Nothing Else Remains Read online

  NOTHING ELSE

  REMAINS

  ROBERT SCRAGG

  To my wife Nicola,

  for making me want to be a better man

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  By Robert Scragg

  COPYRIGHT

  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 in
to 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, looki
ng 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.