Something Hidden: A totally unputdownable murder mystery novel (Andrew Hunter Book 2) Page 7

  ‘So… what have you been up to?’ he asked.

  By the time the words had escaped from Andrew’s mouth, he was already wishing they hadn’t. He really did say some stupid things. Weren’t human beings supposed to have a sort of filter that made them think things through before the words flopped out of their mouths? He was asking her to condense more than eight years of break-up into a neat, snappy soundbite. What was the best that could happen?

  Before she could reply, the waiter returned to clear the table. He’d definitely be getting a healthy tip, if only for the perfection of his timing. What a hero… until he left.

  ‘I’ve been working for my dad,’ Keira replied, making Andrew shudder at the memory of his former father-in-law. ‘He retired from the bank a few months ago but is still running a charitable division for them. It’s not a lot of work but he gets to decide where the money goes. Charities and other organisations can apply for grants to get their projects up and running. I’d wanted to go back to work with kids for a while but he made me apply like anyone else. I have a project that’s helped create these before-school breakfast clubs around south Manchester. It makes sure they all get meals, plus allows their parents to go to work.’

  Andrew was still reeling from the news that she was working for her father. The image of him was as terrifying as it had always been.

  ‘That sounds good,’ he said, autopilot kicking in again. What else could he say? ‘Good stuff with the kids. Oh, but your dad’s a bit of an arse’?

  ‘Schools don’t really have money for things like that,’ Keira continued. ‘They were looking for external funding. We’ve been able to get the kids painting and creating, or catching up on homework. Last summer, we even had sports. It’s beginning to take off and some schools are looking at bringing it back in-house with funding from the council.’

  Keira and kids… the two were never far away from each other. It was ultimately what had driven them apart. That and her father, or anything else which meant Andrew didn’t have to blame himself.

  She began to pick at her bob, relaxing into the seat and smiling. ‘They’re great kids. We go to the places that are most under-performing. Everyone thinks they’re scum hanging around on street corners waiting to stab anyone who risks going near – but they’re just young people who didn’t have the chances we did. Once you give them a bit of encouragement, it’s amazing what they come out with. I was working at this school in Altrincham and there’s this lad there – Ethan – he’s only fourteen but was expelled from his previous place and had been in trouble with the police. At first, he’d sit in the corner scowling but he’s a really talented artist. It’s completely natural to him. Then there’s this area around Huyton where we put together the funds to build them a skate park. Last summer, we got a professional in to show them some tricks once a week. The police told us late-night call-outs from residents were down by over forty per cent between July and August. It’s actually making a difference and Daddy’s really supportive, he—’

  Keira stopped as the woman behind Andrew launched into another mistimed burst of laughter, presumably because her partner was pulling a face, or something else of equal comedy gold.

  ‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ Andrew said, meaning it.

  She nodded, not quite admitting that she was. ‘It’s nothing to do with my history degree, of course.’

  ‘My job’s hardly anything to do with criminology.’

  ‘How’s that going?’

  Andrew was saved by the waiter returning with their tapas plates. There was a pause as they both poked and prodded, trying a bit of everything, with Andrew hoping Keira had forgotten her question.

  ‘So…?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How’s work going?’

  ‘I’m trying to make it what I want it to be.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Being a private investigator could be finding out who’s cheating on whom, or who the father of someone’s baby is – but I don’t really go for that.’

  ‘Isn’t that good money, though?’

  Andrew plucked a chewy piece of chorizo from one of the plates and munched on it, ignoring the question. He didn’t need money – but could hardly tell his ex-wife that, or else she’d ask where his small fortune had come from. If there was one secret he needed to keep, that was it.

  ‘I get by,’ he said. ‘Jenny’s good – she takes away a lot of the smaller bits and pieces, so I get to go and talk to people.’

  ‘She’s pretty…’

  Andrew glanced up to catch Keira’s eye. ‘I can’t read her at all. I’m not entirely sure why she wants to work for me. She could do anything with her life but seems happy – well, content. She has a problem with people…’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s complicated.’

  Keira didn’t push the point but Andrew had no idea how to put it anyway.

  They scraped away at their plates, listening to more booming laughter that was eventually drowned out by the general hubbub around them. The waiter returned, the table was cleared, glasses refilled, bill presented. The evening wasn’t a write-off.

  ‘My dad hates you, y’know,’ Keira whispered over the top of her glass following an awkward pause.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied, unsure what to say. If only she knew the truth.

  ‘He wouldn’t approve of us being out.’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’

  ‘No.’ She finished her drink but continued to hold the glass in front of her face. ‘We should do this again.’

  ‘Let’s find somewhere without a human hyena next time.’

  Keira giggled, peering over Andrew’s shoulder towards the woman. ‘Deal.’

  Ten

  Tuesday

  Andrew sat staring at the house, enjoying the warmth that was blowing from his car’s heaters. ‘At least we’ve got the right place,’ he said.

  Jenny wiped the mist of condensation away from her window and peered through the cloudy glass. ‘They’ve put that blue plaque up themselves, haven’t they?’

  Andrew squinted towards the panel above the front door. It looked like one of the traditional signs that were dotted around the country, noting where significant figures had been born or lived. They marked houses belonging to people like the Beatles, former prime ministers, artists, playwrights: people who’d changed life in Britain. This one looked as if it was made from plastic.

  ‘I think that’s the safest assumption.’

  Jenny read the sign: ‘Home of Michael, Tito and Jermaine: Northern Cats of the Year.’

  ‘These people are mental.’

  ‘You’re just jealous that you don’t have a Bengal.’

  ‘I’m really not.’

  ‘I quite like the idea of having a mini tiger around the house.’

  ‘I can’t believe there’s a Cat of the Year awards ceremony,’

  Andrew continued. ‘What do they win? A year’s supply of Whiskas?’

  ‘Jealous.’

  Andrew was still nursing a slight headache from the previous evening. He and Keira had shared a slightly clumsy hug and then gone their separate ways. He’d only opted for red wine because that’s what she was having and it hadn’t gone down well. The morning’s coffee hadn’t helped either. Still, at least she wanted to see him again. At some point, they’d have to figure out what they were actually doing. Were they back together? Is that what he wanted? What she wanted?

  Bleugh… cats. Focus on the cats.

  ‘Tell me about Harriet Coleman,’ he said.

  Jenny didn’t need notes, reciting what she’d found out off the top of her head. ‘Harriet was fun to look up. She’s been bankrupt twice and married five times.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Not that I could find – just her and the cats.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  Andrew opened the car door, allowing February to blast its way into the driver’s seat. Bloody weather. He rubbed his
hands together, trying to recatch the breath stolen by the wind.

  Harriet Coleman’s house was huge, something not usually associated with a person who had been bankrupted twice. It was three storeys high, with a balcony terrace running across the top that probably didn’t get much use in north Manchester. A tidy, clipped lawn stretched across the front, flanking a path made of pebbles and seashells, as if the ocean had come in one day and dumped its contents in an orderly pattern.

  Andrew unlatched the gate and approached the front door, ringing the bell and trying to ignore the ridiculous blue plaque above his head. Michael, Tito and Jermaine, indeed.

  The door was opened by a slightly overweight woman squeezed into a peach-coloured Lycra top, with matching shorts. There was a large V of sweat in the centre of her chest, and her dark hair was wrenched back into a ponytail. Considering she’d been through five husbands, she looked surprisingly young.

  ‘Hi, I’m Andrew Hunter and—’

  ‘That bitch sent you, didn’t she?’

  ‘Which, er, b—’

  ‘Oh, the Queen Bitch. Her Royal Bitchness – Maggie Watkins. Oh, don’t call her “Maggie”, though, else she’ll have a coronary.’

  ‘Right…’

  Harriet held the door open wider. ‘Come in then. You caught me at a good time. I’ve just finished doing Zumba in the living room. Michael, Tito and Jermaine love meeting new people.’

  Andrew and Jenny followed her into a room at the back of the house that had certificates, trophies and ribbons lining all four walls. Harriet stood with one arm out in a ‘ta-da’ pose, still slightly panting. Three auburn and black cats tiptoed around the room, stopping to stare at the newcomers.

  ‘Awww, they’re all shy,’ Harriet cooed.

  Andrew had to admit that the cats really were intoxicating to watch. The orangey-blonde of their fine fur was speckled with black dots, like a leopard’s but smaller. All three had their ears pricked high, pairs of deep green eyes focused on Andrew, making sure he didn’t attempt a sudden move.

  ‘Tito won Northern Cat of the Year last year,’ Harriet said proudly, pointing towards the smallest of the trio. ‘Michael was commended too. I don’t know what was wrong with poor Jermaine. I think he might’ve had a cold that day. They were all joint first in my mind.’

  Jenny nudged Andrew in the back, pushing him closer to the cats which, for all he knew, could tear him apart. They certainly had the claws for it.

  Harriet dropped onto the slightly scratched flower-print sofa and held a hand out, beckoning the cats towards her. They approached slowly until there were two on her lap and another winding its way between her feet. Andrew reluctantly edged into the room, finding a spot on an armchair in the opposite corner, furthest away from the animals. He wouldn’t say he was scared of them, but… okay, he was definitely scared of them. They looked like leopards, for crying out loud. Jenny offered a knowing grin and then sat next to him.

  ‘I was wondering when someone else would be around,’ Harriet said, nuzzling one of the cat’s heads. ‘First it was the police but when they went, I knew she’d send someone else.’ Andrew reached for his identification but Harriet shook her head. ‘Who are you? Someone from the council?’

  ‘Private investigator.’

  ‘That’s a new one. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m sure you know that Mrs Watkins’ pair of Bengals were stolen last week—’

  ‘And you think I had something to do with it?’

  Jenny replied before Andrew could. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Have you seen her flea-ridden filthy things?’

  Andrew answered this time. ‘We’ve only seen pictures.’

  ‘That nutcase has always been jealous of my little babies.’ Harriet brushed the coats of the cats on her lap. ‘Look at these beautiful markings. Hers look like tabbies that she snatched off the street in comparison. Have you seen her website?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘That’s not even half. She goes on all these forums, spreading rumours that other people’s Bengals aren’t F3s. She’ll say that people have forged the paperwork.’

  Andrew waited a few moments for Harriet to grow calm. ‘You didn’t actually answer the question.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t have anything to do with that lunatic’s mangy things going missing! Why would I?’

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have a grudge against her?’

  ‘Only half the Internet, not to mention all of the fancier community. We’re a friendly bunch, except for her. She can’t accept that hers don’t win the awards. She takes it as a personal insult. It’s not my fault she has a face like a squashed tangerine.’

  Harriet talked them through each certificate on the wall, proudly explaining how her trio had won awards at a long succession of shows over the past few years. Margaret Watkins was dismissed as ‘crazy’, ‘demented’, ‘psychotic’, a ‘nutball’, ‘Mary Poopins’ and ‘that weirdo’. No love lost, then. If people could be arsed sending Christmas cards nowadays, she wouldn’t be on Harriet’s list.

  She said they could poke around the house but there was no need. Andrew had only come because Margaret had been so insistent that Harriet was involved in the theft. As it was, it seemed there was a very long line of people who might have it in for her. Andrew left a card just in case Harriet thought of anything, and then he and Jenny escaped back to safety of the car.

  Andrew switched the engine on and set the heaters to maximum, waiting for Jenny to settle in the passenger seat. ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve made a big mistake,’ he said.

  ‘You’re the one that told Margaret Watkins you’d find her cats.’

  ‘She was crying!’

  ‘So what? Do you do anything someone wants if they turn the waterworks on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Seems like it.’ She laughed but was a little too close to the truth.

  ‘I’ve already had enough of cats for one day,’ Andrew said.

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘Luke Methodist.’

  ‘That’s the one you’re not getting paid for.’

  ‘If it was only about the money, I’d be doing something else – you know that. What about you?’

  She didn’t seem so sure. ‘Maybe it was about the money and getting a job at first. Then my parents sold their place in Italy three months ago and gave me a slice of that. They want me to go out to Corsica with them.’

  It was the first Andrew had heard about it.

  ‘Corsica? Sounds nice. Why don’t you?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  As burning-hot air seeped from the vents, Andrew turned the heat down a few notches. ‘It shouldn’t be anything to do with me. You’re young – you can do what you want.’

  Jenny opened the pad on her lap and began reorganising the papers. ‘It’d be boring out there, not doing anything. I sort of like doing this.’

  A ringing endorsement.

  ‘What do you like about it?’

  The paper-shuffling halted as Jenny peered up to stare through the misty windscreen. Assuming she wasn’t faking it – which Andrew didn’t think she was – she actually had to think. ‘Um… I’m not sure. I think I like you.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Not like that… not just you. I find people fascinating. I like watching them, learning. Like when Fiona was upset yesterday. It was… interesting.’

  It was a strange choice of words. Not many people would admit that watching a stricken, emaciated girl cry over her dead father was interesting. Heartbreaking, perhaps. Hard to watch, definitely. Andrew didn’t follow it up because it was another thing he didn’t particularly want to know. Jenny was easy to like if he didn’t scratch too far beneath the surface.

  ‘What was the name of the gun you said Luke shot Owen and Wendy with?’ he asked.

  ‘A Browning. Military-issue.’

  ‘I want to ask someone about how common they are. Is it something that Luke would’ve brought back from his time in
the army, or can anyone get hold of one?’

  ‘I can look up a local gunsmith if you want?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘Too official – we need someone from the front line.’

  ‘Do you know a person?’

  Andrew checked his mirrors and flicked on the indicator. ‘It’s time you met someone close to me…’

  Eleven

  Andrew weaved his way around the small mounds of what he hoped was mud but wouldn’t risk treading on just in case. The lift was sporting the same ‘out of order’ sign that it always did, with water pouring through all four corners of the cramped stone hallway. Across the bottom step was a crimson wash of dried blood.

  ‘Who lives here?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Just don’t touch anything down here,’ Andrew replied, as a thumping beat started to wail from a nearby flat.

  After two flights of stairs, the concrete block opened onto a perilous-looking balcony, with a waist-high metal fence stretching along the length of a dozen flats. The walls had once been cream but were now drenched with dirt as more water pinged through various holes, producing an orchestra of noise that was punctuated by the shite pouring from somebody’s radio downstairs.

  Somebody had left the smashed remains of a stereo system outside their flat, with rain seeping into the open speaker as if it was a fancy saucer left out for animals to drink from.

  The balcony provided a scintillating view of a muddy green that was surrounded by identical rows of flats that really shouldn’t have been allowed to house animals, let alone people. Andrew spotted at least two dozen places where roof tiles were missing, without making a proper effort to count. The pile of tyres that had been in the centre of the grass for almost three months had finally been moved, leaving a charcoal-coloured circle of scorched ground. At the far end of the square, a child who couldn’t have been more than five or six was completely naked, running along the path and squealing at the top of his voice. Behind him, a woman trailed with a pushchair, shouting at the top of her voice. What was it with everyone trying to be slightly louder than the previous person?