Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Baxter hopped off the last step onto the pavement and turned to face them, shaking his head. ‘Afraid not. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,’ he said and headed towards the main road.

  Porter sauntered down the steps, watching him go. Wondering if he’d look back. Whether it’d mean anything if he did. Baxter reached the corner and disappeared onto Church Street.

  ‘What do you make of that, then?’ asked Styles.

  ‘Not much to go on, really.’

  ‘You think he was telling the truth about Leyson, not recognising him?’

  Baxter hadn’t given much away and that bothered Porter. Most people get a little flustered when a pair of coppers turned up on the doorstep. Baxter had taken it in his stride. Then again, in his job he was used to pressure.

  ‘No reason not to take him at face value. Not yet, at least,’ Porter said as they headed back to the car.

  ‘Any chance we can go back via Camden Town? I promised Emma I’d meet her for an early dinner at that Asian place, Gilgamesh. Seems pointless going all the way back to the station.’

  ‘That’s the third curry this week,’ said Porter.

  ‘What can I say, she’s got a craving for spicy food.’

  ‘Cravings? There something you’re not telling me?’ said Porter, raising his eyebrows.

  Before Styles could answer, Porter’s phone rang. Milburn, again.

  ‘DI Porter,’ he said, knowing it would annoy Milburn to think he wasn’t saved in Porter’s phone.

  ‘Porter, where are you?’ No introduction, no pleasantries.

  ‘Just out doing a few interviews, sir.’

  ‘Interviews? With who?’

  Porter started to tell him about the attack on Max, finding Jen, and Harold Mayes. Got as far as the interviews before Milburn cut over him.

  ‘Fine. You can brief me when you get back in. I hear your session with OHU was cut short. I suggest you reschedule sooner rather than later or you’ll not be leaving your desk again until you do.’

  Porter bit down on his lip. Counted to three in his head.

  Pick your battles.

  ‘Yes, sir, will do.’

  ‘See that you do.’

  The line went dead. Milburn was all heart. Porter swallowed his anger back down, gripped his phone so hard he thought the case might buckle. Turned to look across the roof of the car at Styles. No sense taking it out on him.

  ‘Come on, can’t have you being late on my conscience,’ he said to Styles. ‘Poor girl puts up with enough from you as it is without adding lateness in the mix as well.’

  Hands balled into fists, pushing against the lining of his pockets. Fingernails cutting crescent half-moons into his palms. He ducked into Julian Reid Estate Agents, watched through the window full of cascading rows of house pictures as the two policemen drove past and disappeared along Church Street.

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  He had always known this moment was a possibility, but never truly believed it would happen. His skin prickled, like an army of ants scurrying up his back, across his chest, down his arms. He stifled a smile, thinking back to being close enough to reach out and clap a hand on the detective’s shoulder, heart thudding a drumbeat against his chest.

  The list surprised him. That should have taken them longer to figure out, if at all, but the fact they had changed things. The fact that they were looking into AMT bothered him as well, although that link was a little more obscure. Things needed to speed up, maybe even miss out a few steps to stay ahead of the game.

  That’s what it was now. A game. High risk, higher reward, similar to his style at the poker table. You don’t just play the cards; you play your opponent. He’d looked his square in the eyes now, and knew he had their measure. Ten more measured breaths, then back out into the street, looking both ways. Back along Summerhouse Road, piles of leaves swishing around his feet. One more glance over his shoulder as he slipped the key in the lock. Two locks on the front door, both clicking into place, and he headed upstairs. Tired wooden steps creaked out a chorus. He fumbled in his pocket for a second key, an older brass one, unlocking the bedroom door. A patchwork of shadows leaked into the room, thick blackout curtains stretched across the window. Plastic sheeting taped to the floor behind the door, crinkled and crackled as he walked in.

  The polythene Tyvek bodysuit rustled as he slipped it on. Legs first, arms and lastly head. Zip pulled all the way up. Leave no trace. Stick to a winning formula. Except it wasn’t winning any more, not now they were looking for him. Well, not him specifically, not yet, but for someone. A pair of blue plastic shoe covers completed the outfit, the kind you find in show homes.

  He flicked a light switch, blinked fireflies from his vision and pulled a chair across to the bedside. Stood silently, watching the man on the bed squirm against the plastic ties fastening him to the frame, chest stuttering up and down with uneven breaths.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, tugging the pillowcase up over the man’s head, ‘you know what they say about best-laid plans? Well, I’m afraid we’ve had visitors today, so we’re going to need to finish our chat sooner rather than later.’ He made a show of checking his watch. ‘Now’s good for me, and looks like your diary is fairly empty.’

  Porter pulled up outside his house, weariness settling over him like a warm blanket. Behind the eyes, spreading soft fingers across his shoulders. Through into his legs, weighing him down, making his shoes whisper against the pavement. The house on Margaret Road had belonged to Holly’s grandma, his by default now. A two-up two-down semi, half white, half pinkish brown, like a giant piece of Battenberg. It might as well be detached for all the noise he heard. Evelyn next door was in her eighties and made as much noise as a cat burglar. She loved to remind him that she’d been there since before he was born.

  He’d barely hung up his jacket when the kitchen door creaked open a few more inches. A small black face peered out, unblinking emerald eyes staring through the gap. Nothing subtle about Demetrious, purr like an outboard motor, prowling around like he owned the place. Holly had named him, saying he needed something with a bit of swagger about it.

  ‘OK, OK, D, you first. Where are my manners?’

  Porter headed into the kitchen, grabbing two foil pouches from the cupboard, holding one out in each hand.

  ‘Would monsieur prefer the fish or the duck tonight?’ He jiggled the pouches as he spoke. Demetrious looked far from amused. ‘I can highly recommend the salmon, freshly caught today.’

  Green eyes blinked once, an unspoken threat if dinner wasn’t served up soon. Porter squatted down and ripped the top off the salmon pouch, squeezing it into a bowl.

  ‘Bon appétit.’ Porter straightened up, blowing a chef kiss at the unimpressed cat. He watched for a second as Demetrious sniffed around the edges then tucked in, before turning his own attentions back to the fridge. A tub of margarine, half a pepper and a stack of out-of-date yogurts. Not exactly spoilt for choice. He pulled a Tupperware container from the bottom shelf, chilli that his mum had made a few days earlier.

  ‘Should still be OK,’ he muttered to himself, performing the obligatory sniff test. Two minutes in the microwave and he’d be in business. He killed time by grabbing the last Corona from the fridge door, popping the top off, draining half in three long, slow mouthfuls. He’d never been one to leave his baggage at the door, and as he wandered through to the living room, chilli and beer balanced on a tray, the events of the day flitted through his mind like mosquitos looking for a landing spot. Sometimes things got lost in the noise of the day, but moments like this, the calm between the storms, the mind slips into neutral, dots get joined. A wisp of an idea coalesces into something solid, workable.

  Tough week. The copper in him said the obvious answer was the right one. Odds are that if Jen had arranged a meet with Gordon Jackson, then it was Gordon who’d arrived to pick her up. Gordon who’d abducted her. He flicked the TV on, chewing his chilli open-mouthed to save his cheeks being burnt from the inside out. Jac
kson may well be the main suspect, but why was his name on the list? Jen wasn’t on the list, so where did she fit into this? Had the others met the same fate as Harold?

  The picture on screen cut to a reporter outside the Shard. The volume was low, but tickertape along the bottom said something about a fathers’ rights group trying to climb it in protest. Shadows moved at the edge of the room as Demetrious glided over, in the way that only cats can. He sprang onto the sofa and Porter reached down, scratching the sweet spot at the base of the neck, the cat’s back arching like a drawn bow.

  Memories welled up. Holly putting on her best doe-eyed pout, holding up the cat, guilt-tripping Porter into expanding the family. Holly draped over him on this very couch, legs tucked underneath. Nuzzling into his chest, hand stroking lazy circles on his stomach, him stroking the cat, his gesture an extension of hers. God, he missed her. His mum had trotted out the cliché of time being a healer, but that was a lie. Time made it worse. Memories blurred around the edges. Faded like overexposed photos.

  He tipped his bottle to the ceiling, drained the dregs and clicked the TV off. Demetrious looked at him with undisguised contempt as Porter brushed him off the couch. His limbs were like lead as he trudged into the bedroom, sloughing off his clothes like a snake shedding its skin. He raised two fingers to his lips, as he had every night for almost three years, transferring a kiss to the photo frame by his bed.

  Holly had joked, saying it looked like a staged celeb shot from HELLO! or OK. Him with a hand resting on each of her hips. The dress, a pristine symphony of white, elegant in its simplicity. One of her hands caressing his cheek, the other on his bicep. Arched entrance to the church framing their heads. Snowflakes of confetti trapped in mid-air. A perfect moment, captured and preserved for ever.

  The last thing Porter saw as his lids started to droop were Holly’s chestnut eyes, gazing into his through the storm of confetti. Deep, rich brown pools, drawing him in, washing over him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  October 1995

  Where Larchfield had been a game of survival, university was effortless by comparison. Sure, he’d had to interact to a degree in tutor groups and seminars, but he revelled in the anonymity of cavernous lecture theatres. One face amongst a hundred. There were occasional attempts at socialising, even an appearance at a party or two. More out of curiosity than craving for company.

  By the time he graduated, there was no swapping of contact details with people from his course, or promises to keep in touch. Uni had been as much an escape as a chance to learn. Escape from Larchfield. From that life. He made a promise to himself never to return, and headed for London and the comforting cloak of solitude a city of that size could provide. The days of the 1950s, the suburban dream, where everyone knew their neighbours and left doors unlocked, was long gone.

  These days, doors were bolted and windows locked. Travelling on the Tube was an eyes-down journey, barging your way to a destination. Suited him perfectly. He could go days without speaking to anyone. Let people in, and they’ll hurt you given half the chance.

  He still dreamt of the boy in the warehouse sometimes, although the outcome wasn’t always how it had actually played out, like a director’s cut of alternate endings. One time he’d dreamt that he’d applied a tourniquet, saving a life instead of watching it ebb away. Another time, he’d picked up a length of pipe, brought it down on the injured boy’s head, over and over.

  Whichever scene played out, the boy was still dead when he woke up, but there was no remorse either way. No rumpled nest of sweaty sheets from a restless night. No twisted knot of guilt. What he did feel, what he still felt after all these years, was a sense of being in control. Just by walking away, he’d made the choice for them both; him and the boy. It gave him an excited tingle up his spine. That hadn’t faded with time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Porter called the hospital after breakfast, and they told him Jen had been discharged last night. There wasn’t much to update Max on, but he left the house early enough to pay them a visit before work, as much as a friend as a police officer.

  He stopped off at a cafe a few streets away and grabbed a black coffee for himself, latte and peppermint tea for Max and Jen, plus a few pastries. Worst case, if they were out, Styles would have the latte, and the tea would get him brownie points with Rose, who worked the front desk at Paddington Green.

  Max’s car was parked outside the front door but the curtains were still closed. He pulled up to the Audi’s bumper, still debating whether or not to risk waking them, when Max opened the bedroom curtains. Porter got out, balancing the box of pastries on top of the cups to free up a hand as he walked up the path, but Max opened the door before he could make it.

  ‘You must really need the good press if you’re resorting to morning deliveries.’

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ said Porter. ‘How’s she doing? You too for that matter?’

  Max reached out for the box. ‘Let me grab that before you drop something.’ He motioned Porter inside. ‘She’s OK. Didn’t sleep too good, mind. She’s just in the shower. Should be down in a few minutes, though.’

  ‘Has she remembered much more about what happened?’

  ‘Nope. Talked about it some, but nothing you don’t already know. I don’t know if it’s all sunk in yet.’

  Max peered under the lids, held up the latte, and Porter nodded, reaching over for his own cup.

  ‘What’s new then?’ Max said.

  ‘Not much,’ said Porter, with a slow shake of the head. ‘Followed up a few leads, but still trying join the dots.’

  He gave Max a whistle-stop tour of what they had: the laptop, the discovery of Mayes in the freezer, the list and the interviews. He pulled out a copy of the list, slid it along the bench towards Max.

  ‘I’ll need you and Jen to come down to the station and do this formally, but any of these names mean anything to you?’

  Max shook his head. ‘I barely knew my own dad, Jake. Why would I know any of his friends?’

  ‘We don’t know who they are, that’s my point. We don’t even know if your dad knew them.’

  ‘So where do we go from here, then?’

  ‘Early days, buddy,’ said Porter. ‘Every name is on there for a reason, we just need to find the common denominator.’

  ‘I know what you’ll probably say, but what can I do to help?’

  ‘Well, if you do hear from your dad, call me straight away, but apart from that, you’re just going to have to trust me. We still need to speak to someone from his office, see what they can tell us, but I’ll keep in touch. You have my word.’

  Max rubbed at his eyes, and Porter saw the pink blush to them, guessing Max had probably slept as well as Jen.

  ‘I know, I know. You’re right. I just feel so bloody useless, you know?’

  ‘I know, mate, but you do have something to do. You need to convince Jen there’s no monsters in the closet, and things can get back to normal. She’s going to need to lean on you for a few days at least, maybe more.’ He stood up, popping the lid back on his cup. ‘Anyway, speaking of leaving things to me, I’d best make a move. Give her a hug from me.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Max, walking him to the door.

  Porter shook his hand and sauntered off towards his car. A few days was wildly optimistic for Jen to bounce back. Not impossible, but unlikely. He should have been more honest with Max and made a mental note to dig out a number for a counsellor for the next time he saw them.

  The irony wasn’t lost on him. Encouraging others to exorcise their demons by talking, while he kept his under lock and key. Milburn wasn’t going to let up about the OHU sessions any time soon. He’d have to see Sameera Misra again, at least once more anyway. Nothing to say it had to be today, though. An appointment for a fortnight’s time should do the trick.

  He glanced up as he pulled away from the kerb. Caught a glimpse of Jen, towel wrapped around damp hair like a turban, walking past the bedroom window. He’d heard it in
Max’s voice while she was missing. Disbelief, half an octave too high, straddling two realities. One where Jen turns up safe, the other too hard to think about. Both possible, like Schrödinger’s cat. Porter was all too familiar with the dark flip side, that sense of the world tilting on its axis when you lose someone. Not something he’d wish on an enemy let alone an old friend, and until he figured out what was going on, she wouldn’t be safe. Neither of them would.

  Jen’s mum, Tina, arrived around ten-thirty. Domestic whirlwind was how Max pictured her, unable to visit them without washing a few dishes or hanging out the laundry. Depending on the day, it swung from endearing to irritating, but her heart was in the right place, so he bit his tongue when he had to.

  Tina was adamant that Jen’s road back to normality included the Orchid Rooms spa, hot stone massages for both of them and afternoon tea at The Pear Tree cafe, near Camden Town. Max watched Jen as Tina fussed over her, ready to step in if he saw the slightest sign of tension in Jen’s face, but she forced a smile, hugging him just a little bit tighter than usual.

  Max watched them disappear upstairs and picked up his phone. Work wasn’t expecting him back till Monday at the earliest, but he called Callum Carr’s mobile.

  ‘Hey, how you doing? How’s Jen? Is everything alright?’ The way Callum wrapped his tongue around each ‘s’ made him sound like a poor man’s Sean Connery.

  ‘You journalists are all the same. Questions, questions, questions,’ said Max. ‘But we’re OK, I think. Not much sleep, but she’s a tough cookie.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘To be honest, mate, I haven’t a clue what’s going on, or what my dad’s mixed up in. That’s partly why I’m calling.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you just loved listening to my velvety tones,’ said Callum. ‘What do you need?’