Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Brown eyes stared up at him from behind the mask, teeth gritted with pain or effort. Max reached over with one hand for the hem of the balaclava. Their heads were less than a foot apart, and he almost didn’t see the headbutt coming. The man’s chin caught on Max’s forearm, deflecting the blow onto his cheek, still with enough force to make Max rear up and back. The shift in weight was enough, and the man rolled his weight onto his right hip, whipping an elbow around against the side of Max’s face, landing on the same cheek, and Max rolled sideways into a cupboard door.

  The man scooted his hips back, away from Max, flipped over onto his knees, scrabbling away a few feet, then pushed himself up and stumbled out through the back door. By the time Max followed him out, the only thing moving in the garden were tree branches, bobbing in the breeze.

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure that everything was locked up when you got home?’ Porter asked. ‘Couldn’t have been that you forgot to lock the door on your way out?’

  Max sat opposite him, pack of frozen peas crunching against his cheek every time he moved. Max was the same age, a slightly leaner, taller version of Porter, but he’d always been able to handle himself, so it was no surprise to Porter that he’d fought off whoever had attacked him. The strain of the last twenty-four hours was showing, though. A sandpaper coating of stubble on his chin and shadows under his eyes gave him a look that bordered on hungover.

  ‘Absolutely positive,’ said Max. ‘I had to unlock the front door to get in, and the back door to go and sort the bins out. He must have already been inside.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Porter. ‘He could just as easily have been waiting outside for you to open the back door. He could have been the one who pulled the bin over in the first place.’

  ‘Does it really matter? All I can think about right now is finding Jen.’

  ‘Of course it matters,’ said Porter, leaning forwards in his seat. ‘Have you considered that there might be a connection between the two?’

  Max gave him the kind of look that suggested he’d just said the world was flat, and opened his mouth to speak, but Porter held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘I’m just thinking out loud here, but Jen goes missing and you being attacked in your home are both pretty significant events in anyone’s book. The odds of two things like that happening to one couple is slim to say the least.’

  Porter sat back again, arms folded, seeing confusion on Max’s face as he tried to make sense of what Porter had suggested.

  ‘So where’s the link, then?’ Max said finally.

  Porter shrugged. ‘I get paid to look at all the angles, even ones that might not make much sense. Force of habit. There might not even be one. Probably isn’t, but that’s the way my mind works. Eliminate all the possibilities you can, and what you’re left with usually makes sense.’

  Max pulled the frozen peas away from his face, staring at the bag as if all the answers he wanted would be right there, next to the nutritional information. When he turned it over and pushed the other side back against his cheek, its contents rubbed together with a crisp crunch that reminded Porter of footsteps on snow.

  ‘You said you were at the Beacon office today. Who else knew where you were, and when you’d be home? Who was there when you went? Who did you speak to on your way there, or after you left?’

  ‘Nobody. The answer to all of those is nobody, except for the girl at Beacon. So where does that leave us?’

  Porter heard the frustration in Max’s voice. Wished he could reach across, pat his friend on the shoulder and tell him not to worry, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie. Everything about this felt bad. If this had been a break-in, why was nothing taken? Maybe Max and Jen had just had a fight, and his pal was embarrassed to own up? But if that was the case, her family or friends would know, and Styles had called the list of numbers that Max had given him, striking out every single one.

  ‘Did you notice anyone following you today, either before you got there or after you left?’

  ‘Why would anyone follow me?’ Max asked, eyebrows raised at an are you mad kind of angle.

  ‘Forget it,’ Porter said. ‘Like I said, just trying to jog your memory for anything that might help.’ He stood up, motioning towards a young female officer by the back door. ‘This is DC Farida Benayoun. She’ll take you to A&E to get checked out. I’ll see you there. Just got a few things I need to take care of at the station.’

  Max let out a long sigh. ‘Sorry for snapping at you, it’s just …’ His fingers tightened around the peas, making him wince at the extra pressure.

  ‘You’ve got enough on your mind without worrying about hurting my feelings.’

  That got the first smile of the day from Max. Porter quit while he was ahead, and left Max with Benayoun. He pulled his phone out as he walked towards his car. Max might not have been able to answer Porter’s questions, but he knew someone who could help out with at least a few of them.

  It wouldn’t be the first time a hunch has been wrong, he thought, but it never hurts to check these things out.

  The black balaclava skidded across the kitchen bench, and the man winced in pain as he prodded the base of his back. He’d hit the kitchen counter pretty hard. Hadn’t really felt it at the time, but he sure as hell felt it by the time he had slid into his car a few streets from Max’s house. He moved into the hallway, head twisted around to look in the full-length mirror. A horizontal red stripe was tattooed across his back where the edge of the counter had dug in. He let the hem of his T-shirt fall back down and walked into the kitchen again, questions swirling around his mind like water draining down a plughole.

  What was his next move? He knew, of course, what it should be. He should do what he did best. Disappear. No wasted thoughts about Max. Pack up what few possessions he cared about and head for the safety of the south coast. The house there was just what he needed right now. Closest neighbours over a mile away. Rest up. Forget about this … what would you even call it? A blip? Yes, that’d do.

  That was exactly what he should do, but he knew his inner perfectionist wouldn’t let him. He had to know. Where had he gone wrong? If he walked away now, what’s to say he wouldn’t make the exact same mistake next week, next month, next year?

  He walked over to the fridge, pulled out a smoothie that claimed to have more fruit and veg in than most allotments. Looked more like someone had sifted algae from a pond and slapped a cheery label on it. He cracked the seal as he walked to the door that led to the utility room, swiping the balaclava from the bench as he passed. He paused, put the bottle down and rolled the balaclava down his face until it covered everything bar his mouth. He tipped the bottle up and drank the lot, watching the green liquid coating the inside oozing down the sides.

  Enough stalling. Down to business. He pulled the last inch of his mask down, pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the utility door. Jen Hart was slumped forwards, curtain of hair covering her face. Maybe he didn’t need to speak to Max after all. Maybe she had held out on him the first time around. Doubtful, but after today he had to consider anything as possible. He’d know soon enough. He could be very persuasive when he needed to be. Exactly what form that persuasion took would depend on how talkative she was when he woke her up. He smiled to himself, stepped back out of the room and locked the door behind him. She’d keep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  October 1979

  It was the first day of his life as he knew it. The first he could remember, anyway. First but not the worst. Those days were still to come. It was the smell he remembered more than anything. Like a Tom and Jerry cartoon, where scents waft out from the kitchen, except this one wasn’t anything to rave about. Undiluted bleach, tendrils sneaking up his nose, taking root, making his eyes water as sure as if he’d rubbed chopped onions in them. He remembered wondering if somebody had been sick. Maybe the smell was part of the clean-up. A full-frontal assault on the senses, strong enough to blur his vision and make him breathe through his mouth.


  Muffled voices filtered through the dark oak door to his left. A woman’s voice, the lady who’d brought him here. Mrs Johnson. She had arms thicker than his thigh, and fingers like stuffed sausage casings that looked ripe enough to burst. All smiles and sing-song voice. He was going to like it here, she’d said. Larchfield was full of other boys and girls with no mum or dad, and he was sure to make lots of new friends.

  A second voice, lower, more of a rumble, like thunder clouds in the distance. He jumped as the door creaked open, a tall willowy man framed in the doorway. Mrs Johnson had told him about Mr Archer, about how he’d take care of him now. About how he takes care of all the boys and girls like they were his own.

  Mrs Johnson squeezed past him, back out to where the boy sat. She tried to bend at the waist to ruffle his hair, fingertips only skimming the strands that stuck up thanks to the limited tilt her ample belly would allow and waddled off down the corridor. The boy watched her disappear around the corner, then looked back at the still-open door. Mr Archer stood off to one side, beckoning the boy into his office. The boy studied Mr Archer’s face. Its mouth turned up at the corners in what he supposed was meant to be a smile. When he pictured it in his mind years later though, the smile only ever graced the mouth. Never the eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Max was fidgeting on a hard plastic chair when Porter walked into the waiting room. DC Benayoun had her back to the room, stabbing an angry finger at an unresponsive vending machine.

  ‘How’s the patient?’ Porter dropped into the chair beside Max.

  ‘Really?’ said Max. ‘You had two hours and that’s the best cliché you can manage?’

  ‘Even I can’t be witty twenty-four-seven,’ said Porter. ‘Seriously, though, what have they said?’

  ‘Not much really.’ Max sounded dog-tired as he spoke. ‘Nothing broken, just a bit banged up. You get your things taken care of?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know you think I’m full of daft ideas, but I took the liberty of checking the CCTV footage from around the Beacon office this afternoon. Had the pleasure of watching you stroll out.’

  ‘OK …’ said Max, stretching the word out, somewhere between an acknowledgement and a question.

  ‘I also asked for some traffic camera shots along the route you took home. Might be nothing more than a coincidence, but there was a car a few back from you, black Lexus, that passed through all the major junctions you did. Rings any bells?’

  ‘I don’t usually check for a tail, Jake. It’s not like I’m MI5.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Porter. ‘I don’t get paid to settle for coincidence, though. It’s registered to a Harold Mayes. Home address around a forty-five-minute drive from yours. As I said, might be nothing, but there were two of those junctions you took on amber, and he stepped on the gas both times to get through rather than sit and wait. I’m sending a car over to his. Might even swing by myself. Worst case they’ll speak to him about his dodgy driving. Best case … I’m not even sure what the best case looks like right now, but that’s all we’ve got.’

  The man cupped a hand around the cigarette perched on his lips, sucked on the filter as the lighter flame licked at the tip. He leant against the wall at the back of the house, staring up at the night sky. Orion’s Belt, high and to his right, was the only thing he recognised amongst a handful of stars, flickering like cheap Christmas tree lights.

  A soft meow from within the clump of fir trees at the far end of the garden, and a black shadow slid out, prowling towards him. He disappeared inside, and came back out with a Tupperware container, milk sloshing against the edges. He was pretty sure it didn’t live here. There was no litter tray for starters. Maybe it belonged to the lady across the road. He’d seen her trying to coax it in yesterday.

  ‘Take what you can get, wherever you can get it,’ he said to the cat. ‘Man after my own heart.’

  The cat ran a tongue around its mouth, arching its back in appreciation. Of the milk, or the comment? he wondered. Maybe both?

  He snapped his head around at a noise. A voice. Faint, but definitely a man’s voice. He cocked his head to one side. Held his breath. Listened.

  ‘Mr Mayes?’

  The voice sounded like it was coming from the front of the house. A faint chime echoed from inside. He took a step back towards the house but froze at the sound of footsteps. It sounded like they were coming from the path along the side of the house, getting louder, heavier. Nosy neighbours? A glow from underneath the gate. A torch? Who knocks on a neighbour armed with a torch?

  He had been careful, obsessing over detail, but with a car in the driveway and lights on, albeit behind closed curtains, there was no hope of bluffing an empty house. A glance back at the house, at the door that led back into the kitchen. Decision made, he kept his eyes fixed on the gate as he edged slowly backwards until he melted into the treeline.

  The voice was louder now, right beside the gate by the sounds of it. He cursed himself for not checking earlier whether it was locked.

  ‘Mr Mayes?’ A woman’s voice, but who?

  He heard the creak. Saw torchlight flickering through the branches, lighting up the patio. He narrowed his eyes, leaning to his right, peering through a gap in the pine needles. A shadowy figure stepped into the pool of light from the kitchen window. A woman in a dark suit. Young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Hair so dark it looked like it was still in shadow. Alone.

  ‘Mr Mayes?’ More authority this time. ‘This is DC Benayoun with the Met Police. Is anyone there?’ The officer spoke softly, presumably into a radio. ‘Back door’s wide open. Kitchen light on, but no sign. I’m going to take a look inside.’

  The man watched as the officer took a step towards the door, paused, listening to a response he assumed.

  ‘Understood. Standing by.’

  How many others were here with her? Were they here for him, or for Harold? The girl was inside, but that would do them no good. He’d taken precautions. She’d seen his face once, briefly when she got in his car, and even then, he’d been wearing sunglasses and a cap. The laptop was still powered up on the kitchen table, but if there was even one more officer out front, the odds started to slide away from him. Not that he was afraid of getting physical, but he was nothing if not a man of measured decisions.

  He reached down, patting his pockets, relaxed a little when he felt his car key and mobile. Another phone was next to the laptop, but nothing on there could be traced back to him personally. The laptop itself might as well be brand new out of a box. Only one file open on it. Strings of numbers, no context, that might as well be in a foreign language for all the good it’d do them.

  Either way, it was a moot point. He wasn’t about to risk going back inside. More torchlight along the side of the house. A man joined the woman, exchanged a few whispers, and gestured her inside. Only when both had disappeared inside did he risk moving. He turned slowly so as not to disturb the branches around him, backing into a clear space no bigger than a phone box by a rear wall only a few inches taller than him.

  The cat strolled into the clearing, watching as the man pulled himself up and over at a snail’s pace. It continued to stare at the brickwork even after the man disappeared. Only for a few seconds, though, before it got bored and padded over to the kitchen door to see if the new occupants had anything they’d like to share with him.

  Porter edged forwards, one hand on DC Benayoun’s shoulder as they stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘This is the police,’ said Benayoun. ‘Anyone inside the house, please make yourselves known.’

  Porter spotted the laptop first, screen facing away, then the glass by the sink. He moved towards the laptop to see if it was powered up, when he heard it. A noise. Something, or someone, coming from behind the door in the far wall. He tapped Benayoun on the back, pointing at the door. They moved quietly over to it, and Porter stepped to one side before trying the handle. Locked. There it was the sound again, louder this time, muffled by the door, like so
meone shouting from a distance.

  Porter called out a warning for anyone inside to clear the doorway and aimed a kick just below the handle. The frame splintered but didn’t break. A second kick did the trick, door exploding inwards. Light spilt from the kitchen through to the utility. The usual collection of washer, dryer and tired-looking cupboards, probably from a previous kitchen. Half in, half out of the shadow, Jen Hart’s shoulders bounced up and down as she sobbed into her cloth gag.

  ‘Ssshhh, Jen. It’s OK. You’re safe now. It’s OK.’

  For the second time today, he was baffled. Why had the officers turned up looking for Harold? Was it Harold they were actually after, or was there a link to him? If it was the latter, how the hell had they made that link? He was as certain as he could be that he’d taken all necessary precautions in Harold’s house. There’d be no trace of him, no documents they could use. Fingerprints on the glass, maybe, but they weren’t on record anywhere. He had accessed online banking pages on the laptop to complete a transfer, but the money would have made at least two more leaps before they got anywhere near it.

  He hadn’t finished with the girl, though, or Harold for that matter, but both were a write-off now. He wandered over to the reclining chair in the living room. His room. His flat. His name on the deeds, although he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken it out loud. An amber inch of Glenmorangie swirled lazily around the glass as he settled into the seat, fingers clamped around the rim like a claw grabbing a toy at a fairground.