Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  He’d only been vaguely aware of what happened behind him a few minutes back. A few short, angry toots of a horn made him glance in the rear-view mirror. Someone had chanced it on amber, avoiding a T-bone by inches. He made a left turn seconds later and glanced through the passenger side window, seeing what looked like a Volvo, hand held out of the passenger window in apology.

  Five minutes later, he pulled up at another set of lights, in the glare of a huge twenty-four-hour Tesco, with car park floodlights that wouldn’t look out of place at a stadium. Another glance in the mirror. Was that the same Volvo, two cars back?

  Amber joined red, both yielding to green. He hesitated. Less than five minutes to Max’s street from here. Could be coincidence. Might not even be the same car. He rolled slowly forwards, leaving his turn until the last minute. Pulled the wheel to the left and headed towards the supermarket. A white Mini that had been tucked in behind him cruised straight over. His eyes flicked from road, to mirror and back to road again. Felt his breath catch as the Volvo eased around the junction, tucking in behind him.

  Could just be somebody doing a late-night shop. An image of the apologetic hand swam to mind, sticking out from the passenger side. Two people in the car, not one. He followed the signs for the petrol station, pulled alongside a pump and climbed out. Nobody followed him onto the forecourt. A slight twist to either side, loosening up as if stiff from the journey, and he saw the Volvo in the main car park. Hard to see past the glare of artificial light off the windscreen.

  He went through the motions, pumped a few litres in, half expecting a hand on his shoulder. Were they here for him? No, they’d be out of their car. Watching him, then, but why just watch, and not act?

  He paid for his fuel and a pack of Marlboro Lights, peeling off the cellophane as he walked back to the car. Max could wait for another day, maybe two. Now he knew he had babysitters, he could slip past them another time. No reason to take any chances tonight. Pulling away from the pump, he shook a cigarette loose from the pack, left it dangling from his lip while he waited for the lighter to heat up.

  The Volvo followed him back out onto the main road, always a few cars behind, as if that granted them invisibility. Amateurs. They’d get a lesson soon enough.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  For the second time in four days, Porter stared at his wife’s name carved in marble. He stifled a yawn. Last night had been three hours of sleep, and not great sleep at that. Holly had danced her way through his dreams again. Cruellest of all, he’d woken from one where she’d been lying next to him in bed, and he’d opened his eyes, confused for a second as to where she’d gone. Double-edged sword, though. At least on nights like that he got to hear her voice again, feel her hand in his. The gold inlayed writing caught the early morning sun. He could recite the words with his eyes closed.

  Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile.

  She’d always loved a meaningful quote, and Einstein’s words might as well have been written with her in mind, the way she lived her life. She would have been thirty-one today. Porter thought back to when she met his parents. How she’d blushed when they pressed her into telling her age. He closed his eyes, savouring the memory, letting its warmth wash over him.

  The flame-coloured tulips were still fresh from Saturday’s visit, poking through the holes like candles on a cake. The irony wasn’t lost on him. There was so much he wanted to say every time he came. Tell her that her folks were OK, that he still visited them from time to time. That Demetrious still sniffed at her side of the bed most mornings, looking accusingly at Porter as if he’d hidden her somewhere.

  He didn’t say any of it out loud. Just pressed index and middle fingers of his right hand to his lips, touched them to the cool stone.

  ‘Happy birthday, sweetheart. Love you.’

  Porter wound his way back through the lines of marble, moving from his past back to present, and slid into the driver’s seat. The eyes looking back at him from the rear-view mirror were red-rimmed and heavy. He dug a knuckle into each, rubbing some life into them.

  Time to get your head in the game.

  He pictured it all, everything that had happened in the last week, all the coincidences, circumstantial titbits, like a cloud, swelling in size. Hoped today would be the day it burst. Wondered what would spill out from it when it did.

  Styles sat perched on the edge of the desk, fidgeting like a kid in detention, as Porter read the email on his screen. He saw the moment it registered, Porter’s eyes widening as he looked up.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Styles. ‘Read it all.’

  Porter turned back to the screen, lips moving but no sound as he hurried through the rest of the message.

  ‘I knew it. I bloody knew it. They were all his clients,’ he said, pushing back from the desk, bouncing to his feet, a ball of nervous excitement. ‘Used to be anyway. He had them all before he went missing, then they got passed on to other recruiters. We need to find Fletcher before anyone else gets hurt.’

  ‘That we do,’ said Styles. ‘And because I’m a model professional, and the fact that Emma woke me up at six this morning on the way to yoga, I’ve already made a start on that.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Porter, ‘don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘Seems there’s still a good chance that our Mr Fletcher might be just another monkey rather than the organ grinder.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, after he jumped ship, he decided not to spend another penny, and vanished like a fart in the wind. At least that’s what it looks like at first glance.’

  ‘What do you mean, first glance?’ Porter’s excitement gave way to uncertainty.

  ‘There are differences,’ said Styles, opening a black notebook from the desk. ‘Fletcher didn’t own his place, he rented. All the others owned theirs and sold up before they vanished. Secondly, he’s the only one who didn’t pay off what he owed before he split, credit cards, loans, that type of thing.’

  All circumstantial, like everything else. Practically meaningless without context.

  ‘And lastly,’ Styles said with a flourish, ‘he was the only one reported missing.’

  That got Porter’s attention back on track. ‘Who by? When?’

  ‘We took a call back in 2009 from Fletcher’s sister, apparently.’

  ‘Who took it? What happened?’

  ‘Not a lot, apparently,’ said Styles. ‘She reported it, but we closed it down.’

  ‘What do you mean, closed it down?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ said Styles. ‘It’s logged as missing persons, but Harry Archer took it. You remember Harry, don’t you?’

  Archer had been a lifer who took his pension a few years back, and left to tour around Europe in his mobile home. Wouldn’t be easy to track down, to say the least.

  ‘Harry had a look, but from the notes, once he saw the guy had resigned, he took the easy way out and said there was nothing to investigate. Just a bloke of sound mind wanting their privacy. The sister let him in to have a look around Fletcher’s apartment. Apparently, there were some clothes, a suitcase and passport missing.’

  ‘What about the sister?’ Porter asked. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘You want to speak to her? No can do. She’s currently residing in the family plot at a cemetery not far from Oxford.’

  Currently. Like her situation was likely to change any time soon.

  Porter scowled, dropped back onto his chair with a solid thump. One step forwards, two back.

  ‘There is more, though,’ said Styles. ‘I called and spoke to Glass’s PA again, Ellie. Asked her to see what else she could give us on Fletcher. Funny thing is, despite disappearing, it seems Mr Fletcher still felt the need to log in and view client files, some as recently as six weeks ago.’

  ‘Does that mean he’s been in the office, or can they do that remotely?’

  ‘Either’s possible, but remotely makes more sense.’

  ‘And he’s viewed every name on
our list since he left?’

  Styles nodded. ‘She said – she being Ellie – that she’d have to tell Glass, so I suspect the access will be revoked soon enough, but yeah, he’s looked at them all.’

  Porter let this filter in as he considered his next move. ‘OK,’ he said finally, ‘we keep looking for Fletcher, and see who we can talk to who knew him in the meantime.’

  ‘I’ll see if there’s anyone still at AMT that worked with him back then,’ said Styles.

  ‘Good. While you’re at it, get his address. If it was a rental and he skipped town, might be worth having a chat with the landlord. Anything from the cars on Baxter and Leyson yet?’

  ‘Not heard anything,’ said Styles, shaking his head. ‘I’ll check in with them, though.’

  Porter ran a hand over his chin, two days’ worth of bristles rasping against his palm, the price to pay for feeling sorry for himself this morning. He looked at Styles, noticing for the first time that his partner seemed a little subdued. He thought back to last night, walking towards his car, Emma’s voice cut off by the closing door.

  You didn’t tell—

  Tell who? Tell what? Styles looked up, caught Porter studying him, and his forehead creased, somewhere between question and confusion.

  ‘Emma OK this morning?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Styles made a face as if the question had caught him by surprise. ‘Oh, yeah, she’s fine. Good night’s sleep worked a treat.’ But his smile didn’t carry the same confidence as his words.

  You didn’t tell—

  Only half a sentence, but the edge to her voice left little doubt that the words he’d missed weren’t happy ones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  July 2009

  The meeting was shorter than he expected. Diary mix-up, only fifteen minutes instead of the original hour. Confidence rolled off the consultant in waves as he raced through his pitch, how the perfect job was just around the corner. He tried his best to mirror the consultant’s poise, his assertiveness, but it felt awkward, like an ill-fitting suit.

  He hesitated at the suggestion of continuing the meeting over a drink after work the following day, a peace offering for the diary mix-up. Socialising, networking, wasn’t really his thing, but he couldn’t afford to be choosy.

  By the time he entered the bar the following evening, the consultant had plainly made a start without him. Glassy-eyed, at the tipping point from a few sociable ones to a serious night’s work.

  Even in the open-plan bar, he felt penned in, bordering on claustrophobic, by the consultant’s constant invasion of his personal space. Forever leaning in, half shouting slurred anecdotes above the background mash-up of the Friday night crowd. He nursed his own drinks, tried to laugh at the right intervals, tried to turn the conversation back to jobs.

  He’d decided to tell the lie after one more drink. Say that he had to meet a friend, and scurry back to the solitude of his flat. Before he had a chance, the consultant leant in, finger crooked, ready to share a secret. There was a job, perfect for someone like him. He had the details back at his flat, only five minutes from here.

  There were a thousand things he’d rather have done than go back for another drink. This would be the moment he’d go back to many times over the years that followed, turn it over, look at it from all sides. How different would life be if he’d just said no? Declined the drink and left. The answer was always the same. What could have happened didn’t matter. Never did. Pointless dwelling on what might have been, because he had gone back to the flat, and, when he did, everything had changed. Everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Max poked through the loose change on his palm while the barista waited patiently. This was the longest he’d left Jen alone since her ordeal. Such a subjective word, he thought as he grabbed a sachet of sugar and sauntered over to a free table. For some people, an ordeal is a delayed flight, or fighting your way through hordes of Christmas shoppers.

  It’d be a while before she could properly put this behind her, if ever. She was doing a good job of toughing it out so far, though. Sure, she was a little more tactile than usual, but he couldn’t have blamed her if she’d gone to pieces and felt a surge of pride at the way she was fighting through it.

  He glanced at his watch. Callum was already five minutes late. Not bad by his usual standards. Max slouched back in his chair, settling in for a spot of people-watching, when his phone rang. Porter.

  ‘Morning, mate,’ he said, hearing the hint of wariness in his own voice. A call from Porter could be anything from just checking in to we found another body.

  ‘Hey, how you two holding up?’

  ‘We’re good,’ said Max. ‘All things considering, anyway. What about you, any news?’

  There was the briefest of pauses. Was Porter deciding how much to share? ‘We’ve got another link at AMT,’ he said finally. ‘Guy by the name of Michael Fletcher. Name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Max. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’

  ‘Used to work there. His name only came up yesterday but looks like he worked with every person on our list, including your dad.’

  ‘So what’s this guy had to say for himself?’

  ‘That’s the thing – turns out he disappeared in similar circumstances eight years ago. Might just be a coincidence, but you know how I feel about too many of them stacking up.’

  ‘So he might be in trouble as well?’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to badge it any worse than trouble for now.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Porter, ‘but he’s not on the list, so I’m thinking something about him has to be different. Just need to work out what.’

  ‘What about the other two, the ones you spoke to that haven’t vanished yet?’

  ‘Still both very much around, and we’ve got someone keeping an eye to make sure they stay that way. That last part is just between us, though, yeah?’

  ‘Who am I going to tell?’ They both lapsed into silence for a few seconds. ‘Look, I just want to say I really appreciate you telling me all this.’

  ‘Feels like the least I can do. Anyway, got to go. Give my love to Jen.’

  Max barely had time to reach for his cup when Callum strolled in, hair like a smashed bird’s nest thanks to the wind.

  ‘Hey, pal, how’s tricks?’ said Callum. ‘Another?’ he said, pointing at Max’s cup.

  Max shook his head, and Callum sauntered over to the counter, returning a minute later, takeaway cup in hand.

  ‘Sorry to be that guy,’ he said, holding up the cardboard cup, ‘but I’ve only got fifteen minutes. Finally managed to get an interview with the good councillor.’

  Councillor Neil Lindsay was the latest sacrificial lamb, hounded by the press after claiming expenses for a trip that turned out to include hotels for him and his mistress.

  ‘Fifteen will do me fine. What’s your plan of attack with our lovely political poster boy, then?’

  They settled into an easy back and forth, and Max felt himself unwinding, talking about normal life, instead of the mess this past week had become. Max wondered how long it’d be before things could genuinely feel normal again.

  ‘I know you’re probably sick of being asked, but any news about your dad?’ said Callum.

  Max hesitated, faced with a similar dilemma to what Porter had no doubt been through with him. How much to reveal? Sod it, if he couldn’t trust Callum, who could he trust? Max gave him a run-through of the call he’d just had from Porter.

  ‘You want me to see what I can dig up on this Fletcher bloke?’

  ‘Hmm, I dunno, mate. I’d hate to piss Jake off if it got back to him.’

  ‘Please,’ said Callum, sounding offended, ‘I’m the soul of discretion. Besides, I know a man, who knows a man, who owes me a few favours. Wouldn’t even come back on me, let alone you.’

  ‘And what do you think there’ll be to find that the police won’t come across anyway?’

  Callum took the lid off his cup and sipped at his latte. The foa
m left a tidemark on his lip, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m thinking there might be a way to see where those files were accessed from if Fletcher wasn’t in the office. Maybe my man can track down an IP address?’

  ‘I don’t know, Callum,’ Max said, playing for time, weighing up the risks.

  ‘This guy is as good as they come. He’s like the guy from the old Cadbury’s Milk Tray adverts. In and out, never spotted. Doesn’t even leave a rose.’

  Max smiled and shook his head. ‘Alright, why not. If you say he’s good, then that’s enough for me. How long do you think it’ll take?’

  ‘I’ll call him on the way to my interview,’ said Callum. ‘With a bit of luck he can crack on straight away. He’s usually pretty quick, and he owes me. I got him Beyoncé tickets at the O2.’

  ‘Beyoncé?’ said Max, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t you dare judge,’ said Callum. ‘Might even have been there myself that night. She puts on a hell of a show.’

  ‘Et tu, Brute?’ said Max, holding a hand over his heart.

  ‘Hey, we’re not all stuck in the seventies with The Eagles,’ said Callum.

  ‘Who are still going strong by the way, albeit minus Glenn Frey. Let’s see if Miss Beyoncé is still strutting her stuff in forty years.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, anyway, I need to get going,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear back from my guy.’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said Max, and he leant forwards to shake hands as Callum walked past. ‘Tell him to be careful, though, yeah?’

  Callum winked, then left, swallowed up by the flow of shoppers streaming past. Max settled back into his seat, watching the world go by, blissfully unaware of the chain of events he’d just set in motion.

  Evie Simmons counted off the laps in her head. Before her injury, she only ever swam on holiday, but she looked forward to these sessions. Blocked everything else out except the slow, steady rhythm, the rise and fall as she bobbed along in the slow lane. She pushed herself as hard as she dared, what passed for a sprint finish to her last length. Felt the ache across her shoulders. Different to those she’d felt months ago on her first trip here. Those had been harder to work through, limbs weak from a hospital bed. Today’s was a good ache, sign of another milestone reached. Forty lengths, unthinkable a few months back.