Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  In the name of reserving his seat in this surprising hive of activity, he placed his briefcase containing a notepad and pen down on the table and approached the customer service desk. Behind the counter, a rotund teenaged girl was taking an inordinate amount of pleasure spinning a skinny purple-haired youth with tight black jeans on a swivel chair. Neither were in any hurry to serve him.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl said acerbically, bringing the chair to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Only if you can spare the time,’ Morton said, biting his tongue. ‘I’d like to see any newspapers which cover the Tenterden area for 1987.’

  ‘Kentish Express, Kent Gazette, Sussex Express or Tenterden Times?’ the girl said, rattling the titles off like she was on speed.

  ‘Tenterden Times,’ Morton answered, plumping for what seemed the most likely. The other papers sounded too general.

  ‘You want the whole year?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Morton said, ‘I’m looking for a particular story. Can I start with December and work my way backwards?’

  ‘Whatever,’ she said with a shrug. She waddled through a door behind the desk, leaving the skinny lad staring at Morton like a wide-eyed baby. Moments later she returned, struggling to squeeze herself and two string-bound parcels of newspapers through the door.

  ‘Gi's an hand, Zane,’ she asked, and he went to her rescue, taking one of the bundles and dumping it on the counter in front of Morton. The two packages were labelled ‘November’ and ‘December’.

  Morton reluctantly muttered his thanks and carried the stacks over to his desk. He sat down, carefully removed the string wrapping and plucked the final Tenterden Times of 1987 from the pile and began to skip through the paper. He wondered how much of a feature the fire story would be in a paper whose headline story shouted ‘Outrage over plans to close allotments!’ He meticulously searched each and every page until the paper was finished, then set it to one side and began the previous week, slowly building up a picture of the highs and lows of the small Kentish town. Crash Biker was High on Cocaine. Why can’t Tenterden have more Doctors? Guest House Owner’s Dog Bit Neighbour. Town under threat from Europe!

  It occurred to him then that Peter Coldrick’s death would have featured in this week’s paper and might make for interesting reading. If the collection of headlines he’d just sifted through were anything to go by, then Peter’s apparent shotgun suicide would have dominated at least the first twenty pages.

  An hour later, Morton was re-threading a string loop around the December newspapers when his mobile rang: the ultimate sin in such a hallowed place. The walls were adorned with laminated pictures of mobiles with bold red lines struck through them, so it was of no surprise to him when the grumpy old men at the adjoining tables tutted and threw disgusted scowls at him, followed by disbelieving looks to one another.

  A withheld number.

  The glares worsened when Morton dared to press the green button and take the call. ‘Hello?’ he whispered.

  ‘Hi, Morton,’ an upset voice said. Whoever it was had been crying. ‘Can you come round at all? I’ve just had the coroner’s report on Peter’s death.’ It was Soraya.

  Morton headed into the Chillax Zone where ‘Quiet Talking is Permitted’ and mouthed the words ‘large latte’ to the woman behind the Costa Coffee counter. ‘What does it say?’ he asked Soraya. He heard her draw in a lengthy breath.

  ‘I’d rather just show it you,’ she sniffled. ‘Can you pop round?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m busy for the moment, but I’ll be round as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Morton. See you in a bit.’

  He said goodbye, ended the call and paid for his coffee. He sagged down onto a bean bag and sipped his drink, as he stared up vacuously through a large skylight just as fat, swollen droplets of rain began to explode above him, gradually more and more until the skylight came alive with dancing water. He was fleetingly mesmerised until his thoughts turned back to Soraya. He took the fact that she was upset to mean that the coroner had taken the police view that Peter had topped himself. It still seemed like the most unlikely thing in the world to Morton.

  He finished his drink, switched his mobile to silent and returned to his desk, where he unstitched the November pile of papers and began skim-reading more stories that were blown out of all proportion by the local newspaper. He had reached page six of the Friday 27th November 1987 edition of the Tenterden Times when he located the single-paragraph story.

  Neville Road Fire

  Police have confirmed that a woman’s death in a fire at her Neville Road home last week is not being treated as suspicious. Mrs Mary Coldrick, 41 is believed to have been asleep in an upstairs bedroom when a cigarette started a severe fire which engulfed her home last Thursday. Mrs Coldrick’s husband and son, who were not home at the time of the accident, are being comforted by friends. Fire fighters removed Mrs Coldrick’s body from the burnt-out building after a man described by police officers as ‘a local hero’ failed to battle the flames to save her.

  Morton read the story three times. Just twelve days after Mary Coldrick’s death, the admission register at St George’s was removed. Definitely not a coincidence. But why? Something happened before Mary’s death that prompted William Dunk to remove the very file which would reveal the identity of James Coldrick’s parents. Yet it was still only circumstantial evidence. He imagined PC Glen Jones and WPC Alison Hawk’s reaction if he barged into the police station to report the crime. He’d probably end up being arrested for wasting police time.

  He pushed the newspaper to one side and turned to the newspaper for the previous week, which had as its headline story, ‘Woman Missing in Fire’ and a large, full page photograph of the burning building. Morton stared at the picture. It seemed somehow barbaric and cruel to show what was essentially Mary Coldrick being cremated. She was in there, burning alive as the firemen hosed on gallons of water and the Tenterden Times photographer eagerly snapped away, knowing his pictures would make the front page. The sheer size of the photo pushed the actual report of the blaze to page two.

  Fire

  A severe fire swept through a house in Neville Road yesterday, leaving a local woman unaccounted for. More than forty firefighters were called to tackle the blaze shortly before 14.00 BST. Mrs Mary Coldrick remains unaccounted for. It is not yet known if she was in the house at the time. A neighbour, who was evacuated from her home due to the intensity of the blaze, described how a passer-by responded to her pleas for help, “I was shouting out that there was a fire and this man tried to get into the back of the house but it was too fierce and he came back out with his cheek all cut up and bleeding.” Police are waiting for the house to be declared safe so that they can conduct an investigation. Anyone with any information should contact Detective Olivia Walker.

  Morton imagined the local hero staggering from the flames, his face cut and bleeding, devastated at not being able to save Mary Coldrick. He wondered why the man hadn’t stepped forward to accept the hero’s praise and possible front page of the Tenterden Times.

  Then an image smashed into his mind. The Brighton Scar Face. Another coincidence? If the feeling in his gut was anything to go by, then this ‘local hero’ had actually gone inside the house to make sure that Mary Coldrick would not escape the blaze. Had she given him the facial injury, as she struggled to flee the inferno? He felt nauseous as he looked back at the photo of the burning building. Perhaps it was a good thing that Peter Coldrick was dead. How on earth would he have told him that? By the way, Peter, your mum didn’t painlessly lapse into unconsciousness from smoke inhalation, she was probably thrown into a wall of flames by a psychopathic madman who inexplicably wants your whole family dead.

  Morton took the two newspapers over to a self-service photocopier, pumped in a handful of twenty pence pieces and received black and white copies of the stories. He tucked the photocopies into his briefcase, re-bound the stack of newspapers and left them on the vacant Cu
stomer Service Desk.

  The automatic front doors to the library parted, encouraging him to leave the warm and dry confines and step out into the torrential downpour. It was hard, vertical rain that had been waiting patiently to be unleashed for several days. He pulled his coat in tightly and made a run for the car, as a dramatic flash of lightening illuminated the sky and zig-zagged through the black clouds.

  Morton was eternally grateful to get a parking spot directly outside Soraya’s house. He was fairly confident that nobody had followed him, although the thick curtain of rain had prevented him from seeing much beyond a car’s length behind him. He waited in the Mini for a few minutes, hoping that the rain would ease up a little, but it only seemed to worsen. He decided to use the opportunity to flick through this week’s edition of the Tenterden Times, which he’d picked up at a newsagents on his way here. Just by looking at the headline Morton knew that this was going to be a pointless exercise. Hunt on for Mystery Lotto Winner. And, sure enough, Peter Coldrick’s death didn’t raise as much as a paragraph in the paper.

  Morton dialled the main office of the Tenterden Times (incongruously based in Maidstone). A chirpy female receptionist answered, ‘Good afternoon, Weald Newspaper Group, Melanie speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Good afternoon, I’m ringing to enquire about a story in the Tenterden Times.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Melanie answered pleasantly, encouraging him to continue.

  ‘Well, I say a story in the Tenterden Times but it’s actually a lack of a story. I wondered why you failed to report on the suicide of Peter Coldrick last week? He shot himself –’

  ‘One moment, I’ll just put you through to our news team,’ Melanie interrupted.

  The opening bars of Endless Love were cut short by a growling male voice that didn’t bother with all the company niceties. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Morton said, attempting to tame the lion aurally, ‘I’m wondering why the inscrutable death of Peter Coldrick last week wasn’t reported in the Tenterden Times?’

  The line went quiet. Was the lion tamed, or dead?

  ‘We didn’t think it warranted space in what was a news-heavy week. People commit suicide all the time; it’s hardly a scoop,’ he answered gruffly.

  Morton couldn’t help himself. ‘I’m sorry – news-heavy – you say? Do I need to read the headline about the search for someone who might have purchased a lottery ticket from the newsagents on the High Street and who, by your own admission, might not even be a local! This man, Peter Coldrick is supposed to have shot himself, but I’m telling you that-’

  ‘I’m sorry – who is this?’

  ‘Investigate it,’ Morton implored, before ending the call. He reached across to the passenger seat and picked up the photocopies that he had just made at Ashford Library. He wondered if he should share the information with Soraya but decided against it. He wanted more evidence first. He filed the papers away in his briefcase and decided to make a run for it. The rain was never going to ease up. Morton grabbed the briefcase and ran towards the house, hammering histrionically on the front door.

  Soraya appeared with the artificial smile of a bereaved woman. ‘Come in.’ Morton stepped inside and she took his drenched coat from him. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said, following her into the lounge. She looked like she needed a hug but he wasn’t the type to just embrace a relative stranger. He blamed his conservative upbringing for such arrant unsentimentality; he couldn’t recall a single childhood embrace from either parent.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Soraya said quietly, raising a finger to her bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, eying an A4 white envelope that she was clutching tightly.

  ‘Here,’ Soraya said, passing it to him.

  Morton opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper. The first, headed with the Kent County coat of arms was a short and succinct letter from the coroner, offering his condolences with the accompanying post mortem results. He turned the page, passing over Peter Coldrick’s personal details.

  External Examination…the body was that of an underweight male of approximately the age stated. Height 5 ft. 8 inches, Weight 56kg. Rigor mortis was present in the limbs and there was hypostatic staining of the posterior body surfaces. There were no external marks of violence. Natural teeth were present in the mouth. No scars were identified. Trace soot and propellant staining to both hands…concentric seared circular wound of 5.4cm to left temple.

  With an increasing sense of nausea, Morton scanned his eyes down the page, unable to take in the gruesome level of detail. Internal Examination, brain 1637g …Cardio-Vascular System…Respiratory System…Gastro-Intestinal System…Genito-Urinary System…Endocrine System…Conclusion…The necropsy appearances indicate that death is the result of a self-inflicted single gunshot wound to the head….Cause of Death: Suicide.

  ‘Suicide,’ Soraya said flatly when Morton met her gaze. She sat herself down beside him. ‘Not even an open verdict or the possibility of murder. I mean, not even a mention of the suicide note being typed with no signature. I phoned the coroner as soon as it arrived but she just regurgitated everything she said there.’ A lone tear rolled down over her right cheek. ‘At least the body’s been released for a funeral now.’ She said ‘the body’ carelessly, as if referring to a dead gerbil or stick insect. Morton reminded himself that death affected everyone in different ways. After his mother died it was his father’s way to repeatedly deep-clean the oven; it was Jeremy’s way to entirely stop talking for the best part of three months.

  Morton abandoned his fear and put his arm around Soraya’s shoulder. For a brief moment she froze and he thought that he had overstepped the mark, lecherously taking advantage of a grieving woman, but she buried her head in his chest and burst into tears. The words forming in his mouth all sounded trite or clichéd, so he said nothing and just held her closely.

  Soraya released herself and semi-circled her thumb under each eye before taking a deep breath. ‘They’ve finished at his house, too,’ she said. ‘Will you come with me while I look through his personal effects? I’ve no idea at all of his...wishes. It’s just not the sort of thing you ask someone in their thirties.’

  ‘Yeah, of course I will,’ Morton said.

  ‘I was thinking about going over there today if you’re free?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Morton answered. Maybe he would find whatever it was that Peter was so desperate to show him the night he died. ‘We can go now if you like?’

  Soraya nodded, wiped her face and stood. ‘It would be good to get it out of the way.’

  They travelled in near silence for the duration of the ten-minute journey to the other side of Tenterden. Soraya had asked him for a progress update and he responded vaguely, never liking to reveal too much to clients mid-way through a job. Normal family histories were littered with unpredictable twists and turns; this case was anything but usual, so to reveal what little he actually knew would be a futile exercise. When they arrived at the quiet estate, Morton parked as close to Peter’s house as he could. All the drama from Wednesday was totally over. The house now resembled all the others in the street.

  Soraya fumbled in her handbag, pulled out a large bunch of keys and opened the door, stepping wet footprints onto the worn doormat. The house was deathly silent and dark, all the curtains having been pulled to keep out prying eyes. She flicked the light switch in the hallway but nothing happened. ‘Bloody hell, they’ve turned the power off already. Can you believe it?’

  ‘They don’t waste time, do they?’ he replied, inexplicably feeling the need to whisper.

  Soraya entered the lounge and opened the sun-bleached, ruby curtains. ‘That’s better.’

  Morton followed her into the lounge, an uneasy feeling unsettling his stomach. He wanted to leave before he had even begun. ‘Do you know where his personal papers would be?’

  Soraya shook her head. ‘Bedroom maybe? It’s the front bedroom upstairs. I’ll take a
look in here.’ The bedroom was the one place he didn’t want to look – Juliette had informed him that it was in this room that Peter had died.

  Morton entered the dim hallway, placed his foot on the bottom stair and looked up, wondering if he really wanted to see upstairs. He thought of Juliette and what she would do – bound up the stairs, two at a time, like a curious puppy – then began the ascent. With slow deliberate footsteps, Morton climbed the shadowed stairs.

  At the top, he was confronted by three closed doors. He gently pushed open the first door, revealing a surprisingly clean and modern bathroom. Coldrick had seemed much more of a grimy avocado suite man, he thought. He moved across the landing to the second door and turned the handle: he found a small box room with Dr Who curtains and matching duvet set on a child’s bed. Morton cast his eyes over an open-fronted bookshelf crammed with children’s books, toys and stuffed toys; Fin’s room was an unlikely location for the copper box.