Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Max ran him through what he knew so far. Porter had taken the list with him, and he could only remember a handful of names, but it’d have to do.

  ‘I’m thinking we, and by we I mean you, could do a little digging, see if there’s any connection between them.’

  ‘What about your pal, the copper?’

  Max paused. ‘Jake’s a good guy. I trust him one hundred per cent, but they’ve got nothing to go on. I mean, this guy came to my house. How can Jen feel safe in her own home if …’ Words came through gritted teeth, free hand clenching into a fist. ‘I can’t sit and wait for them to try anything else. I could pay a visit to Gordon’s office, and you could see what you can turn up on the rest.’

  ‘As if you don’t have enough going on, you want to play cops and robbers?’ said Callum. ‘What the hell, I’m in. Gimme a few hours and I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘How about a coffee later,’ said Max. ‘Tina’s taking Jen out for the day, so I’m at a loose end.’

  ‘As long as we’re clear on two things,’ said Callum. ‘It’s most definitely your turn to pay, and I don’t put out on the first date.’

  ‘Your virtue is safe with me,’ said Max, smiling. Callum’s speak-before-you-think approach was usually good for at least one.

  They agreed to meet at YO! Sushi at one o’clock. Close to the office, if a bit of a hike for Max, but Callum was doing him a favour so he didn’t mind. Besides, there were worse ways to spend an afternoon than grazing from a conveyor belt. He grabbed his car keys and took the stairs two at a time. The whine of the hairdryer was a dead giveaway, and he found Jen bent over, head down, running her fingers through dangling hair in front of the bedroom mirror.

  ‘I’m going to meet Callum for lunch while you girls get pampered,’ he said, sliding arms around her waist, pressing his chest to her back as she straightened.

  She flicked a blast of hot air over her shoulder. Instead of ducking away, he did a slow-mo head roll, pretending to flick his fringe.

  ‘If the day job doesn’t pan out, I could totally have a career in shampoo commercials.’

  She bumped backwards into his thighs, nudging him away, but not before he saw half a smile in the mirror.

  ‘First smile of the day,’ he said, backing away. ‘My work here is done.’ He took a step backwards, bowing, hands out.

  She tapped him lightly on the head with her hairbrush. ‘What time will you be back?’ she asked, serious face again. She wasn’t needy by nature, but there was a nerviness to her. Hardly surprising, given what she’d been through. She was trying her best to hide it, but he knew her too well. It was the little things. Voice that bit softer. Eyes flicking around the room, as if checking all exits.

  ‘Meeting him at one, so I’d say about three-ish. Should be back before you are, if you want me to sort tea. Will your mum be joining us?’ He made a sign of the cross, pressed his palms together, slight shake of the head.

  ‘Cheeky,’ she said. ‘As it happens, she and Dad have friends going round tonight. She wanted to cancel, but I told her not to. I think I just want to curl up on the couch, if that’s OK with you?’

  He stepped in close, pulled her to his chest. ‘Course it is.’

  ‘What are you up to this morning, then?’ she asked, words muffled, speaking into his jumper.

  He paused, wondering how much to tell her. Decided honesty was what she needed. ‘I thought I’d swing by where Gordon works,’ he said. ‘I want to see if there’s anything they can tell me that might help Jake.’

  Jen pulled back, arms still around his waist. ‘Help Jake? Do you really think that’s a good idea? We need to let him do his job.’

  He smoothed a stray hair away from her eye, tucking it behind an ear. ‘I know, sweetheart, and I’m not going to stick my nose in, I promise. He said that they’d not been returning his calls, though, so maybe I’ll have more luck playing the concerned family member card.’

  She held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘As long as that’s all you do,’ she said. ‘After everything that’s happened, I’m scared, Max. Promise me you won’t go around playing detective.’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said, lifting a three-finger salute to his temple, leaning in to kiss her. She felt tense at first, but he let the kiss linger, feeling the tightness melt out of her. When he pulled away, she was still looking at him, wide eyes full of concern.

  ‘You crazy kids have fun at the massage parlour,’ he said, lifting her hand to his lips, planting a loud squeaky kiss on her knuckles.

  ‘Parlour?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a spa, not one of those seedy dives you’d choose.’

  ‘Cheerfully withdrawn,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, get out before I decide to drag you with me.’

  It felt wrong letting her out of his sight after the last few days, but all the unanswered questions bouncing around inside his head were like flies against a window. He said a quick farewell to her mum and pressed two twenties into her hand for lunch. She tried to protest, but he was out the door and half way to his car before she finished her sentence, walking with more energy and purpose than he’d felt since all this kicked off. Time to find out what kind of man his dad really was.

  Styles looked deep in conversation with another officer when Porter pulled up a chair next to them.

  ‘I miss anything interesting?’ he asked, as Styles turned to face him.

  ‘Yep, all solved. Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the candlestick.’

  ‘The sooner you swap policing for stand-up the better.’

  ‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone,’ said Styles, doing his best to sound hurt. ‘Did you sleep in?’

  The younger officer, whose name Porter couldn’t place, took this as their cue to leave.

  ‘Been to see Max and Jen. They let her out last night.’

  ‘And?’ said Styles.

  Porter waggled a hand. ‘Hmm, hard to say. I’m going to ask the pair of them to come in today or tomorrow, get them on record. Guess we’ll get a better sense then.’

  Styles nodded. ‘I’ll give them a call if you like, set things up?’

  ‘Yeah, that’d be good,’ said Porter.

  A long, low grumble from under his shirt reminded him of the box of pastries, left on Max’s bench. No breakfast yet, but no real appetite, despite his body’s protests.

  ‘Anyway, while you’ve had your coffee morning,’ said Styles, nodding at Porter’s takeaway cup, ‘the rest of us have been doing some good old-fashioned police work.’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Porter, sitting back in his chair, arms folded.

  ‘OK, good news first. We’ve got a good set of prints. Bad news, there’s no match for them.’

  ‘Where did we get them from?’

  ‘Few partials on the laptop keys, but three clean ones from the phone, and a glass he used. We’re assuming they belong to whoever did this, anyway. They’re not Harold’s.’

  ‘You’re probably right but keep an open mind. You’re assuming it’s only one person we’re after as well. Could be two or more working together.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘What about Jackson? Any prints lifted from his house?’

  ‘Way ahead of you. Checked that straight away and no match. There is a bonus find, though. Phone screen had a crack, and we’ve got DNA from that. Skin cells from where it’s been swiped. Again, no match for Jackson.’

  ‘So is he nothing to do with Jen, or working with a partner?’

  ‘Without discounting him completely,’ said Styles, ‘I’d keep him on the back burner, until we actually get something solid linking him. I know Max doesn’t really know him, but I struggle to see a father going from wanting to reconnect to attacking a son and his girlfriend. He could have just ignored Max’s letter if he didn’t want anything to do with him.’

  ‘I’ve seen more far-fetched things on Jeremy Kyle,’ said Porter.

  ‘Which is why you need to watch less TV and get out more.’

  ‘OK, O
K, point taken. We still need to link the other names, though.’ Porter took a long swig of lukewarm coffee. It’d have to do for now. ‘I just don’t see a scenario where they’re not all linked. Whoever made the list had their reasons. Let’s keep an eye on the two we’ve found. Get a car on Baxter and Leyson, low key though. No need to alarm them. A couple of PCs in civvies on each. Just do it this morning and I’ll clear it with Milburn later.’

  Styles nodded. ‘I was thinking about this idea of connecting them, before you came in …’ he began.

  ‘Careful,’ said Porter. ‘Much more of that and I’ll expect it on a regular basis.’

  Styles gave a forced smile but continued. ‘We might not be able to connect all twelve yet, but we can connect at least three of them …’ He left it hanging, raising eyebrows to prompt Porter.

  It took a few seconds, but he got there in the end. ‘Of course,’ he said, snapping his fingers. ‘The recruiters. Leyson, Baxter, Errington, they all used them.’

  Pure coincidence? Maybe, but worth looking into. His stomach protested again. Felt it was bubbling like an overheated pan, but Styles didn’t seem to hear it.

  Should have seen that yesterday, he thought.

  Maybe Milburn was right. Something as simple as that, missing connections like the recruitment firm, wasn’t exactly the sign of someone on top form. Sign of a slow slide.

  Pull yourself together man. Can’t let them down like this.

  He realised Styles was staring at him.

  ‘OK, let’s, um, let’s head over there this morning, see who there is to talk to.’

  ‘Thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of calling them. We’ve got an appointment with Nicholas Glass, he’s the MD. I had to practically beg his PA for fifteen minutes as well so we’d best make a move.’

  Porter felt the first twinge of a headache, starting at the base of his skull, edging down into his neck. Too much caffeine, too early? Not enough sleep? Bit of both. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, digging fingers in and tilting his head till he a heard a crunch.

  ‘You OK, guv?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll meet you downstairs.’

  Styles nodded. ‘I’ll call Max first, then. See when they can come in.’

  Porter left him at the desk, pulling out his phone as he walked out into the stairwell, muttering a pep talk under his breath. Two missed call notifications. He dialled his voicemail.

  ‘Jake, it’s your mum.’ As if he wouldn’t have worked that out from her voice. ‘Just wondering if you want to pop around for dinner tonight. Your sister’s coming as well. Anyway, let me know either way.’

  The thought of his mum’s cooking had the desired effect, kickstarting his appetite, and he knew he’d have to grab something from the canteen before he went to AMT. The second message was from Misra.

  ‘Detective Porter, it’s Sameera Misra here. Just calling to see if you’d like to reschedule our session. I’m in all day, so look forward to hearing from you.’

  ‘Like’ wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind. He’d do it, but in his own time. The prospect of making progress this morning at AMT was too real, too immediate, to ignore.

  Stairwell acoustics made it sound like he tap-danced his way down a floor. He’d call her, but after their visit to the recruitment firm. He’d worked enough cases, seen enough people coping with life-changing events, to know that bottling things up rarely ended well.

  What scared him most wasn’t even the prospect of having his feelings picked apart in a cosy office. It was what he’d be left with afterwards that worried him. He was the strong, stoic widower, still grieving. Without that, who would he be? He wasn’t sure that he wanted to find out, but either way, something had to change. Max and Jen both needed him to be on point, and things were starting to slip. Badly.

  Sound was all he had to go on. Squeaking tap. Splash of water on enamel, morphing to the heavier slap of water on water as the bath filled. The pillowcase clung to his forehead, mopping his brow, the air inside hot, heavy, claustrophobic.

  No sense of time, but light filtering in through the cotton felt artificial. He could have been here for two days, or a week. Who knew? Hard plastic edges dug into his wrists. He’d twisted his head and seen them cutting pink furrows last time the pillowcase was off.

  He closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing rather than suck in a mouthful of cotton. Footsteps off to his right. Heels clicking on bathroom tiles, dulling as they moved onto carpet, getting closer.

  Fingers clamped around his right ankle, lifting it up. He kicked out, but too late. Strong hands pushed it back down. Something squeezed it, tight like a tourniquet. He felt it bite in, same harsh edges as his wrists. Left ankle now. He bucked like a rodeo bull, but only made the plastic ties dig deeper.

  He yelped in pain, yelp turning into a shout. No words, just noise. A raking growl that burnt his throat on the way out. Both legs were forced together, weight pinning them from above. Rasping clicks that sounded like plastic ties cinching into place. He tried to lash out a kick again, but his legs moved as one, stuck together, the deadweight of his captor pressing down. It was like being buried on the beach as a kid, sand pressing in on all sides. His hands already bound and fastened above his head. A momentary absence of tension in the bonds, short-lived, as both wrists were slapped back together, even tighter than before.

  He found his voice, shouted into the cotton. ‘Jesus, man, what the hell do you want?’ Fabric invaded his mouth like an inverted bubble as he sucked in a deep breath. ‘I’ve told you everything. Everything you wanted. You said—’

  A sharp tug rolled him towards the edge of the bed. For a second, face down on the mattress, he couldn’t breathe at all, until he was flipped onto his back again. Legs pulled around roughly so they dangled from the edge of the bed. Hands on his jumper, pulling him into a sitting position. Pulled forwards, and up. Blood rushed to his head. Hands gripped his legs. Hard ridge digging into his stomach. Slung over a shoulder like a sack of laundry.

  He counted a dozen steps, felt his legs bounce against the man with every one of them, then a hard stop. The bony shoulder beneath him shrugged him off, and he was sliding feet first back to ground. Except it wasn’t ground. Too cold. Ice-cold water splashed up his calves, plastering heavy denim against his legs. Then he was falling, at least that’s how it felt, but only a few feet at most, backside smacking against water, hitting the bottom of the tub with a barely cushioned thump.

  The cold took his breath away. Sucked it, quite literally, from his lungs, but before he could inhale a mouthful of pillowcase, it was whisked away. After a few days of light filtered through his cotton hood, the glare of spotlights embedded in the ceiling made him screw his eyes closed. The cold wrapped around his chest, squeezed like a python, as he fell back against the bath. A blanket of ice cubes bobbed on the surface, little sub-zero pebbles, bumping against his cheeks, chin, Adam’s apple.

  His breathing kickstarted again, rapid and ragged. He tried to sit up, but with his hands and feet still bound he might as well have been limbless. He pushed out with his feet, found the far end, used it to push his shoulders back against the bath to keep himself above water.

  That won him a precious few seconds’ respite, and he saw the man’s face for the first time.

  ‘T … t … tell me what you want me t … to say.’ He heard the fear in his own voice. Hated the weakness but could no more hide it than he could snap the ties that bound him.

  ‘Focus on your breathing,’ said the man. ‘You’ve been rather cooperative so far. I just need to be sure you’ve not left anything out.’

  He disappeared back into the bedroom, returning a few seconds later with a chair, and sat, legs crossed, pad of A4 paper in one hand.

  ‘Let’s start from the top again, shall we, and we’ll see where we go from there.’ He checked his watch. ‘You’ve got around thirty minutes before you’re in any real danger of hypothermia, so probabl
y in your best interests to be as precise as you are honest.’

  Max decided not to call ahead. Nobody at Marlin had bothered to return Porter’s call, so he’d try the element of surprise instead. Images of the Monty Python crew dressed as the Spanish Inquisition sprang to mind. Marlin had their headquarters just off High Holborn. A three-storey whitewashed building, that gave nothing away about its occupants, save a brass name plate by the door. A short corridor opened up into a reception area that reminded him of a dentist’s waiting room. Matching tables with four chairs on either side of the room, dark grey fabric. Each table sported a copy of The Economist, sitting on top of a broadsheet, maybe The Times, both dead centre like they’d been positioned with a set square.

  Someone’s got a little too much time on their hands.

  A polished wooden reception counter was set into the far wall. Frosted glass doors off to the right and left. The woman behind the desk looked up as he approached. She was as well-groomed as her surroundings. Late twenties, minimal make-up, thin-framed glasses and eyes the same shade of blue as a Bombay Sapphire bottle.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ she said, sounding too chirpy to be true, ‘how can I help you today?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Max, wishing he’d spent a little more time on the way here deciding how to explain his visit. Her fixed smile didn’t budge a millimetre while he chose his words. ‘My dad works here, Gordon Jackson.’

  Dad. The word still felt awkward when he said it. Clunky.

  ‘He hasn’t been in touch for a few weeks,’ he went on, feeling a slight flush in his cheeks, being more than a bit economical with the truth, ‘and I’m getting a little worried. I’m hoping I can speak to someone he works with to see if he said where he was going.’

  Her smile faded, lips parted slightly, as if ready to say something but unsure of the right words. ‘If you can bear with me a moment, sir, I’ll just see who’s free.’ She picked up the phone, fingers hovering over the keypad. ‘Who shall I say is asking?’