Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  The cash would only rest there, pause for breath, then splinter off into smaller chunks, each heading to a numbered offshore account. Shame about the flat. Another few weeks and he could have sold that too, but he had days, not weeks.

  His next stop was the British Airways homepage. He paused, closed his eyes. Eenie, meenie, minie, mo. Chose a destination. Three days from now should do it. Enough time to tie up loose ends. Time to head back to the flat in Bromley, pick up a few things. Maybe even time to figure out where he’d gone wrong, what he’d overlooked. He wasn’t sure he could do it without sticking his head too far above the parapet, but the seed of an idea had started to germinate. A little audacious, perhaps; doable, though.

  He made one more trip to the storage room, squeezed a few carb gels into the subject’s mouth, held a bottle of water to wash them down. Checked the lock twice again on the way out. He shut down the laptop, stared at the car for a few seconds. It could stay here. Better that he head out on foot, walk a couple of miles to the nearby train station and head back to the subject’s flat. Made more sense that he used their car now, not his own.

  He needed to have a conversation with Max, that much he had decided, but no home court advantage this time. He knew now that Max could handle himself, so he’d need to take that out of the equation, and he knew just how to do it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Porter and Styles arrived promptly for their noon follow-up at AMT. Glass’s assistant had sounded stern when she’d said all she could give them was fifteen minutes, as if there would be a forfeit attached for non-compliance. When they walked into the reception area, it looked as if she was muttering to herself, but as they approached, Porter spotted a Bluetooth headset tucked into her ear. She looked up as they got closer, smiled and held up a finger, mouthing silently that she’d be one minute.

  After Styles’s comments about her on the previous visit, Porter made a conscious effort not to look her way, but it was like trying not to look at a car crash on the opposite side of the road. His eyes kept flitting her way.

  Did you just liken an attractive woman to a car crash? Smooth, Jake, smooth. No wonder you’re fighting them off.

  The idea of actually flirting with anyone new, anyone not Holly, still felt awkward to him, like trying on a suit that was out in every measurement. All the same, even he had to admit that Glass’s PA would turn every head in a bar. She finished her call, glanced up and caught him staring. She smiled, like full beam headlights, and he looked away for a second before giving a sheepish one of his own in return as he stood up.

  ‘Good morning, Detectives. I’ll let Mr Glass know you’re here.’ She pressed a button on her phone. ‘Yes, sir. They’re here. Mm-hmm. Will do.’ She stood up. ‘If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, he’ll see you right away.’ Like he was doing them a favour, as if they’d just walked in off the street.

  Porter fell in behind her, stopping when she did, and waited as she gave a polite two-tap knock with one hand, pushing the door open with the other. Glass sat at the conference table, fingers furiously pecking at a BlackBerry. He spoke without looking up, no pause in his attack on the keypad.

  ‘Take a seat, please. I’ll just … be … one … moment.’ The sentence stretched out, Glass typing three words for every one spoken.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee, Detectives?’ Ellie asked from behind them.

  ‘We’re good, thanks,’ said Porter, answering for both, seeing disappointment on Styles’s face.

  They sat down as Glass slapped his phone on the table. ‘Good to see you again, Detectives. I hope the information I sent over was useful?’

  Porter nodded. ‘Interesting reading, Mr Glass. We’ve come across something as a result that you might be able to shed some light on.’

  Glass spread his hands, a magician with nothing up his sleeve. ‘Of course, if I can, I will.’

  ‘One of our colleagues has been in touch with the companies these men worked for, and there’s something else in common apart from the link to AMT. They all left, blaming poor health. All resigned by email. Does any part of your profiling cover their physical or mental health?’

  ‘Afraid not, Detective.’ Glass shrugged. ‘Most companies we place people at offer healthcare as part of the package. Have you tried asking them if they’ll share?’

  ‘We have. Still waiting for replies, though, so hoped you might have been able to help speed things up.’

  ‘I hate to rain on your parade, but might it just be that they all had their reasons, and that’s where the similarities end, with the fact they don’t want to be bothered while they work through whatever’s wrong with them? We had a similar thing a while back with one of our chaps.’

  ‘What do you mean, similar thing?’ said Porter.

  ‘One of my recruiters, he did the whole email resignation thing. Suppose it avoids the stress of doing it face-to-face, or the pity you get if it’s anything serious. Some people are just too proud to let that happen.’

  ‘When was this, Mr Glass?’ said Styles.

  Glass leant back in his chair, absent-mindedly swinging a few inches either way. ‘A while back now. I’d say summer 2009 or 2010. It was back in the recession. To be honest, and I feel bad for saying this, but business was slow then, and Michael leaving probably saved us from having to let someone go.’

  ‘Can you be more specific, sir?’ Styles asked. Porter could hear it in his partner’s voice, questions coming slightly quicker, leather seat squeaking as he leant forwards. Was this something, or nothing?

  Glass shrugged. ‘I can have Ellie find out if it’s that important, but I don’t see what that has to do with what’s happening now. That was years ago.’

  ‘Even so, can you remember his name? You said Michael. Michael what?’

  ‘Michael Fletcher,’ said Glass, looking a little bemused at the direction the conversation was taking.

  ‘And you literally got an email one day saying he wasn’t coming back?’ asked Porter.

  ‘Mm-hmm. Little unorthodox as I say, but …’

  ‘Is it possible that Mr Fletcher could have had dealings with any of the people we’re looking for?’ said Styles.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ said Glass, although the slight roll of his eyes suggested he thought they were wasting their time. ‘It’ll all be archived now, after all this time, but I can ask Ellie to check. Probably won’t be until tomorrow now, though. She’s in meetings with me all afternoon.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be fine,’ said Porter. ‘If we can get an address or phone number as well, that’d be appreciated.’ He asked out of habit as much as anything. There was every chance that Fletcher would have changed one, or both of those, in the last eight years.

  Glass glanced at his watch and pushed up from the table. ‘I’m afraid I’ve a meeting starting in five minutes.’ He shrugged an apology.

  ‘Of course,’ said Porter, both he and Styles standing in tandem, following him out of his office.

  ‘Just give Ellie details of what you need,’ he said, as they passed her desk. ‘Really must dash.’ With the briefest of smiles, Glass turned and left.

  They did as he suggested, and Ellie promised to look into it first thing tomorrow. It was just the two of them in the lift for the ride down. After a few floors of silence, Porter turned to face his partner.

  ‘Why do I feel like a small piece of the puzzle might have just fallen into place?’

  ‘Maybe one of those corner pieces,’ said Styles. ‘Not the tricky bits in the middle that look like they fit everywhere.’

  ‘Had no idea you were such a jigsaw black belt.’

  ‘Oh, I’m full of surprises’ said Styles with a wink. ‘But yeah, I think you’re right. Too many coincidences mounting up for them to only be that and nothing more.’

  ‘There’s another one we’ve not talked about yet,’ said Porter. Styles’s puzzled look suggested it hadn’t occurred to him yet, so Porter pressed on. ‘I did some quick sums in there, and I can’t believe we mis
sed it when we did the whiteboard grid.’

  ‘Should I be doing a drumroll while you keep building up to this?’

  ‘It’s the dates,’ said Porter. ‘The dates they resigned. Dates they last showed up anywhere. The first four were spaced out by roughly six months. Ones after that were a bit faster, then we get Jackson and Mayes practically on top of each other. If this Fletcher chap is linked, then he disappeared around six months before our first name.’

  ‘That’s still an if, though,’ said Styles, sounding cautious.

  ‘You know as well as I do that the chances are he will be,’ said Porter. ‘It’s a pattern, Styles, a bloody pattern. Someone is making these guys disappear, and they’re getting better with practice. Speeding up.’ Porter felt a flutter of excitement in his chest.

  Styles stayed quiet for a moment, then nodded. ‘Alright, that makes sense. I don’t envy Baxter or Leyson if you’re right, because if you are, they won’t have to wait long before he pays them a visit, and we still don’t know who he is, or what he looks like to be able to stop him.’

  He waited until nightfall. Outside the window, shadows appeared on the ground as if by magic. Dark stains on a grey concrete carpet, thickening into inky black as they oozed over the neighbourhood, matching the sun’s retreat stride for stride.

  He slipped on a black fleece, stuffed a handful of cable ties into the pocket. Shouldn’t need any more than that. He had no idea of Max’s plans tonight, but there was no hurry. He could park up along from the house, wait all night if he had to.

  Quick pat of pockets for car keys, and he headed out. The pip-pip of the doors unlocking echoed along the street. He hadn’t driven an automatic for a few years, and his hand reflexively reached for the gearstick. Second time lucky, he pulled away from the kerb and off into the night.

  Two officers sat in a plain unmarked Volvo. No uniforms, no fuss. Strictly a watch and observe brief. The tail lights of the black BMW glowed like twin cigarette butts as it cruised past them, turning left onto the main road. The Volvo pulled out, made the same turn, and slotted in three cars behind the BMW. Perfect. The officer in the passenger seat yawned, stretching his legs as far as the footwell would allow, settling in for the ride.

  Porter’s mouth watered like Pavlov’s dog as he walked past his partner and into the house. Emma Styles popped her head out of the kitchen door as he shrugged off his jacket.

  ‘Jake! We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.’

  She was closer to the truth than she realised. He’d nearly had a change of heart an hour ago, but the chance to bounce a few more ideas around with Styles won out over a microwave dinner and a night on the sofa with Demetrious. Just.

  Emma came out to take his jacket, wrapping her arms around him for a quick hug. He caught a whiff of garlic and onion that clung to her from the kitchen. She passed his jacket to Styles and dipped back into the kitchen to finish up.

  Being late meant that she plated up after only a few minutes. Her dish of the day was Bajan rice and peas, dotted with big chunks of salted beef. Styles had warned him that Emma had been experimenting with recipes ever since they got back from visiting his grandma in Barbados, and his stomach gurgled its approval. It was only as the plate was slid in front of him that he realised just how hungry he was. Something felt off, though. Emma and Styles were both smiling, making small talk, but there was an awkward edge to it. Maybe they’d argued before he arrived? Had his invite been more Styles’s idea, with Emma just wanting a quiet night? Best not outstay his welcome either way. They could hash out whatever it was after he left.

  Conversation over dinner felt the same, clumsy at times. The couple of looks that Emma shot at her husband weren’t lost on Porter. Emma scooped up the empty plates and rattling cutlery.

  ‘The sofa’s calling me. I’ll leave you two to talk shop,’ she said. ‘Shout if you want anything.’

  Porter waited until the door clicked closed behind her. ‘Everything alright?’

  Styles glanced at the door, then back to Porter. ‘What? Oh, yeah, course, everything’s fine.’ The response was flat, without conviction.

  ‘You sure? Em seemed a bit off her game.’

  ‘She’ll just be tired, you know, what with the baby and everything.’

  Porter thought about pressing it, but let it drop. Who was he to offer advice anyway? He scooped stray grains of rice from the tablecloth, dropping them onto the plate.

  ‘Don’t know about you, but I’ll be more surprised if there’s no mention of this Fletcher guy than if there is.’

  Styles nodded. ‘You thinking victim or perpetrator?’

  ‘Could be either, but I’d stick my mortgage on him being one or the other.’

  ‘You know I’m normally more of a hard facts kind of guy, but you’re starting to win me over to the dark side with the occasional speculation.’

  ‘I’m thinking of asking Jen Hart if she’ll consider hypnosis to see if she can remember anything else,’ said Porter. ‘Might be a dead end, but this is starting to feel like wading through treacle, so anything we can shake loose is fine by me.’

  ‘Anything’s worth a pop,’ Styles conceded. ‘Want me to set it up?’

  ‘Let me speak to her and Max first. She was full-on deer-in-headlights still when I saw her, so need to be careful how we approach it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Styles. ‘Makes sense, what with you knowing them. Anyway, plan of attack tomorrow?’

  Porter leant back. The rice and meat sat heavy in his stomach, like he’d swallowed a lead weight. Too much, too quickly, but too good to leave anything but a clear plate.

  ‘Let’s see what AMT comes back with. We’ll chase them if we haven’t heard by lunch. Failing that, we should get around a few more of the old employers. See if we can speak to bosses, co-workers, that kind of thing. I’m not writing them off like Mayes just yet.’

  The words rang as hollow as a smoker declaring today was the day to quit. No wager of a mortgage this time.

  Styles leant forwards again, elbows on table, for the fifth time, or was it the sixth. Like a bloody see-saw. He willed himself to sit still as he listed to Porter talk, eyes fixed on the door, expecting Emma to come back through any minute. This was her way, he supposed, of giving them some time alone, time for him to tell Porter that he’d spoken to Milburn about a transfer. Well, strictly speaking, he’d been spoken to by Milburn. He hadn’t actually raised the subject himself, although Emma thought he had. One little white lie to keep her sweet while he worked up to it.

  That was the thing; any move wouldn’t be his choice. He loved Homicide and Serious. Loved working with Porter. But he also loved his wife, and the way she saw it, those were circles on a Venn diagram that just didn’t intersect any more. He caught himself drifting, heard the tail end of a sentence, something about Harold Mayes.

  ‘I said I’m not writing them off like Mayes just yet,’ said Porter.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I mean no, course not.’

  He saw the way Porter looked at him, the same way he’d seen him look at countless suspects, trying to work out what was going on behind the eyes.

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’ Porter asked.

  Styles nodded, a little too enthusiastically. ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’

  Porter shrugged. ‘Just seem a little distracted, that’s all.’

  ‘Nah, I’m fine, honestly. Just tired, that’s all. Been a long day. You old timers of all people should know how that feels.’ He forced out what he hoped was a convincing enough grin.

  Seemed to do the trick, and Porter blew out a breath. ‘Sad but true. I’ll take that as my cue.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,’ Styles said, feeling bad now that his boss had thought he was hinting.

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine. I was going to make a move in a few anyway,’ said Porter, pushing back from the table.

  Styles almost suggested one for the road, but Porter had already turned towards the door, so he let the words slide b
ack down. Tonight hadn’t felt like the right time to say anything anyway, no matter how many hints Emma had dropped before Porter had arrived. Porter popped the door to the living room open a foot and stuck his head around.

  ‘I’m off, Emma. Thanks again for the pity invite. Great grub.’

  Styles heard his wife scoff at Porter’s parting shot. ‘Playing the victim doesn’t suit you, Jake. Night night.’

  Porter left the door open and headed into the hallway towards the front door. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Will do, guv,’ said Styles. He heard the whisper of socks on carpet and turned to see Emma joining him as he started to close the door.

  ‘You didn’t tell him, did you?’ she asked, studying his face as he pushed it closed.

  Styles glanced back at the door, seeing the blurred silhouette through opaque glass, lit up by the security light. Had he closed the door before Emma spoke? She hadn’t exactly whispered. He fancied he saw Porter’s outline pause, only for a second.

  Had he heard? Shit. He hoped not. Should have taken his chance at the dinner table. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll do it tomorrow. If she hasn’t already done it for me.

  His cautious approach had nearly cost him dearly. He’d always been more of a night owl. Came in handy during the research phase. Passers-by remembered less at night, were less inclined to poke their noses in. A dozen different shades of car colour, all faded into vague dark splashes as they drove past.

  These things and more had served him well in the past, slipping through streets and towns unnoticed. Tonight, though, he’d almost come undone by the very darkness that he sought out. Nobody’s fault but his own. Hadn’t even been looking at first. Didn’t feel the need to. He glided along the roads, enjoying the gentle growl of the BMW’s engine. That somebody could be following him didn’t register until it was almost too late. Maybe it was already too late. Depended on who it was and why there were there.