Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Porter checked his watch. Two hours before he was due at Kat’s. He toyed briefly with crying off. Blame work. That would only be a stay of execution, though.

  He turned and walked back towards the main gate, between rows of marble, picking his way around a carpet of flowers at a recent grave. Sister. Daughter. He glanced at the writing on the headstone. Only twenty-six. How many had stood here? Holly’s face swam into his mind, only this time the edges blurred, shifting into another. Evie. It could easily have been her name carved in marble.

  His stomach churned like a rough sea, but with what he wasn’t sure. Guilt at thinking of someone other than his wife? Worry at the thought of what Evie had gone through, was still going through? As if things weren’t complicated enough already.

  He caught a whiff of charred meat and charcoal as soon as he opened his car door. Tom and James were out the door and halfway down the path before he’d even locked his car. Five-year-old limpets, clamping around his arms as he walked.

  ‘Uncle Jake, Uncle Jake, have you arrested anyone today?’ asked James. It always took Porter a second or so to tell them apart.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Porter, looking down at them with what he hoped was a passable snarl, ‘but there’s still a free cell that would be just the right size for you two.’

  He bent down, scooped up one in each arm, wincing as they part-roared, part-laughed, one into each ear. Surround sound schoolyard style. Kat stood at the door now, black-and-white-striped apron with a streak of what looked like tomato sauce along the hem.

  ‘Gunshot wound?’ said Porter, nodding at the stain.

  ‘Why do you think I invited you? It’s like the Wild West back there. We need some law and order.’

  ‘Off the clock today, sis.’

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ she said, heading back into the house and through into the kitchen.

  Porter followed her, twisting sideways to get his passengers safely through the door, depositing them on the kitchen floor. He followed Kat outside, where Tony was manning the barbeque, beer in one hand, spatula in the other. He’d been expecting just Tony and the boys, but there were five others around the patio table as well; three women and two men. No familiar faces. Kat reached the table ahead of him and turned back to face him.

  ‘Jake, meet the gang from work. Everyone, this is my brother, Jake. Jake, this is Andy and Tasha.’ She placed a hand on the shoulders of the nearest two, presumably a couple if she was introducing them like that. ‘That’s Greg and Martha,’ she said, flapping a hand towards the couple furthest away. ‘And this is Rachel.’

  They all said hello, voices overlapping. There was something about the way Kat said the last name, the way she held her smile and Porter’s eye a fraction too long. Then it hit him. She really had no shame. First the family ambush last night, now this. Rachel would be single. Two unattached people at a couples’ barbeque. No pressure. If there’d been any doubt, it was dispelled when Kat arched her eyebrows, looking down at Rachel, who had thankfully turned her attention to her drink, then back at him.

  Porter stared back at Kat, trying for the you’ll pay for this look. She went wide-eyed with innocence, then pulled out a spare chair, patting the back of it.

  ‘Have a seat, Jake. I’ll get you a beer.’

  Rachel smiled as he sat down, and Porter found himself returning it, all the while inwardly cursing his sister. Rachel looked around thirty, sandy curls tied up in a ponytail and a splash of freckles across both cheeks.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jake,’ she said, tipping her glass towards him.

  ‘Yeah, you too,’ he said. Sweat prickled on his back, but nothing to do with the evening sunshine.

  ‘So, Kat tells me you’re with the police?’

  As if on cue, a hand appeared over his shoulder, holding a bottle of Budweiser. Kat disappeared before he could even say thank you. He had to give her credit. Her set-up was near perfect. Spare seat next to the single friend. Two couples chatting amongst themselves, she and Tony playing host and hostess. Well and truly stitched up.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ he said, taking his first swig from the bottle.

  ‘What kind of cases do you work?’

  ‘I’m, um, I’m in Homicide and Serious.’

  ‘So, murder through to shoplifting?’

  That squeezed a smile from him. ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  They both reached for drinks at the same time. The dance of the singleton. Sip, then small talk.

  ‘How about you?’ he asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘Nope, I’m not into shoplifting.’

  They both smiled this time. She had one of those faces that beamed from cheek to cheek when she did. He lifted his bottle again, took three long swallows this time. This didn’t feel so bad. Would it hurt to leave the car, have a few beers, press pause on the jumble in his head? What’s the worst that could happen? He could feel the half a bottle he’d drained already melting away the top layer of tension.

  ‘Uncle Jake,’ a voice piped up from over by the house. ‘Will you read us a story?’

  He squinted against the sunlight that reflected off the kitchen window. Tom this time, he thought. Saved by the bell.

  ‘Duty calls,’ he said to Rachel as he stood up.

  He followed Tom and James upstairs into a room that could easily be a Disney store, with the amount of merchandise. Toys, duvet covers, even their matching pyjamas had Lightning McQueen from Cars splashed across them. Tom thrust a book into his hand.

  ‘This one please, Uncle Jake. This one’s our favourite.’

  He looked at the cover. George’s Marvellous Medicine by Roald Dahl. Memories of Mum reading this to him as a kid. Kat’s voice was faint but audible from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘One story, boys, that’s your limit.’

  Choruses of grumbling as the boys clambered into bunks, Tom on top, James on the bottom. Porter gave them a wink.

  ‘Mum didn’t say how long the one story should last for, though, did she?’

  Their faces lit up at the prospect of a conspiracy, and they wriggled under their duvets until only their heads popped out, caterpillars in their cocoons. They were still wide-eyed, soaking up every word when Kat’s face popped around the door twenty minutes later.

  ‘You’ – she pointed at Porter – ‘are a bad influence. Lights out time.’

  She stepped in, waited while they threw their arms around Porter, gave them both a hug of her own, then guided him out the door.

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said, halfway down the stairs.

  ‘Looking after my big brother.’

  He turned to look at her when he reached the bottom. ‘You know what I mean. Doesn’t exactly take a detective to see through your plan.’

  ‘Yet here you are.’

  Porter grumbled, kept walking, but stopped short of the door to the garden, guiding Kat past him. ‘Back in two, sis, just got a quick call to make.’

  ‘The front door’s locked.’

  He shot her his best sarcastic smile and headed through into the living room. Truth be told it wasn’t a call he wanted to make, but better now than Monday. Milburn wasn’t going to let things lie, and that meant Sameera Misra wasn’t going anywhere either.

  Just hoops to jump through, he thought. But I’ll jump when I’m ready, and not before.

  He’d meant to call her yesterday, but it worked out better that he’d forgotten. He was pretty sure the OHU kept office hours, so the chances of getting anyone, let alone her, were as slim as they’d get. He dialled Misra’s number, counted eight rings before her voicemail kicked in. He waited for the beeps, choosing his words.

  ‘Ms Misra, hi, it’s Detective Porter here. Sorry we keep missing each other. I was wondering if you had any time free on Thursday for us to pick up where we left off?’

  Friday would be too obvious a tactic. Thursday felt arbitrary enough to put it off, give him time to focus on Max’s case. Should work, for her at least. Whether it would satisfy Milbu
rn was another matter entirely.

  ‘Anyway, if you can let me know what works for you, and I’ll see you soon.’

  The mere thought of his boss, his holier-than-thou tone, made Porter’s scalp itch. To hell with him. He could pick Porter apart all he wanted on Monday, but right now, there was plenty waiting for him outside. He smiled at Kat and her scheming. Everything she did came from a good place.

  Deep breath. One more for good measure, and he headed back outside, surprised at finding a lightness in his step. How long since that had been there? Too long.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid, Porter?’

  Honesty would definitely not be the best policy here. ‘No, sir, of course not.’

  ‘Then why go and do the opposite of what I asked?’

  ‘Sir?’ Porter’s face was a mask of innocence.

  ‘You know damn well what I mean. I want you in that OHU session, I want it this week, and if you walk out again, I’ll speak to the IOPC myself, and that won’t end well for you.’

  Porter chewed the inside of his lip. Stayed silent, even though every inch of him wanted to reach across, staple Milburn’s tie to the desk, feel crunching cartilage on fist.

  ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Porter, words pushed out past gritted teeth.

  Milburn stared him out, waiting for Porter to blink or look away, but Porter held it. Waited him out. Willed even a fraction of his dislike for Milburn to register. If it did, Milburn didn’t show it. Too far up his own arse to acknowledge that people saw him in anything other than a positive light.

  ‘I’ll be checking in with OHU on Thursday. That’ll be all.’

  Milburn looked away from Porter, at whatever was on his laptop screen, but Porter stayed put, cleared his throat.

  ‘There is one other thing, sir.’

  Milburn gave him a stern look, the kind reserved for a kid on the naughty step who’s just asked for sweets.

  Porter ran him through last week’s events, the trip to AMT, and finished with the two cars currently keeping an eye on Leyson and Baxter. Milburn scowled at the last part.

  ‘So basically, what you’re saying is that, without my say-so, you’ve authorised hundreds of pounds of overtime to babysit two people, in a case where we have no credible leads, no sense of what’s actually going on, and no suspects even if we did?’

  Porter opened his mouth to speak, but Milburn cut him short.

  ‘First the fiasco with Patchett, now this. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stick you on a desk while we wait for the IOPC to come after you.’

  ‘Because we’re getting enough bad press already, sir.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  Men like Milburn responded best to self-interest, so why not give him a healthy dose. ‘Every other name on that list is missing, sir. The two that are left are our best chance of figuring this out. I can’t imagine it’d sit well with the press if it got out that someone was targeting them, and we sat back and watched, all for the sake of saving a few pennies.’

  Milburn’s mouth twisted. He was all about the image. Porter was sick of hearing his mantra about the public image of policing – perception is reality. The press wouldn’t care that they had no clue about what was actually happening. They’d swarm like piranhas, tearing strips off the Met, and Milburn by proxy, crying out that money was more important than public safety. The kind of thing that would hit Milburn where it hurt: his ego.

  ‘You should still have cleared it with me first,’ he said finally. Porter fought the urge to smile as Milburn beat a tactical retreat. ‘You’ve got until Thursday. If there’s nothing by then, by the time you’ve seen OHU, you pull the cars off.’

  A small victory, but any over Milburn tasted pretty sweet. Probably didn’t hurt that the super thought it was a dead-end case either, or he might have ordered Porter to hand it to somebody else.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Porter left Milburn to stew, and found Styles at his desk, talking to Farida Benayoun, the young constable who’d been with them at Max’s house the night of his attack. She was still fairly new, only twelve months on the force. Not long enough to have had the optimism knocked out of her like stuffing from a toy. She stood up as Porter approached, the top of her head barely reaching his chin.

  ‘Morning, guv,’ said Styles. ‘Benayoun has been calling around the companies these guys worked for.’ Porter took the sheet of paper Styles held out to him. ‘You want to start from the top again?’ Styles prompted Benayoun.

  Benayoun did a double take between Porter and Styles, and stuttered back into life. ‘Yep, of course. So, of the ten companies for those missing, only six keep personal info going that far back. Of those six, we’ve had two send us copies of their resignation emails through, plus a few other bits and pieces, and the other four have promised it by the end of the day.’

  Porter looked at the summary sheet she had prepared. Kenneth Morgan and David Marsh were the two they’d had returns for so far. He scanned Morgan’s first. It had come from a personal account.

  Date: Monday 15 February 2010

  From: kmorgan_1970@gmail.com

  To: a.saunders@GKR.com

  Dear Anthony

  It’s with regret that I am writing to tell you of my decision to resign, effective immediately. I’ve greatly enjoyed my time with the firm, and my decision is no reflection on the firm, or its people. I’ve had some troubling news about my health recently and am taking an indefinite career break on medical advice. I understand that the lack of notice means I forfeit the three months’ contractual pay I’m entitled to, but sure you understand, I need to put my health first.

  Yours sincerely

  Ken Morgan

  Fairly vague, Porter thought. Didn’t give much away. He made a mental note to check on who Morgan’s doctor was, and flipped over to the second email, this one from David Marsh.

  Date: Wednesday 16 March 2011

  From: david.marsh@santander.com

  To: david.pollard@santander.com

  Dave,

  Sorry for the short notice, but I’ve had to rethink my priorities after a recent trip to the doctor’s, and some unexpected news. As part of some treatment I need to go through, I’m taking a step away from my career for a while, so please treat this as my notice. Sorry I can’t do this in person, but I’ve been advised against coming into the office, so will arrange to have my laptop and security pass returned by courier.

  Best regards,

  David

  Equally as vague as the first one. Porter felt deflated. From the excited look on Benayoun’s face, he’d expected something a little more conclusive. It must have showed in his face.

  ‘I know it doesn’t exactly send us past Go and collect two hundred,’ Styles said, ‘but Benayoun here also went back to them and asked about pre-existing health conditions. Most of them, these two included, were covered by company health plans. None of them could give any specifics, obviously, doctor–patient confidentiality and all that, but they did all confirm that no claims had been made under the policies. What do we make of that?’

  ‘I have to say, guv,’ Benayoun cut in, ‘I can’t really see people with access to help like that going through the NHS instead.’

  Porter gave her an encouraging nod. ‘I’d have to agree. So, the next question is, did they get any treatment at all, and if not, why not?’

  ‘Even those who haven’t sent copies yet have confirmed that they all resigned for health reasons,’ said Benayoun.

  ‘Good work, Benayoun,’ said Porter, watching her practically preen with pride at the compliment. ‘I’m going to head out for a bit. Let me know when the others come through, yeah?’

  ‘Where to, guv?’ said Styles.

  ‘Just a social call,’ said Porter. ‘You hang fire here in case anything juicy comes back from any of those companies. I’ll be back by lunch.’

  Styles looked like a puppy about to be loc
ked in its cage but stayed sitting as Porter headed for the door. He had been a little economical with the truth. He was heading to Max’s, which was a mix of work and social. That wasn’t the only reason for being out and about. A longer absence meant less chance of an encounter with Sameera Misra, or any more earache from Milburn.

  His phone chirped as he reached the door to the car park. Styles, an invite to dinner with him and Emma tonight that he’d forgotten to mention. Porter fired back his RSVP, a simple Yep. Time? He’d barely taken another step when a second text came through. Not Styles this time, though. Kat.

  Well???????

  He’d ignored three from her already – fishing, stirring, a combination of the two. What did he think of Rachel? Truth be told, he’d enjoyed himself more on Saturday than he’d been prepared for. One beer had turned into six, washing down Tony’s home-made burgers. The other couples, contrary to his suspicions, hadn’t been instructed to ignore him by Kat. They were an easy bunch to be around, to relax around. Whether that last part was due in no small measure to the beer, or to Rachel, didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that the weight, or some of it at least, of the previous week had melted away.

  This morning’s run-in with Milburn had added a few rocks back in his pockets. Kat playing Cupid could wait. He still had his head bowed over his phone, so didn’t see the figure until he was on the bottom step, less than a foot away. His head jerked up, fingers clenching reflexively around his phone.

  Evie Simmons looked up at him, wide-eyed, leaning off to one side, weight on one crutch to lean away from a head-on collision, the other six inches off the ground, about to tip like a felled tree. Porter reached out, grabbed an arm to steady her. Didn’t take much, her being a fraction of his size. Embarrassed smiles all round.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there. You OK?’

  She waggled a crutch towards him. ‘Yeah, I can be hard to spot with these babies.’

  Porter saw her glance down, realised he still had hold of her arm, let go of it like it was a hot kettle.