CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
July 2009
The flat reminded him of a show home. Everything new and perfectly positioned. Shiny, but soulless. Prints on the walls, shapeless splashes of colour. Footsteps behind him. He turned, saw his host heading across the room, glass of whisky in each hand. He took the one that was offered, letting himself be ushered towards an enormous sofa, big enough for him to lie down full length, arms and legs stretched out.
True to his word, the recruiter did indeed have a job. Michael Fletcher handed him a printout, practically dropped his own whisky onto the glass coffee table with a solid thunk, loud enough to make him flinch. Fletcher fell backwards onto the couch next to him, breathing a toxic mix of cigarettes and whisky on him as he leant in, almost enough to make his eyes water.
For all he hadn’t wanted to be here, he had to admit, the job did look a pretty good prospect. That, and the fact that Fletcher had practically begged him to come back and look at it, had to be a positive sign, right?
He read on, trying to tune out Fletcher’s slurred speech, mumbling something about claiming his referral fee, then giggling to himself. He didn’t quite catch the rest of what Fletcher said, and turned to ask him to repeat it, when it happened.
Fletcher moved in to match his turn, and their lips met. He felt Fletcher’s tongue probe at his lips, a hand on his knee, sliding upwards. He jerked his head back, scooted a few inches back on the couch.
‘What the hell was that?’ His own voice went an octave higher, shaky and shrill.
‘Ha!’ Fletcher spat the word out like an accusation. ‘Don’t go all shy on me now. That, dear boy, is why we came back here.’
‘But … the job …’
‘Yes, yes, you’ll get the job, but one good turn deserves another, don’t you think?’
Fletcher shuffled forwards, trousers squeaking against the leather sofa, making him jump up to his feet. Fletcher mirrored, albeit a touch more unsteady. Two feet apart, no sound apart from his own breathing, shallow and fast. Gave the whole scene a strangely intimate feel. Fletcher broke the tableau, reached out, as if to pat a shoulder, and he reacted instinctively, batting the hand away, making more solid contact than intended.
Momentum plus alcohol made any attempt at balance an impossibility. Slow motion, Fletcher spun, arms windmilling, grasping air. Toppling like a felled tree, slow, picking up speed as he passed the point of no return. Fletcher’s shoulder smashed against the edge of the coffee table, and a maze of cracks appeared as if by magic, running through to the centre. His cheek connected with the corner, carving a line that stretched around to his ear.
Fletcher lay there, stunned, open-mouthed, eyes fluttered half closed, then wide like pools as pain kicked in. He touched a hand to his cheek, saw it come back red, and pain gave way to anger.
‘You fucking idiot,’ he roared. ‘You’re finished. The only job you’ll get is washing dishes when I’m through with you.’ He winced, wiggling his jaw from side to side. Ran his tongue over his teeth.
He looked down at Fletcher. The glass had cut deep, a red curtain of blood seeping down to the jawline like war paint.
‘Well? Don’t just stand there, you useless piece of shit,’ Fletcher yelled. ‘Either help me up or get the hell out of here.’
The blood. The man sprawled on the floor. He blinked, and he wasn’t in the flat any more. He was back in the warehouse, bully at his feet.
Blink. Back in the room. He bent down, picked up Fletcher’s whisky glass. He was the victim here. All an accident, a misunderstanding.
Blink. The feeling of injustice turning to justice. Of standing up for himself. Hesitation into righteous indignation.
Blink. The realisation, an epiphany of sorts, that the dreams he’d been stuck with since that day weren’t just dreams. No, they were fantasies, alternate realities, of what should have happened. Not this time. The glass was reassuringly heavy in his hand, thick base snug against his palm. Fletcher groaned, pushing himself up, palms on the floor.
That movement triggered something in him. Acting without thinking, the hand holding the glass stretched out behind, then whipped forwards, like a baseball pitch. It flew straight and true, heavy base connecting with Fletcher’s temple. He saw the recruiter’s eyes roll back in his head, supporting arm giving way, and he face-planted into the floor.
He stood motionless for a ten count, barely breathing himself. Fletcher lay still, not so much as a twitch. Slowly, he inched towards Fletcher where he lay. Placed two shaky fingers to his neck, felt the faintest of pulses. Touched the same two fingers to the spot that the glass had connected with. Traced the concave dent, felt something grate when he prodded. No reaction from Fletcher.
He stood up, looked around, saw his own drink where he’d left it on the table. He pulled the glass towards him and drained it in one. Focused on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Felt the heat of the whisky spreading through him.
Two choices. Call for an ambulance, report it as an accident. Deal with the consequences. No way that ended well for him, though. Option two, take care of things himself, whatever that entailed.
Of all the crossroads he’d found himself at, this was the most defining, even more so than the warehouse. Two choices, but the decision had been made the second he threw the glass, and he set about doing what needed to be done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The BMW hadn’t moved since they came on shift, so, consequently, neither had they. No need to. Only one way in, one way out. Abney Park lurked beyond the wall at the far end, sealing off the street with a dense green wall. They’d parked up outside an estate agents on the corner, giving them a full view of Summerhouse Road.
Neither officer had seen so much as a twitching curtain since they’d taken over earlier this morning. At least last night’s crew had had a field trip, even if it was only following Baxter to the shops and back. The man in the driver’s seat, PC Glenn Waters, was the proud record holder of today’s highest score on Angry Birds. His passenger, PC Dee Williams, swore under her breath, stabbed a finger at the screen, muttering something about it being a stupid game anyway.
Waters’s grin dropped as he jerked his head around to catch movement in the wing mirror. False alarm. A young mother struggled past them, bumping a pushchair up the kerb, her son’s hand in her left, the hand doing the steering weighed down by two heavy-looking shopping bags that cut into her wrist.
He had just looked back across to Williams when a jogger came out of the back lane, past them and off onto the main street before he had a chance to twist in his seat for a better look. Light grey hoodie pulled up over their head, a dark grey inkblot of a sweat patch on their back. A man, he thought, judging by the build. Must have just cut through the lane if he’d already got a sweat on.
Waters jumped as something landed in his lap. Looked down at his phone, where Williams had thrown it, scrubbed the jogger from his mind and tapped the screen to start a fresh game.
‘Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
He kept running for almost ten minutes, criss-crossing streets to check for unwanted followers. The liberal sprinkling of water on the hoodie had given a sweat patch like a Rorschach test. A small sports pouch around his waist held a few essentials, including a key for the BMW a few more minutes away, bought for cash a few weeks back.
Patience had always been a strong point. Over an hour of watching them through the narrowest of gaps where the curtain met the wall, waiting until they’d both taken a comfort break, unlikely to leave the car again until the next shift change.
He slid into the driver’s seat of the BMW, peeled his hood back. Quick check in the mirror for traffic, and he was on his way. First stop would be his place for a change of clothes, then on to Max, and the answers he needed to put an end to this once and for all.
Porter’s stomach gurgled like water down a drain. When was the last time he’d eaten? He checked his watch. Three hours until he was due in Misra’s o
ffice, and he was looking forward to it as much as most people look forward to visiting the dentist. He knew she couldn’t force him to say anything, but it wasn’t her he was worried about.
Everywhere he turned, someone mentioned Holly. Milburn, Misra, Kat, parents, even Styles. Their concern for him was like a fist around a tube of toothpaste, squeezing him, pressure building. No telling what might come out eventually.
He had dealt with losing Holly like he coped with everything. By putting it in a box, tucking it away somewhere safe. The grief was there; he just chose not to let it wash over him, to paralyse him. Too many people relied on him every day to let that happen. He would cope with it a damn sight better, had been since it happened, if they’d just all leave him be.
Enough of the self-pity. He turned his attention back to Benayoun’s notes. She’d tracked down all bar one of Fletcher’s appointments from the day he disappeared and arranged times for them to be interviewed. The exception was James Bannister. Porter studied his AMT profile. He had been some kind of finance expert, although the jobs on Bannister’s CV looked more like temp roles than anything significant. The address they had for him was near Bromley, a little over an hour’s commute from the City. He was still on the electoral register there. Had anyone been around to check? Nothing to confirm either way.
He clicked through to the financial information they’d tracked down for Bannister. He hadn’t paid any taxes since April 2009. That only made sense if he was working cash in hand. Would there be enough of that to fund a flat in that area? Porter doubted it. Bannister’s lack of a footprint niggled him, like sand in a shoe after a trip to the beach. It wasn’t quite the same as the others, but at the same time there were enough questions to make him as much of a potential victim as anyone else, maybe even the first. Whoever was making these men disappear could have started with Bannister and gotten a taste for it.
Porter was loath to think of this as yet another coincidence, but whatever was going on, it felt like it was reaching a critical mass, a boil about to burst. There was a trail to follow, even if he hadn’t a clue where it led.
Porter decided he and Styles would pay a visit to Bannister’s flat this afternoon, and he scribbled the address on a bright orange Post-it, slapping it next to the original list of names on the whiteboard. He called out to Benayoun, and she appeared beside him a few seconds later, like a genie from a lamp.
‘Quick job for you,’ he said, pointing at the orange square. ‘That chap there, we need a photo. There’ll probably be one with his CV like the others. Can you print off a few for me?’
‘No worries, I’m on it,’ she said, wheeling away to get started.
It occurred to him as she disappeared that he’d meant to ask her to get an update from the cars watching Leyson and Baxter. He opened his mouth to call her back but changed his mind. Want a job doing properly, do it yourself. He picked up the phone, punched in the extension for the control room, and asked to be patched through to the officers watching Leyson.
The constable he spoke to made no effort to hide his boredom as he walked Porter through in a monotone like he was reading the football scores. Office, wine bar, home and back to the office again. Porter thanked him and pressed redial, this time asking for the car keeping an eye on Baxter.
‘Still holed up at home.’ PC Williams had a nasal drone to her voice that reminded Porter of one of his school teachers.
Porter wondered if Baxter was taking an extra few days to make the line he’d fed his employer about being sick more convincing.
‘Not left the street all day,’ Williams continued. ‘Night shift get all the fun.’
‘Fun?’ Porter felt a trickle of uncertainty run down his insides, pooling in his gut.
‘Slight exaggeration, guv.’ Williams chuckled. ‘They had a late-night trip to the shops. Long way to go for a pack of smokes, mind.’
‘Where’s a long way?’
‘Finished up at that big new Tesco in Harrow. Topped up the tank, bought some cigarettes then headed home.’
‘The one on Station Road?’ Porter asked, even though he knew the answer.
‘That’s the one.’
Station Road. Minutes away from Max’s house, but a good forty-five minutes from Baxter’s flat. An hour and a half round trip instead of one of dozens of petrol stations closer to his own home. Porter had mentioned Max’s name to Baxter when they’d met, but nothing more than that. The only way he could know about Max, specifically where he lived, would be if he was part of whatever was going on. He hadn’t gone out for cigarettes. He’d gone there for Max. Must have clocked the car following him and changed his plans.
Porter sat up rigid in his chair. ‘You’re sure he’s still at home?’
‘Yep, not crossed the doorstep since we got here.’
‘Make sure he doesn’t,’ said Porter, springing to his feet. ‘He doesn’t leave till I get there. Understood? And put a call in for a car to go to Max Brennan’s house. I want him and his girlfriend at the station within the hour.’
Porter didn’t wait for an acknowledgement. No time. If he was right, this ended today.
Styles drove while Porter called Max’s mobile, but it went straight to voicemail.
‘Max, it’s Jake. Call me now.’ Short and to the point.
Styles darted through a gap in the traffic to take the turn into Summerhouse Road, pulling up behind the unmarked Volvo. He and Styles trotted along to where Williams stood by the stairs leading to Baxter’s front door.
‘Anything?’ said Styles.
‘No sign of life,’ said Williams, shaking her head. Her face was somewhere between confusion and contrition, like she’d messed up but didn’t know how.
Porter strode past him and jabbed a finger at the intercom, staring at it, willing it to speak. Seconds of silence oozed past. Nothing. Pressed it again, holding for a five count, but the result was the same. He stepped back to where the others stood. Looked up at the rows of windows, curtains drawn like stages waiting for their actors. He took out his phone and redialled Max. Still nothing. Where the hell was he? Beads of sweat popped across his shoulders and down his back. This, whatever this was, felt all kinds of wrong, like things were playing out right under his nose that he was powerless to stop.
He looked back at Styles, at the two officers, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other, and made his decision. There was a good chance he’d end up regretting it, but if he was right, what he had in mind was the least of his worries.
Max had just pulled his T-shirt on when he heard the doorbell. He had pushed himself on his run around Kenton Rec, sprinting stretches, pumping arms and legs, breathing hard to drown out the voices that told him to stop. Even after a cold shower, he was still dabbing sweat off his forehead.
The man had his back to Max when he opened the door and turned as Max leant against the frame. Smart blue suit, white shirt, no tie and top button undone. Short hair, probably a number two all over. Max put him somewhere in his early forties, but he’d not had too rough a paper round from the few lines on his face.
‘Max Brennan?’
‘Yes, how can I help you?’
‘DI Lumley, Met Police,’ he said, flashing an ID badge. ‘DI Porter sent me to pick you up. We’ve got reason to believe the man who attacked you might also be responsible for your father’s disappearance.’
‘You’ve caught him?’ Max’s heart thumped hard against his chest at the prospect.
‘Afraid not,’ he said with a resigned smile. ‘We’ve reason to believe he might come after you again. The boss asked me to get you somewhere safe in the meantime. Just a precaution, you understand.’ He looked past Max, into the house. ‘Is your girlfriend here as well?’
Max shook his head. ‘She’s round at her mother’s. Are we meeting Jake at the station, then?’
‘Not yet,’ said the officer, snapping his attention back to Max. ‘The boss told me to take you to one of our off-site locations. Whoever this fella is, he seems to be one
step ahead, so we’re not taking any chances. The DI will meet us there. If you give me your mother-in-law’s address, we can send a car for your other half as well.’
‘Sure, OK then,’ said Max, reciting the address from memory. ‘Come on in a second while I sort myself out.’
He backed into the house, stepped into a pair of Converse, laces still done up, burrowing his toes in, and scooping the backs over his heel with a finger. Keys, phone, wallet. Should he leave a note for Jen? No point, they’d pick her up before she could make it back. The officer was waiting patiently by the door when Max emerged. They both looked down at his phone as it cheeped a message.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Max, holding it up for the officer to see. ‘Voicemail from Jake.’
The officer cleared his throat. ‘That’ll just be to tell you to expect me. We’d best get going anyway.’ He stepped back to let Max out.
Max let the phone fall back to his side. Jake would probably be driving to meet them now anyway, so no point calling back. He’d see him soon enough.
‘Lead the way,’ he said, pulling the door closed behind him.
The car he headed to was an unmarked BMW. Older model but looked in good shape. Max looked both ways along the road. Not another soul in sight, so why did he feel like he was being watched, claustrophobic, as if the street was folding in on itself?
Porter’s lips were practically touching the letter box as he shouted through.
Nothing Else Remains Page 20
