by James Oswald
‘You just do what you do, Fairchild. Leave the rest of it to us.’
30
‘Such a dreadful shame. There was so much more I wanted to show you.’
It’s only a few minutes from John Lewis back down Leith Walk to Rose’s place. I almost called a cab once DCI Bain had left anyway. I’d thought myself safe up here in Edinburgh, but the media circus was always there. The newspaper didn’t mention me by name, so I’ve that much going for me. But I’m not so naive as to think that’ll be the end of it. Even now, I can feel the long lenses panning across the empty skies like searchlights, seeking me out. Walking down the street, surrounded by people who didn’t even give me a second glance, I still felt naked, vulnerable. And Bain wants me to invite that scrutiny in, just so he can pursue his enquiries in peace.
‘You’ve been so kind to me, Rose. I wouldn’t want to bring the worst of the country’s gutter press to your front door.’
‘Nonsense, my dear. They couldn’t find this place if I didn’t want them to.’
There’s something about the way she says it that makes me think she’s telling the truth, although I’ve no idea how that’s even possible. No, I know it’s not possible.
‘They’ll find me. I can’t stop that from happening. But there’s no need for them to make life miserable for everyone else.’
‘Well, at least let me help you pack.’ Rose has been standing in the bedroom doorway, but now she comes into the room. I didn’t have much with me when I arrived, but we went shopping and now my expanded wardrobe has as much chance of fitting into my bag as Jonathan Stokes has of developing a conscience. Without another word, Rose strides over to the large wardrobe opposite the bed. It leans slightly into the room, tilted by the ancient and gently sloping floorboards, and I haven’t dared approach it in the days I’ve been here for fear of being crushed. She opens it without a care, reaches inside and comes out with the sort of leather Gladstone bag my great-grandfather might have taken to India.
‘This should be big enough for everything,’ she says, carrying it back to the bed as if it weighs nothing. I can see from the way the mattress sinks that I’d struggle to lift it even when empty, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my short stay here it’s that there’s no point in trying to protest when Rose has an idea in her head. I step back and watch as she folds my new clothes and old with an expertise that would have impressed the matrons at St Humbert’s, swiftly and neatly packing the bag.
‘I’ll let you sort out all your electronic gubbins.’ She waves a chubby hand at the Louis XIV dressing table over which I’ve inelegantly draped my laptop, phone charger and other paraphernalia essential for twenty-first-century living. With all the clothes in the Gladstone bag it will fit in my backpack no problem.
It doesn’t take long to collect everything together, and soon enough I’m downstairs standing at the door. Rose places the bag down carefully before giving me a hug that lasts longer than expected.
‘You take care of yourself, Con. I’d say don’t go getting yourself into trouble, but I know it has a habit of finding you anyway. Just be careful, OK?’
She sounds like I imagine a mother should, sending her daughter off into the world on her own for the first time.
‘I’ll do my best.’ I heave the bag up as she opens the door, half expecting to be greeted by a hailstorm of camera flashes and shouted paparazzi questions. Instead there’s just the small courtyard, the gate and my Volvo parked across the road. I’m going to miss this place. It’s only as I step outside that I remember my manners. ‘And thank you, too. For everything, but especially the wig.’
Leaving Edinburgh is more of a wrench than I thought it would be. I guess I’d hoped my stay might last longer. I feel bad for not saying goodbye to Janie Harrison and her flatmate, Manda. As I hit the bypass, heading for the A1, I can’t help thinking about them, which is strange given how little time I spent in their company. Maybe I’ll drop them a line when I get home. Not that I’m really sure where home is these days.
The border’s flown past and I’m almost at Newcastle before I realise what day it is today. Friday. My brother’s wedding is tomorrow. I was going to miss it, should I still stay away? As the thought hits me, I reach for the button to switch on the radio. It’s not as if I expect there to be any mention of it; Ben and Charlotte might be newsworthy for the more seedy tabloids, but they’re not exactly royalty. It’s more a reflex action to hide the awkwardness of not knowing what to do. The radio’s as old as the car, not some flash aftermarket thing fitted by whichever street racer bought it when Essex Constabulary were done chasing robbers up the M11. It takes a while to warm up and find a station, then the sound of a newsreader fills the interior.
‘. . . young man found brutally murdered in an Edinburgh suburb. Initial reports say the victim was badly mutilated. Police are asking for anyone who was in the Newhaven area on the night to come forward . . .’
I hit the button again, plunging the car back into noisy silence as the road rolls away underneath me. I don’t need to know what’s going on back there, and I don’t want to hear my name pop up either. I’d connect my phone, play some music or maybe an audiobook, but I can’t do that while driving and I don’t want to stop now I’m moving, so I’m left with my thoughts.
I can see all too easily how Bain is using me. I can’t even blame him that much. I’d probably do the same to someone else if it meant I could get on with my investigation free from interference by the press. That doesn’t mean I’m all that happy about being forced back to London and into the spotlight. On the other hand, at least I’ll be doing some actual police work, helping Karen to scroll through all the many hours of CCTV footage. That means the viewing room at the station, with its stench of body odour and farts. It means the disapproving stares and muttered insults of my would-be colleagues, too. But it’s work, and it gets me back on active duty of sorts.
But first I have to deal with this weekend. I texted Aunt Felicity to ask if it would be OK to stay a couple of nights and she didn’t even mention the wedding when she replied. Maybe she just thinks I’ve changed my mind about not going. Have I changed my mind? Could I go?
I’m speeding past signs to Pontefract, thinking about whether to stay on the A1 or take the turning to the M1 when I remember the Gladstone bag in the back of the car. Sitting in a sturdy cardboard box on top of my neatly-folded clothes is the mouse-brown and grey wig. I’ve got my mother’s spectacles with their non-prescription lenses, and some of the dresses Rose insisted on packing would be perfectly suitable for a wedding, even if I expect most of the guests will be wearing much higher fashion. What better way to try out my disguise? If I can get past the nation’s paparazzi without being recognised, then at the very least I’ve some control over my situation when I get back to London. And I can’t deny there’s a certain thrill at the thought of pulling the wool over their eyes.
31
Even with my early start and Rose’s help packing, the day’s still faded to evening by the time I turn off the A14 and drive down the narrow lanes to Harston Magna. The village itself is decked out as if it were Christmas, with bunting strung between the few lamp-posts, and the pub lit up like a navigation buoy. Past the church, I catch a glimpse of a huge marquee in the gardens of the hall, and a well-made sign a bit further along directs cars to park in the field where once my pony grazed. Not that I had the riding bug for long. Ben was always better in the saddle, and the humiliation of falling off in the arena at my first gymkhana soon dampened my enthusiasm for equestrianism.
My phone flashes up a text as I’m about to turn down the lane to Fold’s Cottage. Short and to the point, my aunt redirecting me at exactly the right moment.
Change of plan. Cottage full. Go to Glebe House.
I imagine every spare room in the village is taken, and many of the better hotels in the towns nearby. I’d not anticipated ever going back to Roger D
eVilliers’ home, though. Of course, technically it belongs to his widow, Margo, now. Assuming he didn’t screw over his family in death like he did in life.
It’s not far from my aunt’s cottage to the Glebe House. Time was I used to walk there through the woods. Night’s coming on fast as I turn down the drive, noticing the ‘For Sale’ sign nailed to a post by the gate. I’m surprised to see very few lights on in the house, and only one car parked outside. Surely more people will be staying here?
The air’s cold and slightly damp as I climb out of my Volvo. Stretching pops my back into line after so long sitting, and I realise the coffee I drank at Scotch Corner wants out now. I can’t hear any noise, save the plinking of the car engine as it cools and the dull roar of the distant A14. And then the front door clicks open. Light spills out from the hall, the shadow of a lone figure outlined on the gravel. I take a couple of steps forward before I can see who’s there.
‘Margo?’
She has a glass in her hand, and I remember how she was on the gin in the middle of the afternoon the last time I saw her.
‘Constance Fairchild.’ It’s a statement of fact, and a condemnation at the same time. I sort of understand, although to be honest I was only the bearer of bad news, not the author of it. You’d think she might even be grateful to me for freeing her from the prison of her loveless marriage, but then people aren’t always like that. I suspect she resents me airing her dirty laundry in public far more than she appreciates getting rid of the bad smell.
‘I had a text from Aunt Felicity. She told me to come here.’
‘Of course she did.’ Margo doesn’t even try to hide the sigh in her voice, but before she can say anything else, she’s forced to step to one side as another figure pushes past and rushes out to greet me.
‘Con! You came!’
I barely have time to react before I’m swept up in a fierce hug. It’s been a month or two since I last saw her, and I swear my half-sister’s grown in that time.
‘Izzy. How the hell are you?’ I squeeze back as tightly as she’s squeezing me, then struggle away. There’s only so much a full bladder can take.
‘Connie. Thought you weren’t coming.’ Another figure pushes past Margo, stepping into the gathering darkness. Charlotte’s holding a glass, like her mother, but it doesn’t stop her from hugging me almost as fiercely as Izzy.
‘Change of plan.’ I’m about to tell them the real reason for my coming back to Harston Magna, but some small sense of self-preservation kicks in at the last minute. ‘I couldn’t bear to let Ben down. Not on his big day. He here?’
Charlotte looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. ‘Here? Of course not, Connie. Can’t see the bride before the wedding.’
I decide it’s probably best not to point out that they’ve been living together for at least a year, and instead fetch my bag from the back of the car. It’s heavy enough that I need both hands to lift it, but it gets admiring glances from Charlotte.
‘Is that vintage, Connie? Sweet. Must have cost a fortune. I had no idea detectives got paid so much.’
As always with Charlotte it’s all about money. ‘Actually, I’m just borrowing it from a friend.’ I look back to the front door, expecting to see Margo still there, defiantly blocking my entry. She’s gone though, and an altogether more welcoming figure has replaced her.
‘You got the text then?’ Aunt Felicity strides out to greet me, a quick air kiss to either cheek in the French style. Then she takes my luggage as if it weighs no more than a Prada handbag. ‘Come on then, children. It’s far too cold for dawdling about out here.’
I take a deep breath, the chill air clean in my lungs. Then with a conscious effort to quell the rising sense of doom, I follow everyone inside.
For all its unhappy memories, the Glebe House isn’t a bad place. At least not now its lord and master has gone. Not quite on the same vast scale as Harston Magna Hall, it’s nevertheless far larger than any family could possibly need. Built in the days when the second sons of landed gentry were expected both to take holy orders and father large families, it has at least eight bedrooms and countless smaller attic rooms that would once have been servants’ quarters. Now it has that empty quality I remember so well from my own childhood home, a place no longer fit for purpose.
Aunt Felicity leads me up to one of the guest bedrooms tucked away at the back of the house. Its window would look out over the woods towards the church and the hall, except that it’s dark outside and the curtains are drawn. She dumps my borrowed bag on the end of the bed with an audible ‘oof’, and I can’t help wondering why she felt the need to carry it when I’m half her age.
‘I was stronger the last time I saw this.’ She takes a couple of deep breaths to recover, before speaking again. ‘Given that you left a week ago with just that,’ she points at my rucksack, slung over my shoulder, ‘can I assume you and Rose went shopping?’
Unbuckling the straps on the bag, I take out the box and then the wig from inside it. I’ve only tried it on a couple of times so far, and make a bit of a mess of fitting it this time. ‘What do you think? Mother’s old specs and some frumpy dresses. Nobody will recognise me at all.’
Aunt Flick tilts her head to one side, an unconvinced expression on her face. Then she steps closer and rearranges the wig, tucking stray strands of my red hair under its mesh lining. ‘Or you could just have stayed in Scotland.’
I go back to the bag, the long hair tumbling over my shoulders an unfamiliar weight. DCI Bain took his newspaper with him after our meeting this morning, but I picked up one of my own on the way back to Rose’s house. I unfold it and hand it to my aunt without a word. She stares at it with much the same unconvinced expression she gave the wig.
‘Will they ever leave you alone?’
I’m about to answer when a light knock at the door is followed by Charlotte walking in without waiting for an answer. She does a perfect double-take as she sees me; the girl should have been an actress.
‘Connie? Is that you?’ A little puzzled tilt of the head and then she laughs. ‘Oh my God, it’s perfect. Just wait till I tell Ben. No, no. Let’s not tell him at all. See if he recognises you.’
Her excitement is almost contagious, but I catch motion behind her at the still-open door, and see Izzy standing there. For a moment my half-sister doesn’t realise I’ve seen her, and her face is pure anguish. How must it hurt her to be back here, back in the house where her step father abused her, shared her with his perverted friends? Then she sees my gaze is on her and the mask comes down, all smiles for her big sister. Half-sister.
‘Suits you, Con. Always thought your hair was too short.’
‘Says the girl with the buzzcut.’ I tease the wig off, laying it carefully in its box. One of the first things Izzy did when the dust settled last year was to cut off all her hair, probably her own attempt to keep the gutter press at bay. It’s growing back, but she still looks like an extra from GI Jane. ‘How you doing?’
‘Could be worse.’ She shrugs, opens her hands up to indicate the bedroom and the house. ‘Hoped I’d never have to come back here.’
‘Won’t be for long though, will it. I saw the For Sale sign on the drive.’
‘Just went up this morning. Talk about timing, eh? Had to get the whole house cleaned so the estate agent could photograph it.’
I can tell that she’d rather have seen the place burn to the ground. And all the bad memories with it. I’m amazed that she’s as sane as she is, given all that she went through.
‘You ready for Charlotte’s big day, then?’ I do my best to change the subject. Izzy rolls her eyes at the bride-to-be.
‘The dress she’s got me wearing? Don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that. Glad you’re here for it though. I was a bit pissed off when they told me you weren’t coming.’
‘I’m still not.’ I pick the wig back up. ‘Disguise, remember? I don�
�t want the press giving me all the attention when it’s meant to be all about your sister.’
‘You’re so kind, Connie,’ Charlotte interrupts. ‘But really. We’ve laid on the best security. Nobody will get in who’s not supposed to be there.’
I smile sweetly at her naivety, exchange a more knowing glance with Izzy. ‘Still, Char. Best not to take any chances, eh?’
She pouts in that schoolgirl way that doubtless works wonders on my brother but has zero effect on me.
‘No chance of persuading you to be a bridesmaid, then?’
32
I’ve always enjoyed a good wedding. OK, so I’m not big on the whole church thing, and pledging to love, honour and obey is a bit weird, but there’s something about two people in love that makes me happy. It’s odd, really, given my own patchy record in that department.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship last longer than a few months, and the only proposal of marriage ever made to me was mortifying to say the least. Simon. I wonder whatever happened to him. I wonder what I ever saw in him, for that matter. Bloody idiot should have known better than to pop the question in public, too. He must have worked out by then that I don’t like being pressured into things. On the other hand, he did me a favour even if I hated him at the time. If he’d asked me in private, I might be Mrs Geoffrey now.
For once the weather’s being kind, which is just as well. St Thomas’s might have been built at a time when everyone in the surrounding neighbourhood was expected to attend church on a Sunday, but even so it’s not big enough for all Charlotte’s guests. The paddock’s filled with Range Rovers, Jaguars and the occasional Rolls-Royce. One of the neighbouring farmers has helpfully parked his tractor nearby, to tow out some of the more ridiculous cars that people have turned up in. She has a lot of friends who like Porsches and Ferraris, it seems. Although some of them might be Ben’s friends too, I suppose.
