Something Hidden (30 page)

Iwan tugged on the sleeve of his suit, eyes staring through Andrew. He turned, but not quickly enough to hide the blood-red scratch that linked his ear to his eye.

Jenny had literally left her mark.

Andrew closed the door, entering into a vast hallway, decked out in a mix of echoing shiny tiles and antique wood. A staircase spiralled up to the first floor, with an enormous canvas painting
of someone in a red coat riding into battle hung on the wall in front.

Iwan’s footsteps clip-clopped across the hard floor, heading out of sight into another room. Andrew had to hurry to catch him, almost sliding into the kitchen, where Braithwaite was
sitting at a high stool next to a counter in the centre of the room. The counter tops were carved from thick white marble, with rows of glinting pans hanging above and an oven that was three times
as wide as the one in Andrew’s flat.

Braithwaite turned, that ice-blue stare fixing on Andrew for a moment before he broke into a smile. ‘Mr Hunter, it’s so nice to see you again.’ He offered his hand, leaving
Andrew with little choice other than to shake it. There was having self-respect and there was being stupid. Braithwaite nodded at the stool next to him, wanting Andrew to sit, and then peered over
his shoulder towards the doorway. ‘That’ll be all, Iwan.’

‘Sir.’ The man in the suit turned and headed back into the hallway, footsteps echoing loudly behind him.

Braithwaite had been reading a broadsheet but folded it in half, pushing it towards a thick wooden chopping board in the centre of the unit. The similarities between him and Keira’s father
were uncanny. Different men who moved in different circles, yet both steeped with the aura of power. He indicated towards the door through which Iwan had departed.

‘I understand there was an incident yesterday. I can only apologise if things got a little out of hand. I’ve had a word with Iwan. It shouldn’t happen again.’

‘You’ve had him following me.’

Braithwaite pressed his lips together, nodding slowly. ‘Do you cook, Mr Hunter?’

‘Er . . .’

He pointed to the pans above their heads, holding both hands aloft. ‘I took it up last year, when I retired. My wife used to do the cooking, or we’d sometimes get professionals in.
I’m slightly ashamed to say that I always thought of it as women’s work. I come from that age where women still knew their place but, alas, time moves on, so with it we must
move.’ He plucked a muffin tray from underneath the counter and placed it between them. ‘So, do you cook?’

‘Not . . . really. Only simple things.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with simple things, Mr Hunter. Everything today’s about trying something new: Vietnamese food, Thai curries, Moroccan. It’s something different
every month but you can’t beat a good British roast.’ He stabbed at the tray. ‘Do you know the secret to a really good Yorkshire pudding?’

‘No.’

‘It’s nothing to do with the batter. Whatever you come up with is a mix of flour and either water or milk, with a pinch of salt. I like to use egg but that’s just me. The thing
that really matters is the planning. You’ve got to coat your pan with oil, get your oven up to the hottest temperature it can reach, and then put the pan in. You wait for the oil to start
smouldering and then remove it again, pouring your batter in quickly to the perfect level, before getting it back into the oven on a lower heat. It sounds simple but it’s about timing and
it’s the temperature that’s critical. Too hot and it’ll burst free from the pan, too cool and it won’t rise. Some people like Yorkshires when they expand.’ He shook
his head, tapping the pan. ‘Not me. I like them to be just the height of the tray, no higher. Getting it right is all about making an investment and then sticking with it, even if it means
sitting in front of the oven and watching everything meticulously.’ He focused on Andrew, both arms out as if they were going to embrace. ‘When I make an investment in anything, Mr
Hunter, including people . . .
especially
people . . . I like to know what I’m getting in return. Just like my Yorkshires, it’s all about timing, groundwork and dedication. I
want assurances that other people are putting in the time and the preparation that I do. I don’t want them bursting free and doing their own thing.’

He continued staring at Andrew for a few moments, before returning the tray to underneath the counter.

‘Do you understand?’ he added.

Yes, Andrew thought, that you’re a sodding nutter.

‘I can’t work properly if I’m going to be followed everywhere I go.’ Andrew pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Especially by him.’

Braithwaite was nodding slowly again, absorbing the words. ‘I realise that Iwan and yourself haven’t got off to the best of starts. He can be slightly headstrong. You have my
assurance that he will not follow you again.’

It wasn’t exactly what Andrew wanted – the words had been chosen carefully enough that it meant Braithwaite could get any of the other seven billion people on the planet to follow
him, but at least Iwan should steer clear.

‘How is your aunt and her electrics?’ Braithwaite asked, taking Andrew by surprise again.

‘Sorry?’

‘The last time you were here, you said something about a “cowboy” making a mess of things.’

‘Oh . . . right . . . she’s fine. It was so bad it could have caused a fire but I got someone to sort it all out.’

‘I have a number of skilled people who work for me. I could arrange for someone to check everything over. It’d be peace of mind, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you for the offer but it’s all been sorted.’

‘If you’re sure . . . I should probably ask for the name of your “cowboy”.’

Andrew was avoiding eye contact but he could still feel Braithwaite’s stare. ‘Why?’

‘I have tradesmen working for me all over the country, the north especially. If there’s someone doing dangerous work out there, I’d rather know.’

‘You wouldn’t need to worry about him. He’s this small-time kid.’

‘I’d still like the name, Mr Hunter.’

Andrew could feel the mark on his forehead itching, from where Kevin had punched him and Iwan had jabbed it. ‘He’s a nobody.’

‘The name, Mr Hunter.’

‘It’s Kevin. Kevin Leonard. He’s just some scally, no one you need to bother about.’

‘Noted. Now, shall we get to business?’

Andrew removed the laptop from his bag and placed it on the counter top between them. He had to fiddle with the settings to link it to the wireless on his phone, figuring Braithwaite
wasn’t the type of person who knew about Wi-Fi connections.

‘This is the CCTV footage from the robbery,’ Andrew said, loading the police’s website and setting the video running.

Braithwaite watched in silence before turning to Andrew. ‘What’s your point?’

‘Everyone missed it, even though it was in plain sight the entire time. Watch the far left of the screen.’

He replayed the footage again, only to get another similar blank look, which wasn’t entirely surprising. Andrew could have told Braithwaite what to look for but it was nice to feel
superior for a change.
He’d
seen it. Not the police, not Braithwaite, not even Jenny.

‘What am I looking for?’ Braithwaite asked, a tad annoyed.

‘When Owen and Wendy enter the shop, Sampson is working at a bench behind the counter. We already know that he’s busy fixing a necklace for a film production company. It’s
really small but you can just about make out a shiny loop on the footage. It looks white.’ Andrew pointed towards the blob on the far left of the screen, almost out of sight. ‘Now
watch,’ he added, starting the footage again.

As Owen and Wendy browsed the cases, the shop door burst open, with the Evans brothers piling inside. Shouting, smash-smash, shouting, bang. Andrew had seen it so many times that he knew the
movements of everyone involved. Without watching, he knew the exact moment that Owen made eye contact with Sampson, who then looked away.

Braithwaite almost rocked himself off his stool when he saw it: ‘They stole the wrong thing.’

As the Evans brothers left the shop, Braithwaite pointed to the white blob on the left of the screen, in the exact same position it had been in throughout.

Andrew set the footage replaying from the beginning again, spelling out what the screen was showing. ‘The robbers clear out the counter and smash the other one but Sampson’s
constantly trying to catch their eyes and glancing back to the bench. If someone’s pointing a gun at you, you’d be looking at the gun, or the person holding it – not peering
behind. He’s trying to give them the message where the expensive necklace is – but failing completely because they’re too stupid. Sampson could hardly clear off the bench and dump
everything in their bag because it’d be obvious.’

‘Everyone missed it . . .’

‘Because you naturally look for what is happening, not what isn’t. That footage is blown up to full-size on my screen and you can only just about pick out the white blob. Most people
wouldn’t have seen it like that, if they watched it at all. It’s been on the police’s own website for over a year and they missed it. The people who might have noticed were Owen
and Wendy because they were there. Sampson knew straight away the wrong thing had been stolen, so he panicked.’

Braithwaite’s features were a strange mix of admiration, intrigue and amusement. ‘I knew there was something not quite right. The sly bastard.’ He turned to Andrew again.
‘So how did he get Methodist to shoot them?’

Andrew closed his laptop lid and slipped it back into his bag, just as one of the Bengals crept into the kitchen, tail twisting and curling as it let out a gentle mew. Braithwaite held his hand
out for the cat and began stroking its back.

‘I’m not sure yet,’ Andrew replied. ‘I need time. I had to come here this afternoon, else I could have been getting answers.’

Braithwaite smirked slightly, lifting the cat onto his lap. ‘Point taken.’

‘I’ve got things to do this evening – and tomorrow. I’ll come back to you when I have answers.
If
I have answers.’

‘Understood, but . . . I only need to know what our friend Mr Sampson has been up to.’ Braithwaite gazed into Andrew’s eyes, the message clear. The Bengal began to purr as it
was stroked. Braithwaite looked like a Bond villain who had a designer kitchen. ‘I could use someone like you,’ he purred, as if imitating the cat.

‘I’m not for sale,’ Andrew replied.

‘I can find out all sorts of things about people but I have no idea how you managed to accrue such a lifestyle, nor why you’d continue to work. Someone who lives in an apartment like
yours, with the money that implies . . . you must have demons in your past.’

‘We all have our secrets.’

‘That we do.’

Andrew stood and picked up his bag, his sudden movement spooking the cat, who leapt from Braithwaite’s lap and bolted for the door.

In the moment of scratching, sliding claws on tile, Andrew seized his moment, whispering delicately enough that there was no risk of anyone overhearing. ‘There might be a professor
involved.’

Braithwaite studied him, sucking in his cheeks, eyes narrowing. For a moment he said nothing, then he scratched furiously at the dusting of stubble on his chin. ‘Why would you be telling
me that? I told you that I only needed to know about our friend, Mr Sampson.’

This time it was Andrew who locked them into a stare. ‘You know why.’

A short nod, a thin smile. Mutual understanding. Soul sold. ‘If you give me the name, I’ll look into my options.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘Not today. What would you do?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t want
that
.’

Braithwaite seemed amused, toying with his new plaything, offering a pat on the head with a look, rather than a hand. ‘What
do
you want?’

Andrew turned to leave. ‘Give me a day. I learned a thing or two from my former father-in-law.’

The clouds of earlier in the day had broken, leaving space for a wonderful bright moon to beam white light across the city. Andrew stood in the window of his apartment, staring
across the vast ocean of people going about their lives. Vehicles were dribbling in and out of Manchester, with the endless stretch of buildings lit up far into the distance.

Because he saw it every day, Andrew often felt desensitised to the view. There was a strange beauty to the organised chaos. The confusing web of centuries-old highways and towering glass
structures, like the one in which he lived, existed side by side. The canal wound its way through the city as if it had always been there, but it wasn’t even a century and a half old.
Everything would keep expanding, continuing to change. When he stood in this spot, peering down upon the world below, it was hard not to feel the urge to press his nose hard against the glass and
keep pushing. To feel the rush of the wind, the thunderous roar of the elements.

‘Andrew . . .’

He turned at the sound of Keira’s soft voice. She was standing next to the sofa, glass of wine in her hand, stunning in a black cocktail dress with matching shoes that she hadn’t
kicked off. He was embarrassed at the effort she’d made when he was wearing loose-fitting dark trousers, socks, and a shirt that hadn’t been ironed. She could go out on the town, he
could do knee-skids on the hard floor as if he was a kid at his first school disco.

‘Whatcha thinking about?’ she asked, click-clacking across the room and linking her arm through his. She put her wine glass on the ledge and rested her head on his shoulder, staring
towards the eternity beyond the glass.

‘Just . . . life.’

‘That’s deep. I thought you were going to say you were wondering if we should order in a takeaway and, if so, did I want Chinese or pizza.’

He squeezed her tighter. ‘That’s what I’m thinking about now.’

‘So? Chinese or pizza?’

‘We could go out?’

She stepped away from him, bending her knees slightly in a half-curtsey, holding her hands out. ‘Does it look like I’m dressed to be outside in temperatures like this?’

It gave him an excuse to look at her bare legs, the thin straps of her dress hooping over her shoulders, the low U-shape in the centre. More flesh. If she hadn’t got so dressed up to go
out, then there was probably only one reason.