Chapters (41)
- Cover
- WHAT FALLSBETWEEN THE CRACKS
- DEDICATION
- CONTENTS
- PROLOGUE
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- NATASHA – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- NATHAN – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- NATASHA – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- GEORGE – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- GEORGE – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- MARY – APRIL 1983
- GEORGE – APRIL 1983
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- GEORGE – APRIL 1983
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- BY ROBERT SCRAGG
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It was a fucked-up finale, that much was for sure. The fact that politics and perception were going to trump holding people to account for Natasha, and everything that had happened since, left him feeling hollow, like he’d been sucker-punched. If this was how policing worked now, he didn’t know if he wanted any part of it, but that was a decision for another day.
Porter headed out into the car park. He needed to get away from here, just for an hour or two. He’d be back in time for his session. His mind wandered to Mary Locke. How could she have lived with that secret for over thirty years? Granted, she’d been working on the basis of a few assumptions: that it was definitely Natasha; that Locke and/or Bolton would have done something to her or Gavin if she’d spoken up. Porter shook his head at the thought. It spoke volumes as to just how complete Locke’s influence over her was that she’d kept her mouth shut all these years.
There had been a moment last week, back at Locke’s house. Only a fleeting one, but he couldn’t get it out of his head. What if Styles hadn’t doubled back around? What if Campbell had pulled the trigger? Would he have seen Holly again? He hadn’t wanted to die, that wasn’t it. He doubted he could explain it if anyone asked. Wasn’t even sure he understood it himself, but there had been something so alluring about the possibility.
Should he mention it this afternoon to the counsellor? Probably not the kind of thing to bring up there. There was one place he could talk about that. One person he could tell. He checked his watch. He could make it to the cemetery and back in plenty of time. He couldn’t hear Holly, or touch her, but just being close to her, talking to her, always levelled him out in a way nothing else could.
GEORGE – APRIL 1983
It’s been three weeks since they ruled Nathan Barclay’s death a suicide. Twenty-one days, and no knock on George’s door to haul him into one of the boxy rooms for questioning. It’s as if it all happened to someone else, like an out of body experience, or like he watched it on TV.