Something Hidden (19 page)

Iwan turned to face Andrew, features as expressionless as an Easter Island statue.

It was only then that Andrew realised what he’d done. Jenny facing down a man with a knife was reckless – but he had been just as careless.

Somehow, he had talked himself into taking on a job for Thomas Braithwaite.

Frustratingly, Jenny didn’t understand the situation.

‘I don’t see where the problem is,’ she said, her voice crackling through the speaker in Andrew’s car.

Andrew had just dropped Iwan back at Braithwaite’s house outside Liverpool. He checked his rear-view mirror and pulled away, speaking to her through the hands-free system.
‘You’re the one who pointed out that Braithwaite probably isn’t what he seems,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘So that means I’m working for a potential gangster. I shouldn’t have come.’

‘But we’re not doing anything we weren’t doing before – and you’re not working
for
him.’

‘I am!’ Andrew realised he was shouting, so lowered his voice. ‘Braithwaite implied that Leyton Sampson does a bit of work on the side, tidying up stolen items so they can be
resold. Sampson told us he does his own repairs and resets on-site. Presumably those in the know give him pieces they’ve nicked and he clears engravings, melts down the metal, removes jewels
– that sort of thing. He takes stolen goods and turns them back into money.’

‘Do you think he arranged the robbery of his own store?’

Andrew puffed out a breath, checking his rear-view mirror again. It was empty. ‘I don’t know and Braithwaite didn’t say. I genuinely don’t think Braithwaite knew about
Owen and Wendy being killed, though. He’s hard to read but he seemed annoyed by it, as if he knew a line had been crossed.’

‘Did he tell you about Sampson because he thinks it was something to do with him?’

‘I suppose but it feels like I’m missing something. Where does everyone fit in? How does Sampson know the Evans brothers? Or Luke Methodist? Why them? And why kill Owen and Wendy?
It’s like a jigsaw where we have the pieces but they’re not joining together. And now I’m going to have some factory-owner-importer-exporter-possible-mobster on my case about
it.’

‘We’ll be fine.’

Andrew took the turn towards the motorway, following the exact route he had earlier in the day. Without Iwan weighing the vehicle down, the car was actually responding to the accelerator.
‘There’s one other thing,’ Andrew said. ‘Braithwaite had a pair of Bengals.’

‘Bengals? Like the ones stolen from Margaret Watkins?’

‘I don’t know, they were just cats. One of them had a chip under its fur but that could have been redone. I was hardly going to ask him if he’d nicked a pair of Bengals
recently.’

‘I’d have asked him.’

‘Which is exactly why I didn’t bring you. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her we were too busy to find the darn things. Don’t the fire brigade look for
cats?’

‘Do they?’

‘I don’t know – but it’s ridiculous that we’re doing it.’

Jenny had that I-told-you-so tone to her voice. ‘You’re going to have to learn how to say “no” to crying women then. If it’s any consolation, I’ve had to turn
two people away this morning. Both came in wanting their partners followed because they reckon they’re having affairs. I said we didn’t do that kind of thing and they just looked at
me.’ She stopped to munch on something crunchy. ‘You off down south now?’

‘Yep – back tomorrow. Don’t hang around the office if there’s nothing on. Go home and . . . do whatever it is you do.’

‘I’m still checking odds and ends for now. I’ll text you if I find anything interesting.’

‘All right – thanks. See you Monday.’

‘See ya.’

The line went plip and then the radio kicked back in with a serious-sounding female newsreader.

‘.
. . with the minister insisting that the teenager was only in his office for work experience. Now the weather: the cold spell is set to continue, with icy north easterly winds
blowing across from the arctic. Temperatures could reach as low as minus five, with the added chill factor taking that down to minus ten or eleven. Better wrap up warm, or, better yet, stay indoors
for the weekend. Geoff . . .
’

Andrew flitted through the stations before turning the radio off. If it wasn’t cheesy DJs, it was bad news or appalling music. He checked his watch. Despite his morning exploits taking far
longer than he’d intended, he was still going to be on time for his appointment.

One motorway became another, before he skirted onto the frost-dusted country roads. Overgrown hedges jutted onto the carriageway, scratching at the car’s side as Andrew kept tight to the
edge, with traffic zipping past in the opposite direction along the narrow, winding road.

It was mid-afternoon when he reached the outskirts of the village. This was what some people would call ‘real’ England: picturesque stone bridges, babbling streams, a tiny post
office that doubled as a general store, pretty cottages with thatched roofs, snow shovelled to the side of the streets, and acres of fields, green in the summer but blanketed with a sprinkling of
perfect white. The only surprise was that the village wasn’t overrun by postcard photographers.

Andrew parked on a side street and began layering up: jumper, coat, gloves, hat and whatever else was in his boot. He was thirty miles south of Manchester, but away from the city and high in the
hills, it was another climate.

Young children in grey and red school uniforms skipped along the pavements oblivious to the cold, throwing snow at one another, and sending the sound of giggles spilling through the otherwise
empty streets. They’d soon learn. Snow was great for the young – snowmen, snowball fights, days off school, shovelling elderly people’s paths for a fiver; it was all good while it
lasted. The day a person knew they were a grown-up was when looking out of the window to see a wintery covering the word ‘shite’ popped into their mind, instead of
‘wa-hey!’

Andrew crunched around the post office over the bridge and headed for the only cafe in the village. One combined post office and shop, one cafe, two pubs, obviously – it was England, after
all. Even in the middle of winter, the beer was probably still warm, too.

The sign outside the cafe promised an array of cakes and Andrew wasn’t disappointed as he opened the door and walked into a gust of sweet-smelling sugary goodness.

Keira was already waiting for him, fingers cupped around a mug of cappuccino, still wearing her scarf. Flecks of sugar were stuck to her lips: proof, as if it were needed, your honour, of sneaky
cake consumption. Her hair was in its usual bob but had started to grow out, with wispy blonde strands snaking towards her shoulders. She scratched at the birthmark by her lip and cracked into a
smile.

‘Am I late?’ Andrew asked, turning to check the clock over the door.

‘I’m early.’

He nodded towards the counter. ‘What’s good?’

‘The Bakewell slices.’

‘Is that why you’ve still got half of it around your lips?’

Keira blushed, wiping the crumbs away. ‘I was saving it for later.’

Andrew ordered and then sat opposite her at the rickety table, dropping his mass of warm outer clothing on the floor next to him. The coffee machine whooshed and popped as they made small talk
about his journey and the weather. Always the weather.

When the waitress arrived with his drink, cake and bill, Keira insisted on paying. ‘It was me who invited you down,’ she said. When the waitress had gone, she added: ‘You look
tired.’

‘I’ve spent all day chasing around.’

‘Want to talk about it?’

Andrew thought about it but shook his head. ‘It’s just work stuff.’

She gazed at him for a little too long, sensing something was wrong. He tried to put Braithwaite out of his mind, not to mention Iwan the brute.

The door tinkled behind, with a mother directing two young children and a pushchair inside. She settled them with colouring books in the corner, wrestled the pushchair closed without losing a
finger, and headed for the counter, beaming.

Keira leant back in her seat, catching the other woman’s eye. ‘What are their names?’ she asked.

This was the type of thing people could get away with in a small community. Ask about someone’s kids in a city and the police would be carting you off before you could say,
‘I’m not a paedo.’

‘Mia and Ben,’ the woman replied. She was rosy-cheeked and out of breath, trying to grapple a purse from her jacket pocket. In the corner, the children were passing crayons to each
other.

‘I bet they’re loving the snow,’ Keira said.

‘You can say that again. I went out to help them build a snowman earlier but I was freezing and exhausted in no time. They could’ve stayed out all day if I hadn’t made them go
inside. Mia’s school is shut because of the roads and Ben doesn’t start until September. They grow up so quickly.’

‘They should sleep well tonight.’

The woman snorted slightly. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

Keira’s gaze drifted to the corner again, smile fixed. Andrew wanted to say something but he still knew her too well, even if they’d only seen each other a handful of times in the
past eight and a bit years. If they’d not been ready to start thinking about having children of their own, their house of cards wouldn’t have come collapsing down. That’s what he
could tell himself anyway.

When the mother had returned to her children, Keira focused back on Andrew. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I did have an ulterior motive for getting you down here on a Friday.’

‘I figured.’

She giggled. ‘Am I that obvious?’

‘Go on.’

‘You remember I told you about working for my father . . .’ Andrew’s face must have twitched with annoyance because her features hardened. ‘. . . I know you didn’t
get on, but the division he runs does a lot of good. If it wasn’t for him—’

‘I know.’

Keira nodded and they each had a drink to ease the momentary tension. ‘I’m organising something this summer,’ she continued. ‘It’s a careers fete, a sort of cross
between the type of careers day they do in schools and a summer fete. We’re going to have stalls, places for people to eat, perhaps some rides – that sort of thing. I’ve been
getting together a list of people from various industries to talk to young people.’

‘So you’re going to con them with the promise of stalls and food, then try to get them thinking about their futures?’

‘Exactly! I was hoping you might be able to help. I figure you know people, plus you’re good at organising. You ran that club at uni – what was it?’

Ick. Andrew had forgotten about that, successfully wiping the memory as if it had never happened.

‘I can’t remember,’ he said feebly.

Keira was spinning a finger in the air. ‘That game thing. There were you and those other lads. You had to do all the room bookings and make sure everyone knew what was going on.’

Andrew puffed out a breath, shaking his head. ‘Did I?’

‘I think it was called the board and card-gaming society?’

How had he ever been married? Ever had sex?

Andrew nodded, trying to appear unconvinced. ‘I don’t really remember. It sort of rings a bell. Are you sure I organised it?’

Keira grinned. ‘Don’t you remember? You had all those boxes of cards under your bed. They had warlocks and dragons on. You used to book that room above the Unicorn and Golden Bell on
a Thursday night, then you’d play games until the early hours . . .’

It dawned on Andrew that he had been as geeky as Damian Harris, but in a different technological age. He could have quite happily gone through the rest of his life never remembering that.

‘You were really good at sorting things out,’ Keira added. ‘I don’t know that many people in Manchester any longer. I could do with someone who knows the local area well
enough to recommend a few potential speakers. We can only really cover expenses and perhaps a small fee.’

Talk about a bloody guilt trip. He’d dumped her all those years ago and, as punishment, he had somehow walked into doing something he didn’t really want to do. Twice in one day!

Andrew nodded, trying to fake a smidgeon of enthusiasm. ‘It sounds really good. I’m sure we can work something out.’

‘You don’t have to do it if you’ve got lots on.’

Yes! An out – an acknowledgement that helping wasn’t compulsory.

But, no, Andrew’s body was betraying him. Instead of making up something about having a busy summer ahead, he found himself shaking his head, with words coming out of his mouth that
hadn’t passed through his brain. What was going on?

‘Oh, it’s no problem,’ Andrew’s lips said. ‘I’d be glad to help out.’

Glad?
Where had that come from?

‘I’ve got all the information on email. I’ll forward it to you.’

Keira took out her phone and started tapping away. For Andrew, the only glimmer of hope was that he might go down with glandular fever when the planning phase kicked in. If he was
really
lucky, Thomas Braithwaite might dismember him. It would probably hurt – but would at least give him an excuse to not take part.

As his phone buzzed with the forwarded email, it dawned on Andrew that it was this exact type of negativity for which he’d cursed himself when he’d wanted to avoid Gem’s SOS
call. Jenny would be peering over her glasses at him, reading his mind.

‘Whatcha thinking about?’ Keira asked.

‘Huh?’

‘You seemed lost for a moment.’

‘Oh, er, nothing . . .’

‘I do have a second favour to ask you . . .’

Yes! Another favour. Brilliant. Be positive! Bring on the new Andrew Hunter.

‘You remember that camping trip we went on . . . ?’

Oh, God, no.

Andrew was panicking. He’d have loved to spend a weekend with his ex-wife. At any point in the last eight years, he’d have craved some time alone to explain what he’d done, if
not why he’d done it. But camping?

‘Do you mean that festival?’ he replied, trying not to sound nervous.

‘Right. You were really good at that outdoorsy stuff.’