Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Sorry.’ For nearly mowing you down. For grabbing you.

  ‘Yeah, you said that bit already.’

  He held up his phone. ‘Had my head stuck in this.’

  He realised as he waved it around that Kat’s text was still on screen. Felt knots cinch tight in his stomach. At what? Guilt? What was there to feel guilty about? Nothing to even see there, just a one-word question. It was more the subject of the enquiry. Rachel. Porter felt the heat in his cheeks. At what, though? Wasn’t like he’d made promises to her. To either of them. He’d gone home on Saturday with nothing more than a brief hug goodbye. Not even so much as a ‘hope to see you again’, let alone a phone number, so why feel bad?

  A flash of memory. Darkness and drizzle outside a bar. A drunken kiss, no more than a second or two. So why did this feel like a betrayal? She must have seen something in his expression, her own forehead creasing in concern.

  ‘Everything alright?’ She flicked her eyes at the phone.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Just getting grief from my sister.’

  She pushed down on her crutches, shifting her weight. ‘Feel your pain, I’ve got two.’

  One second stretched into three, felt like thirty. ‘You here to see Milburn again?’ Porter said finally.

  ‘No, today’s part of my grand reappearance on the job. Just a few hours getting back up to speed, finding out what you lot have been up to without me.’

  Porter nodded, hands in pockets now. ‘Not much really.’ Way to go, smooth talker. ‘Anyway, I should let you get inside,’ he said, stepping to the side to give her room.

  She hopped one step forwards, turning to face him as she drew level. ‘I looked for you on Wednesday, after I’d seen Milburn. Coffee, remember?’

  He looked up and away, eyes screwed shut, part embarrassment, part frustration at having forgotten. He’d gone to see OHU while she was in with Milburn, and when Max had called him, he’d left without a second thought.

  ‘Shit, sorry, something came up. I had to split. I …’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s fine, I work here too, remember? I know what it’s like. Tell you what,’ she said, letting go of one crutch to fish around in her bag. She pulled out what looked like a receipt, and a pen. ‘I can always pop back in another day if you’re off out now.’ She scribbled as she spoke. ‘Here’s my number. Just drop me a text when you’re free.’

  Porter took it, not sure what to say. Her head bobbed down, looking at her bag as she dropped the pen back in, but he caught the rosy tinge spreading across her cheeks, as if they’d been pinched by an overenthusiastic auntie. She took the steps surprisingly quickly, vanishing inside before his tongue became unstuck.

  Porter puffed out his cheeks, blowing out hard, like cooling down an imaginary cuppa. As if life wasn’t complicated enough.

  Would he still be there if she turned around, watching her leave? Would it mean anything even if he was? She forced herself to keep moving until she was through the door and around the corner. Her face still felt flushed, uncomfortably warm, as if she’d been sitting too close to a radiator, but she knew it was nothing to do with double-timing it up the steps.

  Six months ago she would have asked him outright, outranked or not. At least that way she’d know. Self-confidence had been just another casualty that hadn’t survived her accident intact. Readjusting to life back at work felt like a steep enough slope to climb without the thought of awkwardness in briefings, avoided eye contact whenever they passed in a corridor. Even just passing him her number had felt like walking the plank, waiting for the swoop in her stomach if he hadn’t taken the piece of paper.

  She stepped into the lift, using the precious seconds of privacy to slow her breathing. Inhale. Exhale. A problem for another day. The lift jolted to a halt, and as it opened she saw Farida Benayoun standing there, smile growing like it was keeping time with the widening doors.

  ‘Evie! Didn’t think you were back in till Wednesday?’

  ‘That was the plan, but I’ve got a doc’s appointment then, so switched it around.’

  ‘What you up to, then? You got time for a cuppa?’

  ‘Yeah, sounds good. Gimme ten minutes to sort a few bits?’

  Benayoun checked her watch. ‘I’ll come find you. I’ve got an hour before I’ve got to head out anyway, so no rush.’

  Benayoun stepped way off to one side, as if Simmons needed the clearance, like a wide-load lorry. Something she’d look forward to seeing the back of. These damn crutches had been nothing but an irritation for the last few weeks. She felt strong enough to throw them to one side, like one of those people healed live on TV by a preacher, but she’d made a promise to her dad. Doctors’ orders to be followed to the letter. Two more days and they were history.

  She made her way through the office, returning smiles and nods, until she reached her desk. She’d avoided it last week. Just being back in the office for the first time had been a big step. She still felt out of place. Couldn’t quite explain why. It was the same faces and surroundings as before. Familiar, but at the same time unsettling. She leant her crutches against the desk and sat down.

  Baby steps. She’d be fine. Had to be. What else could she be if she wanted to get her life back on track? It’d be a while before she was anywhere other than a desk, so that would give her time to readjust. Could be worse, she could have ended up like Mike Gibson. He had charged into the same building she had, but while she’d left on a stretcher, he’d left in a body bag.

  That thought of Gibson washed away her self-pity like a cold shower. She’d make this work, one day at a time. As for Porter, she’d wait till the end of the week, then give it up. His loss.

  It occurred to Porter as he pulled up outside Max’s house that he should have called ahead, but the chance meeting with Simmons had thrown him off stride. Would a coffee just be a coffee? Would it be fair to her to make her think it could be? He wasn’t sure he had enough headspace for himself, let alone letting anyone else in. What kind of insensitive idiot would he be if he fobbed her off after all she’d been through? He had kissed her back, after all.

  He was still wrestling with his thoughts, as Max opened the door. Porter could see the signs of wear and tear creeping in around the edges. Shoulders hunched ever so slightly forwards, dark hint of stubble coming in stronger like a bruise. Even the smile he gave when he saw it was Porter looked like it taxed him.

  ‘Hey, wasn’t expecting you. Has something happened?’

  ‘Not exactly, nothing significant anyway. Just passing,’ he lied, ‘and thought I’d update you face-to-face.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Max, standing back to let Porter past. ‘Timing is perfect as ever. Kettle’s just boiled. Jen? Honey? Jake’s here.’

  Max walked through into the kitchen without waiting for a reply. Porter heard signs of life from upstairs as he followed. Flushing toilet, creaking door, soft footsteps. Max pulled three cups from the cupboard.

  ‘It’ll have to be instant, I’m afraid. Machine’s broken.’ He shot a glance across at the silent contraption on the bench, as if he’d taken its malfunction personally.

  ‘Let you off this time,’ said Porter, pulling out a chair to sit down.

  By the time Max had dumped a heaped spoon of Nescafé into two cups and a herbal teabag into the third, Jen ambled through the door, hair still wet from a shower or bath. Porter figured the rosy cheeks made the latter more likely. Score one for the detective. Damp strands of hair laced a pattern across a grey hoodie at least two sizes too big for her. Probably Max’s. It hung off her like a kid wearing their father’s jacket.

  ‘Hey, Jen,’ said Porter, rising to give her a hug. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said in a voice too quiet to convince anyone. There was a surprising strength when she returned his hug, and she gave a quick squeeze, then let go and headed over to where Max held out a cup for her.

  ‘What’s the latest, then?’ said Max. ‘I’m assuming there’s so
mething or you’d have just called.’

  Porter hesitated. He’d thought this through on the way here, in between hating himself for the way he’d clammed up around Simmons. He had to be careful not to raise any false hopes, or to cross a line in terms of how much he was allowed to share. At the same time, he knew if he were in Max’s shoes, he’d want to hear it, whatever it was, warts and all.

  He ran Max through the trip to AMT, finishing with what they’d found out about the resignations.

  ‘So basically’ – he sat back in his chair as he finished – ‘it’s like doing a jigsaw, except without the bloody picture on the box for help. I’m assuming you’ve still heard nothing from your dad?’

  Max glanced over at Jen. She walked over, stood behind him, hands on his shoulders. ‘Tell him, Max.’

  ‘Tell me what?’ said Porter, looking at Max through narrowed eyes.

  Max licked his lips, looked up at Jen, and back to Porter. ‘I’m guessing you’d have said if you’d already found out, so now’s as good a time as any to mention it.’

  ‘He’s been in touch?’ Porter jumped in.

  Max shook his head. ‘No, but I went to his office yesterday.’

  Porter rolled his eyes. ‘Max—’ he began, but Max held up a hand.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, but just hear me out. I’ve not said anything that could mess up your investigation. All I told them was how we’d only just got in touch. All I asked was if they knew where he was, just a concerned son, that’s all. I’m not daft.’

  ‘Didn’t say you were but I told you, you need to let me handle this.’

  ‘He doesn’t work there any more, Jake. He resigned, just like your other guys.’

  That knocked Porter sideways. ‘Did they say any more than that?’

  Max shook his head. ‘Health reasons, apparently. Left a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Did you get to see the letter?’

  ‘Eventually, yeah. I took a few of his letters along in case they doubted who I was.’ Max slid his iPhone across the table, mail app open. Porter scanned it, read it a second time. Almost identical to the others. True, Gordon could have done that deliberately to blend in with the others, but Porter had serious doubts now that he was their man. He reread the email a third time.

  Date: Monday 3 November 2014

  From: gordon.jackson@marlin.com

  To: thomas.phillips@marlin.com

  Tom,

  It’s with a heavy heart that I must tender my resignation with effect from today. The circumstances are personal and health-related so hope you will understand the abrupt nature of my decision. I’m aware that in doing so I forfeit any salary stipulated in my contract re: notice period and accept that. I’ve made arrangements to deliver my laptop and company phone back to head office – confirmation email to follow.

  I’ve greatly enjoyed being part of the Marlin team and wish you all well in your future endeavours.

  Best regards,

  Gordon

  Porter pushed the phone back across to Max. ‘You shouldn’t have gone there, Max.’

  ‘But?’ Max hunched forwards, elbows on the table, re-energised now. ‘Is it the same as the others?’

  Porter paused, nodded. ‘Almost identical.’

  ‘What does it mean, though?’ said Jen, a hint of a tremor in her voice.

  Porter pressed on, ignoring her question. ‘What else did they say, Max? Think back to what this Phillips guy told you.’

  Max stifled a yawn, blinking back the tiredness. How long before it caught him up, overtook him? Porter wondered. ‘Just that he’d been there nearly six years. Got on well with everyone but kept to himself outside of work. They tried calling and emailing after they received that.’ He nodded towards the phone. ‘But nobody’s spoken to him since.’

  A dozen questions and theories fluttered around, with no chance to settle, like leaves in a strong wind. ‘I’m going to need you to forward me a copy of the email.’

  Max nodded, tapping at the phone, eager to please.

  ‘I also need you to promise me you’ll stop playing detective. If there’s something to look at, someone to talk to, you call me. Understood?’

  Max was nodding, but Porter knew he’d have to keep a close eye on his friend. Max had a vested interest, and the best of intentions, but any repeat of the trip to Marlin, no matter how well-meaning, could play havoc with any case they might eventually take to court.

  ‘Do you still think he did this, Jake? Kidnapped Jen?’ Max spoke more softly now.

  Porter weighed up his choices. Went with blunt honesty, wondering if he’d come to regret it. ‘No, Max. No, I don’t.’ He saw the relief ripple across Max’s face.

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ said Jen.

  ‘Can’t be sure of much at this stage, but whatever’s going on, my gut tells me that Gordon is in the same boat as the rest of them, not the one pulling the strings.’

  ‘And what boat is that?’ asked Max.

  Porter had hoped he wouldn’t ask anything quite so direct. ‘I know what you’re asking, Max. We’ve found one body, so will we find more? There’s not enough to suggest everyone has ended up like that. Do I think these guys are in trouble? Yes. Why else would they disappear? Could they have stashed themselves away somewhere, waiting till it’s safe to come back? Yeah, it’s possible.’

  He left it there. Possible. Unlikely in his view, but it served no purpose to hit Max with that head-on. Not unless he had to.

  Stashed themselves away, or been stashed away?

  That was the unspoken question. Harold Mayes hadn’t willingly been stashed in the freezer. That much was for sure. Time, and an autopsy, would tell if he’d had any serious health issues worth resigning over. If he didn’t, well, that opened up a darker set of questions. He hoped Max couldn’t read too much of this in his expression. Nobody wants to be the person who slaps down what little hope there is hovering around. Despite all that Max had said about his dad, the confusion and anger of growing up without him, Porter knew it was there, and he’d do what he could to keep that hope alive, until something or someone else snuffed it out.

  They all cracked in the end, and this time had been no different. He’d lasted longer than most, but they all caved when base survival instinct kicked in. There was never going to be any last-minute reprieve, of course, but they weren’t to know that. Eventually, they all gave him what he wanted. Every last detail. A free pass into their lives. Once they’d accepted the trade, life in exchange for information, they talked willingly, eagerly even. Carrot and stick worked every time. Give a taste of the latter, then dangle the former.

  The visit from the police had thrown him, but he worked well under pressure. This would be no exception. Plans would need tweaking, sure. What was set to be a summer break would be an indefinite leave of absence. None of the changes would benefit the unfortunate soul in the boot of his car, but the less they knew the better.

  He waited till 3 a.m. before making a move. Not without risk, granted. This had never been part of the plan, but there was no telling how quickly the police might start piecing things together. The subject hadn’t been keen on the idea of being locked in the boot but promises of a release within twenty-four hours had smoothed the waters.

  The drive to the industrial estate took forty-five minutes. Navigating the criss-cross of roads running through it, only two. At this time in the morning, it had the feel of a deserted movie set. He pulled up outside unit 173 and wound down his window. Nothing on the outside to mark it out, no logo, no signage. Just a grey-slatted roller door, a little higher than a transit van, single door set off to the side of it. He sat for a moment, head cocked, listening for sounds from outside. Nothing, not even the hum of traffic from the main road half a mile back.

  Even though his footsteps were the only sound, he still looked left and right as he slid a key into the door, stepped inside and hit a switch. Fluorescent strips strobed to life. He took a half-dozen steps inside. Stopped. Listened. Looke
d. Just as he’d left it. A second switch sent the corrugated rolls of the main door grumbling upwards, unnaturally loud in the silence, revealing his car inch by inch. He pulled the car inside and tapped the switch to bring the door back down, world’s slowest theatre curtain, slight ripple spreading upwards through the door as it clunked against the floor.

  The space inside was a thousand square feet, carefully chosen. Too expensive meant a prime spot, too much security, too many potential sets of eyes watching him coming and going. Too cheap meant small, poor location, more likely to be broken into. No insurance policy would pay out for theft of these contents.

  He popped the boot open, saw the man inside wincing against the sterile brightness of the strip light. He lifted him out, checked the cable ties that pinned his hands together behind his back were still tight, then led him to a storeroom at the far side. Ignored his questions as they walked past half a dozen large, boxy, white containers. Placed a hand square between his shoulders and shoved the subject into the room, pulled the door shut, checking the lock twice.

  Satisfied the subject wasn’t going anywhere, he went over to a desk butted against the right-hand wall, opening up a laptop he’d brought with him. There was no phone line, no broadband. Utilities meant paperwork, bills, a trail. He’d read a blog a while back that claimed service providers can log all sites you access via your router. Didn’t know if it was true or not, but he wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks. Speaking of risks, he’d decided to keep the subject alive. Not a decision made with any emotion, or moral hesitancy. Quite the opposite. Just so happened that keeping them alive was part of his exit strategy. For now, anyway.

  He pulled out a pay-as-you-go smartphone, scrolled through the settings to turn it into a hotspot, his piggyback onto the Internet. He opened up a browser window. HSBC first, tapping in the subject’s username and password. Nodding as he saw everything was just as he’d been told. Two minutes was all it took to issue instructions to sell when the market opened, proceeds to be transferred into an account of his own. Not his actual name, of course. Years of practice had helped weed out schoolboy errors.