Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  ‘Maybe they’ve all met the same end as Mayes?’ said Styles.

  ‘Hmm, maybe, maybe not,’ said Porter, ‘but you’d think somebody would be looking for them regardless, wouldn’t you? Wife, brother, parents?’

  Styles looked down as his phone buzzed, back up at Porter and down at the screen again.

  ‘Everything OK?’ said Porter.

  ‘Yeah, just Emma. Everything’s fine.’ There was definitely something on his partner’s mind. Porter had worked with him long enough to read him.

  ‘In fact, everything’s a little better than fine,’ said Styles after a pause. ‘Been meaning to tell you this week, but I’m, um, I’m going to be a dad.’

  ‘Mate, that’s great news,’ said Porter, reaching across, squeezing his partner’s shoulder. ‘Explains her curry cravings.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ve been keeping it quiet till she got past twelve weeks. That’s today by the way. I need to dodge out for an hour for the scan.’

  Porter picked up his cup, blew across the surface, and watched Styles. Sure, he was smiling. Who wouldn’t with news like that? But there was something else, something he was holding back. He’d tensed up when he spoke. Nothing drastic, but a tell all the same. Hard to say what it could be, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that people don’t tend to tense up with good news.

  How bad can it be?

  Emma’s car was already there when Styles pulled up. He followed the signs for the antenatal department, and caught Emma’s glare full force as he came through the doors

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said holding his hands up in surrender. ‘We had an interview that ran over.’

  ‘Did the suspect ask for extra mustard?’ she said, staring at a point on his chest.

  He looked down. Saw the yellow splodge front and centre next to a shirt button. Busted.

  ‘I had to grab a quick bite on the way here. I’d had nothing since breakfast.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said, stern face melting away in favour of sly smile, ‘I’m just messing with you. Come here.’ She patted the seat next to her and he slumped into it, twisting to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Running late?’

  ‘Yes, thank God,’ she said, and his cheeks flared up pink again, even though he knew she wasn’t being serious. Force of habit. His mum used to tell him he had the timekeeping ability of a sundial in the shade, and he didn’t usually disappoint.

  ‘Anyway, how’s your day been?’ she said.

  ‘Told him today, about the baby.’

  Emma reached over, squeezed his arm. ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘He was happy for us.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ she said, digging her nails into flesh, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘So you’ve told him, then? About switching jobs?’

  ‘Emma Styles?’

  Her head whipped around. ‘Yes,’ she said, rising to her feet. A nurse in navy blue scrubs smiled in their direction and beckoned them into an examination room.

  Styles realised his mouth was half-open and swallowed down the half-truth he was about to try and fob her off with. Saved by the bell, or by the nurse who looked like Hattie Jacques reincarnated, to be more precise. Only a temporary reprieve, though. Emma had asked him every day this week, and there was only so long he could stall for.

  Emma hopped up on the bed, peeled her waistband down and held her breath as the nurse squirted a dollop of cold gel on her tummy. Styles felt her fingers scrabbling for his, squeezing his hand as the nurse touched the ultrasound transducer to her skin, spreading the gel like wallpaper paste across a wider area. Styles realised he was barely breathing and forced himself to relax. It seemed to take for ever, but the nurse reached up, spun the screen around to face them, and Styles had his first glimpse of the baby in all its grainy black-and-white glory.

  Emma’s fingers relaxed for a split second, then closed back around his like a vice. She looked up at him, blinking back the tears, and he realised his own eyes were starting to fill. Not what he had expected, but the small shape on screen twitched, something that looked like an arm waved, and he swallowed back a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon. The midwife pointed to a flickering dot in the centre. The heartbeat. Any thoughts of work, Porter, Gordon or Max shrank to a pinprick. All that mattered was right there in front of him for those few seconds. He could happily have stayed there staring at the screen for hours, but a buzz from his pocket pulled him back to reality. Emma shot him a stern look as he pulled his phone out, expecting Porter’s name to have popped up, but it wasn’t his partner.

  Milburn? What the hell could he want? Nothing good.

  Max arrived at YO! Sushi before Callum, ordered a bottle of water and managed to grab the last two seats in the place. Callum sauntered in five minutes later, tan trench coat tangling itself around his legs. Combine that with his carpet of stubble and hair fresh from a wind tunnel, he had the look of a man who’d fallen out of bed, headfirst into a pile of clothes.

  ‘Well, hello there, Miss Moneypenny,’ said Callum, looking as far from Bond as a man could get.

  ‘If I close my eyes, you could almost be him, if he stunk of cigarettes.’

  Callum shrugged off his coat onto the back of his chair and plucked a plate from the conveyor belt as they crawled past.

  ‘I could live here,’ he said, mouth full of what looked like duck and mango roll. ‘Really could.’ He reached out again, a plate of salmon maki this time. ‘Makes you feel all hunter–gatherer, pouncing on your food like this.’

  ‘The only hunting you do is in the drawer for a takeaway menu,’ said Max, nodding at Callum’s straining shirt buttons.

  ‘First you offer to buy me dinner, now all the compliments. You know how to make a girl feel special.’

  Max bided his time, grabbing for the plate of chicken katsu that trundled past. ‘Anyway, enough pillow talk,’ he said. ‘How was your morning? Find anything interesting?’

  ‘Mm,’ Callum grunted, doubling his chewing speed. ‘So, I made a few calls, and it’s a funny old situation you’ve got here. I got a few hits on Google for where some of these guys worked. Called up saying I was doing an article on City high flyers. Funny thing is, none of the ones I called about work for those firms any more.’

  ‘Did they say where they’d gone?’

  ‘Afraid not. All a little sparse on the info. All they’d say is that they left for “personal reasons”,’ said Callum, making air quotes. ‘I tried to push it, asked if they had any contact details so I could still feature them, but no joy. How’d you get on with your dad’s firm?’

  ‘Snap. He resigned a few weeks ago. Only difference is I managed to persuade them to tell me why.’

  ‘Oh, do tell,’ said Callum popping the last duck roll in.

  ‘Well, I say they told me why; the guy I spoke to showed me the email he’d sent in. Health related, apparently.’

  ‘I know you two had only just got back in touch, but I’m assuming he’d not mentioned anything like that to you?’

  Max shook his head. ‘Nope, but then again, I’d hardly expect him to write back saying, “Hey, let’s meet, and by the way, I’m terminal.”’

  ‘OK, OK, just asking. What about your pal, the copper?’

  ‘Jake? We spoke this morning, but not heard from him since.’

  ‘I did take the liberty of trying one more wee trick as well,’ said Callum, looking over his shoulder for effect. ‘I called that firm you mentioned, AMT, gave them the same line about an article. They sent me CVs and bios for three of them. There’s a guy at one of the big credit agencies, owes me a few favours. Weird thing is, none of them have taken out any new credit since they left their jobs, but all of them paid off any mortgage and cards in full right before they dropped off the map. What do you make of that?’ he said, leaning back, arms folded.

  Max rubbed his forehead. It felt tight, pressure building inside. Why was nothing straightforward?

>   ‘Who knows?’ he said eventually. ‘They must all be in the same boat, whatever that is. Too much of a coincidence for them to all just vanish like that.’

  ‘Only ones I can think of are folk in trouble with the law,’ said Callum.

  ‘Or ones who owe the wrong people,’ Max ventured.

  Callum shook his head. ‘If they owed money to bad people, I can’t see them settling their credit cards first, can you?’

  He was right there, but if none of those things then what? What was his dad mixed up in that was so bad, he’d walk away from his son for a second time?

  ‘You’re right. Besides, if they were in bother with the law, Jake would have turned up something by now.’

  ‘There’s another option you’ve not thought of yet,’ said Callum, wiping a napkin across his mouth, surprised how much soy sauce came out of his stubble. ‘Maybe wherever they are, it’s not exactly a voluntary thing.’

  ‘You mean like kidnapped?’ said Max. ‘Like Jen was?’

  ‘Actually I was thinking more like that chap they found in the freezer.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s a bit of a leap.’

  ‘Really?’ said Callum, arching his eyebrows. ‘I know it’s one you’d rather not think about for obvious reasons but think this through. If they all had to vanish to avoid bad people, why hang round and sell their houses first, let alone pay off credit cards? What if someone’s making them disappear? What if they’re paid off so nobody comes looking, not even the bank?’

  Max opened his mouth to answer back but stopped. What Callum said made sense. As far-fetched as it sounded, it was as plausible as any other theory they had. Something uncoiled in his stomach at what that could mean. The realisation hit him like ice-cold water over the head. His father could well have met the same end as Harold Mayes, before they’d even had a chance to meet.

  Styles felt like a suspect about to get grilled. Milburn had yet to look up from a stack of papers on his desk, and Styles crossed and uncrossed his legs, waiting for the interrogation to begin, although about what he didn’t have a clue.

  He’d never seen Milburn look relaxed, not even sitting at his desk, head bowed down. Something about his posture always seemed rigid, forced. Milburn scratched a pen across the bottom of a page, more an ECG than signature. He shuffled the papers together like a dealer, clicked the top back on his pen and set it to one side.

  ‘So, Detective,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘I’ll cut to the chase. I heard a rumour that you’re eyeing up a move back over to Specialist, Organised and Economic?’

  Styles’s tongue felt grafted to the roof of his mouth. How the hell had that gotten back to Milburn? He’d only spoken to two people about this. Both knew not to breathe a word. He’d be having words with both later, that much was for sure. He toyed with denying it, but what was the point. For now, he swallowed, nodded, wondered where this was headed.

  ‘Have to say, it’d be a shame to lose you if you did. You’ve done some good work here, son. Any particular reason?’

  I can hardly say it’s because my pregnant wife doesn’t want me getting hurt, can I, he thought.

  ‘Just a personal preference, sir. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time here, but that’s where I think my strengths lie.’

  ‘I see.’ Milburn folded his arms, looking as convinced as if Styles had just told him that he was joining the circus. ‘Well, if that’s what you’ve got your heart set on’ – he shrugged – ‘I’m sure we can work something out sooner or later.’

  Is this why Milburn had called him in? To wish him luck for a move he hadn’t even asked for yet?

  ‘But while you’re still with us,’ Milburn continued, fingers drumming against his arm, ‘I need your help on something, how can I put this, a little delicate.’

  Styles fought the urge to mirror body language as the superintendent leant forwards, one of his patient, politician’s smiles starting to spread.

  ‘I’m worried about Detective Porter,’ he said, voice heading down towards a stage whisper. A confiding tone. ‘This business with the video, with Patchett …’ Milburn wrinkled his nose, as if he’d just sniffed week-old meat. ‘It’s hard not to wonder how he’s coping with it all, you know, after what happened to his wife, then that mess earlier this year. You almost can’t blame him for snapping like that.’

  Styles noted the use of almost, inference being that blame was exactly what Milburn was doing. What did he want to hear? That losing your wife can mess with your head? That Porter had had an Alexander-Locke-sized chip on his shoulder since the colossal cock-ups at the start of the year? Locke had been at the centre of a whirlpool of colossal cock-ups. People in his way had gotten hurt, Evie Simmons for one, and when Locke had died without seeing the inside of a courtroom, Styles knew Porter felt as cheated as he did.

  Defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. It stung, sure, but it didn’t make Porter a bad copper. Didn’t mean he was a liability.

  ‘All I’m asking is that you help him by keeping an eye, you know, making sure he doesn’t lose it like that again. The last thing we need is a good copper, gone bad for the press to crucify.’

  We. Us against Them. Which side did Milburn see Porter on right now?

  ‘If you see anything that worries you, anything you think I should know about, you’ll come and see me.’

  And there it was. Subtle, like a dig in the ribs when no one’s looking. Whisper behind your partner’s back, but for the greater good, of course. Styles saw now, clear as day, why Milburn had mentioned his move first. Saw the underlying threat for what it was. Do for me, or I’ll do for you, and not in a good way. Styles ran a finger under his collar. When had it gotten so warm in here?

  This was turning into more of a lecture than a conversation. Styles cursed himself for not speaking up. ‘He’s a good copper, sir. I’ve learnt a lot from him. I’m sure he’s fine. Just one bad day, that’s all.’

  ‘Your loyalty is admirable, Styles,’ Milburn said with the slightest of headshakes, like a disappointed parent. ‘But we can’t afford to have bad days like that. This is bigger than just Detective Porter. If we don’t have people’s trust, how much harder does it make to keep them safe? Anyway,’ he said, sitting back in his chair, ‘I know I can count on you to do the right thing, for as long as you’re still with us, anyway.’

  That last part hung over Styles like an executioner’s axe. Become Milburn’s eyes and ears, or any sideways move might take longer than you think, if it happens at all. Would that be so bad? There were plenty who’d give their right arm for a stint in Homicide and Serious Crime Command.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure you have things to be getting on with. That’ll be all, Detective.’

  Milburn gave a curt nod, didn’t bother getting up, and turned to look at his laptop screen. Styles stood up, picturing Emma’s face as he went back out to his desk. Could practically hear her grumbling like Marge Simpson as he told her he was staying put.

  Maybe he could have another chat with her tonight. Persuade her that he wasn’t exactly getting shot at on a daily basis. Truth be told, he loved working here, with Porter, even if he had been a grumpy bastard at times. He made a mental note to pick up some Ben & Jerry’s on the way home, to waft in front of her as he argued his case.

  Ground his career. Talk behind his partner’s back. Let his wife down. Rock and hard place? More like standing in the hard place, waiting for the rock to fall on his head.

  He’d take shouts and insults from hardened criminals any day over a dressing-down from his mum. He’d called her back, fully intending to politely decline dinner, but she had a knack of getting her own way, always had. His dad would call a spade a spade, pull you up, quite bluntly sometimes, if he disagreed. With his mum, it was perfectly placed pauses, sighs, telling you how disappointed she was. A true passive-aggressive black belt.

  ‘Really, Jake, I can always freeze the extra if you’ve got other plans.’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum, I’ll be there.’

&
nbsp; ‘Don’t feel you have to just because I’ve cooked enough.’

  ‘I’ll be there for half seven, Mum.’

  He could practically hear her smiling down the line. ‘If you’re sure, then.’

  It wasn’t a case of avoiding his parents, more that he could practically hear the eggshells crunching as they trod on them. The way they, or more specifically his mum, threw in hopeful questions about what he’d been up to, who he saw outside of work, that kind of thing. He’d told her not to worry more times than he could remember, but he might as well have asked her to stop breathing.

  He ended the call with promises to not be late. Because you know what your dad’s like for timekeeping. He looked across at Styles’s empty desk. How long did those antenatal appointments take? He picked up his phone to text and ask exactly that when he heard a door open and close. He looked up in time to see Styles letting go of the handle to Milburn’s office door.

  His partner’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, staring down at the carpet. Must have gotten a grilling over something. If Milburn spent half as much time singing people’s praises as he did pulling them up on things, the world would be a better place. Styles looked up as he started towards where Porter sat. Was it Porter’s imagination, or did Styles flinch when he saw him? Poor bugger had probably taken one for the team in the absence of Porter himself to shout at.

  Porter decided to call Misra before he left for the weekend. It was one thing for Milburn to pick away at him, but no reason why Styles should get tarred with the same brush.

  ‘Everything alright?’ he asked as Styles slumped into his seat. Porter nodded towards Milburn’s office, making the gist of his question clear.

  ‘Yeah. All good, I was just, um, telling the super about needing some paternity leave next year.’

  Styles was one of the worst liars Porter had ever come across, and he’d seen more than his fair share. They’d eat him alive if he ever braved the monthly station poker game. Most people had a tell. Styles had a full bingo card of them. Flushed cheeks. Tongue darting out to lick at dry lips. Eyes zig-zagging all over the room.