Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  ‘One for one. Where is he?’ Max said through gritted teeth, feeling his patience wearing wafer-thin.

  Baxter sighed. ‘I’ve not seen him in a little while, but he’s closer than you think.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ said Max, walking over to the BMW, peering through the windows again.

  Baxter moved past Max’s question as if it hadn’t been asked. ‘Met him a few times at one of those AMT bashes. So, you two have literally just met, then? What are we talking, weeks, months?’

  Max shook his head. ‘We were due to meet last week, but he never showed.’

  ‘So you’ve never actually laid eyes on him?’ Baxter asked, sounding amused by the idea.

  ‘No, we’ve never actually met. I’ve only seen photos of …’ Max stopped mid sentence. ‘Hang on, what happened to one for one?’

  Max opened his mouth to ask again where his dad was but stopped as an idea swam to mind. Baxter seemed happy to sit and play games, like he had all the time in the world. Why not give him a taste of his own medicine?

  ‘You can play the victim all you like about how you ended up here, but you’re done. You just don’t know it yet.’

  Baxter looked at Max as if he was a child trying to order the grown-ups around. ‘Really? How so?’

  ‘DNA. They’ve got yours from the crime scene.’

  Baxter’s expression didn’t change. He stared back at Max, unblinking, mocking him with a half smirk, daring him to do his worst.

  ‘The phone you left at the Mayes house had a cracked screen. Someone had swiped it, left skin cells behind. Wasn’t Harold. Wasn’t my dad. Wasn’t anyone they had on file. It’ll be interesting when they check it against yours though, eh?’

  That got a reaction, the first point scored since Max had been cut free. Baxter’s eyes widened, just a fraction, more of a twitch, really, but noticeable all the same. The smirk looked more of a mask now, hiding something else. Uncertainty? Fear? No witty comebacks this time. Max felt things tilting in his favour. Now to press home the advantage.

  That bloody phone! Why hadn’t he gotten it fixed, or even bought a new one? Max could be bluffing, but how would he know details like that unless the police had told him? This changed everything. If they had that, then they had him bang to rights. Not for everything, but for enough to make sure he’d not be a free man until it was time to draw his pension, at the very least. He could hardly just sit here, wait patiently to be cuffed and led away. What was the saying? You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb? You can only serve a life sentence once. Might as well go for broke.

  ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ Max floated in front of his face, relishing the point scored. ‘They’ve got you nailed for murder, mate. Only a matter of time before they work out whatever else you’re hiding.’

  His mind riffled through a half-dozen ideas, smart comebacks, taking his chance with the scissors against his neck, settling on one. Risky, but it was either this or sit and wait for the police to come crashing through the door. He took a deep breath, exhaled like a deflating airbed. Nodded as best he could, feeling the blade still held to his neck.

  ‘That they do, Max, that they do. Alright then, Mayes was my work. Not my best, but we all have our off days.’

  Max looked stunned at the admission, and Baxter pressed on, filling the silence.

  ‘You can plan all you like, but no matter how hard you try, you can never cover it all. Take you, for example. You weren’t supposed to exist.’

  Max’s expression changed to one of confusion. The pressure against his neck felt an ounce lighter. Was Max’s sidekick getting distracted?

  ‘Sorry, I should be more specific. I’m thorough. Very thorough.’ He made no attempt to keep the pride from his voice. ‘I’m talking full background: work, family, hobbies, inside leg measurement, the works. Gordon had no one, at least no one I could find.’

  ‘What do you … I mean why would that …’

  ‘I only choose people who won’t be missed, Max. If they’re all alone, there’s nobody to come looking.’

  ‘What do you mean, choose?’ Callum cut in. ‘Choose for what?’

  ‘You’d be amazed how many there are out there, live to work, not work to live. No family, no friends, well, not real ones anyway. Just another suit sitting in an office, nobody to go home to. You’d be amazed how easy it is, a little creativity with a few bits of ID, some account numbers, a couple of passwords, and Bob’s your uncle.’

  He could see from Max’s face that he had him hooked. As much as the poor fool wanted to interrupt, to bring it back to his dad again, he was worried that butting in would break the spell. Stop the big reveal.

  ‘I mean honestly, the number of people I’ve seen on Facebook, claiming to have over a thousand friends. Smoke and mirrors. How many of those thousand care where they’ve gone to? How many do you think come looking for them? I’ll tell you. One. You. You’re the first.’

  ‘And where have they gone to?’ said Max, breaking the spell.

  ‘Think about it, Max. How many of their so-called friends bothered to see how they were after they left their jobs? How many enquired after their health, to see if they recovered?’

  ‘How do you know about …’

  ‘About the emails? Who do you think sent them, Max? Come on, I thought you were a smart cookie. You disappoint me. You’ll be telling me next you haven’t figured out what I’ve been storing here.’

  Baxter tilted his chin up a fraction, looking over Max’s shoulder. Max turned, following the gesture. He looked back at Baxter, only for a second, then turned and walked over to the storage boxes. As he got closer, he heard a low hum that hadn’t registered before, probably thanks to his head still ringing from the clash with Baxter. He looked down the side, around the back, seeing black cables snaking away behind. The padlock on the nearest looked brand new, as did the units themselves.

  ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked, without turning around.

  ‘Bottom drawer of the desk, taped underneath.’

  Max turned to face him again. ‘Did you kill my father?’ His words came out flat, as he registered what he’d asked for the first time. No longer just asking where his dad was, but adding in the alternate that he hadn’t wanted to admit was possible.

  ‘I’m giving you what you want, Max. All the answers you’re looking for are right there in front of you. That’s the difference between you and me. You found Harold, so you know how far I’m willing to go to get what I want. How far are you willing to go, Max?’

  Max crossed the room for what seemed like the hundredth time, pulling out the bottom drawer, finding the key exactly where Baxter said it would be. He tore away the masking tape holding it in place and strode back across the warehouse. The key slid in smoothly, a knife into butter, and popped the lock at the first twist. He looked back over at his shoulder at Callum. Exchanged the briefest of nods.

  He curled his fingers around the handle and pulled the lid up towards him. Fine wisps of vapour rose from the edge, like dry ice. For a split second, it clouded Max’s line of sight, but when he saw past it his grip slipped, and he almost let the door fall back into place as he took a half step back.

  ‘What is it?’ Callum’s voice came from behind him.

  Max didn’t answer. He leant forwards again, peering inside. The face that stared back at him was dusted with a light frost. Hair and eyebrows had the rigid look of a freshly frozen lawn. The colour had leached from his skin and left him looking more mannequin than man. Not a face he knew. Not his father.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Callum’s voice was louder this time.

  ‘Jesus,’ Max whispered, turning back to look at Baxter. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ said Baxter, voice as cold as the air from the freezer.

  ‘How could … why would you …?’

  ‘Mostly because I could. Because nobody cared enough to try and stop me. Apart from that, t
here’s usually two reasons why people do what I do, Max. Love, or money, and I’m not exactly a poster boy for love. Money makes the world go round, and they have plenty of it. Cash, shares, equity, you name it. Some of them need a little encouragement to tell me where it’s stashed. Problem is, once you’ve stolen someone’s identity, you can’t just give it back, now, can you?’

  ‘Max.’ Callum had a panicked edge to his words now. ‘What the hell is he talking about? What’s in there?’

  ‘It’s a body,’ he said. ‘A fucking dead body.’

  ‘Two, actually,’ said Baxter. ‘Think those ones will be Morgan and Fredrickson. Seemed a bit pointless to get one for each of them.’

  Max looked at him, stunned at how flippantly Baxter could discuss the practicalities of storing bodies like that, as if they were no more than frozen food. Baxter, on the other hand, looked like he was positively enjoying the conversation, as if they were just two guys in a pub, chatting about football.

  ‘Where is he?’ The words felt clunky this time, physical objects forced from his mouth.

  Baxter said nothing, just shifted his gaze to Max’s left, raising his eyebrows. Max turned, saw the neighbouring unit to the one he’d just opened. Only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a few miles as Max moved towards it with slow steps. The padlock was a twin of the first, and the key slid home just as easily.

  Was this lid heavier, or were his arms weaker? Max held his breath as he lifted. The same icy plumes of air escaped as before. His entire world consisted of that one corner of the building. Nothing existed outside of what was right there in front of him.

  Max blinked, looked down, and for the first time in thirty-eight years came face-to-face with his father.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Two weeks ago

  How many people know with any certainty what they’re truly capable of? Not many, he’d wager, but he had yet to find a line he couldn’t or wouldn’t cross. That could all change, of course. There were no guarantees with what he did. No two jobs alike. That’s how he viewed them now: jobs. All you could do was plan ahead. Minimise risk. So far so good. The irony wasn’t lost on him that it had taken a recruiter to help him find what he was truly good at.

  He parked up a hundred yards or so away, sliding down in his seat, watching Gordon Jackson open his front door and disappear inside. He’d watched him for long enough to know there was nobody waiting to welcome him home, or likely to join him later.

  The routine was simple yet effective. He’d carry his pizza box up to the house. Look confused when they said they’d not ordered anything. Ask politely if they’d mind holding the box for a second while he checked the order. With their hands occupied, there was no avoiding the stun gun that dropped them to the floor.

  It had been trial and error in the early days, but practice had made perfect, and from there it would progress to an inevitable end. They all gave him what he wanted, although, granted, some needed more encouragement than others. A few had tried giving false account details, but he’d try them out then and there. Dishonesty had consequences, and he never had to ask more than twice.

  Thanks to the information in Fletcher’s client list, he chose carefully. Few questions were asked, and nobody ever came looking. The most he’d ever had were a few emails wishing a speedy recovery from whatever might be wrong. Most ID could be bought online if you knew where to shop, and long gone were the days when you actually knew your bank manager or had a family solicitor. Nowadays, they all fought like dogs for your business, but forgot your face the moment you paid your fee or invested your savings.

  If an Englishman’s home was his castle, then modern-day fortresses were built on weak foundations. Mortar too easy to chip away at. Walls dismantled brick by brick. Possessions and the very castles themselves sold off, with barely a second glance at a faked passport or doctored driving licence. Knowledge was power, alright, if you knew it about the right person.

  Enough reminiscing. He pulled on his baseball cap, tilted it down an inch. Grabbed a pizza box from the passenger seat, still warm; added authenticity. Quick pat of the pocket to check the stun gun and opened the car door. Off to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Porter braked sharply at the entrance, whipping the wheel to his right, and ploughed on into the industrial estate. Benayoun started calling out directions over the airwave, telling him which turns to take to save him having to stop and read the huge map by the road, like rats being given a guided tour of the maze. No sign of any other police units, but they couldn’t be far behind.

  ‘OK, now take the third right, then you’re down the far end, right-hand side, number 173.’ Benayoun’s voice was lost in the revving of the engine as Porter gunned it around the corner.

  A couple of the units they tore past had their doors open, interiors lit up and on display. Porter glanced at the numbers above them, counting up; not far now. He saw a flash in his mirror and spotted another set of blue lights back at the last junction. As much as he’d been pissed off at the idea that Callum Carr might have ignored the advice to stay put, he knew if the roles had been switched, he’d have been out of the car in a heartbeat and made a mental note not to be too hard on him.

  Anything Callum had been able to do, however small, might have made the difference for Max. For all he knew, he’d pull up and see them safe and sound outside. Or they could both be in trouble, both be hurt, or worse. He hadn’t felt this powerless since he was sitting at Holly’s hospital bed, and look how that had turned out.

  Max stared at his father’s face. He’d seen pictures, some from the investigator, some from Google and LinkedIn. He hadn’t seen any of himself in those images, and he tried to look for that now. His eyelashes were matted together with tiny ice crystals, like a mountaineer that had keeled over on his way to the summit.

  Max’s breathing was shallow and fast. He heard voices behind him, but they came from far away, as if somebody was talking into a pillow, muffling the words. His fingers ached from gripping the handle so hard. He stood like that for what felt like a lifetime before the world came rushing back at him, Baxter’s voice breaking through the roaring in his head.

  ‘You can’t beat a good old family reunion,’ he said, sounding on the verge of laughter.

  There was something in the casual way he slung out the words that found its way past the last sliver of Max’s self-control. Anger boiled up inside him, consumed him, burning him up like a log on the fire.

  He let go of the lid, spun around before it fell back into place and strode across the room, hands balling into tight fists. The noise of the freezer door slamming shut barely registered. He was already imagining the feeling of smashing Baxter’s nose back across the other side of his face. Hearing bone and cartilage crunch. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stop once he started. Didn’t know if he’d want to.

  Four things happened, links in a chain, each setting off the next event like a trail of dominos. Callum was first. He saw Max charge towards him, felt the scissor handles shift in his sweaty palm. He tensed up as Max rushed in, saw his friend draw back a fist, and flinched, even though it wasn’t coming his way. It was the smallest of movements, but it was enough.

  Baxter was second. He’d worked patiently, goading, needling at Max, looking for the reaction he wanted. Needed. He wasn’t disappointed. As Max drew closer, he felt the blade shift, only by millimetres, but enough to lose contact with skin. In that instant, he leant all his weight to the right, snaking his left arm up and inside the gap between Callum’s wrist and his own neck. He turned the arm as it rose, forearm facing outwards. Less chance of anything getting nicked if the scissors slipped. From there, he twisted his hand, grabbing Callum’s wrist, swinging him round into Max’s path.

  Max was third. Baxter’s words had shocked him into action, energy cracking through him like he’d been plugged into the mains. As he cocked his fist back, a flash of colour registered off to his right. The bottom edge of the closed roller door flick
ered blue, like a strip light spluttering to life. He was committed to the punch but couldn’t help his eyes flicking away. That cost him. Cost him a fraction of his speed. Cost him time; time to readjust as he saw Baxter move. He tried to angle his attack to the left, tracking Baxter’s movement, but it wasn’t enough, and he knew it as he closed the gap.

  Fourth was a combination of all three men. Instead of landing a punch on Baxter, Max’s fist connected with Callum as the journalist spun towards him. He pulled his punch at the last second, but it landed on the side of Callum’s head, which in turn kept on coming, propelled by the full weight of his body, crashing into Max’s temple with a sickening thud. For the second time today, Max’s head swam and darkness swallowed him whole.

  Porter moved off to the side of the door as it grumbled upwards. A car engine idled on the other side, only the wheels visible for now. He crouched down, one hand on the ground to steady himself, but the gap kept widening. Three feet now and growing. The top half of a man was visible off to the side, Callum Carr, Max’s journalist mate. No sign of Max, though. He glanced back for a second as footsteps scraped behind, and it nearly cost him dearly.

  He started to stand as he turned back towards the door, the gap reaching chest height, ducking slightly rather than waiting. Headlights burst into life, blinding him before he could turn away. A second later, the engine roared and Porter threw himself off to the right, away from the door, more out of instinct than choice. He felt rather than saw the car barrel through the door. Heard metal on metal as it scraped down the length of his own car, where he’d left it angled towards the warehouse.

  He landed hard on his shoulder, rolling away a half turn. Heard shouting, but it was just noise, words lost in the roar of the engine and screech of rubber. Porter looked up, saw the car, a BMW, its rear end fishtailing at first but quickly coming under control. He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up and saw Styles.