Nothing to Hide

by James Oswald

  He’s at the front of the church, slightly shabby even in his best penguin suit and fidgeting nervously as he waits for her to turn up. For an awful moment I can’t remember the name of his best man, a tall, strikingly good-looking chap who holds himself with military bearing. His suntanned face suggests an overseas posting recently, probably Afghanistan or somewhere in the Middle East, and he scans the congregation with sharp eyes. That’s why he catches my gaze, sees that I’m staring from my pew near the back. Aunt Felicity wanted me to sit at the front with the rest of the family, but my disguise wouldn’t be much good then. I didn’t come with her to the church, walking through the damp woods instead. Just as well too, given the media scrum camped out in Church Lane. None of them gave me a second glance as I walked past, a couple of steps behind a Premiere League footballer and his impossibly plastic wife.

  But now the best man’s staring at me, the puzzled frown of half-recognition on his face probably a close mirror of my own, and I can’t remember his name. I look away, aware that I’ve been clocked and before I can be pointed out to Ben. It was Charlotte’s idea not to tell him I was here, but to wait until the reception before springing the surprise on him. She’ll be livid if he finds out before she’s ready, and I don’t want to test my new disguise quite so rigorously. At least not yet.

  Alex. Alex Fortescue. The name pops into my head at the same moment the bridal march pipes up on the organ. How many years has it been since I snogged him at one of Ben’s birthday parties? Ten? Twelve? Wandering hands, if I remember rightly. Had to give him a slap before he got too familiar.

  I’d not thought about it until now, but with her father dead, there’s no one to lead Charlotte up the aisle. It’s not even her first wedding, so technically he gave her away once already. As it is, she walks alone, Izzy looking uncomfortable in a bridesmaid’s outfit behind her. There’s a slightly strained atmosphere in the church and I realise it’s not all that long since Roger DeVilliers lay in his coffin almost exactly where the vicar is now standing. I push the thought aside, and look around the congregation, as I always do when in church. I’m not exactly going to pray, after all.

  There’s a bit of a commotion at the door just before the organist finishes with a flourish, and I see two unwelcome faces slip in past the ushers. Jonathan Stokes and his parasitic twin Chet Wentworth are almost certainly not on the guest list, but they slink through the shadows at the back of the church and take up position near the baptismal font. If I wasn’t trying to avoid all attention, I’d probably see them out. As it is, I keep a wary eye on them as much to make sure they’ve not recognised me as to check they’re not making a nuisance of themselves. Photographs of the back of Charlotte’s dress aren’t going to make the front pages, although they’ll probably be on some of the gossip websites before the champagne’s been uncorked.

  The wedding service is much like all the others I’ve been to, longer than I’d like but still over mercifully swiftly. At least we’re none of us Catholics. Freshly-kissed bride and groom troop out, friends and family falling in behind them like good soldiers in expectation of a feast. It’s only when it comes to my turn to exit the church that I realise the paparazzi are all still outside and manically snapping at everyone. I’d do what I did the last time, duck through the chantry and out the back way to the hall, but Stokes and Wentworth are inside, watching everyone like hawks. The one time I needed the ushers to do their jobs properly, they’ve all buggered off to throw confetti.

  You’ve got this, Con. You’re well disguised, and they’re not expecting you to be at the back with the stragglers. Run the gauntlet and get it over with. I slide to the end of the pew, then slot myself into the slow-moving train of people, alongside a young man who I think I might have seen on daytime telly when I was stuck in my flat a couple of months back. He gives me a nervous grin, mutters something about the crowd that I don’t quite catch, and then we both step from the darkness of the church out into the bright morning light.

  I remember one of my early duties as a uniform constable was to patrol the area around some of London’s more swanky nightclubs. The sort of places pop stars and junior royals hang out until three in the morning. That’s probably where I first met the likes of Stokes and Wentworth, only then they had no idea who they were talking to when they chatted with us police officers while waiting for the celebs to show up.

  The wall of photographers is something like those far-off nights. There’s a certain pride to be had in the knowledge that my sister-in-law can draw such attention, but it’s tainted by the realisation of exactly why. Charlotte alone might be worth a few column inches in the gossip pages of the weekend editions, but Charlotte after her father’s fall from grace is far more newsworthy.

  I’m far more newsworthy too, and I find myself tensing as I step into the blinding flashlights, holding my breath in anticipation of the first shout of ‘Constance! Connie! Over here, love!’

  It doesn’t come, and as I follow the slightly disappointed tail-enders in the congregation over towards the hall and waiting marquee, I let out a sigh of genuine relief. My daytime-television friend might be upset at not being recognised, but I’m really quite glad.

  ‘Excuse me. Miss?’

  The voice comes from the church door, and I unthinkingly turn to face the man speaking. My heart leaps into my throat as I see Jonathan Stokes walking down the steps towards me. I hadn’t realised just how tense this whole situation had made me, but ten years of training almost go out of the window. Then I see what he’s carrying.

  ‘You left this behind.’ He holds out my handbag. Or more correctly, Aunt Felicity’s handbag. It might well have been fashionable in the seventies, but unlike much from that decade it hasn’t made a comeback yet.

  ‘Umm . . . Thanks?’ I can’t make up my mind whether to try an accent, so probably sound like a mad woman. There’s no indication in his manner that he’s recognised me though.

  ‘You a friend of the bride, or maybe an old flame of the groom?’

  ‘You what?’ I slur the last word slightly, taking the bag at the same time.

  ‘Chums with Charlotte, perhaps? You were on her side of the church.’

  ‘Yeah. We was at school, y’know.’ Now I’m laying it on too much. Stokes twitches slightly, his attention more focused.

  ‘Saint Humbert’s?’

  ‘Naw. Fairchild Primary, like.’ I wave hand and bag in the direction of the village school. Even as I do so, I realise my mistake.

  ‘Local girl, eh? You’ll know Connie Fairchild, then.’

  I peer through my mother’s fake spectacles at him, trying to work out if he knows and is taking the piss. This could just be a play for information, of course. If he doesn’t know who I am, then the fact that I’m at the wedding service means I’m close enough to the family to have juicy gossip.

  ‘I have to get going. Don’t want to miss the confetti.’ I turn away, but quick as a flash he grabs my arm. It’s fortunate I’m wearing long-sleeved gloves, as his grip rides the sleeve of my jacket up my arm a little, and without them my tattoos would be on show. Not quite in character with the demure woman I’m pretending to be. My every instinct is to thumb-lock him and throw him to the ground, but I fight back the urge. Something in my glare gets through to him though, and he releases me swiftly.

  ‘Sorry. I just wanted to give you this.’ His other hand produces a business card. ‘I’m always on the lookout for stories, and you never know, it could be worth your while.’

  I hesitate for a moment, then take the card from him. He brushes the back of my hand with one finger, and again I am grateful for the gloves. Actual skin-to-skin contact with such an unpleasant individual might make me throw up. It’s enough to know he truly doesn’t recognise me under this wig, though. As I hurry away, glancing at the scant details on the card, I realise that having his mobile number and email address might come in handy sometime too.

 
33

  I can’t kid myself the wedding reception will be fun. No doubt hoping to make more money from an exclusive with one of the gossip magazines, Charlotte has organised security that’s surprisingly effective at keeping the unwanted paparazzi away. There’s a slightly awkward moment when they don’t want to let me in either, but once that’s out of the way things settle down.

  Ben’s face is a picture when I reach him in the line. I wince as he shouts over the noise to his best man, ‘Hey, Alex. Look who’s here,’ and waves him over. Fortescue’s a couple of inches taller than me, even in my chunky-heeled boots, and his time in the army has straightened his back from the slouching teenager I remember. He stares at me in confusion for quite a while before my brother leans in close and half whispers, half shouts, ‘It’s Con, you idiot. She’s hiding from the press.’ At almost the exact same moment a flash goes off and I glance up to see a chubby-faced photographer giving us all the thumbs up.

  ‘Fuck’s sake. You let Chet Wentworth in here?’

  ‘Who?’ Ben asks.

  ‘The photographer there. Chet bloody Wentworth. He’s one of the worst paps I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.’

  ‘There a problem?’ Charlotte leans in to the conversation, her dress not allowing her to come any closer than a shout away.

  ‘Him.’ I hook a thumb over my shoulder at the photographer, determined to keep my back to him as much as possible. ‘How the hell did he get in?’

  Charlotte’s thoughts play across her perfectly made-up face as she follows the direction I’m pointing in, then focuses back on me. ‘It’s OK. I get to choose the photos they’ll run. Or at least veto the worst of them.’

  ‘But Wentworth?’ I’m aware the queue of people waiting to greet the new couple is growing. Time to move on. ‘Never mind. Just try to keep me out of it, OK?’

  I feel wretched for adding another worry to Charlotte’s already heavy load. This is her big day, after all. Well, her second big day. But the last thing I need is to be recognised, and having multiple photographs of me in my new disguise out there isn’t exactly the best way of staying incognito.

  ‘Sorry.’ I step in as close as I can get, and give her a hug. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll just stay out of his way. Be warned though. He’s a total shit. Sell his own mother for a celebrity upskirt. Might want to warn some of your more photogenic friends too.’

  Alex catches up with me as I walk away from the line before having to confront my parents. His steering hand to my elbow is less unpleasant than Jonathan Stokes’s grab outside, but it’s an imposition nonetheless. He’s quick on the uptake though, letting go of me the moment he sees my scowl.

  ‘You want me to arrange an accident for him?’ He nods towards Wentworth, still hanging by the bridal party and snapping everyone as they present themselves. I’m tempted by his offer, consider suggesting instead that Wentworth’s camera might be accidentally damaged, but the images will be on a tiny memory card, and they’re virtually indestructible. Besides, if he doesn’t get any photos, then Charlotte probably won’t get paid by whatever magazine’s bought the exclusive rights to the bun fight.

  ‘Maybe some other time, Alex. But thanks.’

  A waitress passes by with champagne flutes on a tray. Alex grabs two, but I turn him down when he offers me one. ‘Need to keep a clear head, more’s the pity.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Con. Used to be the life and soul of the party. And you could drink any of Ben’s friends under the table. Me included.’

  ‘We were young and stupid.’ I almost say naive. ‘You’ve changed too. Army life suits you.’

  ‘How’d you . . . ?’ He pauses a moment, staring at me with a puzzled expression. Then he laughs. ‘I forgot. You’re a detective now.’

  ‘That, and I’m sure Ben mentioned it once, a few years back. Light Infantry, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was.’ There’s a bit of a pause after his answer, then he takes a long swig of champagne. If I was looking for a challenge, I might try to get him to elucidate. The phrase ‘special forces’ springs to mind, but despite his company being surprisingly pleasant, I’ve other things to think about. I don’t even know if he’s married, although I can’t see a lost plus one hanging about. Or a ring on his finger, for that matter.

  I look around the marquee, seeing a few faces I know. All my family, and Charlotte’s, are still in the line welcoming guests. Soon we’ll be ordered to our tables though, and then there’ll be eating and drinking too much. I’m trying to work out what table I’ve been relegated to when I spot someone I recognise over by the bar. Someone I recognise, but can’t quite believe is here, even if my mother invited him.

  ‘Well, that’s just fucking marvellous.’

  I thought I said it under my breath, and there’s enough noise in this place to drown out an explosion, but somehow Alex hears me.

  ‘Something wrong? Only I can’t help noticing you swear a lot.’

  I drag my eyes away from the object of my consternation, look up at him to see the smile on his face. ‘Does it bother you?’

  ‘Nothing I don’t hear from a hundred squaddies every day. Usually there’s a reason though.’

  ‘There is.’ I point across the marquee to where even now the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters is accepting a glass of something that doesn’t look like champagne from a nervous waiter. ‘Him.’

  I don’t know if I’m more relieved or annoyed that the seating arrangements don’t put me on the same table as Masters. Had I not decided to duck out of the wedding altogether, I’d be up at the top with the family and bridal party. As it is, Aunt Flick’s decided to call me Jennifer Golightly, and I’m tucked away at the back of the marquee. The reverend doctor is closer to the front, although he, like me, appears to have come alone. I’m surprised not to see his security detail, but then I remember the trouble I had getting in. Not just the uninvited paparazzi being kept at bay, it would seem.

  Jennifer has only the vaguest of cover stories, so I pretend to be too shy to speak to the other people at the table. I don’t know any of them, although I’m fairly sure I’ve seen at least one in a late-night movie with most of her clothes off. There must be more than two hundred guests in total, and so far I’ve only seen a couple of dozen I know, half of whom are family in one way or another. Charlotte truly moves in very different circles to a lowly detective constable in the Met.

  At least the food is good, and once the waitress assigned to my table works out that I’m not drinking alcohol, she brings me the most divine virgin cocktails. I do my best to make small talk with my new C-list celebrity friends, but once they work out they’ve as much in common with me as I have with them, they soon give up. Listening in to their unguarded conversations about which director is fucking which actress is at least vaguely entertaining, if only for the novelty value.

  And all the while I’m doing my best to keep an eye on Masters. He has his back to me, but his imposing bulk, straining out of his dark suit, is easy enough to spot over the fad-diet waifs between us. As if sensing my gaze on him, at one point he swivels around in his seat and scans the crowd. If he sees me, he makes no sign. That stare is reserved for everyone equally, and I can’t help feeling that he’s judging us all, even as he tucks into the foie gras.

  Only the soft-porn actress is left at the table by the time the speeches are done and the coffee served. For a moment I think she’s drunk, but then she turns to me with a fluid, dancer’s motion. Leaning across the table, forearms pressed to the thick cotton cloth, she exposes far more of her cleavage than I really want to see, but her smile’s genuine enough, along with her conspiratorial wink.

  ‘So, why the disguise then, Jennifer? Who are you really?’

  I toy with the idea of pretending I know nothing of what she’s talking about, but there’s not really any point. She’s a professional. Wigs are something she deals with every day, along with pretend
ing to be someone else. Maybe I should ask her for pointers.

  ‘Con.’ I hold out my hand for her to shake. ‘Con Fairchild.’

  Her eyes widen with surprise in an expression that could be seen from the gods. She sits back upright, mouth open as if to shout something. Then she closes it again, clutches the hand I’ve just shaken to her chest, and starts to chuckle. Her voice is surprisingly pleasant to listen to.

  ‘Well, so you are. Fancy that.’ She turns around the nameplate in front of her so I can read it. ‘Sue Warner. And before you ask if I “know” your brother,’ she makes little rabbit ears with her fingers, ‘I worked with Char at the agency. We’ve been pals for years.’

  I don’t ask what agency; it’s not important. I’m more worried about how easily she penetrated my disguise. ‘What gave it away?’ I wave a hand in my general direction.

  ‘Honestly, honey? A few things. You play with that hair way too much for someone who’s used to the weight of it. And you don’t wear glasses normally, do you?’ She smiles, leans forward again and points a finger at my hands. ‘But it’s the tatts that are a dead giveaway. Mousy girls like you don’t have tattoos at all, let alone colourful ones on their wrists.’

  I can’t help myself from pulling down the sleeves on my jacket, which only makes Sue’s smile grow wider.

  ‘Trick is to stop being self-conscious about it. Only, if you think too hard about that, it’ll just make you self-conscious.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind. This is just to keep the paparazzi off my back though. Seems to be working so far.’

  Sue takes a sip of coffee, glances around the room as if looking for the man she came here with. Chances are he’s outside having a smoke, or a vape.

  ‘So who’s the big guy up near the front?’ she says after a moment, nodding her head in the direction of Masters. ‘Couldn’t help noticing you staring at him for most of the meal.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ I suppose I shouldn’t be all that surprised. ‘That’s Edward Masters. Founder of the Church of the Coming Light.’