Chapter Fourteen
Saturday
Morton had been lying awake for some time pondering
last night. With every heartbeat his head thumped its anger for the lack
of sleep and excessive quantity of his father’s whiskey, right in the spot
where Dunk had landed one on him. He should have had a dry, early night
instead of getting drunk and staying up into the early hours, chatting.
But he was glad he’d done it; he’d never felt as close to Jeremy in his life –
a strange fraternal unity that had been lacking all these years. Jeremy’s
revelation seemed to have broken down an invisible wall that had slowly built
up between them. In the new spirit of reciprocal candour, Morton told
Jeremy about the
Coldrick Case
and all that had occurred. Jeremy
had exclaimed, ‘And you say
I
dropped a bombshell! Christ,
Morton. I mean, Philip Windsor-Sackville is technically my boss.
This is huge.’ Taking Jeremy’s tendency towards histrionics into account,
hearing the whole charade in a linear fashion, one incident after another,
seemed to be almost revelatory to Morton, as if it had all happened to someone
else.
He climbed out
of bed, careful not to wake Juliette, lying with her head scrunched
uncomfortably between her pillow and his. Padding softly into the
bathroom, he swallowed down two paracetamols and looked at himself in the
mirror. The lump on the side of his head had grown to the size of a
ping-pong ball. He gently touched the surface and it felt so firm that he
thought there actually could have been a ping-pong ball under his skin. A
fresh surge of pain bit into his head and he decided to leave the paracetamols
to do their work. With a little help from a gallon of coffee,
obviously.
It should help
, he thought, remembering something about
caffeine dilating blood vessels. He went quietly downstairs, made a large
mug of instant and opened up his brand-spanking-new Apple Mac that Juliette had
purchased for him in Tunbridge Wells. Not that he was going to get
attached to this one, he was treating it as any other household electrical
appliance, since it doubtless wouldn’t be long before it was either stolen or
blown up. There only seemed point in loading the basic programmes, rather
than wasting time adding his plethora of genealogy software.
Once the coffee
was drunk, the paracetamols had kicked in and the Mac was up and running,
Morton loaded up YouTube and typed the words ‘Chief Constable Olivia
Walker’. Four hits.
Chief Constable Olivia Walker swaps policing
duties for a taster with Kent Fire and Rescue; Kent Chief Constable Olivia
Walker gets tasered; Appointment of Chief Constable Olivia Walker; Chief
Constable Olivia Walker welcomes Defence Secretary to Ashford.
Morton
clicked the last hyperlink and watched a thirty-three second video clip of the
Secretary of Defence shaking hands with a uniformed woman. The quality of
the video (from a cheap mobile by the looks of things) was so terrible that the
uniformed officer could just as easily have been Juliette as the woman he’d
seen yesterday in the pinstripe suit. The first video clip showed Olivia
Walker speaking directly to the camera about what she’d learnt by becoming a
fire officer for the day. The clip had the
Meridian News
logo in
the bottom left corner and, consequently, the video resolution was much higher
and Morton could identify, beyond reasonable doubt, that she was the woman he’d
seen yesterday at Charingsby. The same woman who’d been in charge of the
investigation into Mary Coldrick’s death was overseeing the investigation into
Peter Coldrick’s death. The same woman licensed on Daniel Dunk’s
car. With that in mind, Morton watched with gleeful
Schadenfreude
as Olivia Walker was willingly tasered by one of her minions. She seemed
to be overacting, as if the video was actually for propaganda purposes.
The last clip was filmed at a press conference where ‘Cllr Paul Buzzard’ announced
that Olivia Walker was, by unanimous decision of the panel, to become the new
Chief Constable of Kent Police. Morton watched as the camera panned to
the right and Olivia read a short statement about how proud she was to be
leading one of England’s largest forces in crime prevention and
detection. Morton wondered what part of crime prevention and detection
her association with the Windsor-Sackvilles and Daniel Dunk had played?
Morton recalled
what Juliette had said about it not being possible that he had seen Olivia
canoodling with Philip Windsor-Sackville, as he was happily married to someone
else. Just to be clear in his own mind, Morton returned to
www.windsor-sackville.org
and clicked the ‘Family Tree’ tab. Philip Windsor-Sackville had been
married to Andrea Rhys-Jones since 1971. Judging by the unflattering
photo of her on the website, where she seemed to have been snapped unawares, it
seemed a classic case of her being traded in for a younger, more successful,
more beautiful model. Arise Chief Constable Olivia Walker. Morton
had to concede that Andrea did look a bit of a dowdy old frump. Still,
she had borne him three children, all of whom were in the lower political ranks
of government – one was the Junior Minister for the Environment - and that
ought to count for something.
‘Look.
See, I told you,’ Morton said, dumping the laptop down in the space he’d
vacated in the bed. Juliette looked like she hadn’t moved a muscle since
he’d got up more than an hour ago.
‘What
now
?’
Juliette moaned, struggling to open her eyes.
‘Philip
Windsor-Sackville is married to
her
, not Olivia Walker,’ he said like a
triumphant primary school child.
‘Jesus, Morton,
it’s Saturday morning. Go away,’ she said, turning her back sharply and
almost heaving the new laptop off the bed. She pulled the duvet over her
head and disappeared into a sleepy cocoon.
Taking the
hint, he shut down the laptop and dressed in a new outfit from Jeremy’s
wardrobe. It was a big cliché, but his gay brother’s wardrobe was
infinitely more stylish than his own had ever been. He mentally went
through his own wardrobe, considering all of his clothes that had gone up in
smoke. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing to start all over again, he thought,
as he rooted through Jeremy’s underwear drawer. Even Jeremy’s boxer
shorts were all Calvin Kleins.
How had he not suspected anything?
It certainly made him more interesting, especially since he was in the army -
of all the careers that he could have chosen. In the process of telling
Jeremy what had gone on in the past few days, Morton had confessed to borrowing
various items of clothing. Jeremy had just grinned and said it was fine,
that he could help himself.
Morton looked
at his watch – ten twenty. Was ten twenty on a Saturday considered too
early to disturb someone by phone? Maybe for some people but it was
Soraya Benton that he wanted to call and she probably would have been woken by
Finlay several hours ago. Ideally, he had wanted to visit her, but that
involved too long a round trip with a banging head; not the best of
ideas. Besides which, the paramedics had told him to rest for twenty-four
hours and
definitely
not to drive. He felt bad for not having made
contact with Soraya since Peter’s funeral, but then what could he have
said?
How did the cremation go?
It was hardly a question
that needed asking, much less answering. He pulled out his iPhone,
dialled her mobile and hoped for the best. She answered after several
rings and sounded slightly breathless, as if she’d just run in from the
garden. ‘Sorry, it’s just Morton,’ he said, feeling the need to
apologise.
‘Oh, hi,’ she
said, sounding immediately brighter. ‘I was just cleaning Fin’s
room. It’s like a bomb’s gone off in there. I’m trying to keep it
tidy, what with it being my sister’s study and all. Oh God,
bomb’s
gone
off
, sorry, Morton. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘It’s fine,’ he
said, ‘really,’ having not actually made the connection between what she had
said and his own demolished house. ‘I had a couple of things I needed to
ask you about. Is now a good time to talk?’
‘Yeah, fire
away. Fin’s at his friend’s all day and I’m just doing housework.
I’d be glad of the distraction.’
‘It’s a bit
delicate, really. I don’t know how you feel and I really won’t be
offended…’ Morton began, only to be interrupted.
‘Oh, spit it
out, for goodness' sake, Morton,’ she said playfully.
‘Sorry. I
was wondering how you might feel about me taking some of Fin’s DNA and
comparing it to the Windsor-Sackvilles’?’ he asked, slightly nervously.
Taking DNA was always a thorny subject to broach with clients. There
seemed to be a general issue of mistrust of the technique among the older
generation and a general issue of over-reliance on the technique among the
younger generation. To Morton, DNA testing was a powerful genealogical
tool, but one which needed to be used cautiously and in conjunction with other
more traditional methods.
‘Of course you
can,’ Soraya said, without so much as a nanosecond’s consideration. ‘Go
for it. What do you need; blood?’
‘Not quite -
just a cheek swab will do. Are you sure you don’t object? You’ll
have to sign a consent form.’
‘No, not at
all. I take it from all of this you’re more sure that Fin’s related to
them, then?’
‘At this stage
it’s no more than conjecture and coincidence,’ Morton replied rather
nebulously, contradicting his lack of belief in coincidence. ‘Can I bring
a test kit down tomorrow?’
‘Yes, that’s
fine. One thing, though,’ Soraya said. ‘How do you plan on getting
DNA from the Windsor-Sackvilles? I can’t imagine any of them being
compliant somehow.’
‘Yeah, that
might be an issue. I’m still thinking about that one. Which brings
me to my next point: Sir David and Lady Maria Windsor-Sackville are opening the
village fete in Sedlescombe today and I wondered if you wanted to come along?’
‘Meet the
enemy, you mean?’
‘Something like
that,’ Morton said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’ll
pass, I’m not sure I want to come face-to-face with them. Besides, I’ve
got a lot to do here and there’s still a lot of Peter’s things to sort
out. Let me know how you get on, though.’
‘Okay, I’ll see
you tomorrow.’
‘Good luck.’
Morton thanked
her and ended the call.
It was a hot, airless afternoon when
Juliette parked up in the makeshift parking area of an unsuitable, deeply
rutted field being used for the Sedlescombe Village Fete. ‘This had
better not mess my car up,’ she remarked to no-one in particular.
Morton, belted
into the passenger seat beside her, was busy running his eyes across the
agricultural fields in the distance to where he had cut through the Charingsby
perimeter fence yesterday. ‘Maybe we could go over and get my backpack?’
Morton suggested, knowing the chances of it waiting patiently for him to return
were somewhat less than slim. ‘Safety in numbers and all that.’
‘Good idea,’
Jeremy said, casually sipping from a can of Coke in the back of the car.
Having nothing better to do with his day, he decided to join them at the
village fete. ‘It’s the last thing they’d expect. You’ve got to
think tactically.’
‘If you so much
as step foot
near
that place, I swear to God that bump on the side of
your head will become a football,’ Juliette threatened. She wasn’t joking
either. ‘Please, can we just have a normal day today, Morton; no
explosions, muggings or stalkings?’
Morton plumped
for Juliette’s advice and quietly dropped the idea.
The three of
them stepped from the car and followed the throng of crowds making their way
across the field. It was already a good turnout by anyone’s standards at
such provincial gatherings.
A glum-looking
pensioner in an over-sized, yellow hi-vis jacket that stretched down to his
calves silently directed them into the ‘Welcome Tent’, where Morton handed over
fifteen pounds for their entrance.
‘Sir David and
Lady Windsor-Sackville will be opening the fete in just under half-an-hour’s
time and there’ll be a demonstration of Tractors Through the Ages at two
o’clock and a falconry display at three,’ a short, sun-wrinkled lady told them.
The three of
them sauntered down the field, following a steady stream of people headed in
the general direction of several large white marquees and a mass of assorted
trestle tables.
‘What
exactly
are we doing here?’ Jeremy asked, taking a casual glance over a run of tatty
paperbacks, as if he had only just realised where they were.
‘That’s what
I’m wondering,’ Juliette said, turning to face Morton.
‘You two are so
sceptical,’ Morton said. ‘I just wanted to actually
see
these people,
that’s all.’
