Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  ‘You OK, guv?’ His partner’s gaze whipped from Porter, to the disappearing car, and back again.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Porter snapped, scrambling to his feet. He glanced towards the open door, saw Max and Callum both on the floor now that the car wasn’t in the way. Callum wasn’t moving at all, but he saw Max’s head roll a few inches one way, then the other, like he was waking up after a nap. He turned, ran towards his car, shouting back towards Styles as he opened the door.

  ‘Go check on Max.’

  He slid into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, looked out and saw Styles torn between doing as he was told and seeing to Max, or jumping in the car with him. Porter spun the wheel around, hitting the accelerator before Styles could protest. The BMW was almost out of sight, heading back the way they had come in, making a break for the main road, no doubt. Porter pressed down hard on the accelerator, feeling the car lurch forwards under him. The BMW had a hundred yard head start on him and he watched as it swung out into the traffic, missing a transit van by the thickness of a coat of paint.

  He couldn’t afford to be quite so cavalier, and slowed a touch, lights and sirens blaring a warning, helping to create room for him to swing out without stopping. No blue lights in the rear-view. On his own for now.

  ‘Suspect has exited Northridge Estate, turning right. Any air support?’ This time of day there was every chance a chopper might be up.

  ‘On it, guv,’ replied Benayoun over the airwaves.

  Up ahead, the BMW sliced in and out of its lane, chancing it every time there was a gap on the other side of the road. Porter spent the next few frustrating minutes weaving in and out between cars, matching the BMW turn for turn, never quite seeming to close the gap, all the while heading west. Where the hell was Baxter heading? Blackwall Tunnel, maybe. The turn off for that came and went in a blur.

  A glance in the rear-view told him he’d lost the trailing patrol car, struggling back in traffic, presumably. He had to wind this up, and quickly, before someone got injured, or worse.

  ‘Where’s the bloody chopper?’ he muttered to himself, calling out every turn they took, hoping that the cavalry would arrive and help him close this down.

  He was gaining ground, an inch here, a foot there, as they tore down Romney Road, past the University of Greenwich, wrought-iron fences blurring to the point of looking like solid sheets. Up ahead, the road forked off in both directions. The BMW drifted across to the left, wheels almost scraping the kerb, then lurched over to the right at the last minute, bumping up on a traffic island, rear wheel clipping a bollard. Porter flinched, tapping on his brakes to make the turn, minus the impact. A group of pedestrians scattered as he approached, already panicked by the near miss.

  The road forked again soon after, the BMW making no attempt to disguise bearing left this time, only a few car lengths ahead now. Porter recognised this next stretch, straight as an arrow for half a mile till they got past Deptford Creek. The nearest car heading towards him was at least a hundred yards away, plenty chance for them to see his blues if they hadn’t already. As good a chance as any. He dropped it down a gear, floored it, and chopped into the slim advantage the BMW had. It was almost as if it had slowed a notch at the same time he’d hit the gas, but that made no sense. Unless …

  He saw it too late, level with the passenger door of the BMW now, the glance towards him, hands jerking the wheel, sending the BMW across the front of his car. Porter jerked his wheel to the left, but it was too late. He could only watch as the nose of his car shifted right, cutting across the mercifully empty bus lane, roadside railings rushing to meet him.

  He glanced to his left, saw Baxter looking back at him, face set into a mask of anger. His eyes snapped forwards, screwing shut on instinct, bracing himself for the impact. One minute he was looking at the steering wheel, the next it was an airbag, mushrooming out. His face was still angled slightly to the left, cheek slapping against the bag, seatbelt biting into his chest.

  Porter groaned, touching a hand to his face, looking at his palm, expecting blood but seeing none. Blurred faces stared at him from the opposite side of the road. He blinked to clear his vision and peered over the deflating bag, expecting to see the BMW wedged into the railings alongside him, but there was nothing.

  He opened the door, wincing as he climbed out, a barb of pain shooting through his wrist. Must have bent back in the impact. The bonnet was wedged halfway through the railings, metal concertinaed either side.

  ‘You alright, mate?’

  A voice behind him. He turned, saw an old man leaning on a walking stick, peering at him through thick-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, massaging his wrist.

  ‘You’d better hurry up then.’

  Porter looked at him, puzzled. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘If you want to catch up with him. Looked like he turned into Norway Street up on the right,’ he said, using his stick as a pointer. ‘That’s a dead end, that is.’

  It took Porter a few seconds to process, the words fuzzy in ears that still rang from the impact. He stooped into the car, spoke fast into the airwave to give them a location, then took off up the road, suit jacket flapping behind him. He fixed his eyes on the gap further up on the right, expecting to see the BMW come hurtling out any minute. Nothing. He felt rather than heard the slap of his shoes against the pavement, even over the ringing in his ears. Traffic lights up ahead winked from green to red and back again as he neared the corner. Still no car. He was breathing heavily now. So much for being in shape. His chest felt tight, bruised no doubt from the seat belt.

  He took the corner wide into Norway Street and slowed to a walk, scanning ahead in the fading light. Deptford Creek was straight ahead. No sign of any car, though. Had the old man been wrong? If Baxter had shot straight over the junction, on towards Deptford, he’d be long gone. Porter sucked in deep breaths, decided to hedge his bets and jog along the side closest to the main road. If what the old man had said was true, there was nowhere to go on the opposite side anyway.

  He made it as far as the mid point of the bridge when he saw it. Something in the water across the creek. He squinted, leaning forwards against the railing, staring at the choppy surface, seeing what looked like the corner of a car boot poking a foot or so above the water. His eyes flicked up, taking in the twisted metal railings where it must have ploughed through.

  ‘Shit!’ he gasped as he ran back around the edge of the creek. Might be too late. He patted at his jacket as he ran, searching for his phone until he remembered he’d left it in the cupholder of the car. No way of calling it in. No way of telling from here if Baxter was still inside.

  Porter’s mind raced as he ran. How long since he lost sight of the car? Two minutes? Three? Five? He wasn’t even sure how quickly he’d got out of his own vehicle, head still woolly from the collision. He ran as close to the railings as he could, eyes fixed on the corner of the car, scanning for any sign of life, bubbles, anything.

  Even before he reached the gap, he had already made his decision. The water level was only a few feet below the path. He pulled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and socks when he drew level, dropped them by the side and jumped.

  Max’s head roared with white noise as if it was stuck inside a beehive. He opened his eyes, saw the world was on an angle, blurred shapes, swirling like a kaleidoscope as he tried to move. A wave of nausea crashed over him, driving him back down, cheek pressing against something cool.

  He blinked, things slowly swimming back into focus. Callum stood beside him. No, that was wrong; Callum had his back to the floor, and Max realised for the first time that he too was stretched out on concrete. A thin crimson line ran down Callum’s face from a cut in his eyebrow, down to his ear, like a plumb line to the floor.

  Max heard shouts now, far away but getting closer. He tried a second time to push up from the floor. This time he managed to lift up onto an elbow as two shapes approached him. It wasn’t until they were right by his head that he recog
nised one of them as Porter’s partner.

  ‘It’s alright, I’ve got you,’ said Styles, putting a hand behind Max’s head, lowering him back to the floor. ‘No, no, stay down. You’re hurt.’

  Max tried to smile, but even that felt like too much effort. He looked across at Callum again. Saw another officer next to him, crouching down, checking for a pulse.

  ‘Ambulance is on the way,’ said Styles. ‘We’ll get you checked out.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Max whispered, throat feeling like he’d gargled ground glass. ‘Did you get him?’

  Styles shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we will. Baxter opened the door from the inside and drove at us when we tried to come through. Porter’s chasing him down now, though. He won’t get far.’ His face softened. ‘Can you tell me what happened here?’

  Max tried again to push himself up, making it to a sitting position this time. His head spun like a merry-go-round, stomach churning, a spin cycle gone wrong. He pointed to the containers, hand shaking like an alcoholic gone cold turkey.

  ‘In there.’

  He closed his eyes, scrunched them tight shut, touched his free hand to his head. It hurt to touch, but he pushed anyway, as if that would force it back down, bring things back into sharper focus. When he opened them again, Styles was leaning over the nearest freezer, propping the door open, peering inside. He lowered the lid gently, moved on, doing the same with the others.

  ‘What we got, guv?’ the officer next to Callum called out.

  Styles let the last lid click shut, shoulders slumping forwards as he leant both hands against it. Max felt like the world was running on slow-mo. Seemed hours since he’d woken up here. Days since he’d climbed into the BMW. Styles took an age to turn, expression grim, lips pursed, not wanting to let the words out. Staying silent wouldn’t change anything, though. Gordon was still dead. The man responsible was still free.

  ‘Max, I’m so sorry,’ said Styles, before turning to the other police officers. ‘We’ve got what we’ve been looking for. It’s Gordon. We’ve found our list.’

  There was a brief sensation of weightlessness, that roller-coaster feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, as the car fell. The shock of the cold water hit his central nervous system like a sledgehammer. He inhaled sharply a second later, water pasting trousers to his legs as it poured through the open window.

  It was an older model with handles rather than buttons for the windows, and he grabbed at the crank. It snapped off cleanly and his hand flew back into his own chest. He tugged firmly at the seat belt. It might as well be set in concrete for all it moved. Hard to tell if the water in the car was rising, or if the car itself was sinking.

  He snapped his head around, left then right, looking quickly over both shoulders. The shoreline was deserted. No sign of the pursuing police cars to save the day, although he could hear their sirens, little more than faint echoes. Not a Good Samaritan in sight. A handful of cars were crossing the bridge up ahead, but the chance of anyone looking out into the river was slim.

  His breathing picked up pace, matching his pulse stride for stride, a ragged panting rhythm. He closed his eyes, willed himself to stay calm, stay in control. The dark tide charged in, unabated, rose until it tickled his chin. He took three deep breaths, a swimmer preparing for an underwater length. He used to be able to hold his breath for two minutes in the pool at school. He prayed that would be long enough.

  The water was surprisingly cold for this time of year, made worse by his clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Porter pulled himself alongside the car, took three quick, deep breaths, and pulled himself downwards, feeling his way along the car body. He opened his eyes a fraction, but he might as well be blindfolded. The car must have kicked up all sorts from the river bed. He squeezed them shut again, feeling a gritty burn behind his eyelids.

  Porter’s hand curled around a ridge; the edge of a window, maybe. He reached past it with his free hand, fingertips bumping against something solid. He grabbed a handful; it felt like material. Pulled, but felt no resistance no movement. Chanced another look, but he could only make out the dark shape of the driver. Pulling the door open felt like an impossible task, even though it couldn’t be more than ten feet underwater, but it gave eventually. He held himself in place with one hand against the inside of the roof now, fumbling his way across what must be the chest, feeling the seatbelt still in place. He pushed at the button, but nothing happened. Pushed a second time, a third. Nothing. Pressure grew in his chest, swelling, seeping into his head, dark and heavy.

  Porter brought his hand out and pushed upwards from the car roof almost before he’d made the conscious decision, self-preservation kicking in. He burst through the surface, blowing hard like a marathon runner, gulping in lungful after lungful, treading water with a hand on the exposed corner. Over on the bridge, blurred figures stood motionless as he rubbed at his gritty eyes.

  ‘Call 999,’ he shouted. ‘Do it now.’ His vision was clear enough now to see one of them jabbing at what he hoped was a phone.

  Deep breath in, eyes closed again. Focusing on filling his lungs. A second, then a third. He pushed up as hard as he dared on the boot and let himself plunge back down into the cloudy water.

  The roller-blind door was fully open, and the forecourt was as bright as the Blackpool Illuminations. Max had made it up from the floor and into a chair, ironically the same one he’d been tied to less than an hour ago. A paramedic squatted in front of him, flicking their pen torch past his eyes, like looking down the track at the train he’d already run into. He blinked away the bright smudges it left, and saw Styles watching him from the doorway.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘help Jake. I’m fine.’

  Styles hesitated, but only for a second, turned on his heels to go but didn’t quite make it outside. Max saw him lift the airwave to his ear, heard the tinny squawk, but it was as clear as a railway station announcement. Styles’s poker face lasted all of five seconds, eyebrows breaking rank, twitching upwards. A tell, but of what he couldn’t say. Styles angled his body away, spoke low into the handset so Max couldn’t hear. All he could do was watch Styles stand there like a waxwork as seconds trickled past like grains of sand in an hourglass. The jumbled faint words stopped and Styles turned back to face him, but Max still couldn’t read the expression.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Styles, sounding almost disappointed. ‘We’ve got him.’

  Max felt like a puppet, strings freshly cut, ready to collapse in a heap. It was over, so why did Styles look deflated, like he’d just lost a bet?

  ‘We’ve got Baxter, but he’s dead. Drove his car into the river out by Deptford Creek.’

  What little strength Max had left melted like ice in an oven, dropping him back down to the cool concrete, stretched out staring at the strip lights. What was he supposed to feel? Baxter should have been banged up, locked up for the rest of his life for what he’d done, for the lives he’d taken. Instead, this felt too easy, like he’d slipped away scot-free. Either way, Styles was right. It was over. Max felt hollow, insides scooped out like a melon, unsure what was worse. The fact that he’d lost a father he’d never known, and now never would, or the fact that the man responsible would never be punished. Either way, he’d never felt so alone in a room full of people.

  Porter saw Jen waiting by the entrance to A&E as he climbed out of the patrol car. His hair was still wet, drips running down his neck and the back of the hoodie he’d borrowed from one of the other officers. She sprang up from the bench like she’d been plugged into the mains. The doors popped open and Max was helped out by one of the paramedics, while Callum Carr waited inside on a stretcher. Porter toyed with getting out but let them have their moment. Jen wrapped her arms around Max’s waist, and even from here, Porter saw her shoulders twitching as she sobbed into his chest. Max stroked the back of her head, whispering something Porter couldn’t lip-read.

  He left them like that until they were ready
. Saw them peel apart slowly, an inch at a time. Max looked up as he opened the car door, managed a tight smile before the paramedics ushered him inside. Porter followed them in and sat patiently as a doctor and nurse double-teamed Max, giving him a thorough once-over. He looked down at his phone, at the text from Styles.

  Call me when he’s settled.

  That would have to keep until tomorrow. That, along with the missed calls from Sameera Misra and Milburn. Everyone who wanted a piece of him would just have to wait. He felt like the top half of a Jenga tower; the smallest of nudges in the wrong direction could bring him crashing down. Hard to tell what weighed heaviest. Maybe it was almost losing Max. Could be seeing him and Jen reunited, a happy moment for them but bittersweet for him, reminding him of everything he no longer had. Then there was Styles. How far in Milburn’s pocket was he?

  In between triage and treatment, Max tried to talk Porter through everything he could remember, but Porter shook his head.

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘I just thought, you know, while it’s fresh in my mind …’

  ‘And it’ll still be fresh after they’ve given you the once-over. It’s done and dusted, nobody left to chase after.’

  Max didn’t look convinced but surrendered to the nurse as she came back to take a blood sample, and Porter took his cue to leave. A hug from Jen, surprisingly strong from one so small. A hand on Max’s shoulder, quick squeeze, then off out into the corridor. The corridors felt narrower than he remembered them, almost claustrophobic. He double timed it through the maze of corridors, only slowing when he bowled through the exit and out into the car park.

  He sucked in a lungful of cool evening air, blew it out once, twice, like a swimmer getting ready for an underwater lap. By rights he should be happy. Max would be alright. Milburn might not agree with the way they’d got here, but it was another closed case that’d look good in amongst his charts and statistics. Porter doubted whether that’d be enough to keep him happy. Maybe he should put in for some time off, get away, clear his head. The thought of having a week away, the first he’d have taken since Holly, both terrified and appealed to him, although he couldn’t be sure the proportions of each.