Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  He closed his eyes, listening to the rain spit at the window. What if he took some time off? Just walked away for a few weeks, a month, even. Wasn’t like he had anyone to answer to. What was stopping him? He thought back to Max, to the policemen who’d forced him to walk away from Harold Mayes. Seconds that had oozed past as he watched from behind the trees, chest tight to the point of aching. Being forced off course was a slap across the face he couldn’t walk away from, at least not without knowing why.

  The girl hadn’t been easy to understand at times, all snotty-nosed with fear. What she’d told him was sketchy at best. She lived with Gordon’s son, Max. How had he missed that? His preparation had always been meticulous, flawless. Didn’t do for anyone to be poking around, enquiring as to the wellbeing of those on his list. If he’d known about Max, Gordon would have been forgotten about a long time ago.

  Professional curiosity needed satisfying, if indeed there was such a thing in his line of work. He nodded to himself, mind made up. Tipped the glass up, draining it in one swallow. Back to the drawing board.

  Porter felt like an intruder. Max was like a guard dog, perched on the edge of Jen’s hospital bed, a hand on hers, thumb tracing a circle on the back of her hand as she talked. He’d interviewed dozens of victims, but never anyone he knew personally. This was different, and he wondered whether he should have waited for Styles and let him take point. She had a private room at least, but her eyes flicked to the closed door with every set of footsteps that passed.

  ‘I never saw his face. He always wore a balaclava. All I could see were his eyes and mouth.’ Her voice was frayed around the edges, husky from crying.

  ‘Just relax, Jen,’ said Porter, softening his own voice. ‘Focus on what you did manage to see. Spit it all out and let me worry about sifting through it. You never know what might come in useful. Start with the phone call.’

  She nodded, wiping the back of her free hand across her nose. ‘I called Beacon. They passed on my number. He called and told me he’d meet me outside there for eleven.’ She paused, looking over at Max. ‘I just thought, if I could just …’ Words stuck in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes tight as a handful of fresh tears broke loose.

  Max shook his head. ‘It’s OK. Jen, it’s OK. I know you were only trying to help.’

  She nodded, eyes still closed. ‘He pulled up in a black car. I don’t remember what type. He asked if we could talk over a coffee, so I got in. He said something about picking up a parcel from a friend first. We only drove for a few minutes. It looked like the back door to a shop or something.’

  She paused, took a sip of water. Her tone had flattened out now, like she was reading from a script, one that had happened to someone else.

  ‘He disappeared inside for ages. I only went in to see if everything was alright. Someone grabbed me from behind, put something over my face. The next thing I remember is waking up in that room.’

  ‘Then what, Jen?’

  ‘He just kept asking me questions. Lots of questions.’ She paused again, confusion wrinkling her forehead, staring into space like she was back in the room.

  ‘He wanted to know why I’d called the agency. Who I was. Why I was looking for Gordon. Who you were.’ She nodded towards Max. ‘I just wanted to know what he wanted, what I had to say for him to let me go.’

  She swallowed hard, and Porter wasn’t sure how much more to push her. Her eyes filled up again, like clouds ready to burst.

  ‘Who was he, Max? What did I do wrong? Why did he …’ The rest was snuffed out by sobs. Max shuffled closer, and Porter wished he could tiptoe out and leave them like that, but he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what was going on, and Jen was his best bet right now. The only sounds were Jen sniffling, and a voice outside on the PA system that was about as clear as the ones you hear at a train station. The three of them sat like that for what seemed like an age, until Porter’s phone buzzed to break the silence. He pulled it out of his jacket, holding it up in apology to Max, and headed out into the corridor. The number was the generic station switchboard, but by the time he’d clicked to accept, whoever it was had rung off.

  He turned at the sound of the door opening behind him, to see Max following him out into the hallway.

  ‘She’s exhausted,’ he said. ‘Any chance we can let her try and get some sleep and finish this up tomorrow?’

  Porter wanted to tell him no. That time was of the essence. But Max looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. His cheek was a puffed-out pink blotch from earlier, eyes bloodshot, and he looked like he’d been out on an all-night session. Porter nodded, against his better judgement.

  ‘You should get some sleep yourself. I know the last thing you want to do right now is leave her, especially after what she’s been through, but trust me, you’re no good to her if you’re fit to drop yourself.’

  ‘How the hell do you expect me to sleep after today?’ No matter how exhausted Max looked, he still had some gas in the tank judging by his tone of voice.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Porter. ‘She’s safe now, Max. She’s safe, and she’ll be out for the count soon enough. She won’t even know you’re gone, and you can be back here holding her hand before she wakes up in the morning.’

  Max shook his head. ‘The nurse said I can stay the night. I’ll get some sleep in the chair by the bed. If I was home, I’d only be lying there wondering if she’s OK.’ He took a few steps towards Porter, rubbing fingers in his eyes, hands trailing down his face and rasping off his stubble. ‘I know there’s not a mark on her, but who knows what she’s been through. She was missing for almost two days, and there was nothing I could do. The least I can do is stay here with her now.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Porter, conceding, both hands held up. ‘To be honest, I’d probably do the same, but if you change your mind I can easily justify sticking someone on the door to keep an eye while you head home.’

  Max gave him a tired smile. Porter fancied he saw his friend sway a few inches to one side, as if he was about to collapse, but Max righted himself before Porter had a chance to step in. A series of rumbling clicks made him turn around, and Porter sidestepped as a bed wheeled past him. A young woman, almost as pale as the white walls, oxygen mask misting with every breath, lying with eyes closed, arms by her side.

  Porter did a double take as she was pushed past. Dark hair framing features so delicate they could be porcelain. The same nose, slight upturn at the end. It was as if he’d stepped back almost three years, to the night of Holly’s accident. Something in his stomach uncoiled, a phantom of the nausea from that night. Then she was past him, hidden from sight by the white polo shirt of the hospital porter pushing the bed. He was vaguely aware of Max talking but kept staring until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you OK?’ For all Max was exhausted, he was more concerned about everyone else but himself.

  Porter felt like he’d clamped his lips around a hairdryer, and he licked them as he turned back to Max. ‘Yeah, of course, I’m fine.’ Down the hall, the bed rounded the corner, and out of sight. ‘Tell you what, if you won’t go home, how about you let me buy you a coffee before I head off?’

  The cafe was probably the least clinical place in the hospital, but still a far cry from Starbucks. It was almost deserted, save for an elderly couple sitting at the table nearest the door. No mistaking who was visiting who; her in a pink fluffy dressing gown, him in cords and a tweed jacket. Porter paid for two coffees and joined Max at a table on the far side.

  ‘It’s OK, Jake,’ said Max, as Porter pushed one of the cups towards him. ‘You can say it. He might be my dad, but he took her. God knows why, but he took her.’

  Max’s voice was low when he spoke, but Porter knew him well enough to hear the anger simmering below the surface.

  ‘Too many questions, not enough answers,’ said Porter. ‘We don’t even know for sure that it was him.’

  ‘The agent arranged the meeting. You heard her in there,’ he said, po
inting back towards the ward. ‘She spoke to him before she got in the car. This wasn’t some random nut job that happened to be driving by. You don’t need to play devil’s advocate because of who he is.’

  ‘True,’ said Porter, popping the lid off his coffee. ‘But she also said he asked questions about you, and some about Gordon by name. Who asks about themselves like that?’ He tore open a packet of sugar and tipped it into his cup. Max said nothing. Porter wished he knew the answer himself. Every question spawned two more, like cells multiplying in a Petri dish.

  ‘Go on, go to her. Get some sleep and let me do my thing. I’ll call by and see you both tomorrow.’

  Porter clicked the lid back on and stood up. Max followed suit. They walked back towards the ward until the corridor split off towards the main entrance.

  ‘Thanks, Jake,’ said Max, clapping a hand against Porter’s arm.

  ‘What for? I’ve not done anything yet.’

  Porter turned and headed out to the car park. Drizzle tickled his face as he walked outside. He stopped, closing his eyes, tilting his head up. Leaving the hospital was like slipping off a heavy backpack. He had never been a fan, not even before Holly. The squeak of rubber soles on hard floors was like nails on a blackboard.

  He checked his phone as he walked over to his car. He had muted it on his way into Jen’s room, and hadn’t even felt it vibrate. Voicemail from the station. Styles.

  ‘Boss, I’m clocking off for the night, but if you get this at a decent hour give me a bell. Few interesting bits to tell you from the Mayes house.’

  Porter checked his watch. Quarter to eleven. Whatever it was could keep till morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  March 1983

  He had always been small for his age. A natural target for anyone higher up the pecking order. The schoolyard was a microcosm of the animal kingdom. Survival of the fittest. Runts of the litter fending for themselves, while everyone else pledges allegiance to the alpha male. There were three others from Larchfield at St Agnes School. Two in the year above him, plus another a year up again. Most days he was left alone, save for the occasional taunt about having no parents. He drifted through the days, invisible, hiding out in the library when he could.

  He was a loner by nature. A loner, but not lonely. It wasn’t that he lacked social skills, but, when it came to the company of others, he could take it or leave it. Why bother when most people, given half a chance, would let you down. Mrs Johnson had. She’d been back twice a year since she first brought him to Larchfield, but even that stopped when he was thirteen. The last time he saw her, she had left a sheaf of papers on the coffee table and gone to the bathroom. Curiosity got the better of him, and he learnt the truth about how he’d ended up at Larchfield.

  He had been told his mum died after a brief illness. That much was true. What had been left out was that the illness was self-inflicted. Planted deep inside her by a needle. Life was all about choices. She’d made hers, however misguided. He had to live with the consequences, more than could be said for her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sleep didn’t come easy to Max, and when it did it was plagued with dreams he could have done without. He woke with a start around two, after reliving the struggle in his kitchen, except this time, the hand that came around his throat had held a knife. No matter how tight he screwed his eyes closed, how slow and deep he breathed, he couldn’t drift back off. The hours crawled by, until a warm glow crept around the folds of curtain a little after six.

  He looked over to where Jen lay asleep. So peaceful now, compared to last night. He wondered what she’d seen, what she’d had to endure. Had her sleep been as troubled as his, or had she managed a degree of rest, courtesy of the hospital pharmacy?

  Max pushed up from his chair, hands reaching above his head, interlocked fingers, yawning so wide that his jaw clicked. Jen stirred, turning away from him onto her side. Part of him wished she could sleep through all of this madness, wake up with everything back to the way it was a few days ago. He padded around the bed, gently moving a lock of hair from her face before she managed to inhale it.

  He picked up his trainers and opened the door at a glacial pace so as not to wake her. The hospital cafe’s Americano hadn’t been great last night, but it was that or nothing. Last night’s conversation with Jake replayed in his mind as he ambled his way through the maze of corridors. On one hand, what he’d said made sense. If it was Gordon who’d taken Jen, why would he ask questions about himself? Equally as puzzling was the idea of it not being him. That someone else had turned up in his place. Who would do that, and why?

  Max’s head felt jammed with a hundred questions, like the M25 at rush hour. The cafe looked closed, cover still pulled over the till, so he made do with the vending machine. He wandered over to a window in the far wall. The sun had barely broken free from the horizon and hung low between two tower blocks. Whatever the hell was going on, his father was involved somehow. To what extent, and to what end, he had no idea, but he swore to himself that he’d find out.

  The main entrance to Paddington Green station was still draped in shadow when Porter arrived. Milburn didn’t usually arrive before eight so he had an hour’s grace. Last night’s dream had been a variation on a theme. He and Max switching places, him sitting holding Holly’s hand as she lay asleep in a hospital bed, tubes and wires snaking over her chest. He felt surprisingly alert despite the restless night, but he knew from experience that it wouldn’t last.

  He’d spent the drive in working through the possible angles from yesterday. Max had always been fiercely independent, even back when he was a kid. Including his call to Porter about Jen, he could count on one hand the number of times Max had reached out for help. Porter knew he should have forced the pace last night, kept questioning Jen while things were fresh. If it had been anyone else that’s exactly what he would have done. There was no way he was about to hand the case over to anyone else, but he was doing nobody any favours, least of all Max or Jen, if he couldn’t stay objective.

  He nodded an acknowledgement to the desk sergeant as he strode past, punching in the entry code to access the interior offices. Styles was already at his desk, hunched over his keyboard. He looked up as Porter approached.

  ‘Morning, Boy Wonder,’ said Porter.

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sherlock Holmes himself,’ Styles fired back.

  ‘Even when you’re being cheeky, it’s nice to see you acknowledge my superiority as a detective,’ said Porter with a smile.

  ‘I was aiming for that half-arsed respect, you know, the kind you give your grandparents so they keep you in the will.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t worry there, you’re not in mine to begin with.’

  Nothing like a few friendly insults to start the day. Porter realised he was still smiling. That didn’t happen often enough these days.

  ‘Saw your call last night, by the way, but it was a bit late by the time I left the hospital. Much to report?’

  ‘Well, whoever took her, it wasn’t Harold Mayes,’ said Styles, very matter of fact.

  ‘You sound pretty sure of that,’ said Porter. ‘I’m assuming that’s based on more than just a hunch?’

  ‘That’s based on a search of the house turning up the body of one Harold Mayes in a chest freezer. My hunch is that he didn’t climb in there just to hide from us.’

  Styles toggled between windows on his PC, and Porter got his first glimpse of Harold Mayes. He lay on his right side, face turned away and tucked downwards. Knees up against the chest, arm draped over his leg. His clothes and hair were dusted white with frost. All tucked up like a puppet in a kid’s toy box.

  ‘Touché,’ said Porter. ‘I’m inclined to go with your gut on this one.’

  ‘No firm time of death yet thanks to the conditions we found him in. Should know more this afternoon, though.’

  ‘What about Gordon Jackson? Any sign of him?’

  Styles shook his head. ‘We do have the laptop, though. I had
a quick look myself, and it’s clean to the point it’s almost fresh from the store.’

  ‘Almost?’ Porter interrupted.

  ‘Patience, Sherlock, patience. If you let me finish, there are a few files on there. Excel spreadsheets. Password protected, though, so couldn’t open them. They’re small, only thirty kilobytes or so, but still worth a look. I’ve sent them to Morgan to work on.’

  Ross Morgan was their resident IT guru. Any hint that you shared in interest in the technology itself and he’d talk at you for hours. Felt like a foreign language to Porter, but the guy knew his stuff.

  ‘He says to give him an hour and he should have it cracked.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Let’s use the time to make a start on Mr Jackson’s background, then. Any previous form, forwarding address, finances, inside leg measurement, the lot.’

  Styles cracked a knuckle and spun to face his keyboard. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  Four hours and two coffees later, Porter was still sitting clicking through frames of traffic camera footage, when Styles wheeled himself across. Harold Mayes’s black Lexus was centre frame, waiting at traffic lights. Porter squinted at the screen, moving closer as if that would bring it into sharper focus. The driver was there in plain sight, but thanks to a baseball cap pulled low, only his chin was visible.

  ‘How you getting on?’ said Porter, without taking his eyes from the screen.

  ‘OK – Gordon Jackson, born Maidstone, Kent. Last known residence Woodside, just outside Woodford. Date of birth has him just short of his fifty-first birthday. No forwarding address left with the estate agent, just phone number and email. No priors. He had an account with Barclays until Monday. He closed it down, transferred the lot somewhere else; we’re working on that as we speak. Drives a Volvo that I’ve put a flag on. He’s got an Amex card as well, but that’s not been used for over a fortnight. We’ll be the first to know when he does, though. Works for a hedge fund called Marlin, based in the City. I’ve left a message with their HR director’s PA to call me back.’