Hiding the Past (21 page)

Authors: Nathan Dylan Goodwin

BOOK: Hiding the Past

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He wondered if
she was being sarcastic. Not making a child cry was hardly a cause for
procreation in his book.

‘I didn’t know
he had diabetes,’ Morton ventured, unsure as to why the fact had struck him as
being important. If Fin was anything like Morton was at the age of eight,
then he would have a substantial back-catalogue of medical history.
Bumps, breaks, stitches, allergies and all the contagious diseases available
had blighted his first decade on the planet, much to the vexation of his
parents, whose own biological progeny had been beset by far fewer problems (and
most of those had been inadvertently passed on from Morton).

‘Yeah, he’s had
it since birth. Peter had it, too. It's okay, we control it,’ she
said, not quite sounding as if she believed herself. ‘What should we do
if the result is positive?’ she asked.

Now there was a
question. Positive as in a match with the Windsor-Sackvilles, or positive
as in a good, optimistic outcome? ‘Cross that bridge when we come to it,’
Morton parried.
If we come to it.

‘But it’s
looking like the most likely scenario, isn’t it?’

‘It’s certainly
a possibility,’ Morton answered, unsure whether or not her question was
rhetorical.

Soraya ran her
fingers through her hair and sighed heavily.

‘I’ll be in
touch,’ Morton said, glancing down at his watch. ‘I’ve got somewhere I
need to be.’ Morton stood and made his way to the door.

Soraya
followed. ‘Another lead?’ she asked.

‘No, just help
with existing ones,’ Morton answered cryptically.

He said goodbye
and sped off to the
railway
[Ma1]

station.

It really had been a case of desperate
times calling for desperate measures when Morton telephoned Dr Baumgartner at
the Forensic Science Service. His call to his former university lecturer
was redirected to a mobile as, rather fortuitously for Morton, he was in London
for a few days and was ‘absolutely delighted’ to meet him for a beer. It
was always a beer, preferably a local variety, that he would opt for,
irrespective of the time of day or the task in hand. He’d once paid for a
round of drinks for the whole class of forty students after trooping them down
to a nearby pub to study vernacular architecture. Vernacular architecture
over a vernacular beer. Morton supposed that it had done the trick; he’d
certainly never forgotten that lecture. The call hadn’t come entirely out
of the blue; he’d been in touch with Dr Baumgartner several times since leaving
university, what with various reference requests and attending the odd public
seminar that he’d delivered. There had apparently been a sharp rise in
the number of people interested in the Forensic Science Service after the glut
of CSI programmes that had filled the television schedules in recent years,
though Dr Baumgartner was always quick to point out that real life forensic
study bore little resemblance to the slick, exacting procedures found onscreen.

They’d agreed
to meet in the
Sherlock Holmes
pub off Charing Cross, which Morton
considered to be a bit of an irony. He wondered what Holmes and Watson
would have made of all the advances in crime detection technology.
‘Deoxyribo Nucleic Acid, my dear Watson’ didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

The only
difference that the elapsed time had made to Dr Baumgartner’s appearance was
that his thick black beard had turned to concrete grey, but for the revealing
yellow stain around his mouth. Ten roll-ups a day since he was fourteen,
something that he inexplicably sought to tell the class on a regular
basis. Apart from that minor change, he looked just the same as the last
time that Morton had seen him, which, if he remembered correctly was at a photo
analysis conference in Eastbourne three years ago.

They sat at a
table mercifully distanced from the rest of the pub’s clientele. Morton
explained the whole
Coldrick Case
, point by point, without exaggeration
or embellishment. The more he summarised the
Coldrick Case
, the
more far-fetched it sounded, like some awful Sunday night drama on ITV that he
would avoid like the plague. Dr Baumgartner didn’t seem in the slightest
bit fazed and actually praised Morton for his thoroughness. ‘You always
were a fastidious bugger at university. I think most genealogists would
have thrown in the towel long ago, so you should be congratulated for sticking
at it. This is
exactly
your kind of work, make the most of
it.’ Morton hadn’t thought about it like that before. He supposed
that, despite the obvious drawbacks to stalking, mugging, explosions, espionage
and a throbbing lump on the side of his head, it certainly livened up what
could otherwise be a rather dull job.

‘And what is
that you’d like my help with?’ Dr Baumgartner asked.

Morton delved
inside his bag and pulled an apologetic face. ‘I’m hoping that you’ll be
able to compare Finlay Coldrick’s DNA,’ he said, raising the swab stick, ‘with
Sir David James Peregrine Windsor-Sackville’s.’ Morton raised the plastic
beaker he had procured from the apple-pressing marquee yesterday – entirely
illegal of course, but Morton hoped that it was the kind of ‘thinking outside
the box’ of which Dr Baumgartner might approve.

‘Fine, no
problems at all,’ he said, without as much as a flash of hesitation. ‘If
I were in my lab in Birmingham I could have given you the result in under an
hour but it’ll be a bit longer than that, I’m afraid. Give me a day or
two and we’ll see what I can come up with.’

‘No
worries. I’ve another request, too, if you don’t mind. Could you
see what you think about this?’ he said, passing over James Coldrick’s copper
box. It felt a bit presumptuous to be asking his former lecturer to do
him such large favours but Morton was desperate. Dr Baumgartner might
just be able to offer a new perspective, spot an anomaly that years in the
Forensic Science Service had taught him. The main thing was, Morton
trusted Dr Baumgartner implicitly.

Dr Baumgartner
opened the box and took a cursory glance at the photograph. ‘Yes, I’ll
gladly give you my advice, for what it’s worth, but you seem to be doing a
pretty exhaustive job by yourself,’ he said, setting his thick-rimmed glasses
down on the table and giving his beard a contemplative stroke. ‘Listen,
Morton. You have a doubtless natural genealogical instinct that you need
to trust a bit more. You’ve come all this way by yourself, which is
frankly admirable. It’s more than I would expect of some of my top people
at the FSS. Have faith in your abilities.’ He gave his beard another
gentle tug, reset his glasses and read the letter. Once he had finished
reading, he set the letter down and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes drifting
thoughtfully. ‘It certainly does come across like she knows the end is
nigh,’ he finally said. ‘Can I take it away and see if I can come up with
something?’

‘By all means –
thank you,’ Morton said. ‘I’d appreciate some fresh eyes.’

‘Great,’ he
said with a smile, carefully placing the two items back in the box. ‘Now,
I think it’s time for another beer. My shout.’

Morton watched
as Dr Baumgartner toddled off to the bar, an eccentric but redoubtable
figure. It felt good to Morton to be back in his company and to receive
his approval.

Morton was more than happy to have his
Pampers box of treats quietly sidelined by the news of Juliette’s
interview. It wasn’t like he was relishing telling her that his darts
trophy had survived the blast when everything she valued and cherished as
sentimental had perished. On the way home he had even considered dumping
the damned box and all of its contents and telling her that nothing had survived.
That way they were on an equal ‘let’s start again' footing. He stowed the
box at the bottom of the stairs and joined Juliette in the kitchen.

‘You’ll never
guess who conducted the interview?’ she said, pouring herself a cold beer and
perching herself on the edge of the table. She didn’t give him much time
to guess but if she had, then Jones and Hawk would have been his first
answer. ‘Only Olivia Walker!’ Nope, it was safe to say that she
definitely hadn’t been anywhere near his top ten guess list.

‘I did say
“Expect the unexpected”,’ Morton said sagely.

‘Yeah, but you
didn’t tell me to expect
her
to be acting like my best friend.
Christ, I was waiting for the camera crew to leap out, she was so sickeningly
friendly. She said she was so grateful that I’d spotted her error in not
changing the ownership of her car and that she was sorry that I’d been
suspended – administrative error - and that I could start back to work there
and then if I wanted to. She’s been hearing great things about me around
the station! I mean, can you believe it?’

Morton couldn’t
believe it. But then again, with a moment’s thought, he actually could
believe it. What was that old saying about keeping your friends close and
your enemies closer? Superhero PCSO Juliette Meade was much more easily
monitored within the warm bosom of Kent Police than conducting her own
undercover operations whilst being suspended on full pay. They were
effectively tagging her.

‘Honest to God,
Morton,’ she continued, ‘it was all so relaxed and informal, like we’re old
friends catching up in Starbucks. “Do you want a tea or coffee,
Juliette? I can’t even
think
about functioning until I’ve got at
least a gallon of caffeine running through my veins!”’ Juliette did an exaggerated
impression of a stereotypical toff in a fit of laughter. ‘She even had
the nerve to say “I hear you’ve had a bit of a to-do with your house; you have
had a spell of bad luck.”’ Another bout of toff laughter followed by a swig of
the beer.

A ‘to-do’ with
the house: that was one way of describing it. Morton wondered if now was
a good time to say, ‘Talking of the house, take a look in the Pampers box and
see what treats I’ve got for you!’ No, it wasn’t the time. But then
again, there never would be a good time.

‘So, I’m back
to work seven tomorrow morning, speed-trapping the Udimore Road as if nothing
had ever happened.’ He couldn’t tell from her impassive speech and
behaviour whether or not she was happy to have been reinstated, then she clarified.
‘Bastards.’

‘I thought you
wanted to go back?’

‘I do, I love
my job, but not like this. They’re playing me, Morton, surely you can see
that?’ He could see it, as clear as day.

‘Did she talk
about me or the
Coldrick Case
at all?’ Morton asked.

‘Not a single
word. Bizarre.’

Morton had
other questions to ask but at that moment Jeremy appeared in the kitchen
doorway, his face puffed and red as though he’d been crying. Morton
stared at him. Was this it? Was it their father? Had he
finally succumbed?

‘What’s the
matter?’ Juliette asked.

‘It’s Dad, he’s
got worse,’ Jeremy said, on the verge of tears. Morton could spot the
signs a mile off, having made his younger brother cry more times than he could
remember. ‘He had another heart attack and they’ve scheduled him for a
triple heart bypass tomorrow evening. He’s in a terrible state.’
Morton could tell that Jeremy wanted to say more but he would burst into tears
if he did.

Juliette went
over to the doorway and hugged him. After several seconds she pulled back
and looked him in the eyes. ‘The operation’s a good thing, Jeremy.
At least it will help him.’

‘I know.
Even Dad thinks this is the end for him now,’ Jeremy said. ‘He wants to
see you, Morton, before he goes down. He’s got something to tell you.’

Morton nodded,
his stomach immediately turning itself in knots over whatever chastisement his
father wanted to issue. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be a treasured
deathbed declaration, that much was certain.
Morton, you’ve always
made me proud. Morton, you’ve always been a wonderful child.
Morton, I’ve never seen you as anything other than my natural child, the same
as Jeremy.

Jeremy took a
beer from the fridge and sat at the table with Morton, his face etched with grief.

Nobody spoke
because nobody had anything more to say.

An hour later Juliette called to
Morton. ‘Morton? Why’s one of Mrs McPherson’s ornaments in a
Pampers box at the bottom of the stairs?’

A few seconds
ticked by whilst Morton braced himself for the penny to drop.

And it did.

‘Is this
it? Is this all that’s left? Oh my God.’

Chapter Sixteen

Monday

The lump on the side of his head had
throbbed for the entire night, maintaining a regular musical beat. When
sleep had finally arrived for him, he was plagued by dreams of his father’s
deathbed confession, a revelation that a somnolent Morton knew was monumental;
an utterance which would change everything. The dream started with him
getting out of the Mini in the car park of the Conquest Hospital and running
through the building at top speed, as concerned nurses wordlessly directed him
through the labyrinth of identical wards until he eventually reached his
father, just in time for his last moment on earth. But as Morton drew his
ear close to his father’s mouth to catch those momentous words, the dream
restarted and he was back in the car park.

The only answer
was to get up and, at precisely four twenty-two, Morton abandoned both sleep
and any attempt at catching his father’s nocturnal message. If he were
remotely superstitious or religious then he would have made a mad dash to the
hospital, believing the dream to have been some kind of prophecy, urging him to
see his father before it was all too late. But, since he was neither religious
nor superstitious he padded down to the kitchen to make a coffee.

He switched on
his laptop and sat in the nascent dawn light that filtered in through the patio
door and kitchen windows. He had switched on the lights at first, but
they gave the room a strange street-lamp hue that was a stark reminder of the
unearthly hour at which he had risen. He hoped to goodness that he wasn’t
turning into his father. For as long as Morton had been aware, his father
had got up at five o’clock in the morning. Weekends, days off, holidays,
they were all the same: five o’clock prompt. The strangest thing was that
he had never needed an alarm, which Morton had always found particularly
baffling when the clocks changed. Morton would willingly be placed in
front of a firing squad rather than get up at five o’clock in the morning
voluntarily. Today was different, of course.

Morton opened
the online folder pertaining to the case, which he had saved to his cloud
storage, and clicked on the photograph of James’s mother holding him as a
baby. He looked into the dark eyes that stared out from the grounds of
wartime Charingsby. Whoever she was, she looked genuinely happy.
Seeing Lady Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville in the flesh at the Sedlescombe
village fete two days ago had done nothing to help Morton ascertain whether or
not she could have been James Coldrick’s elusive mother. Even his trusted
friend Google couldn’t help. Evidently she wasn’t high profile enough or
a close enough relation to Princess Diana to warrant an archive of online
images. He had found, though, that her ancestral home of Mote Ridge,
buried deep in the Kentish countryside, had been in the care of the National
Trust since her father’s death in 1969 and was, five days per week, open to the
general public. Monday was one such day.

‘Morning,’
an unfamiliar antipodean voice chirped cheerfully, startling Morton. He
turned to see Guy parading into the room wearing nothing more than a pair of
white boxer shorts. Two things sprang into Morton’s mind simultaneously.
One, where did he come from? As far as Morton knew Jeremy went to bed at
the same time as him. There were definitely no Australian homosexuals in
the house at that time; surely he would have noticed when he went round
checking that the windows were shut and the doors were locked? The second
thought that Morton had was how impossibly handsome Guy looked, despite the
ungodly hour of the day. ‘Jeez, you’re chatty in the mornings,’ Guy said,
filling an empty pint glass with water.

‘Sorry,’ Morton
said, ‘you made me jump. I’m still half asleep.’

‘What you up
to?’ he said, leaning in and looking at the laptop screen. ‘Ah, Lady
Maria. You interested in her?’

‘Kind of,’
Morton answered dismissively, unsure of how much Jeremy had revealed in pillow
talk. Hopefully nothing.

‘She’s a real
feisty bird but she’s got a soft spot for me so I tend to get the better jobs
around the house. Not that I can complain, decent wages, free apartment
in Charingsby; it’s alright really,’ he said.

Morton wondered
if it was potentially a stroke of luck having an employee of the
Windsor-Sackvilles standing half-naked in his kitchen. Someone to
question about the inner workings of the estate.
But what if he’s on
their side?
he thought. Morton decided it was a risk worth
taking. After all, he was there when Jeremy and Guy met. That would
have been impossible for the Windsor-Sackvilles to orchestrate in
advance. ‘I expect they have a lot of security and police protection,
what with their son being Defence Secretary and all,’ Morton finally said,
dropping a giant unsubtle fishing hook into their conversation.

‘I guess so,’
Guy answered cryptically. ‘All sorts of people come and go; it’s hard to
keep track of who’s who really. I’ve only been over here for a year so
I’m not really familiar with all your politicians.’

‘Is there a man
called Daniel Dunk that works for them?’ Morton asked, sounding as casual as he
could.

‘Yeah, he’s a
kind of security bloke, handyman. Bit shady if you ask me, but they rate
him. His wife used to work at Charingsby before I started there and I
think his dad might have even worked for them way back in the past. I
guess his family are part of the furniture. Why’s that, you know him?’

‘Know of him,’
Morton said, touching the memento Dunk had left on the side of his head.

‘Well, I’m
going back to bed. Night.’

‘Night,’ Morton
replied, wondering if his life could get any stranger. He returned his
attention to the laptop and clicked on the ‘opening hours’ tab for Mote
Ridge. Their doors would open in four hours' time and Morton would be
there.

A while later,
Morton headed into the bedroom and began to dress by the muted light straining
through the curtains.

‘Just say it,
Morton,’ Juliette suddenly snapped from the bed, still with her eyes shut,
curled into the foetal position.

‘Say what?’
Morton said innocently, as he pulled on a clean shirt and pair of jeans.

‘You’re banging
and clattering around the room, which usually means you want me to wake
up. Just say it. What’s happened now?’

‘Nothing,’
Morton said indignantly, hating the way Juliette could see through him as
though he were a sheet of glass. He hadn’t consciously been trying to
wake her up. Well, maybe he had. ‘I just brought you up a cup of
tea. But since you’re awake, you’ll never guess who just strode into the
kitchen half naked at four this morning?’

‘Guy,’ she
said. Not so much a guess as a statement. She still hadn’t so much
as twitched a muscle.

‘How do you
know?’

‘I let him in
last night.’

‘Why didn’t you
tell me?’

‘Why would I?’

‘Because.’

‘We’re not
sniggering fifteen-year-old girls, Morton. Jeremy’s an adult and this is
his house, he doesn’t need our permission to have people to stay over.
Now let me get some sleep.’

‘I didn’t say
he needed our permission, but his usual place of residence is Charingsby after
all. Talk about Trojan Horse.’

Juliette made a
grunting sound that spelled the end of the conversation.

When Morton arrived at Mote Ridge it
seemed to be under siege from every W.I. platoon in the country. At
least, that was Morton’s impression as he queued behind a neat single-file line
of pensioners that snaked towards the ticket office, a plain wooden box manned
by two overworked staff. Typical, Morton thought. Of all the days
he could choose, he picked today. But then again, he wasn’t here for a
day out, he was here for research, to find out once and for all if ‘M’, the
woman who gave birth to James Coldrick, was Lady Maria Charlotte.

The trail of
old ladies collected their tickets then beelined for the tearoom and Morton
finally made it to the small window in the side of the ticket office.

In exchange for
the ten pounds entrance fee, Morton received a brief guide to Mote Ridge, a map
of the extensive grounds and a long hard stare at his ping-pong ball lump from
the beleaguered young girl behind the window.

Morton pocketed
the map and crossed a dry moat into the heart of a large, rectangular courtyard
with high, flint walls that made the place feel more like a fortress than a
home. It had most probably been both at some time in its chequered
history. He couldn’t imagine growing up somewhere so detached and
formal. He wondered at the implications of having more servants living
with you than family. What was it that Guy had called Lady Maria?
A
feisty old bird
. Translation into English: surly old dragon.
Was it really any wonder, though, looking at this place? What kind of an
upbringing did she have?

The house itself
was an eclectic mixture of architectural styles. The main part comprised
of a large stone tower with small lead-framed windows, which reminded Morton of
a classic fourteenth-century church. Fused to the tower was a stunning
example of a typical medieval hall house – iconic black beams and white wattle
and daub plaster with tall mullioned windows. Rising up from the rear
were four ornate herringbone brickwork chimneys. Morton stared at the
building with a feeling akin to admiration. Such a fine house would
usually take him a whole day to explore but today he was here for work.

A sign with
‘Entrance’ and a large red arrow directed visitors through the one-way
labyrinth of the Mote Ridge mansion. Morton sped through manicured guest
bedrooms, servants’ quarters, kitchens, sculleries and formal dining areas, all
replete with original furniture and belongings from the house’s heyday,
searching for something which would confirm or disprove the idea that Lady
Maria was James Coldrick’s mother.

Overtaking hordes
of ambling visitors, Morton finally reached Lady Maria Charlotte’s childhood
bedroom. The word that sprang into his mind when he took in the room, was
clinical
. He realised that, of course, it might not have been that
way when she was growing up here, that this mocked-up version of her bedroom
might be nothing more than a National Trust volunteer second-guessing
history. All of the furniture, the walnut wardrobe, bedstead, chest of
drawers and writing bureau were kept several feet away from the public by a
thick sausage of red rope and a multi-lingual sign stating ‘Do Not Cross’.

Morton took
another cursory glance around the room and, for the first time, noticed a large
sepia photograph hanging beside the door. A label below the photograph
read ‘Maria Charlotte Spencer, 1921’. He studied the photo carefully and
put his training from Dr Baumgartner to work. She was diminutive, shyly
looking out at the hundreds of visitors who trooped through her bedroom every
week. Her dress was a high-quality pristine white, pearl-lined yoke with
a matching ribbon tied neatly atop her dark wavy hair. Behind her was the
painted backdrop of a grand staircase, which told Morton that it was a studio
portrait. His assessment of the photograph type and clothing agreed with
the stated date of the early 1920s. Morton pulled out his iPhone,
selected the close-up photo of James Coldrick’s mother and held it beside the
photograph of Lady Maria; he was certain that they were not the same
person. James Coldrick’s mother had much softer, rounder features with a
natural beauty that came without the aid of the careful make-up and lighting
used in the photograph of Lady Maria. Their eye shapes were, almost
imperceptibly, different; Lady Maria’s were more pinched and severe than the
almond, smiling eyes of James’s mother. Although their hair colour and
thickness were initially similar, when Morton studied their hairlines, he
noticed they were entirely different.

A National
Trust volunteer entered the room and he quickly lowered his iPhone. Not
quite quickly enough. ‘What’s that you’ve got there then?’ the volunteer
asked curiously. She was a fragile-looking woman in her mid to late
eighties. Her name badge identified her as Jean.

‘Just a
picture,’ Morton said vaguely. He had hoped to slip quickly and quietly
in and out of Mote Ridge but reasoned that it wouldn’t do any harm to speak to
a volunteer. From past experience, Morton found that these people were
usually pretty clued up on property in which they volunteered. They were
often privy to snippets and anecdotes which were absent from the laminated
information sheets or guide books. ‘Do you think that the woman in this
photo could be Lady Maria?’ Morton asked, raising the phone level with the
portrait photograph.

Jean raised her
glasses from the string around her neck but quickly shook her head
emphatically. ‘No, I wouldn't say so. Do you know when it was
taken?’

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