Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Porter toyed with asking, but let it slide. Whatever it was, he’d talk in his own good time. Porter could hardly take the moral high ground while avoiding Milburn, Misra and his mum at every turn.

  ‘So while you’ve been swanning around the hospital, I had Benayoun print that stuff off that Glass sent through.’

  Porter got up and gestured for Styles to follow him into one of the incident rooms at the far side of the office. Neat stacks of paper lined up along the table inside, like exam papers waiting to be turned.

  ‘Alright, let’s think this through,’ said Porter. ‘What do we need to prioritise? There’s one stack per name. Headshot, CV, personal info.’

  Styles stared at the sea of paper for a few seconds, then picked up the top sheet of the nearest pile and walked over to the whiteboard on the far wall. A series of magnets, round and coloured, like giant Smarties, ran in a line down the side of the board. He slid the page under the nearest magnet. A photo, courtesy of AMT, of one of the missing men, Andrew George. Tan that looked more store-bought than natural. Bald, with patches of hair over each ear, giving him a monk-ish look. Mid forties maybe?

  Styles stepped back, studied the picture, reached forwards and straightened it. A minor quirk that Porter had noticed a few times now. Next, he grabbed a marker pen, writing George’s name in block capitals under the photo. Porter stood and watched as he went through the same process again and again, until he ran out of room, and had to drag a flip board over from the corner of the room to fit the last few on.

  ‘Right, we said we needed to know who their contact was at AMT,’ he said, looking over at Porter. ‘What else?’

  ‘Let’s start with their age, any family, and date anyone last heard from them,’ said Porter.

  Styles found them on the printouts, scribbled these under the left-most picture, adding a few of his own as he went. Previous employers. AMT event attendance.

  ‘I’ll do mine, you do yours?’ said Styles. Whatever awkwardness he’d left Milburn’s office with had evaporated now.

  Porter grabbed a pen of his own, and they continued shuffling papers, scribbling away for almost half an hour without much conversation. Styles finished first and headed out to grab a couple of coffees. By the time he came back in, Porter was done, leaning back in a chair, hands behind his head, staring at the boards. Pictures, text and coloured magnets gave it the look of a collage displayed on school walls for parents’ evening.

  ‘Where to start, then?’ he said, as Styles passed him a cup.

  Styles pulled up a chair beside him, and they sat like that for a full minute, staring at their efforts like critics appraising artwork. Some of the similarities were obvious, if nothing to get excited about. They’d all attended at least one AMT event, but then again Glass had said that was par for the course. They were spread across four recruitment consultants. Porter made a mental note to speak to all four. Apart from that there didn’t seem to be any pattern to speak of.

  Styles broke the silence. ‘All a bit bland, really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To look at,’ said Styles.

  He was right. They were all cut from the same generic City boy template. Short hair. Clean-shaven. Lined up alongside each other like a DIY game of Guess Who. Porter kept staring at each picture in turn, willing something to pop out, a case-defining fact to slap him across the face.

  ‘What about …’ he began but trailed off.

  ‘What about what?’

  ‘The ages. It’s not a fixed pattern as such, but look.’ He pointed at the first picture, Andrew George. ‘Youngest first, then they get older. There’s a few who don’t quite fit that, but broadly speaking, they get older the more recent we get.’

  ‘What does that mean, though?’ said Styles.

  ‘If I knew that, I’d have the case cracked by teatime,’ said Porter.

  They lapsed back into silence, but this time it was Porter who spoke first.

  ‘Family,’ he said. ‘Or lack of. No kids. No wives, at least none they still live with.’

  ‘What about Gordon?’ Styles asked.

  ‘He’s different. He didn’t know about Max till around a month ago. Stands to reason that whoever put his name on that list didn’t either.’

  ‘That would explain why nobody’s looking for any of them,’ said Styles, nodding.

  ‘That, and the fact they all signed off with a farewell note before they upped and left. Have we seen copies of them yet?’

  ‘We’ve not been asking,’ said Styles, looking a little sheepish at missing something so obvious. ‘I’ll get on it.’

  ‘Yep, do,’ said Porter. ‘Did we get cars sitting on Leyson and Baxter yet?’

  As he said this, he glanced at the door, patches of frosted glass obscuring part of the office beyond. He recognised Milburn’s grey Brillo-pad hair, even though the body was blurred. Watched him head over to their desks, stand there for a second, then move off towards the exit.

  Styles winced. ‘Sorry, guv, hadn’t got round to it yet, what with the appointment and everything.’

  ‘Let’s get that sorted from tonight,’ said Porter.

  Styles puffed out his cheeks. ‘You think the super will sign it off, guv? He’s tight enough when it comes to getting drinks in, never mind overtime.’

  ‘He’s gone for the weekend now. I’ll square it with him on Monday,’ said Porter, even though he knew the only thing Milburn would want to talk about on Monday was whether he’d seen Sameera Misra yet. Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  July 2009

  He’d always been a solitary figure before the beating, but he lived like a hermit in the months that followed. Apart from buying food, the only thing that lured him outside were his appointments at the doctor, or physio, and soon not even them. His pay-off from McCallum was enough to eke out an existence, but that wouldn’t last for ever.

  He started filling out job applications, but the first tremors had already hit the City. Words like collapse and sub-prime were spoken with pained expressions by newsreaders on every channel, and jobs, decent jobs at least, seemed to be on the endangered species list.

  London still lured people in, like the Pied Piper, but by God you had to pay that piper to stay. For every one that made it, two or three had their dreams trampled. Some limped off, licking their wounds, others stayed, unwilling, or unable, to admit defeat.

  He approached recruitment firms, one after another, scant pickings thrown his way. Nervous waits in reception areas, leg-bouncing, fidgeting, stumbling through his answers, words tangled together like vines on a trellis. Bank balance draining away like sand in an hourglass, he even resorted to working evenings as a delivery driver for a local takeaway.

  This half a life, day-to-day existence ended with a ping of his inbox. He barely remembered the mail he’d sent to AMT, but they were now taking on new clients. Short and to the point. This Friday, their office. He realised he was holding his breath as he read it. Let it out in one long whoosh. The thought of getting suited up for yet another rejection made his shoulders slump an inch, and legs fill with lead. But what was the alternative? A lifetime of delivering pizzas? He was due a break. Owed one. Time to man up and collect.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Porter glanced at the dashboard clock as pulled up at his parents’ house. Eight minutes late, the best he’d managed in a while. They still lived in the house he’d grown up in, a four-bed detached just outside Pinner. A street lined with lawns like bowling greens, borders weeded to within an inch of their lives, and curtains that twitched like they were sending Morse code messages.

  All their cars were there, Dad’s Beemer practically kissing the rear bumper of Mum’s postbox red Mini Cooper in the driveway, his sister Kat’s people carrier blocking them both in. He pictured them waiting at the dinner table for him, all eyes on the clock. The street seemed to be holding its breath as he trudged up the driveway. Nothing more than a drone of cars from
St Thomas’ Drive a few streets away.

  Food, one drink, then home. Tomorrow was a vague concept at the moment. Nowhere to be. No one to see. Not due back at the station until Monday. The notion of switching off for the day felt decadent. Good in theory, God knows he could do with the downtime. Realistically, it rarely happened. Cross that bridge as and when.

  He walked straight in without knocking. His parents, bless their trusting souls, had never been ones for a locked door if they were in. A luxury in this neighbourhood, a liability most other places. He followed murmured voices into the kitchen. Three sets of eyes turned to him as he walked in. Mum was stirring something on the hob, like a mini witches’ cauldron. Kat’s legs dangled from the workbench as she swung her feet like a kid in a playground. His dad was halfway through pouring a glass of red wine. The glance at Porter nearly cost him, but he looked back just in time to stop it from overflowing.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Kat, holding her arms out like a kid demanding a carry.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he walked over and gave her a hug. ‘Alright, sis.’

  She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, squeezed, held it for a few extra seconds, even when he tried to pull away. His mum had stood her spoon against the pot, waiting her turn, and he moved on to her next, bending down to hug her. She smelt of whatever was in that pot, a vegetable mish-mash of some sort. Mum and Kat couldn’t be mistaken for anything but mother and daughter. Same high cheekbones, same almond-shaped eyes. A hand clapped him on the back, and his dad held out a second glass of red when he turned, not as dangerously full as his own on the bench.

  ‘You can have one, can’t you, son?’

  Porter eyed the glass, wished for something stronger, but took it with a smile.

  ‘Got the car, so just the one.’

  ‘Looks like you managed to stop trending on Twitter,’ Kat said, raising her glass in a toast.

  ‘Katherine!’ Harriet Porter gave her daughter a glance that could wither flowers.

  ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ said Porter. ‘I get far worse than that from the lads at work.’ He stuck his tongue out at Kat as he walked over to where she sat, leaning on the counter next to her. ‘Where are the boys?’

  ‘Tony’s taken them to see Despicable Me 3, so I get a night off, and you’ – she leant over, play-punching his shoulder – ‘you get the pleasure of my company, you lucky bugger.’

  ‘Dinner should be ready in half an hour,’ said Harriet, turning back to the hob. ‘That’s plenty of time.’

  Kat’s smile disappeared. Richard Porter cleared his throat, glanced at his wife, then back to his son.

  ‘Plenty of time for what?’ Porter asked, narrowing his eyes, wondering why his family were suddenly looking like shifty suspects about to be interviewed.

  ‘Your mother and I,’ his father began, ‘well, I mean we all’ – he held out his glass towards Kat, roping her into whatever was coming next. ‘We’re just a little worried about you, you know, with this mess with that man, the video on Twitter.’

  Porter took a long swig of his wine. ‘What is this? Some kind of intervention?’ he said, half smiling. He looked at each of them in turn. His mum had turned to face him now, wearing the same worried face he’d seen a hundred times as a kid.

  ‘You never talk, Jake. You never tell anyone how you’re feeling. People make themselves ill like that, you know. Bottling it all up.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t talk about how I’m feeling, because I’m actually fine, and there’s nothing to say,’ he said, doing a poor job of convincing himself, let alone the three of them, by the looks they all gave.

  ‘All I’m saying is that we’re here for you if you need us. Those …’ He watched his mum struggle for something other than a swear word. ‘Those fools that say you’ve lost the plot, well, they don’t know you like we do. They don’t know what you’ve been through.’

  Lost the plot? He’d read a damn sight worse already this week. He knew everything she said came from a good place, but it was like the first six months after Holly all over again. Killing him with kindness, smothering, offering him everything but the space he wanted.

  He stared down at the pool of red wine left in his glass. Breathe. Count to ten. She meant well. They all did. Silence, except for a ticking kitchen clock, and wet popping noises from the pan.

  ‘Well, this got awkward real quick,’ said Kat, pushing off the bench, padding towards him on bare feet. ‘You don’t want to talk to us, you don’t have to,’ she said, cupping his face in her hands. ‘But you should talk to someone.’ She gave him a light double tap on each cheek, scooped up a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and went out into the back garden.

  ‘Anyone for a top-up?’ said Richard, holding up the bottle of Merlot as an olive branch.

  Harriet sighed like a deflating tyre, turning her attention back to the pans on the hob. Porter shook his head.

  ‘I’m OK, thanks, Dad. Back in a sec.’

  He walked past his mum, touching a hand to her shoulder, felt her tense then relax. He had his way of dealing with things. She had hers. He stepped out into the dimming twilight and slumped into one of the patio chairs next to Kat. She’d slouched down low, almost horizontal, staring up at the sky, one hand dangling towards the ground holding a cigarette.

  He reached over, plucking it from her fingers before she could stop him.

  ‘Oi, give that back,’ she said, eyes wide in surprise. ‘You don’t even smoke!’

  ‘Only once in a blue moon. I won’t tell if you don’t,’ he said, glancing across at the kitchen window to make sure they weren’t being watched.

  ‘You’re asking me to lie for you, Detective?’ she said in a faux-breathy voice.

  Porter took a drag on the cigarette, held it in for a three count, then let it out in a messy plume. How long since his last one? Couple of weeks? Used to be no more than a couple a year, and even then only when blind drunk. They sat side by side in silence for a full minute, passing the stump of a cigarette back and forth like a baton.

  ‘I miss her too, you know,’ said Kat finally. ‘We all do, and I know what you’re going to say. It’s not the same.’ She twisted around in her chair to face him. ‘She was your wife, and I get that. It must have been shit. Still is, I bet, but you know what I’d be asking myself if I was you?’

  Porter said nothing, just stared up at the clouds, lumpy like cold mashed potato.

  ‘I’d ask myself, what would Holly want me to do, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be to fade away like this, piece by piece.’

  ‘I’m hardly fading away, Kat!’ he said, louder than he intended, and glanced at the kitchen window to check his parents weren’t eavesdropping. ‘What do you want me to say? That it hurts? Of course it bloody hurts. What do you want me to do? Cry? Crawl into a bottle?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not me. I’m out there every bloody day, grafting my backside off to make sure that other people don’t have to deal with shit like this.’

  ‘And that’s my point, Jake. All you do is work. You finish one case and sink your teeth into the next one. We hardly see you. When was the last time you came and hung out with the boys? Properly hung out, for more than half an hour.’

  Porter sat forwards, practically stubbed the cigarette on her arm as he passed it over. He wasn’t angry at what she was saying. Fact was that she was bang on the money. What would Holly say if she was here? He closed his eyes. Pictured her, pursed lips, shaking her head. She’d call him a muppet. Tell him to crack on with life, and that life meant more than just work.

  He felt a hand on his arm. Turned to see her looking over at him, genuine concern etched in her face. ‘Why don’t you come over tomorrow? The boys would love to see you. Tony’s been looking for an excuse to fire the barbie up.’

  She only held the serious face for a few more seconds, fluttering eyelashes and sticking out her tongue to lighten the mood.

  He tried his best not to smile but failed miserably. She’d always been able to drag
one out of him.

  ‘Fine, you win, I’ll come,’ he said, standing up. ‘Come on, before they send out a search party.’

  She bounced up, gave a happy squeak and wrapped her arms around him. He barely had time to return the hug before she pulled away. He saw the mischief in her eyes, narrowed his own.

  ‘I know that look. What are you up to?’

  ‘Moi?’ she said, spinning away and towards the house, vanishing inside before he could ask anything else.

  He’d seen that look a hundred times growing up. It usually meant she was up to no good, and more often than not, at his expense. What with everything else he had going on, how bad could it be? He’d find out soon enough.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Porter squatted down by the graveside, resting one hand on the headstone. The tulips were a blaze of reds and oranges, Holly’s favourites. He slotted them through the holes in the colander-style lid of the steel vase, like straws into a drink. Late in the day was his favourite time to visit. Fewer mourners, more peaceful. He preferred the place to himself. Alone with his thoughts.

  Once the last flower was in he stood up, knees creaking, and took a step back to admire his work. An engine revved in the distance. He glanced over his shoulder towards the main gate, but he still had the place to himself. That was the problem, though, according to Kat at least. Too much time with just himself for company. Sign of the times that, outside of work, the person he spent most time talking to was his dead wife.

  Maybe Kat was right. Maybe he needed a good slap. Everyone else had gotten on with their lives and left him wallowing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see it for himself. He wasn’t stupid. It was easier to squat in his grief like a troll under a bridge than to let anything about her go, even this.

  ‘What do I do, Hol? Can’t do right for doing wrong. What do I do?’