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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Porter & Styles
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
When Max Brennan's estranged father and then his own girlfriend go missing in quick succession, he turns to his old friend Detective Jake Porter for help. As Max is then attacked in his own home, Porter and his partner Nick Styles waste no time in investigating. But when their main suspect turns up dead, alongside a list of other targets, it seems the case is much bigger than it first appeared. With events spiraling, can Porter and Styles catch the killer before another victim is claimed?
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Seitenzahl: 464
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NOTHING ELSE REMAINS
ROBERT SCRAGG
To my wife Nicola, for making me want to be a better man
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
He walked into the bank like he owned the place, past the queuing mums, pushchairs weighted down with shopping bags, the suits checking their watches, counting down lunch hours. Over to the personal banking desk, matching the man behind it smile for smile. Fresh out of college by the looks of it. Early twenties at a push. Hair scraped back from a shiny forehead, and last traces of acne like a faded join-the-dots. Daniel, according to his name badge.
He slid a passport and bank card across the desk, batted back small talk where he could. He could actually pinpoint the moment that Daniel clocked the balance in his account, eyes popping with a mix of surprise and envy. Fended off the valiant attempt to book him an appointment with one of their investment bankers.
He could practically smell the sweaty palms that pushed the signature slip his way. He scrawled his name across the dotted line, slid it across, and leant back in his chair.
‘Anything else you need from me?’
‘No, Mr Jackson, that should do it,’ said Daniel.
Gordon Jackson scraped back his chair, retreated before Daniel could offer a clammy handshake, exited through the main door and out onto George Lane. The glare of the sun hit him like a paparazzo’s flash, and he winced as he crossed the road, popping his top button and wiggling the knot of his tie down an inch. Summer had been late coming to London this year, but it meant business.
Quick push of the key fob in his pocket, and the lights winked on a Volvo parked opposite the branch. He slipped a laptop case out from under the passenger seat, fingers dancing over the keys, connecting to the weak Wi-Fi from a next-door Costa Coffee. One username and password later, he allowed himself a brief smile as he saw the balance in the account. A dozen keystrokes later, and it was off through the ether to a new home.
He powered down the laptop, stashed it back under the seat. Took out his wallet, removing the cards one by one. Driver’s licence, MasterCard, Visa. Dropped them into a plastic sandwich bag, to be burnt when he got back to the house. And just like that, Gordon Jackson ceased to exist. The man left in his place checked his mirrors, signalled to pull out, and disappeared into the midday traffic.
Careful. Always careful.
Max Brennan peered at his watch for what felt like the twentieth time in as many minutes, eyes following the lazy sweep of the second hand. Almost an hour late. No call. No message. He checked his phone again. Nothing. No sooner had he put it back on the table, it started to vibrate, creeping towards his coffee cup. He snatched at it, feeling guilty at the disappointment he felt when he saw Jen’s name, not his dad’s.
‘Hey babe, how did it go?’
‘Could have been better,’ he said.
‘You didn’t end up arguing, did you?’
‘Not yet, but there’s a pretty good chance we will if he ever turns up. To hell with him, I’m coming back. See you when I get home.’
Max clicked to end the call, then instantly felt bad for taking it out on Jen. He fired off an apologetic ‘Sorry for being snappy’ text, adding an extra ‘x’ on the end for good measure. It wasn’t the waitress’s fault his dad hadn’t showed either, and he dropped a handful of coins in the tip jar on his way out. Screw him, his loss. Disappointment turned to frustration, frustration to anger. He’d been stood up by a few girls before, but never by a parent, and decided on a new destination before he even reached the car.
He slid into his Audi, cursing under his breath as his knee cracked against the steering column. It was half an hour’s drive to his dad’s street from here. Max made it in just shy of twenty-three minutes, running two debatable amber lights, and incurring the wrath of an old lady in a white Nissan that he’d cut off, who shocked him with her impressive arsenal of hand gestures. Woodside was as suburban as its name suggested. No ‘Street’ or ‘Avenue’ tagged on the end; just the one name, like the Adele or Madonna of town planning. Trees lined both sides of the road like a guard of honour. Canopies of green, flecked with the first burnt orange of autumn. A stone’s throw away from Woodford Golf Club, all the houses were a variation on the same template; two-tone white cladding and exposed brick. The kind of street that made you feel underdressed when you came to visit.
Max rang the bell, following up with a knock even before the chimes had faded away. He could feel his fuse burning shorter with every second. No sign of life. He knocked again, leaning over to peer through the front window.
‘If you’re looking for Gordon, you’re two days too late.’
Max spun around to see an elderly man in a white cotton shirt and dark green corduroy trousers, shuffling along the path of the house next door.
‘What do you mean, two days too late?’
‘He was here on Wednesday morning. Least I’m pretty sure it was him, loading boxes into a car, and he’s not been back since. I’m assuming he’s moved, although I never saw a for sale sign. Didn’t really know him well enough to ask, mind you.’
‘He sold his house?’
‘Either that, or he’s just had one hell of a big clear-out.’ The old man wheezed a dry laugh at his own joke. ‘Sorry, I’m just kidding around, but yes, I’m pretty sure he has. Saw a young lady here twice last week, driving a car with some logo plastered on the side. Beacon something or other.’
‘Beacon Estates?’
Max had seen their slogan plastered on billboards and winced at their cheesy radio ads, promising to sell your property in record time, or you don’t pay a penny.
‘They’re the ones,’ said the old man, his smile making a web of creases spread outwards from his mouth, like ripples in a pond. ‘And I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Gerry. Gerry Whyte. And you are?’
‘I’m Max. Brennan.’
‘You and Gordon work together, or are you just a friend?’
Max let out a big sigh, like a balloon deflating. ‘I’m his son.’
‘His son?’ said Whyte, bushy eyebrows bouncing up like caterpillars on a trampoline. ‘I didn’t even know he had any family.’
‘Funny,’ said Max, ‘neither did he till three weeks ago.’
Jake Porter loved his job, or at least the ten per cent of it that felt like it made a difference; the buzz of making an arrest, of breaking a suspect’s crappy alibi into pieces. The rest of it had far too much paperwork and waiting around for things to happen for his liking. That was the part they never showed you in CSI or Line of Duty type dramas on TV. The last three hours of his life fell into this latter category.
Andrew Patchett had disappeared into the Holiday Inn at Wembley Park almost three hours ago, according to a tip-off. The barman confirmed he’d served him around that time, and that he’d had a young lady with him. Porter scanned the rows of windows, wondering which one Patchett might be looking out of. It wasn’t the prettiest of hotels and, without the green Holiday Inn branding, could have been just another high rise in any inner city. The seventies had a lot to answer for when it came to architecture.
Patchett was the last man standing of any significance in a corrupt organisation Porter had brought to its knees earlier in the year. It still stung Porter that the key figure behind it all, Alexander Locke, had been killed by a stray gunshot before he got a chance to arrest him. His second in command, a beast of a man called James Bolton, had met a similar fate. Not that Porter felt sorry for them. More that they’d never been called to account for their crimes. Patchett felt like a last chance to do something worthwhile. He’d been swept up in the arrests that followed Locke’s death, but incredibly had managed to post bail thanks to an overpriced lawyer on retainer for Locke’s company. He’d been released two days after Locke’s death, and hadn’t been seen since. Truth be told, the case against him was on the light side, mainly circumstantial. Patchett, being the fool that he was, turned to shooting his mouth off down his local that he was moving up in the world, filling the gap left by Locke and Bolton. Thankfully for Porter, his boasts about having some of his former employer’s stash of drugs had been within earshot of Paddy Tiernan, a burnt-out ex-junkie who regularly played both sides, and called in with the tip. A search team hit a storage unit Patchett kept this morning and found three kilos of uncut cocaine. It was hardly on a par with Pacino in Scarface, but it was enough to bring him back in.
He heard a squeak of leather and turned to see Nick Styles bringing his knees up towards his chest, lacing fingers around the top of his shins. Porter winced at the quick-fire crack-crack when they popped. Even with the seat pushed back, Styles and his six-foot-four frame still looked cramped.
‘You’ll give yourself arthritis if you keep doing that,’ Porter said, looking back towards the hotel entrance.
‘Yeah, yeah, and chewing gum clogs up your insides, and the wind changing direction makes your face stay that way. Thanks, Dad.’
Even though they weren’t that far apart age-wise, Porter only two years ahead at thirty-eight, he sometimes did feel like more of an adult. Styles had a comeback for everything, but he also knew when to switch from class clown to all business; most of the time anyway.
‘Bet you don’t give Emma as much backchat at home.’
Styles chuckled. ‘She slaps me back down if I try. I store all mine up for you instead, boss.’
‘Lucky me, eh?’ said Porter.
He froze as the hotel door swished open, but relaxed again when an elderly couple shuffled out, arm in arm and stepping in sync like a three-legged race. A soft muted click told him Styles was checking the time on his phone again, and Porter resolved to give it another half hour tops. He might not have anyone apart from Demetrious the cat waiting at home, but Styles had Emma. He had a life to go back to.
‘What if he’s holed up here till tomorrow?’ Styles asked.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you get your beauty sleep. Half an hour and we’ll call in reinforcements.’
‘I’m not complaining, guv, I …’
‘I know, I know. It’s fine. I’ve got stuff to do as well,’ he lied. A microwave dinner and an evening on the sofa was as exciting as it would get, but he didn’t want Styles to feel obliged to hang around for a beer or, worse still, invite him to join him and Emma for dinner. Not that he wasn’t grateful, and he did accept occasionally, but pride stopped him from saying yes every time. He was nobody’s charity case. Not even Styles’s.
Porter screwed his eyes closed. Felt the low bass drum of a headache starting to beat. What he’d give for eight hours’ solid sleep. There was a time when he had to be forcibly evicted from bed on his days off. That was before it all happened. Before he lost Holly. Correction – not lost, she was forcibly taken from him. Nowadays he was content to call four hours a success. He dug his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes, rubbing small circles. Trying and failing to massage away the gritty feeling, like grains of sand trapped under his lids.
‘Here we go.’
Porter snapped his eyes open again, blinking away the fireflies, to see Andrew Patchett scurrying out of the hotel. Patchett stopped a few yards away and looked around, head tilted up a touch, as if he was sniffing the air. He seemed satisfied that nobody was waiting for him, and looked down at his own jacket, patting at his pockets. Porter didn’t wait around to what he was looking for. He and Styles were out of their car and had covered half of the hundred or so yards to the entrance before Patchett looked up again.
‘All units move in.’ Porter spoke in a low voice so as not to alert Patchett that the net was closing.
Patchett was a runner by nature. He’d run when they’d taken down Locke and his crew, or had tried to anyway. Porter was ready for him to try the same again. Two officers in the hotel bar, posing as a couple, were coming up behind Patchett now. Another pair were just rounding the corner of the hotel in case he bolted for the safety of the shopping outlet. Patchett saw Porter, recognition in his exaggerated smile. He shot a quick glance left and right, then whirled around, back into the hotel, nearly colliding with the officer behind him.
Patchett lifted both arms, waving his hands at no one in particular.
‘Surrender, or jazz hands. You decide,’ he said, with somewhere between a smile and a snarl.
‘You’re a regular laugh a minute,’ said Porter, clocking the pair of officers who’d come from around the corner to help pen Patchett in. ‘Next stop Britain’s Got Talent!’
‘Officer Porter, what a coincidence, I was just coming to turn myself in.’
Porter didn’t bother to correct him on the rank. No sense rising to the bait. Give men like Patchett the slightest sense that you were niggled, they’d press it home. Patchett was forty-five but looked at least ten years older. Bald, with lines etched into his face, giving him a mouth that looked like it was on hinges, and he had the type of rough edges to his voice that only years of dedicated smoking can create.
‘Thought we’d save you the bus fare,’ said Porter. ‘Found your little nest egg this morning, Andrew.’
The smile stayed on Patchett’s face, and his tone was light enough, but Porter saw the hate in his eyes. ‘Don’t know what you mean, Officer.’
‘Right you are, mate,’ said Porter, the last word spat out with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
‘Wouldn’t want to be your mate, Officer Porter. Saw what happens to your mates, like that pretty lady.’ Patchett pretended to shudder. ‘Heard she’s still getting wheeled around.’
The lady in question was Detective Sergeant Eve Simmons. She’d had her head slammed against a wall by James Bolton and had come too close to not waking up for Porter’s liking. Porter’s fingers curled into fists but stayed by his side.
‘It’s Detective Inspector Porter, and you’re under arrest, Mr Patchett, for breaching the terms of your bail.’
Porter nodded to the young constable behind Patchett, Gus Tessier, half-French, half-Ghanaian, and a tank of a man, who grabbed one wrist, then a second, snapping cuffs into place and reading Patchett his rights. Porter stepped closer, until he was only a few feet away.
‘You should have turned over a new leaf while you had the chance, Patchett. Got a nice job in a pub, or a bookies.’ Another step closer and he was only twelve inches from Patchett’s face, albeit looking down at it thanks to a six-inch height advantage, but the smaller man just stared at him, looking mildly amused.
‘Might apply to be the carer for that lady copper of yours. You know, wheel her around, empty the shit from her bag, that type of thing. No telling how grateful she might be.’ Patchett leant to the side, spitting on the ground, missing Porter’s shoe by less than an inch.
Porter’s hand shot up, grabbing Patchett, and Patchett’s lips squished up like a kid pulling a funny face. Hands pulled at him from all sides, dragging him away, back towards the car park, his fingers rasping off Patchett’s stubble as they slid off the smaller man’s cheeks.
‘Come on, guv.’ Styles spoke low and urgent. ‘He’s not worth it.’ Styles put an arm across Porter’s back, steering him off to one side.
‘You want to listen to your boy there. Wouldn’t want to do anything you regret.’
Patchett’s face split into an impossibly wide smile, flashing rows of greying teeth, and Porter knew he’d given Patchett exactly the reaction he was looking for. Porter’s cheeks burnt as if he’d been sitting too close to a radiator, and he sucked in a deep breath, kicking himself for letting Patchett get under his skin.
The pair of officers behind Patchett grabbed an elbow each and marched him towards one of the unmarked vehicles waiting in the car park. Patchett twisted his head around to look at Porter as he passed.
‘That’s assault, strictly speaking, Officer. Might let you off with it. Might not. I’ll let you know.’
‘Looked like resisting arrest to me, guv,’ said Tessier, steering Patchett at a fair rate of knots.
‘Eh?’ Patchett started to twist, doing his best to shrug Tessier’s hand away, but the constable’s fingers dug into Patchett’s arm hard enough to make him gasp out loud. ‘Watch it, lad. That’s police brutality right there as well. Rotten to the core, the lot of ya. Gerroffme.’
Porter kicked out at a cigarette butt, shoe scraping against the tarmac. He shrugged Styles’s hand away.
‘It’s OK. I’m fine.’
Styles said nothing, just raised both eyebrows and stared, waiting him out.
‘I’m fine,’ Porter said again, with a little more grit this time, feeling anything but. This was the first time he’d ever laid hands on a suspect like that, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. It’s not like he’d hit the guy, but that wasn’t the point. He’d let emotions cloud his judgement, and for what? It wasn’t even as if there was anything between him and Simmons to get worked up about. There’d been a hint that something could happen, if he wanted it to. More than once as well. But each time, it had seemed like even thinking about being with someone else felt as good as cheating on Holly. Even now, more than two years after her death, she was everywhere. From the choice of colours on the walls of their flat, to the only two designer-label shirts in his entire wardrobe. She was still the screensaver on his mobile, for God’s sake.
Sod it. Simmons was, is still, one of them, and that’s as good as family. If you can’t stick up for your family who can you stick up for?
‘Shit.’ Styles swore under his breath.
Porter looked at him, frowning. He realised Styles was looking beyond him, and he whipped his head around. Shit indeed. Two kids, teenagers by the looks of it, stood on the opposite side of Wembley Hill Road. They could have been clones of one another. Hoodies baggy enough to fit Snow White and all seven dwarves in, and jeans with the backside hanging down by their knees. Trainers so white they looked Tippexed.
Porter spotted what had caught Styles’s eye. Teen One’s mobile phone was held up at eye level, pointing straight at Porter. Teen Two’s shoulders jiggled, arms crossed, as he laughed at whatever crap joke his pal had just cracked. Porter trotted towards the road, but before he’d even reached the kerb, Teen One lowered his phone and headed off up the road towards Wembley Park Tube station, with Teen Two in tow.
‘Whoa, hang on there, lads. Can I have a word?’ Porter called after them.
‘Yeah, bruv,’ Teen One shouted over the noise of the traffic that zipped past from both directions. ‘I got a word for you …’ But his voice mingled with the growl of a bus engine.
Porter wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. Styles was up by his shoulder now, and Porter turned to him.
‘Did he just say I was trendy?’
‘Trending,’ said Styles. ‘As in online.’
Porter closed his eyes and swore softly. Patchett. The kid had seen the lot. Recorded it as well. Worse still, in ten minutes, half of London would have seen it too. Porter toyed with dodging the traffic, chasing after them, asking them to take the clip down, but he couldn’t exactly force them to, and they had a healthy head start already. He turned to Styles, putting on his best who gives a shit face.
‘It’s fine. I barely touched him anyway. What’s the worst that can happen?’
The electric motor of the garage door grumbled until the edge met the floor with a solid clunk. The man who used to be Gordon Jackson climbed out of the red Renault Clio he now drove, having sold the Volvo to a local dealer for cash. He slung the strap of the laptop case across his chest, and went through the adjoining utility room, and out onto the back yard. His clothes were different, too; suit swapped for faded jeans and a dark blue waterproof jacket. Hair that was once immaculate had been ruffled somewhere along the line, as if he’d been walking into a strong wind.
He unlocked the shed with a key from his pocket and closed the door carefully behind him. It was beyond tidy in there. White shapes on the walls outlined where every tool belonged, like a series of mini crime scenes. He laid the laptop case on the bench and knelt down, sliding a small stack of cardboard boxes out from under the work surface. He felt, rather than saw, the edge of a floorboard at the back, the length of his forearm, nails scratching at the edge as he eased it out. A second board followed, and he put his hand into the new gap, fingers running over the lumpy earth below like he was reading Braille. They closed around something that crinkled and he pulled out a plastic sandwich bag, empty except for a black USB stick.
The laptop whirred into life and he plugged the memory stick into the side. A few quick clicks later and the only file on it, an Excel workbook, opened up. One long column of numbers. He scanned through them, running through a list in his head long since committed to memory, and clicked on the numbers that corresponded to Gordon Jackson. Two more clicks and the cell changed from white to green, like all those above it. Ran the numbers in the next cell down against the list in his head for a new name: Harold Mayes.
The corners of his mouth twitched, a hint of a smile swimming to the surface then sinking without a trace. It only took him a minute to reset the scene. Memory stick, floorboards and boxes were slid back into place. He bounced to his feet, closing his eyes, taking in a deep breath as if filling his lungs would help bring his latest incarnation to life. He held for a three count, opened his eyes and nodded to himself. And with that, Harold Mayes strode out of the shed and back towards the house.
Max lay with his head in Jen’s lap, feet dangling over the edge of the mocha-coloured sofa. She wound her finger through a loop of his hair, curling it in a tight little brown ringlet around her index finger.
‘Why even bother to arrange to meet up? That’s what I can’t understand. Fair enough, it was me looking for him. Me who found him. Made the first move. But he didn’t have to even acknowledge I existed if he didn’t want to.’
‘Call him,’ said Jen. ‘Put him on the spot and just ask him straight.’
‘That’s twice he’s skipped town and left me. Twice. The fact I wasn’t born the first time round is just circumstantial. Give me one good reason why I should give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘He’s your dad, Max, and you can’t count the first time; he didn’t even know.’
‘Biologically, yeah, but that’s as far as it goes. If it’s all the same, I’d rather just let it go. I lasted over thirty years without him, so I’m sure I’ll cope. Part of me wishes I’d never found him in the first place.’
He swung his legs around and sat up, rotating his neck through a slow three-sixty, feeling something grind inside. He headed into the kitchen, smiling as he saw the picture on the fridge. A stick figure in a dress, a line of smaller figures stretched out behind it. Jen was a teacher at a local primary school, and a steady stream of artwork followed her home every week. She kept them all in a couple of shoe boxes upstairs, joking that if any of the kids became the next Damien Hirst, she could stick them on eBay.
‘Stir-fry OK for you?’ he called out.
‘Sounds good.’
She padded into the kitchen after him, bare feet shushing against the tiles, and pulled a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge. Max came up behind her as she poured them each a glass, snaking his arms around her waist.
‘I know I can be a moody little shit at times, but you know I’m worth the hassle,’ he murmured, lips brushing against her ear.
‘Mm-hmm, you’ll do till Colin Farrell comes to his senses,’ she said, wriggling around to face him. ‘You know I’m behind you whatever you want to do, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ he said, nodding slowly, pulling her close so that her head slotted neatly into the groove of his neck. Two pieces of a jigsaw. They stood like that for a few seconds, until Jen broke the silence.
‘Can’t smell the stir-fry yet.’
‘Cheeky!’
She danced out of reach as he tried, and failed, to land a playful smack on her backside. To hell with his dad. He had all he needed right here in this kitchen.
The man watched Harold Mayes, the real Harold, making his way through the fruit and veg aisle. He made a show of rummaging in a tray of apples, watching from the corner of his eye, as Harold stopped by the Galia melons, giving one a quick squeeze to test its ripeness. He looked the other way as Harold came towards him, pretending to check through the items in his own basket even though they were just window dressing. Props to help him blend in.
A steady stream of shoppers criss-crossed the aisle between them. Most of them looked as if they were on autopilot, eyes glazed from a day in the office, leaning on their trolleys like they were a Zimmer frame. Eat, sleep, shave, repeat. He had been like that once upon a time, but he’d never go back now. He cruised the aisles, a shark circling a shoal, looking on as Harold walked over to a self-service checkout. No need to panic or speed up as he watched Harold scan his items from three back in the queue. No need to worry as Harold headed out into the twilight. He already knew where Harold lived. He’d already been inside. Tonight was just part of the preparation. Part of the ritual. Study. Learn. Plan. He collected his change from the tray under the checkout, and headed out into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
The sound seeped slowly into Max’s consciousness, easing him out of that halfway house between dream and reality. Jen’s head was buried in her pillow, as if she’d fallen into bed from a height. The noise coming from her was less a snore and more of a whisper, as if she had a slow puncture somewhere.
Max eased his legs out from under the duvet so as not to disturb her, although he suspected only something on the Richter scale would make a difference. Ten minutes later, hamstrings shouting in protest, he was up and out, pounding his regular route around the nearby park.
When he arrived back home half an hour later, Jen had migrated as far as the sofa, watching the morning news through the haze coming off her peppermint tea. She puckered her lips, nodding as he peeled his top off.
‘I’ll give you twenty cash money right now if the shorts go too.’
‘Add a few more zeroes and we might have a deal,’ he said with a grin.
She stuck her tongue out and he headed upstairs, knowing full well she’d probably follow him up before long and sneak a peek for free. He stepped into the shower and twisted the dial to the far left. Even though he knew it was coming, he still gasped out loud as the icy needles of water pounded down. The guys he trained with swore by it. Something about improving the body’s recovery rate, but part of him still wondered if it was just a wind-up. He’d google it later.
He was showered, dried and changed into faded jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt before Jen came up. She leant in for a light peck on the lips as she glided past.
‘I’m going to grab a quick shower, but make sure you don’t work too late tonight. I might have a little surprise for you.’
‘If it’s anything lacy or frilly, I’ll be back before lunch,’ he said, raising an eyebrow in his best homage to Roger Moore.
‘Ha, you should be so lucky.’ She laughed. ‘No clues, though. You’ll just have to wait till tonight.’
Max shot her his best pout, but she ignored him, and started undoing the belt on her dressing gown, humming the David Rose stripper tune. As she turned away from him, the robe became a puddle of fabric at her feet and she looked over her shoulder as she walked into the bathroom.
Max alternated between watching her go and glancing at the clock. A second shower would almost certainly make him late for work. Then again, some things were worth getting into trouble for.
The kitchen clock showed a few minutes past 8 p.m. as Max’s keys slid across the grey granite worktop.
‘Jen?’
No response. He called her name again, cocking his head to one side, listening to the silence. Nothing. She’d mentioned a surprise. He hoped he’d guessed right, and she was waiting upstairs in an outfit that left little to the imagination, but after standing still for a half-dozen heartbeats, he gave up and opened the fridge to see what leapt out. His stomach gurgled its disappointment at the mostly empty shelves. Jen had promised to hit the supermarket on her way home, but he wasn’t sure he could wait.
He picked up his phone and scrolled through until he found her number. Straight to voicemail without ringing. Probably elbow deep in the frozen food aisle. To wait or not to wait? A chorus of grumbling and rumbling from his gut made the decision for him, and he went through to the study to see what offers Domino’s had online this week. Before his finger could hit the power button, he heard the hum of the internal fan and hard drive already ticking over. Max flopped into the swivel chair, shook the mouse, and the screen came to life, browser window open on the Beacon Estates home page.
Why the hell would Jen be looking at their page?
The answer was blindingly obvious; his dad. She must have tried to reach him through the estate agents. He pushed the chair away from the desk with a grunt. What the hell was she playing at? He was done with his dad. He’d been pretty clear on that. He stared at the screen until the rest of the room blurred around the edges. Suddenly it was no bad thing she was late. It’d give him time to calm down. He pulled himself back towards the desk and went to the Domino’s website. Jen didn’t like meaty toppings, so he ordered a large pepperoni and went into the lounge to wait for his food, and Jen, preferably in that order.
CHAPTER THREE
Max woke with a start, TV remote falling from his lap and landing in the pizza box by his feet. He checked his watch; almost 7 a.m. He yawned, wiped a speck of crusty sleep from his eye, peeled himself from the sofa and shuffled towards the stairs. He flicked the light on as he walked into the bedroom and took a few seconds to process the empty bed, neatly tucked in at the edges.
‘Jen?’ He called out her name, not sure whether to expect a response. Nothing. He grabbed the handset from the bedside table, dialling her number from memory.
Hi, this is Jen. Listen out for the beep, you know what to do.
Hearing her voice burnt off what was left of the fog in his mind. The beep came and went. After a few seconds of silence, his brain kicked back into gear.
‘Hi, babe, it’s me. Call me when you get this. Just wondering where you are.’
He ended the call and went back downstairs, taking them two at a time, and grabbed his mobile from the sofa. He tried Ally next, her best friend. She might have popped in for a gossip on the way home, had a glass or two, and decided against driving.
Surely she would have called, no matter what though. Texted me at least.
He launched straight in with no preamble. ‘Hi, Ally, it’s Max. Did you see Jen last night by any chance?’
‘Max?’ She sounded half asleep. ‘What time is it?’
‘A little before seven. Was she at yours last night?’
‘No,’ she said, stifling a yawn. ‘I’ve not spoken to her since the day before yesterday. Why? What’s wrong?’
‘She didn’t come home last night,’ he said. ‘She’s not answering her phone either.’
‘Have you tried her parents’ house?’ said Ally, sounding more awake now.
‘They’re next on my list. Sorry to bother you so early.’
‘No, no, don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘Let me know when you track her down, OK?’
Max promised that he’d call her when Jen turned up, and dialled Jen’s mum and dad next. No danger of waking anyone up there. Bill and Tina Hart were both early risers, and sure enough, Bill picked up on the second ring.
‘Hi, Bill, it’s Max. I don’t suppose Jen’s at your house, is she?’
‘No, why would she be here at this time?’
Max gave a loud sigh. ‘She’s not here, Bill. Didn’t come home last night and isn’t answering her phone.’
‘Have you two had an argument or something?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. She just … it’s just not like her to disappear like that. Look, I’m going to make a few more calls. Will you let me know if you hear from her?’
‘Course I will,’ Bill said, then lowered his voice. ‘I’ll not say anything to Tina yet. You know how she worries.’
Max signed off and slumped back into the sofa. There was little chance of anyone being at the school, seeing as it was smack bang in the middle of summer holidays. What if she’d been in an accident? He googled the number for St Stephen’s accident and emergency department, and sat through a few minutes of classical hold music, only to be told there had been nobody admitted by the name of Jennifer Hart.
He tugged at his bottom lip, leg bouncing a nervous beat as he tried to figure out what to do next. There was one person he could try. Might be jumping the gun a little, but she’d never done anything like this before, and his mind was racing in a dozen different directions, none of them good. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt. He scooped his phone back up, scrolled through his contacts. Even as he tapped the name, he told himself he was overreacting, even as something slithering in his stomach told him he might not be.
Porter had never been a fan of social media. He had no desire to post pictures of his food for the world to see, no need for a connection to a hundred friends that he never saw. He had given into peer pressure from his sister and set up a Facebook profile, but in six months had amassed a total of twelve friends and zero status updates.
He’d never liked the whole concept of it from the start, but today his opinion had hit a new low. A clip of him grabbing Patchett had been on Twitter before he’d even made it back to the station yesterday, and he was fairly sure that’s why he’d been summoned. He hadn’t seen it himself, but Styles had given him the heads-up after seeing a trio of younger officers huddled around an iPhone downstairs.
The door to Superintendent Roger Milburn’s office was half open already, but he knocked anyway.
‘In you come.’ Milburn’s voice, the very definition of authority.
He had one of those voices that filled whatever room he was in, a bit like Brian Blessed. Good for press conferences, but he’d never mastered dialling it down a notch for smaller venues, like his own office. Porter walked over to the desk, waiting for an invitation to sit that didn’t come. Milburn smiled, one of those politician’s ones that crinkled the face in all the right places, but the eyes couldn’t be colder if he’d just chewed a snowball. Put that together with his perfectly capped teeth, straight off a dentist’s promotional poster, and it put Porter in mind of a great white.
Right now, he’d take his chances with an actual shark rather than be here. He and Milburn had clashed over the Alexander Locke case. Porter’s former boss at the time, Superintendent George Campbell, had been kicked off the force in disgrace over corruption charges soon after. Porter and Campbell had had their fair share of clashes, but Milburn had made it clear he tarred Porter with the same brush, suspected him of cutting corners and thought him liable to become the team problem child given half the chance.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Yes, Porter,’ said Milburn, rummaging in his jacket pocket. ‘Yes, I did.’
He produced a phone, tapped out a rhythm on it, and slid it across the desk. The kid who’d shot it had been at least fifty yards away, so when he’d zoomed in, things blurred a little around the edges, but even then there was no doubt as to what and who he was watching. Milburn had left the sound on, and the kid chattered away to his mate throughout.
‘Whoa, check it, bruv. Shit’s going down,’ a voice said, Porter presumed the cameraman; young, brash, with more than a hint of excitement at the possibility of violence.
‘Six on one,’ a second voice said. ‘That ain’t a fair fight.’
‘Bloke coming out might be tooled up.’
‘Hope so,’ came the second voice. ‘Might be able to flog this for a few quid to Sky News if he takes a few of them down.’
Porter clenched his jaw at how casually they hoped for it. Watching it back now felt wrong, all out of context with only an arrogant little wannabe gangster narrating. He saw himself square up to Patchett. Watched as his hand shot up. Saw himself being hustled away by Styles. Without Patchett’s taunts, it was only half a story, but even he had to admit it didn’t look great. The clip finished, freezing on a grainy still of Patchett being pushed towards the car.
‘Well?’ Milburn sounded like a schoolteacher. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’
‘I know how it looks, sir, but—’
‘It looks like shit, Porter,’ Milburn cut across him. ‘It looks like an early Christmas present for his solicitor.’
‘With all due respect, sir, there was provocation on his part. This man was part of an organisation that almost killed Simmons. He—’
Milburn held up a palm to silence him. ‘And he’ll have his day in court for that, but lowering ourselves to their level isn’t acceptable. Not ever.’
Porter felt his cheeks flush, partly anger at Milburn, partly at himself for causing the situation in the first place. A dozen retorts swam around his head, but he knew Milburn would swat them all away, quoting conduct rules, chapter and verse. He made do with clenching his fists below the desk level, where Milburn couldn’t see, until his joints ached.
‘We’ve barely fought our way back from the whole Campbell debacle, and I will not’ – Milburn stabbed the desk with his finger to emphasise his point – ‘have anyone else drag us back down there.’
Porter imagined how it would feel to grab Milburn the same way he’d done with Patchett. To be up close, in his face, spell it out to him as if he was a five-year-old child.
I’m not Campbell, his voice raged inside his head. I stopped Campbell. I exposed him for what he was. You swept the whole bloody mess under the carpet. Not me. I. Am. Not. Campbell.
Porter’s anger simmered below the surface, hot, molten, but Milburn seemed oblivious. The superintendent sat back in his chair, one arm across his chest, the other raised up, a finger tapping against his lips in a shushing gesture. Porter met his stare, holding it as the silence dragged out.
‘So here’s what we’re going to do,’ said Milburn finally. ‘You’re off the case, not that there’s much left of it anyway. You’ll hand over to Clayton and Schofield.’
Porter opened his mouth to protest, but Milburn beat him to it.
‘This isn’t up for discussion, Porter. You’ll do it, and do it today.’
Porter sat back, arms crossed. With Patchett back in custody, Milburn was right, it was almost a done deal, but that wasn’t the point; it was his case. After what he went through to bring down Locke and his mini-empire, he deserved to see it through. Milburn wasn’t finished.
‘As you know, I’ve been leading on the inquiry into Superintendent Campbell’s conduct, reviewing people’s files to see who else was involved with him. Spotted in there that you’d lost your wife a while back. That can’t have been easy.’ Milburn’s face softened for a second. ‘Apparently, you turned down the offer of sessions with a counsellor after it happened.’
The reference to Holly, even without using her name, was like a slap across the cheek, and Porter sat in stunned silence. Where the hell was Milburn going with this?
‘I appreciate that can’t have been easy, especially with nobody ever being arrested for it.’
Holly had been on her way back from a parents’ evening at the school she worked at, when a car had lost control and mounted the pavement. Hit and run. She’d lasted three days in A&E, the longest three of Porter’s life. He blinked as an image of her flashed to mind. Her face a mixed palette of bruises, purple and black. Eyes closed, arms by her side. Even now it made his breath catch, swallowing hard before a lump could form.
‘I’m not saying that’s the cause of this’ – Milburn gestured towards the phone – ‘but whatever’s going on inside here,’ he said, pointing to his own head, ‘it needs putting right. I can’t have my officers snapping like that. I know you took what happened to Simmons personally as well, so you’re to make an appointment this week to see Occupational Health, and to attend as many sessions as they see fit.’
‘Sir, that’s really not necessary,’ Porter protested.
‘That’s for them to decide, not you. Damage limitation, Porter, for the force and for you.’ The order in which Milburn prioritised his two points wasn’t lost on Porter. Protect the good name of the police force first, its officers second. ‘The press has picked up on it and been hounding us for a comment. If Patchett tries to sue, this will help in mitigation and, who knows, it might actually do you some good. Call her today, that’s an order.’
Porter felt the pressure building in his head. Going against a direct order from Milburn was as good as saying he was done. Milburn pulled his phone back across the desk, shaking his head as he looked at the image still on the screen.
‘That’s all, Porter. You can go now.’
Porter stood up, not trusting himself to say anything else for fear he’d tell Milburn what he really thought of him right now. He left the office without another word and headed downstairs for some fresh air. His job was hard enough without being shackled like this. Forced to give up his case, and waste God knows how many hours with a stranger trying to pick through his thoughts and tell him that he wasn’t over Holly. That talking about it would help. That he needed to move on.
The idea of being over her scared him almost as much as the prospect of talking to anyone about it. The thought that she could be relegated to a footnote. Besides, things like that were private. Not to be shared. He didn’t need to sit in a stuffy room and tell a counsellor that he thought about her every day, dreamt about her most nights, to know he hadn’t put it behind him.
He stepped out into a morning heat that felt oppressive, heavy, like a heavy blanket draped over the city. Rush hour was over, but traffic still zipped past at a fair pace on the Marylebone flyover off to his right. He hustled over the road towards Edgware Road Tube station, glancing at the pub next door, The Green. A couple of die-hard regulars stood outside, cigarettes in hand, putting the world to rights over the first drink of the day. Porter angled off to the right, past the station, the right-hand side of it an explosion of green amongst the otherwise grey buildings. He’d read somewhere that the wall, consisting of over ten thousand plants, was meant to trap pollution. Whether it did or didn’t, it was just nice to have a flash of colour amongst the grey buildings.
Five minutes. Just enough time to get Milburn out of his system, then he’d head back inside. The superintendent could force him to go to the sessions, but he couldn’t make him say anything in them. He slowed his walk to an amble. Closed his eyes. Breathed in deep as he walked past the curtain of green on the wall. So tired. Not just a lack of sleep, but tired of people like Milburn. Tired of the sort of bullshit that stopped him doing his job. Of people who hadn’t set foot from out behind a desk for years and had forgotten what it was like to be a detective, rather than a politician.
Porter wondered, not for the first time, whether he had the strength to do it all; do his job, stand up to the bureaucracy, come to terms with a world that didn’t include Holly. If he wasn’t a detective, what else could he be? His phone buzzed deep in a jacket pocket, and he rolled his eyes. Milburn, probably, asking if he’d called the shrink yet. But when he pulled it out, the name on screen raised a smile. Anything not work-related would be welcome right now.
‘Morning, stranger. Long time no speak.’
He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, and the smile was gone inside five seconds.
The room Jen was in could be a broom cupboard or an airplane hangar for all she knew. The complete absence of light made figuring out any dimensions impossible. Darkness so absolute, all-encompassing. Would it run through her hands like wet sand if she tried to grab a fistful? She’d welcome the chance to find out, but her hands were fixed firmly in place, probably with whatever covered her mouth. Tape, maybe?
How long had she been here? More to the point, where the hell was here? All she could hear was her own breathing, ragged and rapid through snotty nostrils. She tried to control it, to slow it down. Her heartbeat thudded in tandem with her pulsing headache.
She swung her head left and right, looking for something she could latch on to, anything to break the monotony of inky blackness. Time oozed by like treacle. Minutes? Hours? Who knew? She closed her eyes again. Breathed in for five. Out for five. When she opened them again, she nearly dismissed what she saw as having screwed her eyes too tight, but she blinked a few times to make certain. Sure enough, a horizontal line of light seemed to hover in front of her. Other lines, fainter, but definitely there, ran vertically up from either end. A doorway?
A metallic rasp, a key in a lock, perhaps, and the darkness was burnt away as the door opened. Jen turned her head, wincing as the light flooded in. She opened her eyes; the shape of the doorway had burnt into her retinas, reappearing with every blink. She heard footsteps, a scraping like nails on a blackboard – chair legs, maybe? She kept her head bowed down, away from the glare that stung her eyes.
A click, and overhead a strip light spluttered into life. The footsteps stopped. Her breathing sped up again, tape sucking in against her lips, nostrils flared.
‘Hello, Jennifer,’ said a man’s voice. Vaguely familiar. No accent that she could place. ‘You and I have quite a bit to talk about.’
She chanced a glance towards him, eyes still recovering. A blurred shape moved in front of her, towards her. Fingers scrabbled at the edge of the tape on her mouth. Ripping it off in one smooth action, like a Band-Aid. Jen heard the scream. Listened to it for a few seconds before she realised it was coming from her. The worst part was that the man made no move to stop her. That meant he either knew nobody could hear her, or he just didn’t care. Either way, she wasn’t walking away from this, whatever this was.
‘When was the last time you spoke to her then?’ Porter asked, turning on his heel and heading back towards the station.
‘Yesterday morning, before I left for work,’ said Max.
‘And you’re sure she’s not just crashed out at a friend’s house?’
‘She would have called. You know what she’s like. She would have told me.’
Max was putting on a brave front, but Porter could tell he was worried, talking a little too fast, stumbling over his words, only slightly, but Porter had dealt with more worried relatives than he cared to remember over the years. Besides, Max was right – it was out of character for Jen, and Max wasn’t one to worry without reason. Porter had known him since school, Max being a couple of years below him, and boxed with him at the local gym. They still met for the occasional beer, and the less than occasional sparring session.
Like Porter, Max had joined the army straight out of university, serving five years to Porter’s nine. Porter had swapped one uniform for another when he joined the Metropolitan Police’s Homicide and Serious Crime Command, whereas Max had hung his up altogether. He was a staff photographer now for the Daily Express.
‘To be honest I feel daft even bothering you with it,’ Max went on, ‘but I’ve tried her folks, her mates, even the hospital, and I’m out of ideas.’
‘She still driving the Honda?’
‘Mm-hmm. She might have even just broken down somewhere, and her phone’s died; something stupid like that.’
‘OK, I’ll have a word with some of the lads on patrol this morning if you text me the reg plate. Ask them to keep an eye out.’
Porter heard a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one. Beers on me soon, yeah?’
‘No worries,’ Porter said, walking back past the Tube station. ‘I’ll call you if I hear anything.’
He disconnected the call, and before he’d managed to cross the road, Max’s text with Jen’s registration number came through. The little voice in his head whispered that this didn’t feel right. He’d known Jen for some time now. They’d all gone out for drinks a few times when Holly was still around, and she was as sensible-girl-next-door as they came. Max’s scenario of a broken-down car didn’t feel right, but then again, nobody liked to consider anything too bad right off the bat.
Porter knew from bitter experience that life didn’t always have a happy ending. He’d stood on too many doors, delivering bad news to unsuspecting families. Work had made him more realist than optimist. Bad things happened to good people all the time. There wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it. Holly had been as gentle a soul as he’d ever met, but when a car had mounted the pavement, sending her spiralling over the bonnet, it had counted for nothing. Porter still remembered getting the call. The way his head spun, as if he’d just stepped off a ride at the fairground. Stomach feeling like it had been hollowed out with an ice cream scoop.
If he could find Jen, settle Max’s nerves, stop him from feeling even a hundredth of what he’d felt himself, it would trump all the other crap he had to deal with today.
‘It’ll be fine. She’ll be fine,’ he muttered to himself as he trotted back up the stairs towards the front door to the station. He almost believed it himself. Almost.
Max was full of restless energy, insides churning as if they were in a blender. He called in a favour from Callum Carr, a friend from the office, to cover for him for a few hours while he headed out to drive around a few of Jen’s usual haunts. She had mentioned needing to pop into the school for a few hours yesterday, but the car park was deserted when he drove past. Where the hell could she have gotten to? An image of the monitor from last night flashed to mind, the yellow lighthouse of the Beacon Estates logo shooting out a beam of golden light at the top of the page.
Max pulled over, typed the name into the browser on his phone and clicked to call the office number.
‘Good morning, Beacon Estates, Amy speaking. How can I help you?’ She sounded young, with sing-song sickly sweet enthusiasm that seeped down the line.
‘Hi, Amy, my name’s Max, Max Brennan. This might sound a little odd, but I’m wondering if my girlfriend called you folks up yesterday. Jennifer Hart? I think she may have called about a property that you guys just sold for my father, Gordon Jackson. Does that ring any bells?’
