Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  ‘I’m fine,’ Porter said again, with a little more grit this time, feeling anything but. This was the first time he’d ever laid hands on a suspect like that, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. It’s not like he’d hit the guy, but that wasn’t the point. He’d let emotions cloud his judgement, and for what? It wasn’t even as if there was anything between him and Simmons to get worked up about. There’d been a hint that something could happen, if he wanted it to. More than once as well. But each time, it had seemed like even thinking about being with someone else felt as good as cheating on Holly. Even now, more than two years after her death, she was everywhere. From the choice of colours on the walls of their flat, to the only two designer-label shirts in his entire wardrobe. She was still the screensaver on his mobile, for God’s sake.

  Sod it. Simmons was, is still, one of them, and that’s as good as family. If you can’t stick up for your family who can you stick up for?

  ‘Shit.’ Styles swore under his breath.

  Porter looked at him, frowning. He realised Styles was looking beyond him, and he whipped his head around. Shit indeed. Two kids, teenagers by the looks of it, stood on the opposite side of Wembley Hill Road. They could have been clones of one another. Hoodies baggy enough to fit Snow White and all seven dwarves in, and jeans with the backside hanging down by their knees. Trainers so white they looked Tippexed.

  Porter spotted what had caught Styles’s eye. Teen One’s mobile phone was held up at eye level, pointing straight at Porter. Teen Two’s shoulders jiggled, arms crossed, as he laughed at whatever crap joke his pal had just cracked. Porter trotted towards the road, but before he’d even reached the kerb, Teen One lowered his phone and headed off up the road towards Wembley Park Tube station, with Teen Two in tow.

  ‘Whoa, hang on there, lads. Can I have a word?’ Porter called after them.

  ‘Yeah, bruv,’ Teen One shouted over the noise of the traffic that zipped past from both directions. ‘I got a word for you …’ But his voice mingled with the growl of a bus engine.

  Porter wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. Styles was up by his shoulder now, and Porter turned to him.

  ‘Did he just say I was trendy?’

  ‘Trending,’ said Styles. ‘As in online.’

  Porter closed his eyes and swore softly. Patchett. The kid had seen the lot. Recorded it as well. Worse still, in ten minutes, half of London would have seen it too. Porter toyed with dodging the traffic, chasing after them, asking them to take the clip down, but he couldn’t exactly force them to, and they had a healthy head start already. He turned to Styles, putting on his best who gives a shit face.

  ‘It’s fine. I barely touched him anyway. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  The electric motor of the garage door grumbled until the edge met the floor with a solid clunk. The man who used to be Gordon Jackson climbed out of the red Renault Clio he now drove, having sold the Volvo to a local dealer for cash. He slung the strap of the laptop case across his chest, and went through the adjoining utility room, and out onto the back yard. His clothes were different, too; suit swapped for faded jeans and a dark blue waterproof jacket. Hair that was once immaculate had been ruffled somewhere along the line, as if he’d been walking into a strong wind.

  He unlocked the shed with a key from his pocket and closed the door carefully behind him. It was beyond tidy in there. White shapes on the walls outlined where every tool belonged, like a series of mini crime scenes. He laid the laptop case on the bench and knelt down, sliding a small stack of cardboard boxes out from under the work surface. He felt, rather than saw, the edge of a floorboard at the back, the length of his forearm, nails scratching at the edge as he eased it out. A second board followed, and he put his hand into the new gap, fingers running over the lumpy earth below like he was reading Braille. They closed around something that crinkled and he pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, empty except for a black USB stick.

  The laptop whirred into life and he plugged the memory stick into the side. A few quick clicks later and the only file on it, an Excel workbook, opened up. One long column of numbers. He scanned through them, running through a list in his head long since committed to memory, and clicked on the numbers that corresponded to Gordon Jackson. Two more clicks and the cell changed from white to green, like all those above it. Ran the numbers in the next cell down against the list in his head for a new name: Harold Mayes.

  The corners of his mouth twitched, a hint of a smile swimming to the surface then sinking without a trace. It only took him a minute to reset the scene. Memory stick, floorboards and boxes were slid back into place. He bounced to his feet, closing his eyes, taking in a deep breath as if filling his lungs would help bring his latest incarnation to life. He held for a three count, opened his eyes and nodded to himself. And with that, Harold Mayes strode out of the shed and back towards the house.

  Max lay with his head in Jen’s lap, feet dangling over the edge of the mocha-coloured sofa. She wound her finger through a loop of his hair, curling it in a tight little brown ringlet around her index finger.

  ‘Why even bother to arrange to meet up? That’s what I can’t understand. Fair enough, it was me looking for him. Me who found him. Made the first move. But he didn’t have to even acknowledge I existed if he didn’t want to.’

  ‘Call him,’ said Jen. ‘Put him on the spot and just ask him straight.’

  ‘That’s twice he’s skipped town and left me. Twice. The fact I wasn’t born the first time round is just circumstantial. Give me one good reason why I should give him the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘He’s your dad, Max, and you can’t count the first time; he didn’t even know.’

  ‘Biologically, yeah, but that’s as far as it goes. If it’s all the same, I’d rather just let it go. I lasted over thirty years without him, so I’m sure I’ll cope. Part of me wishes I’d never found him in the first place.’

  He swung his legs around and sat up, rotating his neck through a slow three-sixty, feeling something grind inside. He headed into the kitchen, smiling as he saw the picture on the fridge. A stick figure in a dress, a line of smaller figures stretched out behind it. Jen was a teacher at a local primary school, and a steady stream of artwork followed her home every week. She kept them all in a couple of shoe boxes upstairs, joking that if any of the kids became the next Damien Hirst, she could stick them on eBay.

  ‘Stir-fry OK for you?’ he called out.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  She padded into the kitchen after him, bare feet shushing against the tiles, and pulled a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge. Max came up behind her as she poured them each a glass, snaking his arms around her waist.

  ‘I know I can be a moody little shit at times, but you know I’m worth the hassle,’ he murmured, lips brushing against her ear.

  ‘Mm-hmm, you’ll do till Colin Farrell comes to his senses,’ she said, wriggling around to face him. ‘You know I’m behind you whatever you want to do, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ he said, nodding slowly, pulling her close so that her head slotted neatly into the groove of his neck. Two pieces of a jigsaw. They stood like that for a few seconds, until Jen broke the silence.

  ‘Can’t smell the stir-fry yet.’

  ‘Cheeky!’

  She danced out of reach as he tried, and failed, to land a playful smack on her backside. To hell with his dad. He had all he needed right here in this kitchen.

  The man watched Harold Mayes, the real Harold, making his way through the fruit and veg aisle. He made a show of rummaging in a tray of apples, watching from the corner of his eye, as Harold stopped by the Galia melons, giving one a quick squeeze to test its ripeness. He looked the other way as Harold came towards him, pretending to check through the items in his own basket even though they were just window dressing. Props to help him blend in.

  A steady stream of shoppers criss-crossed the aisle between them. Most of them looked as if they were on autopilot, eyes glazed fro
m a day in the office, leaning on their trolleys like they were a Zimmer frame. Eat, sleep, shave, repeat. He had been like that once upon a time, but he’d never go back now. He cruised the aisles, a shark circling a shoal, looking on as Harold walked over to a self-service checkout. No need to panic or speed up as he watched Harold scan his items from three back in the queue. No need to worry as Harold headed out into the twilight. He already knew where Harold lived. He’d already been inside. Tonight was just part of the preparation. Part of the ritual. Study. Learn. Plan. He collected his change from the tray under the checkout, and headed out into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sound seeped slowly into Max’s consciousness, easing him out of that halfway house between dream and reality. Jen’s head was buried in her pillow, as if she’d fallen into bed from a height. The noise coming from her was less a snore and more of a whisper, as if she had a slow puncture somewhere.

  Max eased his legs out from under the duvet so as not to disturb her, although he suspected only something on the Richter scale would make a difference. Ten minutes later, hamstrings shouting in protest, he was up and out, pounding his regular route around the nearby park.

  When he arrived back home half an hour later, Jen had migrated as far as the sofa, watching the morning news through the haze coming off her peppermint tea. She puckered her lips, nodding as he peeled his top off.

  ‘I’ll give you twenty cash money right now if the shorts go too.’

  ‘Add a few more zeroes and we might have a deal,’ he said with a grin.

  She stuck her tongue out and he headed upstairs, knowing full well she’d probably follow him up before long and sneak a peek for free. He stepped into the shower and twisted the dial to the far left. Even though he knew it was coming, he still gasped out loud as the icy needles of water pounded down. The guys he trained with swore by it. Something about improving the body’s recovery rate, but part of him still wondered if it was just a wind-up. He’d google it later.

  He was showered, dried and changed into faded jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt before Jen came up. She leant in for a light peck on the lips as she glided past.

  ‘I’m going to grab a quick shower, but make sure you don’t work too late tonight. I might have a little surprise for you.’

  ‘If it’s anything lacy or frilly, I’ll be back before lunch,’ he said, raising an eyebrow in his best homage to Roger Moore.

  ‘Ha, you should be so lucky.’ She laughed. ‘No clues, though. You’ll just have to wait till tonight.’

  Max shot her his best pout, but she ignored him, and started undoing the belt on her dressing gown, humming the David Rose stripper tune. As she turned away from him, the robe became a puddle of fabric at her feet and she looked over her shoulder as she walked into the bathroom.

  Max alternated between watching her go and glancing at the clock. A second shower would almost certainly make him late for work. Then again, some things were worth getting into trouble for.

  The kitchen clock showed a few minutes past 8 p.m. as Max’s keys slid across the grey granite worktop.

  ‘Jen?’

  No response. He called her name again, cocking his head to one side, listening to the silence. Nothing. She’d mentioned a surprise. He hoped he’d guessed right, and she was waiting upstairs in an outfit that left little to the imagination, but after standing still for a half-dozen heartbeats, he gave up and opened the fridge to see what leapt out. His stomach gurgled its disappointment at the mostly empty shelves. Jen had promised to hit the supermarket on her way home, but he wasn’t sure he could wait.

  He picked up his phone and scrolled through until he found her number. Straight to voicemail without ringing. Probably elbow deep in the frozen food aisle. To wait or not to wait? A chorus of grumbling and rumbling from his gut made the decision for him, and he went through to the study to see what offers Domino’s had online this week. Before his finger could hit the power button, he heard the hum of the internal fan and hard drive already ticking over. Max flopped into the swivel chair, shook the mouse, and the screen came to life, browser window open on the Beacon Estates home page.

  Why the hell would Jen be looking at their page?

  The answer was blindingly obvious; his dad. She must have tried to reach him through the estate agents. He pushed the chair away from the desk with a grunt. What the hell was she playing at? He was done with his dad. He’d been pretty clear on that. He stared at the screen until the rest of the room blurred around the edges. Suddenly it was no bad thing she was late. It’d give him time to calm down. He pulled himself back towards the desk and went to the Domino’s website. Jen didn’t like meaty toppings, so he ordered a large pepperoni and went into the lounge to wait for his food, and Jen, preferably in that order.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Max woke with a start, TV remote falling from his lap and landing in the pizza box by his feet. He checked his watch; almost 7 a.m. He yawned, wiped a speck of crusty sleep from his eye, peeled himself from the sofa and shuffled towards the stairs. He flicked the light on as he walked into the bedroom and took a few seconds to process the empty bed, neatly tucked in at the edges.

  ‘Jen?’ He called out her name, not sure whether to expect a response. Nothing. He grabbed the handset from the bedside table, dialling her number from memory.

  Hi, this is Jen. Listen out for the beep, you know what to do.

  Hearing her voice burnt off what was left of the fog in his mind. The beep came and went. After a few seconds of silence, his brain kicked back into gear.

  ‘Hi, babe, it’s me. Call me when you get this. Just wondering where you are.’

  He ended the call and went back downstairs, taking them two at a time, and grabbed his mobile from the sofa. He tried Ally next, her best friend. She might have popped in for a gossip on the way home, had a glass or two, and decided against driving.

  Surely she would have called, no matter what though. Texted me at least.

  He launched straight in with no preamble. ‘Hi, Ally, it’s Max. Did you see Jen last night by any chance?’

  ‘Max?’ She sounded half asleep. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘A little before seven. Was she at yours last night?’

  ‘No,’ she said, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve not spoken to her since the day before yesterday. Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘She didn’t come home last night,’ he said. ‘She’s not answering her phone either.’

  ‘Have you tried her parents’ house?’ said Ally, sounding more awake now.

  ‘They’re next on my list. Sorry to bother you so early.’

  ‘No, no, don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Let me know when you track her down, OK?’

  Max promised that he’d call her when Jen turned up, and dialled Jen’s mum and dad next. No danger of waking anyone up there. Bill and Tina Hart were both early risers, and sure enough, Bill picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, Bill, it’s Max. I don’t suppose Jen’s at your house, is she?’

  ‘No, why would she be here at this time?’

  Max gave a loud sigh. ‘She’s not here, Bill. Didn’t come home last night and isn’t answering her phone.’

  ‘Have you two had an argument or something?’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. She just … it’s just not like her to disappear like that. Look, I’m going to make a few more calls. Will you let me know if you hear from her?’

  ‘Course I will,’ Bill said, then lowered his voice. ‘I’ll not say anything to Tina yet. You know how she worries.’

  Max signed off and slumped back into the sofa. There was little chance of anyone being at the school, seeing as it was smack bang in the middle of summer holidays. What if she’d been in an accident? He googled the number for St Stephen’s accident and emergency department, and sat through a few minutes of classical hold music, only to be told there had been nobody admitted by the name of Jennifer Hart.

  He tugged at his bottom lip, leg bouncing a nervous b
eat as he tried to figure out what to do next. There was one person he could try. Might be jumping the gun a little, but she’d never done anything like this before, and his mind was racing in a dozen different directions, none of them good. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt. He scooped his phone back up, scrolled through his contacts. Even as he tapped the name, he told himself he was overreacting, even as something slithering in his stomach told him he might not be.

  Porter had never been a fan of social media. He had no desire to post pictures of his food for the world to see, no need for a connection to a hundred friends that he never saw. He had given into peer pressure from his sister and set up a Facebook profile, but in six months had amassed a total of twelve friends and zero status updates.

  He’d never liked the whole concept of it from the start, but today his opinion had hit a new low. A clip of him grabbing Patchett had been on Twitter before he’d even made it back to the station yesterday, and he was fairly sure that’s why he’d been summoned. He hadn’t seen it himself, but Styles had given him the heads-up after seeing a trio of younger officers huddled around an iPhone downstairs.

  The door to Superintendent Roger Milburn’s office was half open already, but he knocked anyway.

  ‘In you come.’ Milburn’s voice, the very definition of authority.

  He had one of those voices that filled whatever room he was in, a bit like Brian Blessed. Good for press conferences, but he’d never mastered dialling it down a notch for smaller venues, like his own office. Porter walked over to the desk, waiting for an invitation to sit that didn’t come. Milburn smiled, one of those politician’s ones that crinkled the face in all the right places, but the eyes couldn’t be colder if he’d just chewed a snowball. Put that together with his perfectly capped teeth, straight off a dentist’s promotional poster, and it put Porter in mind of a great white.