Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Oh, that’s Gary. He’s Madge’s son.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton said. How lovely, like the Brady Bunch.

  ‘And my ex.’

  ‘What?’ Morton said, wondering if he really had suffered brain damage or if he’d somehow slipped into a parallel universe. He regretted how horrified he sounded. He didn’t feel horrified, just surprised. His family simply didn’t do candour.

  ‘My ex. I dated him for a few months last year.’

  ‘Does Father know?’ Morton asked, instantly hating the fact that he sounded like a brainless homophobe, like he thought his father might sound if he knew. Surely he couldn’t know? Jeremy would have told him before their father.

  ‘Course he does,’ Jeremy said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Morton said, wondering what the hell was going on with his family and dropping bombshells incongruously into conversations. Most people start with ‘I think we need to talk,’ or ‘I’ve got something to tell you’ but his family just said them while you’re shoving a forkful of Yorkshire pudding into your mouth.

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were straight?’

  Juliette laughed. ‘Good question. Why didn’t you, Morton? Having said that, he actually offered to take me shopping to Brighton the other day. And he’s bought himself a brand new Mini Cooper. How gay is that?’

  ‘Got something to share, Brother dear?’ Jeremy asked with a giggle.

  ‘And is Father okay with it?’ Morton asked, not quite able to reconcile his conservative father with a gay son.

  ‘He went a bit quiet for a few days then when he realised nothing had changed he was fine. Back to his old self. A while later I introduced him to Gary then we met up for a meal and Gary’s mum came along and they hit it off together. The rest is history.’

  Morton shrank back and couldn’t quite muster the courage to go and hug his brother and to say what he really wanted to say, which was ‘Good for you, Jeremy. I’m pleased for you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday

  Morton had been lying awake for some time pondering last night. With every heartbeat his head thumped its anger for the lack of sleep and excessive quantity of his father’s whiskey, right in the spot where Dunk had landed one on him. He should have had a dry, early night instead of getting drunk and staying up into the early hours, chatting. But he was glad he’d done it; he’d never felt as close to Jeremy in his life – a strange fraternal unity that had been lacking all these years. Jeremy’s revelation seemed to have broken down an invisible wall that had slowly built up between them. In the new spirit of reciprocal candour, Morton told Jeremy about the Coldrick Case and all that had occurred. Jeremy had exclaimed, ‘And you say I dropped a bombshell! Christ, Morton. I mean, Philip Windsor-Sackville is technically my boss. This is huge.’ Taking Jeremy’s tendency towards histrionics into account, hearing the whole charade in a linear fashion, one incident after another, seemed to be almost revelatory to Morton, as if it had all happened to someone else.

  He climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Juliette, lying with her head scrunched uncomfortably between her pillow and his. Padding softly into the bathroom, he swallowed down two paracetamols and looked at himself in the mirror. The lump on the side of his head had grown to the size of a ping-pong ball. He gently touched the surface and it felt so firm that he thought there actually could have been a ping-pong ball under his skin. A fresh surge of pain bit into his head and he decided to leave the paracetamols to do their work. With a little help from a gallon of coffee, obviously. It should help, he thought, remembering something about caffeine dilating blood vessels. He went quietly downstairs, made a large mug of instant and opened up his brand-spanking-new Apple Mac that Juliette had purchased for him in Tunbridge Wells. Not that he was going to get attached to this one, he was treating it as any other household electrical appliance, since it doubtless wouldn’t be long before it was either stolen or blown up. There only seemed point in loading the basic programmes, rather than wasting time adding his plethora of genealogy software.

  Once the coffee was drunk, the paracetamols had kicked in and the Mac was up and running, Morton loaded up YouTube and typed the words ‘Chief Constable Olivia Walker’. Four hits. Chief Constable Olivia Walker swaps policing duties for a taster with Kent Fire and Rescue; Kent Chief Constable Olivia Walker gets tasered; Appointment of Chief Constable Olivia Walker; Chief Constable Olivia Walker welcomes Defence Secretary to Ashford. Morton clicked the last hyperlink and watched a thirty-three second video clip of the Secretary of Defence shaking hands with a uniformed woman. The quality of the video (from a cheap mobile by the looks of things) was so terrible that the uniformed officer could just as easily have been Juliette as the woman he’d seen yesterday in the pinstripe suit. The first video clip showed Olivia Walker speaking directly to the camera about what she’d learnt by becoming a fire officer for the day. The clip had the Meridian News logo in the bottom left corner and, consequently, the video resolution was much higher and Morton could identify, beyond reasonable doubt, that she was the woman he’d seen yesterday at Charingsby. The same woman who’d been in charge of the investigation into Mary Coldrick’s death was overseeing the investigation into Peter Coldrick’s death. The same woman licensed on Daniel Dunk’s car. With that in mind, Morton watched with gleeful Schadenfreude as Olivia Walker was willingly tasered by one of her minions. She seemed to be overacting, as if the video was actually for propaganda purposes. The last clip was filmed at a press conference where ‘Cllr Paul Buzzard’ announced that Olivia Walker was, by unanimous decision of the panel, to become the new Chief Constable of Kent Police. Morton watched as the camera panned to the right and Olivia read a short statement about how proud she was to be leading one of England’s largest forces in crime prevention and detection. Morton wondered what part of crime prevention and detection her association with the Windsor-Sackvilles and Daniel Dunk had played?

  Morton recalled what Juliette had said about it not being possible that he had seen Olivia canoodling with Philip Windsor-Sackville, as he was happily married to someone else. Just to be clear in his own mind, Morton returned to www.windsor-sackville.org and clicked the ‘Family Tree’ tab. Philip Windsor-Sackville had been married to Andrea Rhys-Jones since 1971. Judging by the unflattering photo of her on the website, where she seemed to have been snapped unawares, it seemed a classic case of her being traded in for a younger, more successful, more beautiful model. Arise Chief Constable Olivia Walker. Morton had to concede that Andrea did look a bit of a dowdy old frump. Still, she had borne him three children, all of whom were in the lower political ranks of government – one was the Junior Minister for the Environment - and that ought to count for something.

  ‘Look. See, I told you,’ Morton said, dumping the laptop down in the space he’d vacated in the bed. Juliette looked like she hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d got up more than an hour ago.

  ‘What now?’ Juliette moaned, struggling to open her eyes.

  ‘Philip Windsor-Sackville is married to her, not Olivia Walker,’ he said like a triumphant primary school child.

  ‘Jesus, Morton, it’s Saturday morning. Go away,’ she said, turning her back sharply and almost heaving the new laptop off the bed. She pulled the duvet over her head and disappeared into a sleepy cocoon.

  Taking the hint, he shut down the laptop and dressed in a new outfit from Jeremy’s wardrobe. It was a big cliché, but his gay brother’s wardrobe was infinitely more stylish than his own had ever been. He mentally went through his own wardrobe, considering all of his clothes that had gone up in smoke. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing to start all over again, he thought, as he rooted through Jeremy’s underwear drawer. Even Jeremy’s boxer shorts were all Calvin Kleins. How had he not suspected anything? It certainly made him more interesting, especially since he was in the army - of all the careers that he could have chosen. In the process of telling Jeremy what had gone on in the past few days, Mo
rton had confessed to borrowing various items of clothing. Jeremy had just grinned and said it was fine, that he could help himself.

  Morton looked at his watch – ten twenty. Was ten twenty on a Saturday considered too early to disturb someone by phone? Maybe for some people but it was Soraya Benton that he wanted to call and she probably would have been woken by Finlay several hours ago. Ideally, he had wanted to visit her, but that involved too long a round trip with a banging head; not the best of ideas. Besides which, the paramedics had told him to rest for twenty-four hours and definitely not to drive. He felt bad for not having made contact with Soraya since Peter’s funeral, but then what could he have said? How did the cremation go? It was hardly a question that needed asking, much less answering. He pulled out his iPhone, dialled her mobile and hoped for the best. She answered after several rings and sounded slightly breathless, as if she’d just run in from the garden. ‘Sorry, it’s just Morton,’ he said, feeling the need to apologise.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said, sounding immediately brighter. ‘I was just cleaning Fin’s room. It’s like a bomb’s gone off in there. I’m trying to keep it tidy, what with it being my sister’s study and all. Oh God, bomb’s gone off, sorry, Morton. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, ‘really,’ having not actually made the connection between what she had said and his own demolished house. ‘I had a couple of things I needed to ask you about. Is now a good time to talk?’

  ‘Yeah, fire away. Fin’s at his friend’s all day and I’m just doing housework. I’d be glad of the distraction.’

  ‘It’s a bit delicate, really. I don’t know how you feel and I really won’t be offended…’ Morton began, only to be interrupted.

  ‘Oh, spit it out, for goodness' sake, Morton,’ she said playfully.

  ‘Sorry. I was wondering how you might feel about me taking some of Fin’s DNA and comparing it to the Windsor-Sackvilles’?’ he asked, slightly nervously. Taking DNA was always a thorny subject to broach with clients. There seemed to be a general issue of mistrust of the technique among the older generation and a general issue of over-reliance on the technique among the younger generation. To Morton, DNA testing was a powerful genealogical tool, but one which needed to be used cautiously and in conjunction with other more traditional methods.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Soraya said, without so much as a nanosecond’s consideration. ‘Go for it. What do you need; blood?’

  ‘Not quite - just a cheek swab will do. Are you sure you don’t object? You’ll have to sign a consent form.’

  ‘No, not at all. I take it from all of this you’re more sure that Fin’s related to them, then?’

  ‘At this stage it’s no more than conjecture and coincidence,’ Morton replied rather nebulously, contradicting his lack of belief in coincidence. ‘Can I bring a test kit down tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. One thing, though,’ Soraya said. ‘How do you plan on getting DNA from the Windsor-Sackvilles? I can’t imagine any of them being compliant somehow.’

  ‘Yeah, that might be an issue. I’m still thinking about that one. Which brings me to my next point: Sir David and Lady Maria Windsor-Sackville are opening the village fete in Sedlescombe today and I wondered if you wanted to come along?’

  ‘Meet the enemy, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Morton said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’ll pass, I’m not sure I want to come face-to-face with them. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do here and there’s still a lot of Peter’s things to sort out. Let me know how you get on, though.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Morton thanked her and ended the call.

  It was a hot, airless afternoon when Juliette parked up in the makeshift parking area of an unsuitable, deeply rutted field being used for the Sedlescombe Village Fete. ‘This had better not mess my car up,’ she remarked to no-one in particular.

  Morton, belted into the passenger seat beside her, was busy running his eyes across the agricultural fields in the distance to where he had cut through the Charingsby perimeter fence yesterday. ‘Maybe we could go over and get my backpack?’ Morton suggested, knowing the chances of it waiting patiently for him to return were somewhat less than slim. ‘Safety in numbers and all that.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Jeremy said, casually sipping from a can of Coke in the back of the car. Having nothing better to do with his day, he decided to join them at the village fete. ‘It’s the last thing they’d expect. You’ve got to think tactically.’

  ‘If you so much as step foot near that place, I swear to God that bump on the side of your head will become a football,’ Juliette threatened. She wasn’t joking either. ‘Please, can we just have a normal day today, Morton; no explosions, muggings or stalkings?’

  Morton plumped for Juliette’s advice and quietly dropped the idea.

  The three of them stepped from the car and followed the throng of crowds making their way across the field. It was already a good turnout by anyone’s standards at such provincial gatherings.

  A glum-looking pensioner in an over-sized, yellow hi-vis jacket that stretched down to his calves silently directed them into the ‘Welcome Tent’, where Morton handed over fifteen pounds for their entrance.

  ‘Sir David and Lady Windsor-Sackville will be opening the fete in just under half-an-hour’s time and there’ll be a demonstration of Tractors Through the Ages at two o’clock and a falconry display at three,’ a short, sun-wrinkled lady told them.

  The three of them sauntered down the field, following a steady stream of people headed in the general direction of several large white marquees and a mass of assorted trestle tables.

  ‘What exactly are we doing here?’ Jeremy asked, taking a casual glance over a run of tatty paperbacks, as if he had only just realised where they were.

  ‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Juliette said, turning to face Morton.

  ‘You two are so sceptical,’ Morton said. ‘I just wanted to actually see these people, that’s all.’

  Juliette gave him a doubtful look. ‘That’s what the internet’s for.’ She stopped to study the blurb of a well-worn Maeve Binchy novel. He knew that her mind was working overtime trying to establish an ulterior motive. She put the book down and the three of them walked on, passing motley tables of plants, ornaments, homemade jams and preserves, antique furniture and secondhand toys. A swarm of wasps besieged an open-sided gazebo where traditional apple-pressing was taking place. The hive of industry, of which the wasps seemed an integral part, resulted in a copious quantity of cloudy amber liquid oozing from a thick wooden press before being sold to a queuing public for one pound per plastic cup.

  ‘Fancy some?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Maybe later,’ Jeremy said, scrunching his nose up.

  Morton led them past a long line of cakes and biscuits that might have looked remotely tempting if they weren’t slowly wilting under the high heat of the day, much to the chagrin of their creators behind the tables. They moved further down the field, past a bouncy castle and face-painting tent towards a temporary stage on what was the only flat part of the field. An empty podium and microphone stood in the centre of the stage in anticipation of Sir David and Lady Windsor-Sackville. In front of the staging was a long thick red ribbon tied off between two wooden stakes at either side of the stage. Morton guessed that this was the symbolic ribbon that would be ceremonially cut in order to declare the fete open. It seemed to him like closing the gate after the horse had bolted, since the field was already heaving with visitors. In just a few minutes Morton would come face to face with his adversaries standing on that very stage. He wondered if they would know who he was. Probably not, the problem was much more likely being dealt with by the lower ranks of the family and staff.

  Running his eyes over the crowds, Morton’s attention was taken by something moving strangely in the distance. It was some kind of customised golfing buggy, speeding down
the hill far too fast, scattering people left and right from its path. Heads, too many than can have fitted comfortably inside, bobbed about like Muppets, as the buggy jutted over ruts and fissures in the ground.

  ‘If only I’d brought my speed trap radar,’ Juliette commented, her attention having been drawn by the commotion of disgruntled families, heaving themselves out of the buggy’s way.

  It came to an abrupt halt in front of the stage, all the bobbing heads being flung sharply forwards then back. From Morton’s perspective, it looked as though the front window had nudged into the ceremonial red ribbon. Morton immediately recognised the driver as Sir David James Peregrine Windsor-Sackville: born 1913, yet still able to terrify the living daylights out of people with his bullish driving.

  ‘Come on, you buggers,’ Sir David said, referring to his legs, hoisting one and then the other out of the buggy, as if he had two lead weights attached to his pelvis.

  One of his entourage jumped from the rear of the buggy and readied a pair of walking sticks in front of him. With the sticks firmly in his hands, he stood upright, a tall, formidable and blackguard figure. He certainly seemed like a man used to getting his own way.

  An equally wizened woman appeared from the passenger side, waving off the offer of assistance from a deferent aide. Lady Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville, née Spencer, born 1915. A fearsome beast, if ever Morton saw one. She was dressed in an all-in-one lemon-coloured outfit with matching hat that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Queen. With one sweep of her hand, an aide came dashing over.

  ‘Is that them?’ Juliette whispered, an edge of disappointment in her voice. Morton wondered what she’d been expecting. Younger, more agile opponents maybe.

  ‘Yeah, that’s them,’ he answered.

  The redoubtable duo, armed with their walking sticks, ambled up the temporary steps onto the staging, closely followed by five attentive aides. Morton gazed at the scene in front of him; it was like some garish wedding rehearsal and he couldn’t help but feel something akin to respect for their vigour. Could that decrepit old pair really be responsible for murder? Was he now looking at James Coldrick’s parents? He wasn’t sure, but the more that he observed them, the more obvious it became to him that the distinguished pair, despite their age, continued to wield and exert an incredible power over those around them.