Something Hidden (9 page)

‘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 . . .’

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?

Andrew continued along the walkway, trying to avoid the dripping water as best he could. It hadn’t even been raining, so he had no idea where it was coming from.

When he reached the flat at the far end, Andrew rang the bell and knocked as hard as he could. Thirty seconds passed before he heard the familiar shuffling from inside. First the bolt at the top
was shunted aside, then there was a clunk from the centre. A heavy-sounding chain rattled and then the bolt at the bottom was loosened. The door stuck in the frame but opened a fraction, before
being pulled open completely to reveal a pint-sized older woman wearing a dress far too big for her. It had such a mesmeric red, white and blue pattern than Andrew wondered if it had once been a
magic eye puzzle. Her hair was light purple, blown into an afro-style perm that Joe with the hair would’ve been happy with.

Her face folded into a wide grin. ‘Well, well, well. It’s about time you visited your old aunt.’ Her eyes widened as she spotted Jenny. ‘Ooh, and a girlfriend
too!’

Andrew leant forward and kissed the woman on the cheek. ‘Jen, this is my Aunt Gem. Gem, this is Jenny. She’s not my girlfriend. We work together.’

Gem winked at him. ‘I getcha.’ She turned to Jenny, arms open. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, dear? Come on in. Shoes off.’

‘I’m here for Rory, Gem.’

‘Oh, get away with ya. You’ve got twenty minutes for your aunt.’

Andrew sighed as Gem hurried into the flat with a shoeless Jenny. He knew this was going to happen. He relocked all of the bolts and popped his own footwear off before heading through to the
living room.

Even though he’d been inside many times, it was always a shock to see quite what a state the main room was in. Gem had ushered Jenny into a corner and was talking her through the
collection of ceramic ducks. The entire room was filled with the type of tat that was flogged in resorts – not that Gem had ever been to the seaside. Every time somebody she knew went to
Blackpool, Skegness, Scarborough, or even bloody Grimsby, they were instructed to bring her back something. It had quickly got out of hand, with her living space now a chronicle of shite. In one
corner, there were stacks of postcards; another had sticks of rock that were so far out of date, they would probably break bones, not just teeth. There were magnets, snow globes, ornaments, teddy
bears, ceramic teapots. If a seaside shop sold it for under a fiver, then Gem would definitely have one. Probably five. Some of the items were older than Andrew.

Andrew couldn’t work out if Jenny was playing up to it simply to annoy him, or if she was genuinely impressed. It
must
be to annoy him. No one could seriously like all of this
stuff.

‘Oh, that’s lovely, Mrs . . .’

‘Call me Gem, dear.’

Jenny pointed to a rack on a nearby wall. ‘What are those?’

‘Oh, that’s my thimble collection, darling. Someone brought me back one from Australia. Do you know where that is . . . ?’

And on they went.