Something Hidden (17 page)

A thud behind Andrew made him turn. Gem had dropped a large bag for life on the ground behind him and was heading back into the flat. ‘That’s Rory’s stuff.’

The bag was full of blankets, dog food tins and soft toys – including an Elmo so well chewed, the poor sod was missing an eye. Andrew picked Elmo up, only to get a handful of canine
saliva. Lovely. Gem reappeared moments later with two more bags for life.

Andrew peeped into the top of the first one. ‘There are blankets at my flat.’

‘I like to be warm at night.’

‘I can put the heating on – and I have blankets! I have a spare duvet too.’

‘I don’t want you to fuss.’

Andrew didn’t want to argue any longer. Gem handed him the dog lead and then they all headed to the car, overflowing bags in hand.

If nothing else, it was going to be an interesting night.

It probably wouldn’t have been approved by the RSPCA but Rory was smuggled past the security guards in Andrew’s building at the bottom of a bag for life, where he
sat peacefully. Picking up the roly-poly so-and-so was another problem entirely. Andrew wobbled his way into the reception area smiling too much, although it was largely to stop himself from
keeling over from the weight of the dog. The security guards gave Andrew a nod and he headed directly to the lifts. Jenny and Gem carried the other bags between them but, as soon as the lift doors
closed, Andrew put the Rory-occupied bag down and started wringing his arms.

‘You’re going to hurt his feelings,’ Gem said.

‘Rory’s?’

‘I told you – he’s a sensitive soul. He’s already in a place he doesn’t know, packed in a bag, and now you’re throwing your arms around as if he’s too
heavy.’

Andrew peered down at the bright round eyes staring up from the canvas bag, wanting to say that he
was
too heavy but God forbid he upset the dog.

The lift pinged and Andrew took a breath before picking up the bag again, avoiding Jenny’s smirk. She and Gem headed along the corridor as Andrew groaned his way after them, swaying as if
he had piles.

As soon as he unlocked the door to his flat, Gem stepped inside, dropping the bag at her feet and heading to the window in the same way everyone did. Beetham Tower was the tallest building in
the north of England and Andrew owned a flat near the top.

‘Oh, Andrew . . .’ she whispered.

He’d tried to persuade his aunt to come over for a meal on many occasions but she was so hesitant to leave her estate that this was the only time he’d ever managed it.

The days were technically getting longer but it was still dark before five o’clock. Below, long lines of red and white lights stretched into the distance: commuters desperately trying to
get home on a Thursday evening. Lights glimmered along the length of the canal, dotting its ancient passage through the city, with tower blocks, housing estates, factories, offices and all manner
of mismatched buildings dumped higgledy-piggledy as far as the eye could see. If any planning had actually gone into the area, then it was impossible to detect.

Gem crept towards the glass, arm outstretched as if to make sure it was there. ‘This is wonderful, sweetie.’

Andrew plucked Rory from the bag and placed him on the floor. His claws instantly started to slide on the varnished wood as he half-waddled, half-skidded across to the living room area and
started sniffing at the glass coffee table, before plopping down on the rug and licking himself.

Jenny caught Andrew’s eye, dimple definitely back on show. ‘Don’t act as if you’ve never done that after a long day,’ she said with a giggle.

Andrew smiled and mouthed a ‘thank you’ as she headed for the door, calling ‘goodbye’ to Gem over her shoulder.

Gem finally stepped away from the window, taking in the rest of the ridiculously modern flat. Andrew felt embarrassed by it as she ran her hands across the spotless stainless steel appliances
and the painting on his wall that was probably worth more than her flat. He had all this and she was stuck in a deathtrap. Why hadn’t he done more to try to get her away? Not simply try to
talk her round, but
tell
her she was moving.

‘This is lovely,’ she cooed, sitting next to Andrew on the sofa.

‘There’s more to life than living in a small corner of Manchester.’

It came out harsher than he meant it and she slapped him on the leg, slightly harder than playfully. ‘Don’t be such a snob, Andrew Hunter. That’s not how you were
raised.’

‘Sorry,’ he replied, suitably chastened.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, before he added: ‘I’m going to get someone to go into your flat tomorrow.’ He pointed towards the far end of the room. ‘My
bedroom’s through there. You can sleep there with Rory. I’ll take the sofa.’

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.’

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.’