Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Porter turned to face him. ‘Right, that’s a good start. I was hoping he might have popped up in convoy with Mayes,’ he said, turning back, pointing to the screen.

  ‘Oh, there’s one more thing,’ said Styles. ‘Inside leg measurement is thirty-four inches.’

  This time Porter laughed. When was the last time he’d done that? Too long.

  Ross Morgan was one of those people who could go a whole day or more without actually speaking to another human, and not bat an eyelid. His desk was a curved bank of screens, scribbled Post-it notes and chewed biros. Brain of a geek, body of a rugby player, but despite his size, he always seemed nervous. He blinked almost non-stop, like he was sending a Morse code message, as he spoke.

  ‘So the good news is whoever we’re dealing with is no Gary McKinnon.’

  Porter waited him out, hoping for an explanation. He looked at Styles, who shrugged. Morgan sighed.

  ‘McKinnon? The man who hacked the US military, and NASA?’ He rolled his eyes when Porter didn’t respond. ‘Anyway, we’re dealing with relatively straightforward password encryption that I got past thanks to a nifty little program I wrote while I was at university. You see, it takes a modified approach to—’

  Porter cut him short. ‘It’s not a shampoo advert, Morgan. You can spare us the science part.’

  Morgan’s blinking picked up speed. ‘Yes, of course, sorry. Anyway, once you get into the file, it’s just an Excel workbook with a dozen or so tabs on. The first just has strings of letters and numbers. No headings, no formulae. All nine digits. The other tabs are all blank but named after one of the strings. My guess is he has his own key to decipher these into something meaningful.’

  ‘Could they be account numbers?’ Porter asked. ‘Maybe that’s where he sent the money?’

  ‘Hmm, maybe,’ said Styles. ‘Account numbers are usually just that, numbers. Could be anything. Travel bookings, parcel tracking references …’ His voice tailed off as he leant forwards, staring at the screen. ‘I recognise that one, though,’ he said, tapping the third entry from the bottom. ‘That looks like Jackson’s National Insurance number.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Porter.

  ‘I’ll double check, but I think so. It’s the first two characters and numbers,’ he said, tracing a finger across the screen. ‘Same as Emma’s initials and birthday. I noticed it when I did his background check.’

  ‘They all follow the same sequence,’ said Morgan. ‘Two letters, six numbers, one letter.’

  ‘If it looks like a dog, and barks like a dog,’ said Porter. ‘If Jackson’s number fits, it’s a fair assumption the others will too. Let’s run them and see who else is mixed up in this.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  September 1988

  He recognised them as older boys from school a split second after he rounded the corner. Walked smack bang into one of them, the larger of the two, before he knew what had happened. A cigarette cartwheeled from the startled boy’s hand, a tiny explosion of sparks when it hit the zip of a dark green Berghaus jacket. His own heartbeat thudded like a bass drum, almost as fast as his footsteps when he turned and ran from the smoker and his friend.

  They chased him into an empty factory and came within ten feet of catching him on a metal walkway, high above the warehouse floor. Almost certainly would have caught him in a matter of seconds, but for the gap in the criss-cross metal flooring, where rust had done its work, leaving a four-foot stretch weak and waiting. He’d spotted the kink in the floor, clearing it with an exaggerated stride. His pursuers hadn’t been as fortunate.

  It happened quickly. Footsteps punctuated by a thud. Sharp exhalation of air rushing out of lungs. Another thud, louder than the first. Howl of pain. They came in quick succession after the first one, strung together in a terrible symphony of sound. Smoker lay on the concrete below, one leg jutting out at an unnatural angle from the knee. The second boy left to get help.

  The boy descended from the walkway. Stood half in shadow, ten feet away from where Smoker lay groaning. Even in the fading light, the boy saw the dark bloom growing on the lower part of Smoker’s jeans. He supposed somewhere under the denim, bone pierced flesh. Smoker fumbled with his belt, trying in vain to loop it around the knee joint to slow the flow. After a full minute of trying, Smoker lay back, catching his breath, and saw the boy. He held up the belt.

  ‘Please help.’

  The boy took several slow steps towards him. Crouched down, took the belt. Looped it around his fingers. Hovered like that for a few seconds, then straightened up, retraced his steps into the shadow, slow and deliberate.

  Ever since he could remember, people bigger than him had imposed their will. Told him what to do. Pushed him around. Not this time. This time, he was in control. He turned his back on Smoker’s ragged curses, and by the time he was outside, they’d stopped altogether.

  He didn’t find out until teatime the following day that Smoker had died where he left him. Bled out on the factory floor before paramedics could reach him. He hadn’t caused the situation, or created it, but he could have prevented the outcome. He’d consciously chosen not to, though. Life may well be all about choices, he reflected, and this had been his.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Twelve strings of numbers and letters, twelve names. Porter leant back in his chair, wafting the print-out in front of him. Two names he recognised, Jackson and Mayes, numbers nine and ten. All the others were new to him.

  Andrew George

  Kenneth Morgan

  Daniel Fredrickson

  David Marsh

  Christopher Errington

  Alan Bowles

  Klaus Muller

  James Singer

  Stuart Leyson

  Joseph Baxter

  ‘Four main questions to start us off, then,’ said Porter, counting off on his fingers. ‘Who are the rest of these guys, and how do they link to Jackson? There’s got to be a common denominator. If he’s targeting them for whatever reason – which, taking Mr Mayes’s current state of health into account, is not out of the question – why is his own number on here? Why are some cells green, and the others red or white?’

  ‘How about we split them?’ said Styles. ‘Look for overlaps.’

  ‘I’ll take the second half, you run with the first six.’

  ‘You mean you’ll do five, then, seeing as I’ve already done Jackson for you.’

  Porter did his best to look offended. ‘Only because you’re better at this part than me.’

  ‘Oh, you smooth talker. Flattery gets you everywhere,’ said Styles, batting his eyelashes, looking anything but feminine, as he pushed off in his chair back to his own desk.

  Staring at a screen was part of the job Porter could do without. Crime scenes, interviews, anywhere he was in the thick of it was what pushed his buttons. Desk work was a necessary evil, though, and if he was honest, there wasn’t enough to go on without it in this case.

  Styles finished before him and wandered off, speaking to Emma on his mobile phone. When he came back twenty minutes later, carrying two coffees, Porter was finished, leaning back, hands behind his head.

  ‘So, the plot thickens,’ he said, taking a cup from Styles. ‘First four are ghosts, literally for Mayes. The other three have dropped off the face of the earth. Closed down accounts, sold properties, never to be heard of again. They all live, and I assume work, in and around the City, so we can start by paying a visit to the two I’ve managed to find addresses for, neither of which, incidentally, are shaded in green. Make of that what you will.’

  Styles perched on the edge of Porter’s desk. ‘I’ll see your four ghosts and raise you two. Last trace of any of them was Alan Bowles. He closed his Lloyds account in November 2013 and hasn’t surfaced since. Same story with the others dating back to 2009 and Andrew George. All similar ages, give or take a few years. Same general locations as yours. They drop off the map in sequential order, for what that’s worth, but nothing else to link them.’

  Port
er said nothing for a beat, wading through what they’d learnt so far. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Family next, then employers and social media. There’s got to be a link, we just need to know where to look.’

  The prospect of more hours staring at a screen until the world went fuzzy at the edges was about as appealing as another session with Sameera Misra. He slapped a hand on Styles’s leg, jumping up from his chair.

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a better idea. Get Benayoun on it instead. Fancy a field trip?’

  Twenty minutes in, and they had only made it as far as Madame Tussauds, impressive queue curling around the edge of the building, a good showing even for a Thursday lunchtime. Four flags high above it hung limp in the stillness of the morning. Faded green dome on the corner, standing proud like half a giant watermelon. A group of a dozen or so tourists stood outside, holding fixed grins like waxworks themselves for an impossibly long series of selfies.

  A workman fifty yards ahead leant on an old-school stop-go sign, luminous yellow vest stretched taut over his gut like a boil waiting to be lanced. Traffic inched forwards, bumper to bumper, squeezing through the one usable lane. Porter twisted one of the AC vents so it hit him just under the chin, cool air trickling past his collar. What he’d give for one on his back as well. He shifted in his seat, shirt blotting the beads of sweat between his shoulders.

  ‘Come on, then, talk me through what we have on contestant number one while we wait,’ he said to Styles. Up ahead the workman flipped the sign back to red, after what couldn’t have been more than ten seconds of painfully slow progress.

  ‘OK, behind door number one we have Stuart Leyson. Forty-five-year-old former golden boy at Barclays, till he discovered the wonderful world of recreational drugs to help with the pressure. He had a run-in with us back in 2004, after a car accident. Cost him his licence, a fine, a stint in rehab and ultimately his job. Seems to be back on track now, though. Not even a parking ticket since then. Works for Credit Suisse as a risk consultant.’

  ‘Bit ironic isn’t it, seeing as he’s taken a few over the years?’ said Porter. ‘Wife? Kids?’

  ‘No, and no,’ said Styles. ‘You sure you don’t want to call ahead and check he’s about? At this rate, it’ll take us another hour to get there. Long way to go on the off-chance.’

  Porter thought it through for a second but shook his head. ‘Nah, call me cynical if you will, but this whole thing feels off. Too many questions, not enough answers. Have you got any idea how hard it is to disappear these days, I mean completely disappear? If he knows anything, I’d rather not give him time to prepare any answers.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Styles.

  ‘Then when you consider that this isn’t just one missing person, it’s eight, without Jackson and Mayes. That makes me suspicious and cynical.’

  ‘You could use that as the opening to your lonely hearts ad,’ said Styles. ‘Suspicious and cynical would like to meet paranoid and distrusting.’

  ‘What, and risk getting a response from your sister?’ said Porter, straight-faced. ‘That would just be awkward.’

  Styles gave him a slow handclap as they edged a few feet forwards. One more rotation of the sign should do it.

  ‘In all seriousness, though,’ Porter continued, ‘until we’ve got an idea of what the hell’s going on, we assume everyone knows something they don’t want us to know. Those names didn’t end up on the list by accident. One of these guys today knows something that can help us, even if they don’t realise it.’

  ‘Speaking of the two of them, our second guy works at Canary Wharf as well. We could swing by after we see Leyson.’

  ‘Joseph Baxter? What did we get on him?’

  ‘He’s an East End boy. Thirty-nine years old. Went to uni in Durham according to LinkedIn, to do accountancy, then landed a job with PwC. Worked his way up quickly by all accounts and got poached by KPMG in 2012.’

  ‘Any priors?’

  ‘Nope. Clean as a whistle as far as I can see.’

  ‘What about what we can’t see?’ said Porter.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘These other guys have disappeared. Passed Go, collected their two hundred and disappeared. Why isn’t anyone looking for them?’

  He paused, letting the question sink in, not expecting a reply.

  ‘None of them have been reported missing. None of them have spent or borrowed a penny since they upped and left. Even if they’d just wanted a change of scenery, they’d need a bank account, change of address with the DVLA. One dead and eight missing makes me think being on that list isn’t good for your long-term prospects, and nobody has bothered to ask where they’ve gone.’

  ‘Might be stating the obvious,’ said Styles, ‘but what if there’s nobody to miss them?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see what Benayoun comes up with.’

  Up ahead, the workman scratched at his gut, vest riding up, flash of white belly overhanging his belt, twirled the sign around, and Porter made it through, hitting the dizzy heights of thirty miles per hour on the other side. Who would miss him if he disappeared? His parents, his sister, sure. Even Styles might, to a degree.

  He thought back to the hollow feeling after he lost Holly. Constant pressure, coming at him from all angles, compacting him down like a car in a scrap yard, until it felt like there was nothing left. Was that why he’d deflected Simmons’s advance earlier this year? If he didn’t let himself care about anyone, history couldn’t repeat itself. What would Sameera Misra make of that? Even now, thinking about Holly, he felt a twinge in his gut, an echo of the churning stomach that had stayed with him for months after it happened. He’d grabbed on to his grief. Squeezed it in a bear hug. He couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t miss her. Felt like if he let it go completely, then she would be gone with it, and what would that leave him with then?

  Not much.

  The Credit Suisse reception in the Cabot Square office was pristine, staffed by two women who could have been cloned in the same lab. Identical navy blue suits, ponytails scraped back from faces. Even though he and Styles both wore suits, Porter couldn’t help but feel underdressed. Even a fashion agnostic like him could tell the group of four men who swept past them were wearing suits worth more than his last month’s salary. Even their ties would probably run a higher bill at the checkout than his whole outfit, shoes included.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen, how can I help you?’ The receptionist on the left greeted them with a smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ms … Simms,’ said Porter, clocking her name tag. ‘Detective Porter, and this is my colleague, Detective Styles.’ He flashed his warrant card. ‘We need to speak with one of your colleagues, Stuart Leyson. Could you give him a call and see if he’s free, please?’

  ‘Certainly, Detective,’ she said, eyebrows twitching at the prospect of something out of the ordinary. Inch-long nails pecked at the keyboard as she searched for his number.

  ‘Mr Leyson? It’s Melanie from reception. There are two gentlemen here to see you.’ She paused, presumably while he spoke. ‘No, sir, I know they don’t have an appointment, but they’re with the police. OK. Certainly, I’ll let them know.’ She ended the call. ‘He’s just with a client, Detective. He’ll be down in about ten minutes, if you’d care to take a seat.’

  She gestured to an area by the lifts – a small glass coffee table, four black leather chairs around it like points of the compass.

  ‘Can I get you anything while you wait?’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ said Porter, wandering over to the nearest chair.

  ‘You could have at least asked if I wanted a coffee,’ said Styles, doing his best to sound hurt. ‘I was going to ask if they had any of that civet coffee. Worth more per ounce than gold according to the Sunday Times.’

  ‘You can read?’ said Porter.

  Styles chuckled. ‘Good to have you back, guv.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ said Porter, but he knew exactly what Styles was getting at. He cou
ld usually box things away, deal with them in his own good time, but that had felt nigh on impossible these past few months, and Patchett had been the mouldy cherry on top of an overcooked cake. Max, Jen, this whole puzzle of Gordon Jackson, was a welcome distraction from his own problems.

  ‘Plan of attack, then?’ asked Styles as they both took a seat.

  ‘We need to know if any of the names ring a bell, especially Jackson or Mayes. See how it goes but might even ask him outright if he knows Max and Jen too. He doesn’t need the detail around her kidnapping, or where we came across the names. Let’s keep that part suitably vague for now.’

  The ten minutes became twenty, and Porter was on the verge of going back over to reception when a slender man in a navy pinstripe came through the turnstiles and headed towards them. He looked every inch the City stereotype. Crisp white shirt, collar starched to within an inch of its life. Royal blue tie, with matching handkerchief that peeked out from his top pocket. His dark hair was a generic conservative cut, and Porter couldn’t decide whether his shade of tan was natural or from a salon.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the man said, offering a hand to Styles first, then Porter. ‘Stuart Leyson. Can I ask what this is about?’

  Porter cleared his throat. ‘Detective Porter, and this is my colleague, Detective Styles. We’re hoping you can help by answering a few questions relating to a case we’re investigating. Is there somewhere a little more private we can go?’

  ‘There’s a meeting room behind reception,’ Leyson said. ‘Let’s see if that’s free.’