‘Max. Max Brennan.’
‘OK, thanks, Mr Brennan. If you’d like to take a seat,’ she said, tilting her head towards the chairs.
She spoke low into the handset as he sat down. He couldn’t make out most of it but heard his dad’s name twice. Saw her eyes flick over to him as she said it. Giving him what he guessed was supposed to be a reassuring nod and smile as she finished the call.
Max slid the newspaper out from under the magazine, today’s Times. The front page was dominated by the latest humanitarian crisis in Syria. Max’s eye was drawn to the pictures first, text second. Professional curiosity. He clocked the name underneath the photograph. Decent enough photographer. Max admired his work but wondered if anyone would notice if they just reused the same pictures every few days. Shock value had peaked in the eighties, around the time of Geldof and Band Aid. People were just overexposed to this kind of thing now, desensitised to an extent. Immune, like germs to a vaccine. Had he really just likened the great British public to a germ?
‘Mr Brennan?’
A voice cut across his thoughts. A man stood by the reception desk. Max stood, took a little too much pleasure from replacing the paper at an angle, and walked across to shake hands.
‘I’m Thomas Phillips. Why don’t we go through to my office?’
The receptionist smiled again as he walked past her. Hard to read for sure, but it reminded him of the one a teacher gives on parents’ evening, right before they tell you your perfect little angel could pay more attention in class.
He followed Phillips along a corridor, and through a door at the far end. The office was a mash-up of clichés. Framed degree on the ego wall. Framed artsy prints on the others. Bookcase off to the right, stocked full of sleep-inducing leadership and management bibles, mixed in with financial and regulatory-sounding titles. Obligatory family photo on the desk as the cherry on top, the human touch. The message was clear. Our firm is trustworthy. I am trustworthy. Solid. Dependable.
‘So, you’re Gordon’s son?’ said Phillips, sinking into his high-backed chair. The way he said it, could be a question or a statement. Max answered as if it was the latter.
‘Yep, I am indeed. Look, Mr Phillips, I don’t know how much your colleague told you about why I’m here …’ Max trailed off, hoping that Phillips would step in, tell him exactly that. Phillips didn’t disappoint.
‘Yes, Amanda said you hadn’t heard from him for a little while, and you wanted to know when he was due back at work.’
‘That’s right.’ Max nodded.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Brennan,’ said Phillips, leaning forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled, ‘but Gordon worked here for almost six years, and never mentioned any family.’
‘Here’s the thing,’ said Max, mirroring the body language, ‘I didn’t know who my father was, growing up. He didn’t know I existed. My parents were both young, and didn’t part on good terms, so he and I only became acquainted recently.’
Phillips’s eyes widened, and he leant back, folding his arms.
‘We haven’t actually met yet, just swapped letters. I was supposed to meet him this week, but he never showed, so I’m hoping you can help.’
Phillips said nothing. Just stared at Max, eyes narrowing just a touch, choosing his words carefully.
‘Wow, OK. That’s quite the story. I had no idea.’
Max shrugged. ‘Neither did he until recently. So, can you help me?’
‘I wish I could, Mr Brennan, genuinely I do.’ Max heard the tone, knew he wasn’t going to get what he’d come here for. ‘However, I’m afraid Gordon resigned a few weeks ago. Quite out of the blue to be honest, but I’m afraid your father doesn’t work here any more.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
February 2008
He was good at what he did. Good without being great. Head down, get on with life, nothing to be gained by standing out from the crowd. Everyone came to crossroads in their life. Being abandoned by his mother had been one, the incident in the warehouse another, but he’d taken each in his stride, moved on past them. Spring 2008 was more of a derailment.
He went out jogging late one night. Winter still hadn’t given up the fight, pavements glazing over as the temperature dropped. Patches of ice sparkled in the street lights. That was the problem. He was so focused on the ground, ten feet or so ahead, that he hadn’t seen them until it was too late.
There were five of them. Two inside a parked car, three more waiting around the corner, working as a pack. The car door clipped him as it swung out. No chance to avoid it. Momentum made him spin clockwise, into the wall to his left. They were on him before he hit the pavement.
He’d never been able to submit, even as a child, always swinging for the bully rather than cover up, and he’d taken a few beatings for his troubles. This went beyond a beating, though. He caught the nearest one square under the jaw with an up-kick, sending him sprawling. The remaining four set upon him, overwhelming him in seconds. Fight or flight spluttered to a halt, in favour of curling up and waiting for them to stop.
He had no idea how long he’d lain there for after they left. Vague recollections of them rummaging in his pockets, taking phone and watch. Minutes later, fresh hands rummaged, cursing when they found nothing. He didn’t have the strength to stop them. He never saw what his attackers had used, but doctors told him afterwards the breaks in his legs were consistent with a blunt object, maybe a baseball bat.
For the first time in his life, he needed the help of others, but there was nobody there. Sure, the NHS looked after him in the beginning. Several weeks in hospital, discharged on crutches, but the real struggle began when he got home. Try asking anyone who’s attempted to carry a cup of coffee from the kitchen, while on crutches, how their day’s been. Three months of rehab turned into five, and two weeks before he was due back at work, the Dear John letter hit the doormat. Laced with phrases like with great regret and organisational restructure, signed by a name he’d never heard of, someone he’d never met assuring him that the severance package attached was more than generous. How fucking magnanimous of them. Not a single phone call for at least ten weeks, and now this.
Between the faceless cowards in human resources and the anonymous passers-by who had turned a blind eye to his beating, they could all, every last one of them, go to hell.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Porter’s driving got them to the Shard five minutes early, and he couldn’t help but tilt his head back to take it all in. It jutted into the sky like a giant stalagmite of glittering glass. Defiantly different than the blocky right angles that dominated most of the skyline. They made it up to the AMT office bang on time but had to wait another twenty-five minutes before they were ushered into a spacious room by a PA who glided across the carpet like she was on a catwalk.
Nicholas Glass rose and walked around from behind his desk to meet them. Glass was one of those people who oozed success. Suit that would look the part in Savile Row, shoes shined to a military sheen. Did he even have to do his hair in the morning, or did he just roll out of bed like that every day? The kind of man whose only brush with austerity was if it appeared in The Times crossword.
The office decor was minimalistic, which only served to emphasise the impressive square footage. An oval-shaped walnut conference table served as the centrepiece, framed by a floor-to-ceiling window. A large triptych dominated the right-hand wall. Three canvases, whorls of colour, each flowing into the next. Could just as easily have been from Camden Market as far as Porter knew, but he was pretty sure they’d amount to a down payment on a nice flat.
Glass gave a smile that Porter took as all teeth and show, rather than any real warmth. ‘Good morning, Detectives,’ he said, pumping Porter’s hand, going for the alpha male handshake. ‘So sorry I had to keep you waiting.’
‘No problem at all, Mr Glass,’ said Porter. ‘DI Porter, and this is my partner, DS Styles. Thank you for seeing us on short notice.’
Glass gave Styles a few seconds
of the same vigorous handshake, then gestured to the conference table. ‘Please, have a seat.’
They all settled into comfortable high-backed chairs, the kind that made Porter feel like a Bond villain.
‘So,’ said Glass, unbuttoning his jacket, ‘how can I help you gentlemen?’
‘Your firm has cropped up in a case we’re working, Mr Glass,’ said Porter, watching Glass’s eyebrows twitch at the mention. ‘More of an indirect link, really. We’re trying to locate a few individuals in connection with our case, and several of them have used your firm.’
Porter nodded at Styles, who reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Do you recognise any of the names on this list?’ said Styles, smoothing the creases out against the table, sliding it across to Glass.
Glass leant over the paper, scanned it, shook his head. ‘Sorry, Detective, none of them look familiar, but then again we have thousands of clients. I can have Ellie check against our database if you like?’
‘That’d be a big help,’ said Porter.
Glass scooped up the sheet of paper. ‘Not at all.’ He walked over to his desk, jabbed a button on the phone, and Ellie appeared at the door like a genie. ‘Ellie, can you check these names to see if any are clients, please?’
‘Of course, sir. I’ll do it now.’
‘Oh, and Ellie, could you grab me a coffee on your way back in, please? Detectives, can I offer you a drink?’
Porter looked at Styles, shrugged. ‘Black, no sugar, please.’
‘Make that two,’ said Styles.
It was hard not to watch her as she turned to leave the room. Navy blue pencil skirt clinging to her hips. Glass had a hint of a smile when Porter looked back but said nothing.
‘Might I ask what these men have to do with your case?’ he said after Ellie closed the door.
‘We can’t go into too much detail,’ said Porter, suitably vague, ‘but one of the men has turned up dead, and several others are missing. We spoke to Stuart Leyson yesterday. He remembers meeting Joseph Baxter and Christopher Errington at one of your events.’
‘We run quite a few of those, at least one a month. Networking over a few drinks, that type of thing. You’d be amazed how many people line up their next career move at these things.’
‘So if I come to you for help finding a job, what happens? Do I work with you directly? One of your team?’ said Porter.
‘We’ve got around fifty consultants. You’d be allocated to one of them. If you come back to us a second time around, we try and place you back with the same one. Personal touch, you know.’
He smiled, cranking up the wattage this time, almost blinding Porter with a flash of porcelain veneers that could probably pay for an extra copper on the beat for the next six months.
‘And is there a particular industry you recruit into, Mr Glass?’ asked Styles.
‘Finance sector mainly, accountants up to executives, but we do IT and architectural as well.’
Porter noticed Glass’s eyes stray over his shoulder and turned to see Ellie reappearing with a small tray. The conversation paused as she set three cups on the table, slipping a sheet of paper from under the tray like a magician producing the rabbit.
‘The names you asked about, sir.’
‘Thank you, Ellie, that’s all for now.’
Porter made a point of not following her exit this time, although caught Styles’s head twitching around.
Porter tried to read the expression as Glass studied the sheet, but he had a solid poker face. After a pause, he broke the silence.
‘Well, Detectives, looks like you’re in luck. I have no idea what this means as far as your case is concerned, but you’ve scored twelve for twelve.’
Glass slid the paper across to him, and Porter’s eyes widened as he saw the twelve names, now complete with addresses and phone numbers. All twelve. He’d hoped for one or two to be linked through AMT, but all twelve was like a full bingo card.
‘Do you mind if we keep this?’ Porter asked.
Glass shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. Nothing you couldn’t find yourself, really.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make any contact with these men before we speak to them,’ said Porter. ‘Just for the next few days.’
‘Fine by me, Detective. They tend to come to us anyway, rather than the other way around. I will have to call my head of legal and our PR manager, though, work out how we manage any fallout.’
‘That’s fine, as long as they keep it to themselves for now, but I wouldn’t say you have anything to worry about at this stage.’
Glass shook his head. ‘We trade on reputation, Detective. If it turns out that any of our clients have been up to no good, we need to be ready to respond. I’d appreciate any heads up you can give if it’s going that way, you know, before anything goes public.’
‘There’s a limit to how much I can tell you about an ongoing investigation, Mr Glass, but the fact you’ve been helpful goes a long way to showing your firm in a good light. Speaking of being helpful …’
Porter reached into his pocket, pulled out a card between finger and thumb, and passed it to Glass.
‘Here are my details. It’d be a big help if you can send over what you have on these men. Jobs they secured through you, any personal information you can share.’
For the first time, Glass was starting to look uneasy, creases on his forehead that weren’t there before, chewing on his lower lip as he took Porter’s card.
‘I’ll need to speak to Dean first; he’s the in-house counsel I mentioned before, but I’ll send what I can.’
‘Mr Glass, sir?’ Ellie’s voice floated over from the door. Porter hadn’t even heard it open. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but they’re waiting for you in the conference room.’
Glass looked relieved at the excuse and was quick to his feet. ‘Tell them I’ll be two minutes.’ He looked down at Porter, smile back now. ‘Sorry, Detective, I really do have to go, but I’ll get Ellie to send over what we find.’
Glass ushered them back out to reception, where Ellie had already returned to her seat. She flashed a smile that could have graced any toothpaste ad as they walked past. Glass went for the full-force handshake again, only this time it was a little on the clammy side, and he turned on his heel, disappearing through an adjacent door.
They waited patiently for the lift, and Styles turned to Porter once the doors closed. ‘You must teach me how you do that,’ said Styles.
‘Do what?’
‘Reel them in by ignoring them.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ said Porter.
‘Ellie,’ he said, eyebrows raised.
Porter rolled his eyes. Here we go again.
‘I can only assume women these days go for the brooding, moody types that pretend they don’t exist. More of a challenge, I suppose. All smiles on the way in, another one with your coffee, third for good luck on the way out.’ Styles counted them off on his fingers.
‘Jealousy is such an ugly trait.’
‘Not at all,’ said Styles. ‘I’m happily married. Wouldn’t dream of ignoring any woman other than my beautiful wife.’
‘Well, if ignorance is bliss, then you’ve got the happiest marriage going.’
The air outside was heavy as they exited the building, noticeably warmer than when they went in, or was it just the office air conditioning wearing off.
‘Bite to eat on the way back?’ said Styles.
‘Can do. What do you fancy?’
‘I’m easy.’
‘So the boys at the station tell me, but let’s focus on food.’
This is what Porter had missed. Back and forth, verbal sparring. It felt good. Normal, and that wasn’t something he’d felt in a long time.
‘How about that place Charlie bleats on about?’
Charlie Moore, one of the longer-serving officers at the station, bent their ears at every possible opportunity, raving about the coffee at a little place about ten minutes’ walk from the station.
‘Works for me. Went there with Emma a few months ago as it happens. Quite nice, actually. One condition though.’
‘Yep?’
‘No matter how good it is, we tell Charlie it tastes like someone cleaned out a hamster cage and used the leftovers in the espresso machine.’
‘Done.’
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside Café Blanca. Even from the street, Porter could see it wasn’t his usual type of place. Stark combination of black chairs and white tables framed in the window. No better when they went inside. It looked like someone had bleached the character out. The waitress came over to take their order. All business. Not even a forced smile to finesse a tip further down the line.
‘Come on, then,’ said Styles, when she’d retreated out of earshot, ‘you like a flutter at the bookies, which way is this one going?’
‘The AMT link has to mean something, not sure what, but even two names in a city this size would be something, never mind all twelve. There’s got to be a reason it’s those twelve, though. Have they all worked for the same company once upon a time? Do they drink in the same pub? There’s got to be something more.’
‘I’ll plough through the stuff Glass has sent over when we get back, if you like?’
Porter nodded. ‘Yep, that’d be good. I’ve got a few things to take care of, so I’ll leave you to it. Also, the more I think about it, the more I reckon there’s another player in the game here. I just don’t see whoever shoved Mayes in that freezer sticking their own name on next to his, can you?’
‘I know we need to keep an open mind, but, yeah, I’d say you’re right there. By that logic then, Gordon Jackson would be off the hook as well.’
Porter nodded. ‘That’s what my gut tells me. Not enough to say that to Max just yet, but I’m more bothered about the fact the others have literally dropped off the map. Everyone leaves some kind of trail these days. And why are none of them on a missing persons list?’
The dour-faced waitress came shuffling back over, coffee sloshing over the rim as she practically dropped the cups in front of them, turned on her heel and left again.
Nothing Else Remains Page 12
