Nothing to Hide

by James Oswald

  ‘You grew up here? Explains a lot.’

  I’d hoped that my little group of detectives might somehow understand the need for stealth as I led them through the vestry, out across the oldest, most crowded part of the graveyard, and through the gate into the grounds of Harston Magna Hall. DCI Bain clearly didn’t get the message though. His gaze never rests anywhere long, taking in the walled garden, the various outbuildings that would make many a London house look small, the massive sandstone hulk of the hall itself.

  ‘Couldn’t get away soon enough. Sure, it’s privileged and posh, but it’s bleak as hell. I’d have given anything for a house with central heating. Maybe books that weren’t more than a hundred years old and written in languages even scholars have forgotten.’

  ‘Can’t have been all that bad. The space. The fresh air.’ Superintendent Shepherd moves slowly along the gravel path between elegantly clipped box hedges, admiring it all like a weekend gardener. I almost grab her arm to hurry her along when she stops to fondle the leaves of some ornamental shrub. Only DS Latham seems as anxious to get moving as me.

  ‘Ma’am, sir. We’ve a meeting in London, remember?’ He glances at his watch.

  ‘Don’t fret so, Billy. We’ll get there in plenty of time.’ Shepherd shrugs, no doubt enjoying her moment of peace. ‘And if not, then they’ll just have to wait for us, won’t they.’

  I’ve no idea what’s going on any more. All I know is that the longer we stay within the gardens the greater the chance of bumping into someone I’d rather not meet. Already the thought of staying in the church for an hour or so until everyone else had gone is more appealing than this dangerous traipse down memory lane. And yet my future career, if my future has a career in it, is inextricably linked to DCI Bain and Superintendent Shepherd.

  ‘Where exactly did you park before going into the church?’ I ask, hoping that it might mean we can go out through another side gate. Before anyone can answer, a wheelbarrow appears at the end of the path. It’s wheeled by a man I don’t recognise, although his stooped shoulders and resigned expression are hauntingly familiar. The figure immediately behind him is somewhat different. She sees us all too swiftly.

  ‘This is a private garden. You can’t come in— Oh. It’s you. Of course it is.’

  Ten years since we last spoke. More, possibly. Also ‘spoke’ is being too kind. ‘Shouted’ would be more accurate.

  ‘Mother.’ I try to keep my voice neutral, since she’s not bothered keeping the terseness out of hers. I can’t help noticing that my companions have all taken shelter behind me. Cowards. ‘I was showing my colleagues the back way out of the church. To avoid the press.’

  ‘And what were you all doing in the church anyway? That . . . man should never have been given the respect of a Christian burial.’

  As if to mock her words, a lone bell begins to chime its toll from the tower. That should at least mean that the coffin is covered and the mourners are headed back to the Glebe House for whatever manner of wake there might be.

  I feel a light touch on my shoulder, glance round to see Diane Shepherd’s nervous smile. ‘I’ll have Billy bring the car around to the courtyard to fetch you.’ She shifts her gaze towards my mother. ‘I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, Lady Fairchild. Your formal garden is magnificent, but we won’t take any more of your time.’

  My mother regards us all with equal disdain, but her shoulders square a little at the use of her title. Complimenting her on her garden was a smart move too, which is probably why Shepherd is a superintendent and I’m still a detective constable.

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ she says to me before turning to leave. Perhaps that’s how much time it will take them to get back through the graveyard, out to their car and drive around to the courtyard away from the prying eyes and lenses of the press. Maybe she thinks leaving me here to talk with my mother alone is a kindness. I haven’t the heart to tell her it’s at least ten minutes more than I’ll need.

  I can, just about, remember a time when I loved my mother. It’s harder to recall a time when she loved me. I have early childhood memories of warmth and smiles, being read stories, bathed in warm bubble-bath water, cosseted. That may have been any one of a dozen nannies, of course, but I’m sure that somewhere back in the long-lost mists of the last millennium my mother actually cared for me.

  When it all started to fall apart is much easier to pinpoint. With hindsight I can see that it was the same time my father was busy having an affair with his best friend’s wife, but for me it was when I came back from school for the summer holidays to find the laughter gone and the party frocks exchanged for black mourning.

  ‘Mother.’ I struggle to think what else to say, all those endless lessons in etiquette wasted. The gardener has wisely disappeared, wheeling his barrow to another distant part of the garden. I hear the clank of metal as the gate back through to the churchyard closes on Shepherd, Bain and Latham, and we are alone.

  ‘Constance.’ She speaks the word as if using it to reassure herself, and for the first time in my life it occurs to me this must be just as stressful for her as it is for me.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask. She looks at me as if trying to work out whether I’m taking the piss or not. It’s true I don’t really care, but there are formalities even at times like this. Looking at her is a bit like looking in a mirror that ages me thirty years. I have the Fairchild red hair, but otherwise I take after my mother far more than perhaps I would like. Not that I feel much affinity with my father either, for that matter.

  ‘As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.’ A bony hand instinctively reaches for the crucifix hanging on a thin cord around her neck, a motion I saw all too many times before I left home. Christ is her saviour and solace, and she long ago chose to give all her love to him. Nothing to spare for her children or her husband. Certainly not a handshake, not a polite air kiss to either cheek, or, heaven forbid, a hug.

  ‘You’ve cut your hair,’ she says after a moment’s awkward pause. ‘It suits you.’

  I should compliment her on something, but I can think of nothing to say. She’s thin to the point of emaciated, her face far more lined than her years. Her hair’s as white as a priest’s surplice, and just as short as my own.

  ‘Actually I was thinking I might shave it all off and wear a wig.’

  She stares at me with narrowed eyes for several seconds longer than would be polite, were our roles reversed. ‘Given your new-found notoriety, a wig might not be such a bad idea. I’d suggest a brunette, or possibly a mousy brown with a bit of grey in it. On the shoulders, not too long. No need to shave your head though. Not unless you want to. You should consider spectacles, too. I’m sure I’ve got an old pair somewhere that are just glass, no prescription.’

  I’m taken aback by her sudden helpfulness. This isn’t the mother I recall.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I’ll pick them up when I’m back for the wedding, maybe.’

  A momentary pause, the slightest of flinches perhaps. I only notice it because I’m used to watching people, used to watching my mother. She crosses her hands defensively over her stomach.

  ‘You received your invitation then.’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to Charlotte recently, too. She tells me you wanted some missionary pastor to officiate.’

  That twitch at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s name is telling. ‘The Reverend Doctor Masters is not some “missionary pastor” as you put it. He is a highly regarded religious scholar, working in the full Anglican tradition. Unlike some of the more lax vicars we seem to be getting these days.’

  I’m tempted to ask her how much money this reverend doctor has asked her for, but I keep my mouth shut. Our last meeting ended in a shouting match, me walking out of the house, the grounds and all family life. It’s not as if I particularly want to return, but I’m older now, perhaps a little wiser. There’s no point in looking for
an argument with the lady of the manor.

  ‘Well, I’d best be going. Wouldn’t want to keep the superintendent waiting.’

  That gets me a slightly raised eyebrow, but no more comment than that. My mother nods her head once, slowly, then steps aside to let me pass. It’s only as I’m going that she reaches out her hand and grabs my arm. Her grip is weak, but the contact shocks me more than I expect it to.

  ‘Look after yourself, Constance.’ I meet her gaze for a moment, and there’s something in the look she gives me that’s almost concern. And then the mask comes down again, dead eyes and thin mouth. She drops my arm, turns, and walks away.

  11

  I drove out to Harston Magna for the funeral, and left my car parked at my aunt’s cottage on the outskirts of the village. It had been my intention to get her to run me to Kettering station and catch a train back to London, given how little use a car is in the city and how difficult it is to park one. I’m bright enough to understand that Superintendent Shepherd’s offer of a lift isn’t one I can turn down. DS Billy Latham drives, and Bain sits in the front passenger seat, leaving me and the superintendent with the back all to ourselves.

  ‘Ed told me about how you found the young boy outside your block,’ she says as we hit the motorway. I still can’t quite get my head around Bain’s first name. He’s never struck me as an Ed. More a Reginald, or perhaps a Walter. Someone stuck in the 1950s like my father, although if I’m being fair, he’s not that old.

  ‘Daniel.’ The name pops into my head, and I remember the strange young woman tailing me.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ It’s an oddly old-fashioned expression, coming from the otherwise thoroughly modern-looking superintendent.

  ‘Sorry, I just remembered. That’s what I was told his name was. Daniel . . .’ I rack my brains for a moment, knowing it’s there somewhere. I had coffee, a latte that tasted OK to start with, but left an unpleasant chemical flavour in my mouth afterwards. ‘Daniel Jones, that’s it.’

  Shepherd raises a slim eyebrow. ‘Really. And you know this how?’

  I tell her about the girl, skip the part about the coffee. I can see Bain tilting his head back to listen in. That’s fine by me.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

  ‘I forgot all about it. It’s amazing how being hounded by the press can do that to a person.’

  ‘And this girl – Anna, did you say? She was at the hospital the day you went to visit the boy.’

  ‘Yeah. I’d have caught her, too, but I ran into an old friend.’ I nod forward in Bain’s direction, but he’s not paying attention any more. He’s got his phone out and is speaking to someone. Back at HQ, I’d guess, if his repeated mention of the name Daniel Jones is anything to go by. ‘I take it the boy’s not woken up yet.’

  ‘He’s got no tongue, remember. Couldn’t tell us his name if he wanted to.’ It’s the first thing DS Latham has said since we got into the car, and his scathing tone surprises me. If I didn’t know better I might think I’d insulted him in a previous life. I’ve never met him before today though.

  ‘I’d have thought he’d be able to write it down, you know? They teach you your letters in schools now, I’m told.’

  Bain’s phone ringing kills the argument before it can really get started. My heart’s not in it anyway. It’s obvious Latham doesn’t like me, but I don’t care enough to try and find out why.

  ‘Looks like a good ID, Diane. Missing Persons has a Daniel Jones meets the profile. Reported runaway from Edinburgh, disappeared six months ago. Photo’s not a bad match.’ The DCI twists in his seat, holding up his phone to show an image on the screen. It’s a younger boy than the one I saw laid out with the trash, cleaner and less bloodied too, but I’d give good odds on it being the same person.

  ‘OK, so we’ve got a name and we know where he came from. Who’ve we got at Gartcosh these days? I want all the information there is on him in the next twenty-four hours.’ Shepherd pulls out her own phone, the car suddenly transforming itself into a mobile incident room. I feel rather left out.

  ‘Do you think that’ll help?’ I ask, and immediately wish I’d kept my mouth shut. No choice, I’m committed now. ‘Look, he’s run away from Edinburgh, gone to London to seek his fame and fortune. That’s not worked out for him, but whoever cut out his tongue and castrated him, that’s local. Finding out why he ran from home won’t tell us who picked him up when he got here.’

  The silence that follows lasts far longer than I’d like. All eyes are on me, even DS Latham’s through the rear-view mirror. I wish he’d keep his on the road.

  ‘I see what you mean about her.’ Shepherd grins as she speaks to Bain. ‘Very little appreciation for procedure. She’s right though. We know when he ran away already. That gives us a timescale to work with. Six months. What’s he been doing all that time?’

  I want to say ‘I’m here, you know?’ but the last vestiges of my self-preservation reflex kick in to stop me. I don’t want to be abandoned at some motorway service station and told to find my own way home.

  ‘Would it help if I gave you a photofit of the girl? Maybe go through the hospital CCTV and see if I can spot her?’ I venture after they’ve been going back and forth with ideas for a few miles. Bain looks at Shepherd, and I can see the indecision in both of their expressions. They don’t want me involved in this investigation if they can help it. Nothing like feeling appreciated.

  ‘It can wait until tomorrow,’ Bain says eventually. ‘I’ll have PC Eve pick you up in the morning.’

  My favourite reporter is waiting outside the apartment block when DS Latham pulls in to the side of the road to let me out. Stokes doesn’t recognise the car, which I hope gives Superintendent Shepherd and the others enough time to escape the scene before he realises what’s happening.

  ‘Posh motor, Fairchild. Mates of yours?’ He nods towards the end of the road where the shiny black Mercedes is turning.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you or any of your ghoulish friends.’ I go to walk past him, but he follows anyway.

  ‘Been to a funeral, I see. Anyone I know?’

  Too late I remember that I’m still dressed all in black, Aunt Felicity’s long overcoat almost but not quite hiding my leather ankle boots. My wide-brimmed hat is in one hand, all-too-ladylike handbag in the other. I ignore the reporter in the vain hope that he’ll go away and find someone else to bother. It doesn’t work.

  ‘They buried old Roger DeVilliers today, or so I’m told. Not much tabloid interest in that story any more. “Old Man Dies” doesn’t really excite the editors these days, even if the old man was a paedo who raped his own daughter.’

  He’s prodding me for a reaction, I can tell. I wonder where his photographer friend is, even as I realise I don’t actually care. If he wants a fight, I’ll happily provide him with one.

  ‘If you were half the journalist you claim to be, you’d be out there trying to find out who else DeVilliers knew. He shared her with his friends, the sick bastard. I bet there’s a few captains of industry and prominent politicians breathing a sigh of relief now he’s dead. But are you interested in them? Course not. You just get off on making life miserable for innocent people.’

  ‘If you know any names . . .’ Stokes reaches out and grabs my arm. If my hands weren’t already full I’d probably break his fingers. Certainly have him on the ground in an armlock. Instead I shake him off with a shrug and a killing stare.

  ‘Of course I don’t know any fucking names. If I did, they’d be locked up right now, and very wary of their fellow inmates.’

  ‘Touchy. Heard that about you.’ Stokes takes a step back, much to my relief.

  ‘What is it you actually want? Only I’ve had a long day and I’d quite like to get home now.’

  ‘Want?’ For a moment he looks genuinely puzzled. ‘Oh, right. Yeah. I was dropping by to ask why you didn’t go to th
e funeral, but it seems you did. Some of your mates from the NCA too, if I saw right. That was DCI Bain in the front of that car, wasn’t it? You back at work then?’

  ‘As if I’d tell you something like that.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you liked keeping secrets too. Posh girl like you slumming it in the Met just to get back at Daddy. How do your mates down the nick feel about working alongside an aristocrat, eh?’

  ‘I . . .’ No more words come out than that. I can’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Fascinating family, yours. Brother getting married to the daughter of the man you put behind bars. Mum throwing away her inheritance on whatever religious nut job grabs her attention. And your dad, well . . .’ Stokes pauses as much to catch his breath as for any kind of dramatic effect. ‘An affair with his best mate’s wife? An illegitimate daughter? Wonder how many other wild oats the old goat sowed down the years, eh? Reckon that’d be a story worth looking into.’

  He takes two paces back and gives me a mock bow. ‘Be seeing you, Fairchild. Or should I say Lady Constance?’ Then he turns and walks away into the evening gloom. I watch him go, my brain slowly catching up with what he’s just said. With DeVilliers dead, I’d naively thought they’d leave me alone now.

  Christ, but I can be stupid at times.

  12

  PC Karen-with-a-K Eve picks me up at half seven in the morning. It’s an early start, but I’ve been up for well over an hour before she arrives, after spending a largely sleepless night fretting about what Stokes said to me. I phoned Aunt Felicity, as much to tell her I was home safe as anything, but I can’t fool myself I wasn’t trying to find out if she’d spoken to any reporters. Of course she hadn’t, but neither had she spoken to my father, her brother, in a while. Christ only knows what he’d do if someone like Jonathan Stokes turned up at the manor. Invite him in for a cup of tea and a chat, probably.