that down the throat of anyone they can in the hope of dragging a few more into their camp.’
‘Nick said we’re still waiting for someone to stick their hand up and claim it?’
‘Strictly speaking yes, but Kam here thinks he’s got us a step ahead.’
‘How so?’ Porter asked, looking back at Kam.
‘If you watch the footage back, you can see they’ve all got some kind of badge on their suits.’
‘Take your word for it, Kam,’ said Porter, no desire to watch that back any more than was absolutely necessary.
‘I watched the footage a few times and took a screenshot. Bit blurry, but enough to get an idea. I’ll show you the picture when we get out of our posh frocks,’ he said, patting his paper-thin suit. ‘But for now, we’re looking at a 36crescent moon with a single star off to one side.’
‘Why do I get the feeling that should mean something to me?’ Styles asked.
‘Because it should,’ Porter said. ‘Couldn’t tell you if it has a particular name, but those symbols are linked to Islam. That, plus the main fella shouting Allahu Akabar was a bit of a clue.’
‘Gold star for Porter.’ Kam nodded his approval to the first point.
‘Jesus, the EWP will lap that up,’ Styles said, eyes flitting between the body and the blood on the floor.
‘Indeed they will, Sergeant, which is exactly why we need to make sure we’re on point when it comes to managing the information flow on this one. Speaking of which, I need to head back and prep a statement. Don’t leave until you’ve spoken with the chap from the Counter Terrorism Unit, Porter, then call me right after that. The guy they’re sending is called Taylor.’
True to form, Milburn turned on his heel and left them to it. Never one to stand on ceremony or worry about social niceties like hello or goodbye.
‘Well, what a little ray of sunshine our illustrious leader manages to bring to proceedings,’ Porter muttered once Milburn was out of earshot. ‘What else have you got for us then, Kam?’
Kam didn’t miss a beat. ‘I can give you an educated guess as to the cause of death.’
CHAPTER SIX
Porter left Kam to it, and with Styles in tow, took the chance while still suited up to walk where the masked men had. The public gallery. The corridor behind the raised dais that the magistrates had sat at, leading to a cluster of holding cells. Tiny, spartan spaces that could make a man claustrophobic even with the door open. Pillar-box panes set into doors several inches thick. If only Ross Henderson could have made it back here. Maybe he could have shielded behind one of these.
‘Did we get eyes on our three masked marauders leaving the building?’ he asked Styles.
‘Not that we’ve found so far, boss. No eyewitnesses.’
‘For a crime witnessed by over a million people. That’s almost ironic enough for Alanis Morissette to write a song about.’
‘I spoke to the security company who look after this place though. The guard wasn’t due on site for another hour, so looks like it was all well timed.’ 38
‘By Henderson, or the three blokes?’
‘I’m thinking both,’ Styles said. ‘Urbexing is basically trespass in a lot of cases, so Henderson needed to make sure he wasn’t spotted.’
‘Got to assume those three followed him here, then?’
‘You’d tell me off for using the A-word.’
‘Privileges of rank,’ Porter shot back.
‘Right, we need to get the rest of the team up to speed. See who you can get hold of.’
‘Just had a text off Sucheka when you were speaking to Milburn,’ Styles said. ‘She’s waiting outside with Williams and Tessier. Waters is on his way.’
Porter grunted an approval. Styles came across as laidback at times. Any more he’d practically be as horizontal as a limbo dancer, but he had a knack of shuffling pieces into place without being asked.
‘Let’s get out there and crack on then. We can nab a few of the uniforms to knock on doors. Think it’s mainly residential east along Blackheath Road, but I spotted a couple of takeaways, a barber shop, that type of thing. Three masked men in bloody overalls can’t have exactly blended in.’
‘You’d think, but this is London. There’s just as much chance the three of them barged past people who had their heads buried in a smartphone.’
‘Wish everyone was as optimistic as you,’ Porter said. ‘Come on, let’s head out and nab the others.’
They made their way back to the tiled lobby, shedding their suits like snakeskin, signing out of the crime scene. Porter exited through the wooden double doors back out to the street. He turned to Styles as he neared the line of police tape, colliding 39with whoever had just ducked past it. It would have been chest to chest, if they weren’t at least half a foot shorter than him. He looked down to see a smartly dressed redhead, hair shaped into a tight bob. She’d practically headbutted his chest. Couldn’t be more than five-two at a push. She wore a navy blue suit, shirt so white it could be from a Persil advert, with a join-the-dots cluster of freckles across her nose.
She slapped one hand against his chest for balance, eyes batting out Morse code as surprise turned into what looked like recognition.
‘Detective Porter,’ she said, and he couldn’t work out if it was a question or a statement. Had he seen her out front with the rest of the press, waiting for the feeding frenzy when the body bag came out?
‘Yes, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait over the road with the others if you’re press.’
She looked up at him with a half-smile, nose wrinkling in amusement. ‘I thought you’d be taller from watching your press conferences. Must have just been a high podium.’
‘Do we know each other?’ he asked, looking over to Styles, seeing no recognition in his face either.
‘We do now,’ she said, thrusting a hand up and out. ‘Detective Inspector Bell, Counter Terrorism.’
‘Oh,’ Porter said as he shook it. ‘Sorry, I was expecting Taylor.’
‘Doesn’t everyone,’ she said, with a roll of the eyes. ‘That’s still me.’
‘Now you’ve really lost me.’
‘DI Taylor Bell,’ she said, pumping his hand up and down a second time. ‘If I had a quid for every time someone assumed I was a bloke—’ 40
‘You’d have about three quid,’ Styles chipped in.
‘Oh, he’s funny,’ she said, flashing a full-beam smile his way, still addressing Porter. ‘He’s a keeper. So, if you’re Porter, that would make you DS Styles?’ She nodded at them in turn.
‘At your service,’ Styles said, with a tilt of his head.
‘Can I assume your super told you why he’s brought CTU in?’
Porter nodded. ‘The symbols on their overalls, plus what they shouted, linking it to an Islamic group. Nobody’s taken credit for it yet though.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she said, very matter-of-fact.
‘The super only left a few minutes ago,’ Styles said. ‘Where’s your intel coming from?’
‘I know exactly who did this,’ said Bell. ‘You would too if you knew what to look for. And it’s worse than you think.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘You’re right in that the crescent moon and star combo is linked to the Islamic faith,’ Bell said, ‘except this one is a little different. There’s a crack running through the moon, puts it a little off-centre. That version isn’t so much Islam in general. There’s a particular radical offshoot. Call themselves the Brotherhood of the Prophet. They use it as their badge—’
Styles cut in. ‘I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones behind the bombing in Istanbul last year. That and they beheaded that journalist chap last year in Syria, so they’ve got form. This is going to have the EWP marching the streets, demanding deportations and God knows what else.’
From what he’d seen of the EWP on the news, Porter fancied their propaganda machine would already be whirring away.
‘What else can you tell us about them?’ Porter asked.
Bell gave him a serious look. ‘As far as UK-based operations go, not a great deal. All their high-profile activity has been 42overseas so far. We’ve picked up a few bits and pieces these last twelve months, tracked some chatter suggesting they had plans to recruit over here, but nothing concrete. No actual activity that we’ve been aware of.’
‘Where the hell do we start, then?’ Porter snapped frustration creeping into his tone.
‘This is still your case, Porter, for now,’ said Bell, palms held out in a cool-your-jets manner. ‘I’m just here to assist, but I can start by getting word to some of our undercover officers in a few other organisations, see if tongues are wagging in the dingy flats they seem to spend most of their time cooped up in.’
Porter started to nod, opened his mouth to reply, then stopped for a second. ‘Wait a minute, what do you mean it’s my case for now?’
‘Exactly that,’ said Bell with a shrug. ‘Look, this isn’t some kind of pissing contest. My height means I haven’t got the angle for any kind of distance anyway. But all joking aside, you’re good at what you do, and so am I. I know how these people think, how they set up cells, how they communicate, who they like to target. It’s a murder, and a horrible one at that, but let’s be honest, we’re only hours in. The top brass will drop trousers and size up to decide who runs with this, but the smart money’s on me.’
‘Detective Porter!’ A voice came floating from over the road. All three of them turned, seeing the petite figure of Amy Fitzwilliam. ‘Are you ready to make a statement yet?’
‘Friend of yours?’ Bell said, a smirk curling the corners of her mouth.
‘Oh, we’re BFFs,’ Porter said, trying to decide whether Bell’s mix of banter and bluntness grated on him or made him gravitate towards her. 43
‘I’ll leave you all to it if you don’t mind. I want to take a look inside for myself.’
‘It’s not a nice one,’ Porter said. ‘Hope you haven’t eaten recently.’
‘Oh, I’m tougher than I look,’ she said as she trotted up the half a dozen steps and disappeared inside. He had no doubt that she was, and that she’d probably had to prove it more than most.
Off to the left-hand side, he saw the rest of his team where they’d been waiting patiently for him to finish the conversation. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of Holly, or Henry Kamau, since he got here. Maybe Milburn was right about him needing to be on this one. Keep his mind off things. To an extent anyway.
He still needed to work out how far he could stick his neck out to keep close to Holly’s case, without falling afoul of Milburn. If anyone had asked a few hours ago, he’d have gladly told them where to shove this one. Now though, it had already sunk its hooks in. The violence, up close and personal. The sheer audacity to do that to another human in front of that many people, albeit virtually. Porter didn’t care who the three men were, or why they’d done what they did. Just that they had to be stopped.
‘What now then, boss?’ Styles asked.
‘Now?’ repeated Porter. ‘Now, we brief those three.’ He nodded to the rest of his team. ‘Then we crack on before Bell comes back out.’
‘She rubbed you up the wrong way?’
‘Like sandpaper on sunburn.’
Porter felt his phone buzz. He glanced and saw Evie’s name flash up. As guilty as it made him feel, he rejected 44
