Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Could just as easily have been me.

  He was going to piss someone off either way. His wife, or his partner.

  Eenie, meenie, minie, mo.

  Walking into the room reminded Porter of trudging into the headmaster’s office. Not so much the decor, but the feeling of being forced into a room by the threat of what might happen if you didn’t. Sameera Misra stepped back from the doorway as he passed. She had one of those faces that dared you to guess her age, a contradiction of features. Laughter lines rippling out from her eyes, but barely a wrinkle on her forehead. Grey streaks in her hair that made the neighbouring darker patches look inked in by comparison. She couldn’t be more than a few inches over five feet and flashed him a dazzling smile as she introduced herself, holding out a hand that he shook briefly as he moved past her.

  The room was like a staged setting in a showroom, generic art print on the wall, chairs that looked basic, but probably took two hours to assemble. Porter walked over to the window and looked out over Edgware Road, people scurrying past like ants. The door clicked shut behind him, but he waited a beat before turning back to face her.

  ‘Please, Detective, have a seat.’ She gestured towards the seat closest to the window.

  He sat down, started to fold his arms but thought better of it, and rested his hands on his knees instead. Best not to appear too defensive, even though that’s exactly how he felt. She took her seat opposite him, still with a hint of a smile, hands clasped together on her lap.

  ‘So, Detective Porter, thanks for coming on such short notice. Am I OK to call you Jake?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yep, that’s fine.’

  ‘Great, thanks. So, Jake, I don’t know if you’re familiar with what we do here, but everything we talk about is confidential. This might sound like a cliché, but what you get out of these sessions is entirely up to you.’

  That’s exactly what it sounded like, but Porter swallowed a half-dozen comebacks, choosing instead to nod and tilt his head as if he was listening, hanging on her every word.

  ‘Why don’t we start by telling me a bit about yourself?’

  Porter shrugged again. ‘I joined up after I left the army. Been on the job eight years now, DI for the last three of them.’

  Her smile was the kind teachers give a child: patient, encouraging. ‘I know that part already. I mean about you personally, away from work. What about family, friends, hobbies, that type of thing?’

  Porter paused a beat, saw no danger in giving a quick This Is Your Life style bio. ‘Both parents still around. One sister. Two nephews. Been married once, no kids of my own.’

  ‘And your wife, she passed away a few years ago?’

  Porter nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I understand nobody was arrested in connection with her death?’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘Superintendent Milburn is concerned that you didn’t speak to anyone at the time. That what happened recently with Andrew Patchett, it’s somehow linked to your wife, to what happened to Eve Simmons. That maybe you’re not coping with things as well as you think you are.’

  ‘I’m coping just fine, thanks.’ He heard the edge in his own voice, abrasive like sandpaper, but didn’t try and disguise it.

  ‘Sorry, maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. Could it be that you lost control with a suspect, because you’ve been more affected by your loss than you’re aware of?’

  ‘You’re the expert, Doc, you tell me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not a doctor, Jake. And I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable. Your job, what you do, every day, it’s one pressurised situation after another. It’s OK to feel that pressure. My role is to help people make sense of it, to not be defined by it.’

  Porter’s left knee started an impatient bounce. ‘What do you want me to say? That I miss my wife? Of course I do. That someone should pay for what happened to her? Of course they should, but things don’t always work out like that, do they.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, they don’t, but sometimes, not getting the outcome we think is right affects us in ways we’re not aware of, or in control of.’

  Porter sat forwards. ‘I grabbed hold of Patchett’s face because he was being disrespectful to a fellow officer. One who was almost killed by someone just like Patchett. He walked away without a mark on him. More than can be said for her. Should I have done it? Probably not, but it doesn’t make me a bad copper. We have each other’s backs out there,’ he said, pointing at the window. ‘She wasn’t there to stick up for herself because of the likes of him, and that’s all I was doing, sticking up for her.’

  ‘No one’s saying you’re not a good policeman, Jake. Far from it. These sessions are more about you as a person, how the job you do affects you and those around you. How we can help make sure the job doesn’t chew you up and spit you out.’

  Porter opened his mouth to reply, when his phone went off. Max. Perfect timing. At this stage, he would have answered the call even if it was someone trying to help him claim his PPI back. He remembered with a flash of guilt that he hadn’t asked anyone to look out for Jen’s car yet. That could be his first job when he got back downstairs.

  ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ He stood up before she could say anything. ‘I’ll call you to finish up another time.’ He went out into the corridor. She’d probably be straight on the phone to Milburn.

  ‘Hey, sorry I missed your last call. Got your message though. How was Beacon?’

  Max sounded out of breath when he spoke. Porter’s eyes widened as he listened.

  ‘Shit. Don’t move, Max, I’m on my way.’

  Max had made good time, parking up opposite the Beacon Estates office a full fifteen minutes before his dad was due to arrive. He toyed with waiting in the car, but for all he knew, his dad could already be inside. The signage was the same green and gold as the logo, splashed above the entrance. An array of properties for sale, like rows of tiles, covered most of the front window. Bold red ‘Sold!’ stamps made for an almost perfect diagonal line across the grid, like a giant game of noughts and crosses.

  Inside, the plain white walls were peppered with enough identical-looking ads to double as wallpaper. Clearly they’d never heard the saying ‘less is more’. The lone member of staff sat behind a desk that looked fresh from an IKEA catalogue, phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder as she pecked away at a keyboard with long nails. She held up a finger, mouthing that she’d only be a minute. Max recognised her from her voice as Amy, the girl who’d called him earlier, and nodded an acknowledgement. After some more furious tapping of nails on keys, she said goodbye to whoever was on the other end and turned her attention to Max.

  ‘Hi there, how can I help?’

  ‘Hi, my name’s Max Brennan. We spoke on the phone earlier.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. Your dad isn’t here yet,’ she said, stating the glaringly obvious. ‘Feel free to have a seat. Can I get you a drink while you wait? Tea? Coffee? Water?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Max, making himself comfortable on one of the tan fabric chairs either side of the water cooler, and settled in to wait. People ghosted past the window, mostly hidden by the sales display, and he tensed every time one went from right to left, towards the door. The irony that the first meeting with his dad would now be here wasn’t lost on him. Here, in a place where people bought and sold pieces of their lives. Where they came to sever ties with their home, a fundamental piece of their life, and move on to greener pastures.

  He wondered, for the thousandth time since he’d found out about Gordon Jackson, what his dad had thought and felt as he’d left town back then. Had it at least been a painful decision, or was it more like shrugging off a dirty shirt after work for something clean from your wardrobe? No matter what he’d said to Jen about no more second chances, dozens of questions crawled around his mind, nipping like ants at a picnic. What kind of man was he?

  The sum total of his knowledge so far was limited to t
he handful of letters they’d exchanged over the last three weeks. Max couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a handwritten letter, let alone written one. They were few and far between in this day and age, but somehow the thought of trying to reconnect by email had seemed too impersonal and putting pen to paper had just felt right.

  Six weeks ago, his mum had sat him down and bared her soul, sharing what she had referred to as the only skeleton in her closet. Her cancer scare six months back had set in motion the chain of events that brought him to Beacon today. A lump in her right breast, that thankfully turned out to be nothing worse than a cyst, had given her the worst scare of her life. After the emotional high of getting the all clear, the next four months passed like nothing had happened, until she invited Max round for dinner, spoilt him with his some of his favourite food, then finally told him he truth about his father.

  The first time Max could remember asking about his dad, he’d only been four. She’d told him that Daddy used to shout lots, so he’d gone to live in another town, but little else. The older he got, the more he’d wanted to know. When he was seventeen, his mother told him how his dad had left not long after she fell pregnant, accusing her of trying to trap him. That was where her story finished. What she hadn’t told him until this year was what happened next. A week later he had come back, tail between his legs, saying they could make it work. That he’d stand by her. Anger and pride made her spit out four words that meant Max was raised by one parent instead of two.

  I had an abortion.

  The words that had spun his life off on a tangent, like a train changing lines at a junction. She’d said them with conviction at the time, because that’s exactly what she intended to do. She’d been young and scared; too scared to go through with it, as it turned out. The fear of going to the appointment alone turned out to be greater than the fear of her parents’ reaction. She had expected more judgement than support, from her own father in particular, who had never been Gordon’s biggest fan, but he’d insisted Gordon had a right to know. A chance to do the right thing.

  By the time she plucked up the courage to tell him the truth, he’d disappeared, with no forwarding address. Max already knew how the story played out from there. She had never married. Never shown any interest in anyone, and channelled all her energy into raising Max. There was one more revelation, though, one he hadn’t seen coming. A plain cream envelope, the possible answer to his questions. She’d hired a private investigator to track down Gordon, and it had been up to him to decide if he could do what she hadn’t been able to over thirty years ago; tell Gordon he was a father. Maybe even meet him after all this time.

  That they would meet here, now, under these circumstances, wasn’t how Max had seen things playing out. Jen was all that mattered now, though. Whether he could forgive his dad for standing him up a few days back wasn’t a question for now.

  He glanced at his watch. Gordon was over an hour late. Traffic crawled past the window like cars on a production line, people bustled past, and the door stayed firmly shut. Amy stood up from behind her desk, making a show of stacking some papers in a neat pile, looking a little embarrassed as she spoke.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mr Brennan, but I need to close up early today.’

  Max felt the beginnings of a headache lurking behind his eyes. Unbelievable. Stood up twice in a week. He toyed with asking Amy to call his dad again, but why should he get yet another chance to come good? There wouldn’t be a third. He’d find Jen on his own.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. If he does get in touch, you’ve got my number.’ He had one hand on the door when something else occurred to him. ‘What about the buyer? Can you tell me who bought it from him? They might have another number or a forwarding address.’

  ‘I can tell you, but I don’t think it’ll help you much,’ she said with a shrug. ‘The buyer was us.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me there,’ said Max. ‘Do you mean you bought it yourself?’

  ‘I mean Beacon. We bought it.’ Max only managed a grunt. She clearly took it as a need for more information, and the words babbled out, as she checked her watch.

  ‘We offer a seven-day purchase scheme for anyone who needs a fast sale. The offer is below market value, obviously, between ten and twenty per cent depending on the case, then we flip it round and sell at the going rate.’

  ‘Really?’ Max’s eyes widened. ‘You can do it that fast? Took me three months to buy mine.’

  ‘It’s not for everyone. Obviously, they get less for their property this way, but you’d be surprised how many go for it.’

  ‘And my father was happy to take a hit like that?’

  ‘I assume so, but you’d have to ask him that yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must lock up.’

  If it was that simple I wouldn’t be stood wasting my time with you, Max thought, but let it go, heading outside to work out his next move. He toyed briefly with the idea of hanging around the shop, but if Gordon was going to show he’d have been there by now, or at least have called to say he was running late. Max watched as Amy joined, then disappeared into the ebb and flow of pedestrians. Enough about his dad, he had to focus on Jen. Still no calls or texts on his phone, from Jen or anyone else for that matter. He tried Porter again, with the same voicemail promising a call back, but left no message this time.

  Jen’s face smiled back at him from his phone screen, but this time, instead of making him smile, it was like someone had reached in, squeezing his insides. Where the hell was she?

  Max was as good as on autopilot on the drive home. Part of him wanted to keep moving, head to her friends’, her parents’, anywhere she might be. If there was even the slightest chance she could be waiting at home for him, though, he had to check, had to see for himself. Besides, there had been a steady stream of enquiries from those he’d contacted, asking for news. If she’d turned up at any of their houses, they’d have let him know by now. Home was a two-bed semi on Hamilton Road, just outside Harrow. The houses were tightly packed, wedged up against one another, wearing cladding on the front like face masks. As he made the turn onto his street, his gut did a roller-coaster-like flip at the sight of the empty driveway and the curtains still drawn, just the way he’d left them.

  Max turned off the ignition and just sat for a full minute, the ticking engine marking time. The headache hadn’t progressed beyond a six out of ten, but things were starting to catch up to him as the reality of the situation sank in. Getting out of the car and walking to the door felt more of an effort than it should have been. A loud gurgling from under his T-shirt reminded him that he’d hardly eaten all day. Not that he had much of an appetite, but maybe forcing a sandwich down would give his energy levels a boost.

  He slung his jacket over the carved wooden bannister and trudged into the kitchen. He stared at the contents of the fridge, pulling out a packet of Swiss cheese and half a red onion. Two slices of each shoved in between a pair of doorstep-size slices of crusty bread wasn’t exactly his finest work, but it’d do for now. He didn’t bother with a plate, eating where he stood, back propped against the cool granite worktop.

  He’d just sunk his teeth into the second half when a dull thud registered from somewhere out back. Max went over to the window and stretched forwards, hands on the edge of the sink, craning his neck left and right. The bin lay on its side, contents spilling out onto the patio.

  ‘Jesus,’ Max muttered as he opened the back door. ‘If I ever get my hands on that bloody cat …’

  He left the sentence hanging, knowing full well the worst he’d do would be to shout at it. He walked over to the bin, leaving it where it lay as he picked up the scattered rubbish. A half-eaten banana in a coat of mottled brown and yellow skin. Bean sprouts he’d picked out of a stir-fry. He lifted the bin back up, pushed it flush with the wall and headed back inside, grabbing his sandwich from beside the sink and staring back out at the garden as he took another mouthful.

  It had been a tangled mess until Jen mo
ved in and brought some order to the chaos. Pansy-lined paths, half a dozen rose bushes and a small army of terracotta-coloured pots, exploding with colour. A line of trees twice his height at the far end gave them privacy from neighbours.

  Max stared out, through his own reflection, scanning for any signs of the cat, but the only things moving were tree branches dancing in the wind. Was it the breeze, or was something making its way through the foliage? He narrowed his eyes, squinting at a dark patch near the far left corner, so focused that he didn’t see the transparent arm reflected in the window, moving up past his left shoulder until it was across his neck.

  He started to turn towards it, more reflex than conscious decision, body a few steps ahead of brain, but still too late to stop the arm looping under his chin, tight against his throat, pulling him backwards. Max dropped his chin to his chest. He remembered that much from self-defence training in his army days; protect your airway. He pushed back against whoever was behind him, feeling something slap against his forehead hard. A sickly sweet smell sent his head spinning. Coarse cloth slid over his eyebrows. The smell grew stronger. Chloroform? If he hadn’t tucked his chin down, it would be clamped over his nose and mouth. Whatever it was, the kitchen was starting to blur around the edges.

  Max fought the urge to suck in a full breath, chest tightening as he grabbed the crook of his attacker’s elbow and pulled, winning back half an inch. He threaded his other hand inside the arm holding the cloth. Pushed up and away, forcing the rag away from his face. The chokehold slackened, just a touch, and yanked backwards, squeezing against Max’s jaw now. Max went with it, adding his weight to it, driving them both into the kitchen unit behind.

  A muffled grunt from behind, and the arm across Max’s neck dropped down across his chest, fingers scrabbling at his jumper. Max took a half step forwards and to his right, dropped his shoulder and turned at the hips, momentum pulling his attacker from behind him. A figure in dark blue jeans and black sweatshirt swung into view, black balaclava hiding their face. They still had hold of Max’s jumper, and the two toppled to the floor, landing chest to chest, and Max heard a loud grunt as his full weight drove the breath from the man’s lungs.