Nothing to Hide

by James Oswald

  Sue’s raised eyebrow confirms that no, she didn’t know. ‘He some kind of telly evangelist or something? What the hell’s he doing here?’

  ‘My mother has something of a history. I’m not sure if “collects” is the right word. Maybe “adopts”? She has a thing about Christian missionaries. Her cult radar is usually better than this though. Masters is only interested in how much money he can squeeze out of her. I’d bet my career on it.’

  34

  I’m contemplating how early I can leave the party without causing offence when Charlotte appears from the crowd and slumps down into an empty seat at my table. She picks up one of the wine glasses left behind by the men, reaches for the bottle sitting in the middle of the table, and pours herself what’s left. Only once she’s taken a long drink does she address us both.

  ‘Hey, Sue. You’ve met Jenny, right?’

  My new friend smiles sardonically. ‘Jenny, yeah.’

  ‘It’s OK, Char. She knows.’ I almost sweep off the wig in a melodramatic manner. Damn thing itches after a while, and my head feels too warm under it. I realise at the last moment how stupid that would be, and settle for simply taking off the spectacles.

  ‘You’re not very good at keeping secrets, are you, Connie? For a detective.’

  I don’t bother answering that, pointing instead to the table where my mother is now sitting, deep in conversation with Masters. ‘What on earth is he doing here? I thought Ben said no.’

  Charlotte peers somewhat myopically in the direction I’m indicating, a frown furrowing her otherwise perfect brow. ‘Who do you mean, Connie? There’s loads of people here.’

  ‘Over there, talking to my mother. The Reverend Doctor Edward Masters.’

  ‘Oh God, him. The pastor.’ Charlotte takes another swig of wine. ‘Yah. Ben really put his foot down about that. I was so very proud of him.’

  I’d forgotten how difficult it was to get a straight answer out of Charlotte if the question is any more complicated than ‘Would you like another?’

  ‘But he’s here.’

  ‘Lady A was adamant,’ Charlotte says after she’s been through the rest of the bottles, disappointment growing with each empty one. I’m surprised a waiter hasn’t turned up with more, but they’re all a bit busy clearing the dining tables from the dance floor right now. ‘They almost had a row about it. Me and Earnest hid in the small drawing room, but we could hear them well enough. Think that’s why Ben went off to Tokyo, really. He’s such a wimp sometimes.’

  ‘Probably not my place to ask, but why does it matter?’

  I’d almost forgotten Sue, the actress. I guess that’s part of her skill set, fading into the background and observing people.

  ‘My mother wanted Masters to officiate at the wedding, apparently. If she’d insisted on the Bishop of Peterborough, I’d have understood that, but the leader of a pseudo-Christian cult?’ I gesture across the room towards the table, only this time Masters is staring at our little group. I look away swiftly, scrabbling for my false spectacles.

  ‘Well, you can ask him yourself. He’s coming over here.’ Sue pushes back her chair to stand up, grabbing her bag. ‘Think I’ll go and see what’s happened to the boys. Nice meeting you, Jennifer.’

  I watch her weave her way through the tables, off towards the exit. Charlotte at least has the decency to stay with me, working through all the empty bottles again in the vain hope one of them might have miraculously refilled. It’s only a few moments before a shadow looms across us both, and I feel a hulking presence behind me.

  ‘Mrs Fairchild. May I say you’re looking radiant today. That dress is magnificent.’

  For a moment I’m confused by the use of my surname, but then it dawns on me he is addressing Charlotte. I’ve not dared to look at Masters yet, but to avoid his gaze would be more suspicious than meeting it. Sue, damn her for running like that, is right about one thing. The trick to maintaining my disguise is to stop being self-conscious about it. I’m Jennifer Golightly, slightly mousy friend of Charlotte’s from . . . where? Primary school? Christ, Con. You’re an experienced undercover cop. Least you could do was work up a decent false identity.

  ‘Mr Masters. Or is it Reverend? I’m sorry, I never can remember what to call people.’ Charlotte doesn’t stand, so I don’t either. Masters leans over the table and offers her his hand. He’s a large man, broad-shouldered and tall. His head’s too big, and the whole effect is made worse by the way his suit strains to contain him. I’d imagine most people would find him intensely intimidating.

  ‘It is your wedding day. You can call me what you please.’ He turns his bulk in my direction. ‘But will you not introduce me to your friend?’

  Charlotte stares at me like a rabbit caught by the hunter’s light. I can almost see the hastily concocted name disappearing from her head. She’s more pressing things to worry about, so I can’t blame her.

  ‘Jennifer.’ I stand up and offer my hand, keeping my elbow loose so that my sleeve doesn’t ride up my forearm. ‘Jennifer Golightly. Charlotte and I were at school together.’

  ‘Really?’ He takes my hand, and I’m expecting it to be almost crushed by those massive fingers, but his touch is surprisingly delicate. The contact is swiftly broken, too.

  ‘Are you a priest?’ I decide to go for innocence to match my maidenly attire.

  ‘A priest?’ he echoes.

  ‘Only Char called you reverend. That’s a priest’s title, is it not? Church of England?’

  ‘I am a reverend and a doctor, but my ministry is the Church of the Coming Light. We follow the Anglican tradition though.’

  ‘Never heard of it, sorry.’

  ‘We are more focused on people at the . . .’ Masters pauses a moment, as if searching for the right word. He looks around the marquee filled with people whose average net worth is probably nearer nine digits than eight, ‘. . . lower end of society.’

  ‘Bringing the word of God to the streets, isn’t it?’ Charlotte barely tries to keep the scorn from her voice. ‘I’m really not sure what Lady A sees in you, to be honest. But she’s my Ben’s mother, and she wanted you here.’

  If I wasn’t used to reading people’s expressions, I might have missed the way Masters clenches his jaw, those massive hands forming into fists that are as swiftly again relaxed. He flashes a smile that is all white teeth in his dark face, begins to speak at the exact same moment as the band starts warming up. Another flash of anger across his face, and he seems to swell in his suit, threatening to burst out of it. I have to fight the urge to recoil, then realise that is exactly what poor mousy little Jennifer would do. Before I can move much, he’s regained his composure. He nods his head first at me, then a little less convincingly at Charlotte, turns and strides away.

  ‘See what I mean? Dreadful man. Can’t think what your mother’s doing having him around.’

  I can’t either, but it seems unlikely I’ll have an opportunity to ask her any time soon. The band finish their tuning up, and the call goes out for the bride and groom.

  ‘Oh my God. That’s me.’ Charlotte struggles to her feet, grabbing lengths of her wedding dress so she can weave back through the tables to find her husband.

  ‘Here, let me.’ I take up enough fabric to make a shelter for a family, help guide her back to the top table and the now-empty dance floor. It’s only once I get there that I realise I’ve relinquished my spot in the shadows at the back of the marquee and now I’m almost the centre of attention, and just a few paces away, staring at the both of us with a quizzical expression I don’t like the look of, is Chet Wentworth, the paparazzi’s paparazzo. I turn away and drop Charlotte’s train as he brings up his camera. Flashes pop all over the place as Ben appears and escorts his wife on to the dance floor.

  The band starts up, and the two of them waltz slowly round and round, cheers and jeers from the rest of the party making it hard
to think straight. I look around for the exit, but there’s another cameraman taking posed shots of everyone before they can go outside. Just far enough away to be safe, the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters sits with my mother, their heads bowed together in what is probably conversation but looks like silent prayer. I could sneak out via the catering tent, I suppose. It’s not far to walk back to the Glebe House, and I feel I’ve done enough for the family already today.

  Then I feel a presence at my side, look around and up at the best man. He’s timed it perfectly, the utter bastard. Just as Ben and Charlotte slide back towards us, beckoning with outstretched arms.

  ‘Miss Golightly.’ Alex bows with military precision, winking as his head bobs downwards. ‘Would you do me the honour?’

  35

  My initial terror at being unmasked dissipates once I’ve worked out how to dance without holding my arms up too high, or shaking my head around too much. The waltz is OK, but when the band starts to strike up something a bit wilder, I make my excuses and head for the nearest table. Alex follows, and when we’re far enough from the music to hear ourselves think, he asks if I need a drink.

  ‘Water’s fine. Sparkly if they’ve got it.’

  He pauses for just long enough to make me think he’s going to query my sobriety, then with a flick of the head he turns and weaves through the bodies to the bar.

  ‘Alex likes you,’ Izzy says as I sit beside her. She looks miserable in her bridesmaid’s outfit, and I can see why. There are folk the age of my parents here, and lots of people from Charlotte’s and my generation. What’s missing are any teenagers. Izzy isn’t the kind of person to be wowed by celebrity any more than I am, so this must be especially dull for her. I wonder what Charlotte promised to get her to play along.

  ‘Alex’s always fancied me. Ever since he first came home from school for half-term with Ben. They must have been, what, twelve?’ Which would have been around about the time Izzy was born, now I think about it.

  ‘You fancy him?’

  The directness of her question surprises me. Then I remember how much older than her years she is. All that she’s been through.

  ‘Fancy’s a bit strong. Difficult not to see the embarrassing teenager in the grown man.’

  ‘He’s nice. Doesn’t talk down to me like the rest of Ben’s friends. I get the feeling they’re all a bit scared of him, too. Him being in the SAS or whatever.’

  Any further discussion of the best man is curtailed by his arrival at the table, bearing two glasses that look identical. Either he’s on gin and tonic or he’s decided to keep a clear head too.

  ‘Get you anything, Izzy?’ he asks as soon as he realises I’m not alone.

  ‘Nah, I’m good thanks. Just killing time till I can go home. Well, back to the Glebe House, anyway.’

  I can hear the mix of anger and frustration in her voice. Understandable given what went on under that roof. She’ll hopefully find some peace once it’s sold. ‘What are you up to these days anyway?’

  ‘International Bac. Thought I might go and study in Europe for a while. If that’s not completely fucked up.’ Izzy plays with her empty glass, twisting the stem back and forth and staring at the patterns formed in the bowl rather than at me. ‘If that falls through I might apply to Edinburgh. Scotland’s nice.’

  For some reason I think about the dead boy, thrown out like so much trash, his heart missing. It reminds me that there’s another world out there beyond the partying, the free booze and people wearing outfits that cost more than the average annual wage. It’s a world I’ll be returning to on Monday, and I’m not at all sad to be seeing the back of this one.

  ‘You know what time the bride and groom are off?’ I ask Alex. He’s been sitting silently, staring out at the dancers. Or possibly lost in his own thoughts if the time it takes him to respond to my question is anything to go by.

  ‘Eh? Oh.’ He looks at his watch briefly. ‘Any time now, I think. I’d better go see if they need anything.’ He hauls himself up with surprisingly lithe grace, bows minutely to me and Izzy, then disappears off into the crowd. A moment later, Charlotte appears, changed out of her wedding dress and into something suitable for the short trip to whatever hotel they’re spending the night in before heading off to wherever it is they’re going. I’ve not asked, and neither have I been told.

  ‘What a fabulous party.’ She grabs the still-full glass that Alex left behind and necks it, before making a sour face. ‘Water?’

  ‘You’ll need to have words with the best man about that. He went off to find you.’

  ‘Yah. Ben’s with him just now. We’re heading off in a minute and I wanted to ask a huge favour, Connie.’

  It’s too much to hope that she’ll stop calling me that. And it’s her big day after all. Her late father’s ill-gotten money has paid for it all, too, so I guess I owe her. ‘Sure. What do you need?’

  ‘It’s the house. In Earlham Road. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind staying there while we’re on our honeymoon. Insurance is a ’mare about it being empty more than a couple of weeks.’

  That they’re going to be away longer than a fortnight shouldn’t surprise me as much as it does, but as requests go, this ranks high on the acceptability scale. ‘Happy to. Might actually keep the press off my back, too. Have you got a key, alarm code, that sort of thing?’

  Charlotte beams, leaning forward in her chair and giving me a hug. ‘Knew you’d help, Connie. Thanks.’ She opens her clutch bag and produces a couple of keys on a pink troll key ring, handing them over. ‘And Izzy can show you how to set the alarm. It’s not difficult. Not if I can use it.’

  I look from Charlotte to Izzy, who’s not paying attention but sits slumped in her chair fiddling with the frills on her dress.

  ‘Izzy?’ I ask, all too aware that Charlotte said ‘show’, not ‘tell’.

  ‘That was the other favour.’ She simpers like a B-movie actress trying to win the hero’s undying affection. ‘You couldn’t, like, keep an eye on her, could you?’

  This time Izzy looks directly at me and rolls her eyes. She’s sixteen years old going on thirty, more than capable of looking after herself.

  ‘Sure,’ I say again, and wonder what I’m letting myself in for.

  Charlotte and Ben’s departure, complete with rattling tin cans tied to the back of the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce, barely dampens the spirits of the celebrity partygoers. I stay outside, enjoying the cold air and the sight of actual stars overhead, and listen as the band strikes up again. They’re very good, which is only to be expected for Charlotte’s wedding, but I’m not in the mood for dancing. Neither, it would seem, are my parents or the Reverend Doctor Edward Masters, all of whom disappeared long before the bride and groom. Only Margo DeVilliers is still here, and it’s not long before she and Izzy climb into a taxi for the very short journey home.

  I’m contemplating following them, but walking through the woods instead of asking for a lift, when I hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel. It doesn’t surprise me to see Alex Fortescue approaching, his gait that of a man both used to marching and entirely sober.

  ‘Good evening?’ It’s a question rather than a greeting.

  ‘Better than I was expecting, to be honest. It’s been a while since I was able to let my hair down.’

  Alex stares at me as if I’ve said something really funny, then bursts out laughing to prove it. ‘That photographer’s gone. Left about half an hour ago. You don’t need to wear that wig if you don’t want to.’

  I put my hand to my fake hair, feel the centre parting and the thin mesh beneath it. Tempted though I am, and wonderful though this cool night air would feel on my sweaty scalp, I can’t take the chance there aren’t any other Chet Wentworths around.

  ‘I’ll keep it on for now. Just in case. Not going to be hanging around much longer anyway.’

  Alex puts his hand in
his pocket and pulls out a phone. ‘Want me to call a taxi?’

  ‘From here to the Glebe House? No. Thanks. By the time one got here I could have walked there and back. It’s not raining, and I came equipped.’ I lift up one of my feet, pointing at the square-heeled leather knee boot.

  ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘Are you kidding? High heels and marquees do not go well together. I’m surprised no one’s broken an ankle yet.’

  Alex laughs, then turns it into an embarrassed cough. ‘Christ, can you imagine the litigation?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’ I glance over at his phone, still in his hand, screen lit up with the time. ‘Think I’ll head off anyway. Back to London tomorrow, then work on Monday.’

  ‘Through the woods at night? You sure that’s safe?’

  ‘This is Harston Magna, not Brixton. Worst you might run into is someone from Kettering out dogging, but it’s getting a bit late for that now. Still, you can walk with me if you don’t think I can look after myself. It’s not far.’

  He pauses for just long enough to be gentlemanly, which isn’t something they teach in public schools these days. ‘OK. Show me the way.’

  36

  Monday morning has a strange feeling of going back to school. It doesn’t help that I’ve woken in a strange bed yet again, although at least Charlotte’s place on Earlham Road isn’t surrounded by paparazzi. They might turn up when the happy couple get back from their honeymoon, of course, but with any luck they’ll have lost interest in me by then.

  Izzy’s still asleep when I leave, and I’m not about to wake her. I’m not her mother, after all. I can’t be bothered with the wig, opting instead for a frumpy coat and a woolly hat to guard against the cold and minimise the stares on the bus. The duty sergeant doesn’t recognise me at first either, which is probably a good sign.

  ‘Didn’t know you were coming in today,’ Karen Eve says once she’s been called down to reception and signed me in. I’m starting to wonder whether Bain was taking the piss.