Something Hidden: A totally unputdownable murder mystery novel (Andrew Hunter Book 2) Read online

  For a moment, he thought his aunt was going to argue but she rested her head on his shoulder and hugged his arm tightly.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Twenty

  Friday

  Andrew held the mobile six inches from his ear, wincing as he wondered if he’d perforated an eardrum. ‘Gem, you don’t have to shout – a mobile’s like any other phone.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said a mobile phone’s like… forget it. I wanted to make sure you and Rory were okay.’

  ‘We’re fine, dear, you go off and enjoy yourself.’

  He almost started to tell her that he was working but that would only mean another five minutes on the phone. He’d already spent enough time explaining that it didn’t cost him much to call the phone in his flat. She was convinced people needed to remortgage to use a mobile.

  Andrew pocketed the device and stared across the road to the towering iron gates beyond. They were at least three metres high, welded to a thick wall that stretched far into the distance in both directions. Cameras were dotted along it at regular intervals, each pointing towards the pavement.

  The person inside definitely didn’t want anyone going over the top.

  Andrew double-checked that he had the correct address – it would be pretty embarrassing if he didn’t – then locked his car and crossed the road. Through the gates, he could see a paved driveway winding towards a house that was like a scaled-down stately home. There were three floors, each with seven windows – and that was just the front. Leafy evergreens lined the edge of the drive, swaying gently in the chill breeze. Manchester was cold – but it was a degree or two cooler where he was now, north of Liverpool. There were no cars propped up on bricks around here, no needles left in stairwells. Instead, each property was separated by high walls and huge bushes. This was an area for privacy.

  There was a mechanical fizz and Andrew looked up to see both of the CCTV cameras above the gates swivelling to bore down at him. He pressed the button attached to the wall.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Andrew felt watched. He peered up to each of the cameras and then took a step backwards so the monitor screen built into the wall could see him too.

  He waited. And waited.

  Andrew had barely slept on the sofa, constantly twisting in an effort to get comfortable. When Rory started snoring at half three in the morning, his nasal growls rumbling through the flat like an earthquake, Andrew gave up and made himself breakfast.

  He couldn’t work out if Jenny was a bad influence on him, or if he was on her. It stuck in his mind that they probably weren’t good for each other.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Andrew continued to wait, checking his watch, pacing up and down along the length of the gates as the cameras followed him. Sooner or later, someone would pay attention.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  He needed Jenny here to start climbing, or do something equally stupid.

  Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Andrew was about to press the button again, when a gravelly man’s voice rattled through the speaker. ‘Will ye piss off wi’ that.’

  ‘Can I talk to Mr Braithwaite?’

  There was a short pause, then: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘My name’s Andrew Hunter and I’m a private investigator and—’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘I’d like to do that but I really need to talk to him.’

  Static filled the speaker for a few moments before the man’s voice sounded again. He was either Scottish or Irish but it was hard to tell for sure. ‘Do you want me to come out there and make you get lost?’

  ‘I want to talk to him about Luke Methodist.’

  The line went silent again, leaving Andrew to wonder whether the Celtic warrior was going to come down and kick his arse.

  ‘Wait there.’

  Andrew did as he was told, continuing to pace the length of the gates in an effort to stay warm. If Jenny could stand up to someone with a knife, then he could act like the big man when there was a giant set of gates to separate him from the angry-sounding man.

  He checked his watch. One minute passed. Two. Five. Andrew gazed through the railings towards the house but there was no sign of movement. The cameras were still unmoving, watching. He’d told them his name, so Braithwaite could be looking him up right now. His website was basic but it contained his office phone number and address. Anyone could find that, but a man of Braithwaite’s stature could check the other stuff too: perhaps his actual address? Credit rating? Maybe even his ex-wife’s name?

  Seven minutes. Eight. Nine.

  Eventually, a figure appeared at the far end of the drive. At first, he didn’t look too big, but as he came closer to the gate, Andrew began to feel nervous. The man was over six foot and built like a rugby player: big chest, shoulders… thighs.

  Why was he looking at the other man’s thighs?

  Regardless, the other man could definitely kick the crap out of Andrew should he wish.

  He was dressed smartly in a suit and shiny shoes, and continued along the drive until he was at the gates.

  ‘Hi,’ Andrew said.

  Thunder Thighs didn’t reply, glancing disdainfully at Andrew, before removing a small black box from his pocket and pressing a button that made the gates hum open. Andrew stepped through and started to follow the other man along the driveway towards the house.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, not receiving a reply.

  Despite the time of year and the rough weather, the gardens were perfectly manicured, with a tidy lawn and rows of tightly clipped bushes, waiting for spring. A Bentley and a red sports car were parked in front of the house, hidden from the road by a fountain.

  Instead of heading for the front door, the man led Andrew towards the side of the house, skirting around the edge of a double garage and passing underneath an archway carved into the hedge.

  The back garden was even more spectacular than the front, with a stable block built into the far corner next to a circular course of jumps. In front was another expanse of jade lawn, with evenly mown light and dark lines stretching from wall to wall.

  Attached to the back of the house was a conservatory that was bigger than Gem’s flat. They were almost at the glass door when the rain started to fall, drumming from the surroundings as if signalling Andrew’s death march.

  Thunder Thighs opened the unlocked door and squeezed inside, not holding it open as Andrew almost caught its full force in his face.

  Sitting at a small black metal table was Thomas Braithwaite, easily recognisable from the photos Andrew had seen of him. His black hair was beginning to grey but it gave him a distinguished look, instead of making him seem old. He had a neat beard and moustache and a trim physique, but it was his eyes that set him apart. Andrew froze the moment Braithwaite’s water-blue gaze settled on him. They stared through him, as if examining Andrew’s very soul.

  Braithwaite glanced sideways. ‘Thank you, Iwan.’

  The accent had a hint of Scouse but it was lighter, as if he’d taught himself not to stretch the vowels so much.

  He turned back to Andrew. ‘Mr Hunter, you should have called ahead.’ He motioned towards the empty seat across from him. ‘I’m having a late breakfast. I’m told it’s known as brunch nowadays but that sounds like the type of thing only a fool would say. What say you?’

  ‘I don’t really eat in the mornings.’

  ‘Breakfast’s the most important meal!’ He pointed towards a triangle of toast. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Braithwaite looked back up at Iwan, who was hovering close to the door. ‘You can leave us.’

  Iwan glanced sideways at Andrew. ‘You sure?’

  There was no reply, merely another steely stare, which Iwan acknowledged with an apologetic nod, before heading into the main house. The rain continued to beat on the glass, with Braithwaite seeming to sense how uneasy it made Andrew. He sipped at a small cup of steaming espresso,
allowing the tension to build, before returning it to its saucer.

  ‘Where’s your office, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘You can call me Andrew.’

  ‘I realise that, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘Manchester.’

  Braithwaite nodded knowingly. ‘You’re a long way from home.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s only thirty or forty miles on a map – but distance can be relative when you’re walking into something unknown.’ Braithwaite paused for another sip of coffee. ‘You look tired.’

  From nowhere, Andrew found himself yawning – a full-on, limb-stretching, jaw-dislocating, back-cricking stretch and gasp.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Something keeping you awake at night?’

  ‘Not really. Some cowboy redid the wiring at my aunt’s flat and nearly caused a fire. She’s staying at mine and…’ Andrew stopped, wondering why it had popped out. He’d not meant to start giving things away about his life. Braithwaite had a way of talking that was unnervingly disarming.

  He purred his reply: ‘You can’t trust anyone these days.’

  As he stretched for his coffee once more, Andrew noticed the glint from the ‘T’ cufflink hanging from his tight-fitting shirt. The other side surely had the ‘B’ inserted. Andrew didn’t know if they were the ones Jenny had seen.

  Braithwaite finished the drink with a slurp and delicately placed the cup down again. ‘Not many people come to visit me here, Mr Hunter. You may have heard, but I’m effectively retired. People like Iwan do things for me.’

  ‘I’m looking into the deaths of Owen Copthorne, Wendy Boyes and Luke Methodist.’

  Braithwaite licked his lips, smiling slightly. ‘Don’t we have police for that sort of thing? If you’re looking for a proper job, I’m sure I can find something for you to do.’

  ‘Everyone assumes Owen and Wendy were killed by Luke on behalf of the Evans brothers because they wanted to get rid of witnesses after the jewellery robbery.’

  ‘I’d read something to that effect.’

  ‘The Evans brothers used to work for you and there are whispers that you were linked to the robbery too…’

  Andrew let it hang as Braithwaite smiled thinly. He stared out towards the empty garden, leaving them in silence for all but the steady drumming of the rain. Andrew didn’t know how long passed. It might have been a few seconds but it felt a lot longer.

  Braithwaite eventually replied without looking at Andrew. ‘You can’t expect me to be responsible for everything my current or former employees might choose to do. I offer livelihoods to thousands of people.’

  ‘I’ve heard all sorts of rumours since I started asking questions. People talking about the type of business you might be running alongside the importing. I’m not interested in any of that, I’m bothered about people.’

  There was a scratching sound from behind, with Andrew turning to see an orange cat slinking along the gap from the conservatory to the house. He did a double-take, cricking his neck to check the black stripes and spots. It looked like a mini leopard. He had to force himself to blink away from it.

  Braithwaite leant forward and took the final triangle of toast from the table, biting off the corner and chewing with his mouth closed.

  ‘Rumours are dangerous things to listen to, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘I completely agree – which is why I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone to listen to the whispers that you could possibly be associated with the deaths of an innocent young couple. Two kids in love with their entire lives ahead of them.’

  Braithwaite paused before speaking, choosing his words carefully. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t think the Evans brothers got Luke Methodist to shoot anyone. I don’t think the eldest one even knew him – so if it’s nothing to do with them, then it’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Why should I care what you think?’

  ‘Because it isn’t just me. All those little insinuations and assumptions will go away if I can find out what really happened. All your friends in the police who keep coming after you might think differently.’

  A grin cracked across Braithwaite’s face. ‘You’re a great philanthropist looking to do me a favour?’

  ‘Actually, it’s nothing to do with you. There are other people I want to find the truth out for. You just happen to be a part of it.’

  Braithwaite finished the slice of toast and wiped his hands over the plate, before dabbing his lips with a thick embroidered napkin.

  ‘Oh, Mr Hunter, you’ve put yourself on such thin ice. Why would you do that?’

  He dropped his hand down as the cat approached, slinking between the legs of his chair and nuzzling his fingers. At the back of the conservatory, a second cat was padding around, staring up at the rain-soaked windows. Andrew didn’t want to appear too interested but they definitely looked like Bengals with their distinctive mix of dark spots and stripes against the gingery-orange fur. Andrew took a risk, holding his own hand down until the second cat sloped across the floor looking for food. It drifted past his hand as he ran his thumb across the back of its neck, feeling the chip underneath.

  Could they be Margaret Watkins’? They could’ve had the old chips removed and new ones inserted and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, even if it would be an enormous coincidence.

  Braithwaite watched the cat sniff at Andrew’s fingers before heading off to the far side of the conservatory.

  ‘Are you a cat person, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Fascinating creatures: such independent thinkers.’

  Andrew left the silence hanging, though it didn’t have the same gravitas as when Braithwaite did it.

  ‘Do you have a daughter?’ Andrew eventually asked, already knowing the answer. Even if he didn’t, the stables would have given him a clue: not many teenage boys were interested in horses.

  Braithwaite’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think you should leave.’

  ‘Luke Methodist has a daughter. She has to live with everyone saying her father’s a murderer. He probably is – but all I’m trying to do is find the truth for her.’

  Silence except for the rain. Andrew watched Braithwaite, who was staring out of the window, stroking his beard. He looked furious, knuckles white with tension.

  ‘It’s all about reputations,’ Andrew added. ‘And not just that of Luke’s daughter.’

  From nowhere, Iwan appeared in the doorway between conservatory and house. He stood tall, bobbing on the backs of his heels. Andrew had no idea if there was some sort of secret button, or if he’d been listening in, but his timing was dangerously impeccable.

  Braithwaite spun in his seat, smiling gently at Iwan, before offering a small nod in Andrew’s direction. Before Andrew could move, the giant of a man had taken two steps forward, cracking his knuckles and breaking into a grin.

  Twenty-One

  Andrew tried to stand but the seat slipped on the tiled floor, making him stumble forward. He caught himself on the edge of the table but Iwan was barely a metre from him, the pops from his knuckles echoing over the rain.

  ‘Iwan,’ Braithwaite said calmly.

  The brute stopped where he was. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Grow up.’

  Iwan stepped back, confused. He stared from Andrew to his boss. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Braithwaite rolled his eyes. ‘I want you to tell Mr Hunter all about Mr Brasso. Okay?’

  There was a momentary pause. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No.’

  Braithwaite turned to Andrew, lips pressed together. ‘You’re either incredibly brave or really, really stupid to involve yourself in something you needn’t. I very much hope you know what you’re doing. There’s an order to things, checks and balances; if that begins to fall down, then what are we left with?’

  Andrew couldn’t tell if he wanted an answer and didn’t really know what he was talking about. Braithwaite held him in hi
s gaze for a few moments, before nodding towards Iwan again.

  ‘That’ll be all.’

  No smile, no goodbye; simply a solemn trudge through the rain along the driveway, half a step behind Iwan. Thunder Thighs didn’t seem bothered by the weather, not even ducking his head as he sauntered across the paved area, slowing the further they went. Andrew wondered if the other man was egging him into overtaking but he didn’t anyway, staying in line and marching to the beat.

  Iwan used the device in his pocket to open and close the gates and then crossed the road, coming to a halt next to Andrew’s car. ‘It’s not going to drive itself.’

  Andrew dripped his way into the driver’s seat, feeling the suspension drop and the car groan in protest as Iwan climbed into the passenger’s side. It felt like the vehicle was tilting to the left.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Iwan growled.

  ‘I don’t know where you want me to go.’

  ‘Just drive.’

  Andrew did as he was told, crawling away from the house, wondering what was going on. He checked his mirrors, wondering if he was being followed, though his only accompaniment was the mid-morning rain.

  ‘You drive like an old woman,’ Iwan said.

  ‘I still don’t know where you want me to go.’

  ‘Stop being a girl.’

  Andrew headed towards the motorway and the route back to Manchester, assuming he’d be told if he was going the wrong way. Iwan said nothing, spending around thirty per cent of his time scratching his crotch and the other seventy tutting at Andrew’s driving. The car was feeling increasingly hard to manoeuvre, with Iwan’s bulk weighing it down. Andrew tried to come up with things to say – ‘So when did you start being big?’, ‘What’s it like being a right-hand man?’, ‘Where do you get clothes to fit?’ – but he didn’t think they would be appreciated.

  He was about to cross the M60 ring road on the way back into Manchester when Iwan finally piped up: ‘Next left here.’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Opposite of right. Are you thick?’

  ‘I understand the concept of left, it’s just that we’ve had such wall-to-wall chatter that I didn’t quite catch what you said.’