Nothing to Hide

by James Oswald

  ‘The zombies. The good-as-dead. Folk out of their heads on Spice peddled to them by people who should know better, people the likes of Con Fairchild are trying to put in jail, and yet here you are hounding a girl for just doing her job.’

  ‘Is Spice really a problem here? I thought that was more of a north of England thing.’

  I lean back against the wall a few paces behind the crowd and listen in as Mrs Feltham conducts an impromptu press conference with a skill that would shame some of my police colleagues. It’s a pity that she’s standing on the steps, the only way up to my flat. Otherwise I’d be able to slip past unnoticed, grab a few things and get out again without anyone knowing I’d been here.

  ‘Spice is a problem everywhere. Just ask the people who have to deal with it. Ask the doctors and nurses. Ask the council workers.’

  A young lad with an old-fashioned spiral-bound notebook and pen, standing near the back of the crowd, starts speaking as he turns to face me.

  ‘She’s very good, isn’t she. Can’t see my editor going for . . . shit.’

  Well, I was going to be spotted sooner or later. Not perhaps the reaction I was hoping for though. Apart from anything else it’s very rude. I smile at him anyway, then push past and start elbowing my way through the herd.

  ‘Excuse me. Coming through. Come on. Out the way, please. Some of us have got homes to go to.’

  Perhaps because they’ve been hanging on Mrs F’s every word, the good – and not so good – gentlemen of the press take longer to realise what’s happening than they should. I’ve broken through their ranks before they recognise me. I’m sorely tempted to press on up the stairs and make a run for my front door, but they’ll only follow, possibly knocking my elderly neighbour over in the process, and then I’ll be stuck in the flat until they go. So instead I put on my best brave face, smile and meet my foe.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ I scan the crowd, seeing that it is almost all men, then notice one woman from the BBC near the front. ‘Lady. I’m not sure what I’ve done to warrant such attention. As my dear friend here has told you, there’s far more important things to worry about than the slow crumbling of England’s class system. Maybe you really would be better off all going to the park to see what’s happening to the folk who’ve fallen through the cracks in these times of austerity.’

  Christ, I sound like a bloody politician. It’s put my harassers on the back foot though. Only the woman from the Beeb seems unfazed.

  ‘Miss Fairchild. Can you confirm that you were involved in the death of a Mr Gareth Chandler last night?’

  ‘That’s Detective Constable Fairchild, and yes, I was there. As you well know. A press release was issued early this morning and the whole incident is currently under investigation.’

  ‘Did you push him under a bus, Connie?’

  There are too many faces, pressed too close together, for me to see who asked the question. It was a man, though, naturally enough.

  ‘Do you think I’d be standing here if I had? I can’t go into any further details of what is an ongoing investigation, but I can confirm that I’m not currently under suspicion of any wrongdoing. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Will this incident delay your return to active duties, Con— Detective Constable? That’s the best part of half a year you’ve been taking a pay cheque and not doing any work. Must be nice, eh?’

  This voice I recognise, and sure enough, there’s my old friend Jonathan Stokes elbowing his way to the front. His parasitic twin Chet leers at me from behind him, another expensive-looking camera at the ready.

  ‘Nice? That’s not quite how it feels from here. First you lot hound me for doing my job and now you’re going to hound me for not doing it? Make up your mind, why don’t you?’

  ‘Will you be staying in the police force, now that your secret’s out?’

  This last question comes from the back of the crowd, another male voice. I can’t see who it is for all the popping camera flashes, but it doesn’t really matter.

  ‘I’ve never made a secret about my background, despite whatever you might have heard. There’s plenty of university-educated men and women in the police force, some from backgrounds much like mine. Quite why you all think it’s an interesting story baffles me. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home and have a little privacy.’

  I don’t wait for any more questions. They’ve had more than I was intending to give them already. As I turn and hurry up the stairs, a quick nervous smile and wave to Mrs Feltham by way of thanks, it occurs to me that all those flashes are going to be photographs in tomorrow’s papers, on the web, everywhere. My face, for all the world to see. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Karen doesn’t say much on the drive across town to Euston station. I guess that’s fair enough. We’ve probably both had enough of each other’s company.

  ‘You any idea how long you’ll be away?’ she finally asks as we park in a space reserved for the Transport Police. I’ve packed light; barely more than a couple of changes of clothes, a washbag with all the essentials. Most of the weight of my rucksack is my laptop and all its associated cables.

  ‘Not really, no. I’ll have to see what Professional Standards have to say about the incident. I’m guessing the dash-cam footage they got will be helpful there.’

  She fetches my bag from the back seat, hands it to me, and together we walk into the concourse. I can’t suppress the nervous shudder that runs through me being out in public like this, and I glance up at the big screen showing news footage, half expecting my face to appear there magnified to the size of an elephant. I’ve put an old baseball cap on, but it’s too gloomy to wear shades without drawing even more attention.

  ‘Hear the word of the Lord. Take Him into your heart!’

  I almost jump out of my skin as a young man fairly leaps in front of me. He’s thin, his face pocked with acne scars, ginger hair trimmed with the aid of a pudding bowl. When he speaks, I catch the edge of a northern accent in his voice.

  ‘Have you heard the good news?’ he asks, his enthusiasm so genuine it’s heartbreaking. Oh, to be so deliciously innocent and naive.

  ‘Not today, mate.’ Karen switches into police officer mode with ease, stepping forward to move the young man on. He darts around with all the agility of an Olympic gymnast, producing a glossily printed leaflet which he presses into my hand before bringing both of his together in the briefest of prayers. Then before either of us can say anything more, he’s gone. I watch him work through the crowd, identifying other marks to convert, and as I do so, I see more of his kind. They’re not all dressed identically, but there’s something of a uniform to them that sets them out from the crowd. Pale colours, beige and white where everyone else is dressed in drab greys, dark suits, jeans. Clean, too. It’s obvious once you’ve seen it that they’re a tribe.

  ‘Christ, there’s dozens of them.’ I realise the irony of my casual blasphemy too late, but the concourse is being worked by a group of young Happy Clappies more professionally than any band of chuggers I’ve ever seen. I realise I’ve seen them before, too. In the park near my flat, helping the addicts.

  ‘Bloody nuisance, if you ask me. Preying on the delusional, sucking vulnerable people into their weird cults. Can’t stand ’em.’

  Karen’s tone is so angry I stop and look at her. There’s clearly something deeper going on here, but my train’s leaving soon and I don’t fancy staying in London any longer than strictly necessary.

  ‘You sound like you’ve got personal experience.’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ She rolls her eyes, the anger evaporating as quickly as it came. ‘Come on. Don’t want you missing your train.’

  We push through the crowds to the ticket barrier, and then there’s an awkward pause. I’ve only known Karen a week or so, but she’s gone from hating me to helping me. I’d probably call her a friend, in time.

  ‘Thanks,’
is all I can think to say, and it sounds lame. So I add ‘and I’m sorry I dragged you into all this.’ Lifting up both hands to indicate the world in general, I see I’m still clutching the leaflet handed to me by the young man. Without thinking, I shove it in my coat pocket.

  ‘It’ll die down. The press and everything.’ Karen sweeps me into a very unprofessional hug, which is as mercifully brief as it is unexpected. ‘See you, Con,’ she says, then steps away quickly, turns and disappears into the crowd.

  17

  I’m idly flicking through news stories on my phone, cringing every time I see my name or photograph, when a strange voice interrupts me.

  ‘’Scuse me, miss. You’ve dropped something.’

  Looking up, I see the ticket inspector leaning towards me with a glossy leaflet. At first I can’t understand what he means, but then I realise it’s the one I was handed in the station. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I took out my phone. For a moment, I consider denying it’s mine, but I’ve been brought up better than that. With a quiet muttered ‘Thanks’ I take it off him, then show him my ticket. Once he’s moved on to the next passenger, I flip open the leaflet to see what all the fuss was about.

  It doesn’t tell me much, just a bunch of generic feel-good quotes that claim to be from the Bible, but probably aren’t. The Church of the Coming Light rings a bell, definitely the same people who run the shelter close to the Danes Estate and were out helping Spice addicts the other day. I’m sure I’ve seen its charismatic leader on the telly from time to time. The Reverend Doctor Edward Masters is one of those people who pops up on late-night news and political programmes, an outspoken opinion in an ill-fitting suit. Either he’s friends with the right producers, or he has very good PR. I’ve mostly tuned out his holier-than-thou pontificating. Me and religion parted company long ago. I can thank my mother for that.

  The name, Masters, sparks a more recent memory, too, and that’s when it hits me. This is the man my mother was talking about. No wonder Ben put his foot down when she suggested he officiate at the wedding. And how like my mother to find someone so completely inappropriate, her not-so-subtle way of showing her disapproval at her son’s choice of bride. A bald-headed African telly-evangelist is certainly her style though, and the coincidence piques my curiosity.

  My phone’s not the best thing for internet searches, and the signal keeps dropping every time the train goes through a tunnel, but I pick up enough information on the church to know that it’s a mixture of good and bad. It takes people off the streets, keeps them away from drugs, runs soup kitchens and walk-in shelters, but it also veers dangerously close to the sort of cult mentality that doesn’t quite square with my C of E definition of Christianity.

  Masters himself is something of an enigma. He claims to be from Uganda originally, brought to London as a small boy and taken into care when his mother died while he was still a child. That’s one story, at least. Another has him as a Nigerian prince, run out of the country in his late teens and taking refuge in God and England. Whatever his true background, he seems to have made a success of himself and his church. I find endorsements from many a politician, and a photograph of him shaking hands with the previous Commissioner of the Met. Seems he’s popular for the work the church does getting folk off the street, which on the face of it is no bad thing. Even so, my inner cynic is primed to be wary of him and sceptical of the claims made for his organisation.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, there’s controversy too, in particular a high-profile case a couple of years ago that ended abruptly and unsatisfactorily when the charges were dropped with no explanation. The family of a young girl took the church to court, claiming it had brainwashed her and she had been sexually abused, leading first to an unwanted pregnancy and then to a back-street abortion that had almost killed her. I vaguely recall the story, snippets falling into place as I read down through the news clippings. She’d been dumped outside the same hospital that Dan Jones is now lying in. Scrolling down further, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow as the name of Detective Superintendent Gordon Bailey appears. One of his cases before I joined his team, it would seem.

  By the time the tannoy announces we’re approaching Kettering station, I’ve scribbled down a couple of pages’ worth of observations in my notebook, as if this were some investigation. I always did find train journeys dull, but there’s something else about the Church of the Coming Light that I find fascinating. It would be useful to speak to the reporter who worked on the story, but the name on the byline surprises me. I’d always thought Jonathan Stokes was a born gutter hack, but apparently he’s won awards for his investigative journalism in the past, and worked for some of the more reputable broadsheets. Something must have happened for him to fall so far, but I’m not about to ask him. For one thing, I’d rather have root canal surgery without anaesthetic than talk to the man. For another, the train’s arrived at the station and it’s time to get off.

  Aunt Felicity meets me on the other side of the ticket barrier, her welcoming smile turning to a frown as I approach.

  ‘What?’ I ask, after a somewhat less awkward embrace than the one I had from Karen Eve earlier.

  ‘You’ve got that look on your face, Con dear. Something’s bothering you.’

  I almost show her the leaflet, come right out and ask her who my mother’s new religious friend is. Something stops me though. Talking about family always leads to unnecessary tension.

  ‘Nothing. Just checking there aren’t any paparazzi hiding in the car park.’

  ‘In Kettering? I doubt it very much.’ Aunt Flick laughs, and the moment passes. We talk of inconsequential things all the way back to Harston Magna and Folds Cottage, skirting around the reason I’m back so soon after leaving. It’s not until we’re in the kitchen, a pot of tea brewing and some freshly-baked biscuits filling the room with their delicious aroma, that I feel I can say what’s been on my mind since I spoke to Charlotte in the pub the night her father died.

  ‘I’m going to stay away. From the wedding. It’s for the best. It’s their big day, and I’d only ruin it for them.’

  If I’d been hoping for any protest from my aunt, it doesn’t come. For a while she says nothing at all, and I listen to the ticking clock in the kitchen. Studying her face gives me nothing, but then she always used to beat me at cards, too.

  ‘You’re right. It’s a shame though. Ben will be very upset not to have his big sister there when he makes his vows.’ She reaches out a hand more withered than I remember and places it over my own. Aunt Felicity’s smile is warm and genuine, but tired. How much of the wedding has she been organising herself? I can’t imagine my parents being much use, especially if Ben told my mother where to shove her pastor. And Charlotte’s mother is still a nervous wreck, although no doubt her husband’s death will have cheered her up a bit.

  ‘I’ll make it up to him somehow.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, dear. But what are you going to do in the meantime? I take it they’ve not given you your job back yet.’

  The way she says it, I know it’s not a question. It brings to mind Diane Shepherd’s words, and DCI Bain’s. I’ll never be able to work undercover again, that’s for sure. Too many people know who I am. Too many of the wrong kind of people.

  ‘I’m going to have to go away again. Hide out for a bit.’ I know I’d accepted it was necessary, but it hurts to say it out loud. Aunt Felicity gives my hand another reassuring pat, then starts pouring the tea.

  ‘Will you go back to Newmore? I’m sure Mrs Robertson would be pleased to have some company. That cat of yours, too.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. Not now the press are making a story out of the family. That’s why I can’t come to the wedding either. The paparazzi will just ruin it for everyone if I’m there.’

  ‘They’ll probably do their best even without you. Charlotte’s not exactly off their radar. I think that’s why Ben’s gone abroad for a
while, just to get away from them.’ She picks up the plate and offers me a biscuit. ‘So if not Newmore, where will you go?’

  ‘Thought I might visit Edinburgh. It’s been a few years since I went back there.’

  ‘Edinburgh? Of course. What a brilliant idea. And you can stay with Rose. She’d love to have you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Rose . . . Yes.’ I remember the strange friend of my aunt who was staying at Newmore when I fled there last summer. What did the card say? Antiquarian Books, Occult Curios. I get the feeling there’s a lot more to him – her, I remind myself – than that.

  ‘I was going to stay in a B & B.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ll stay with Rose. I’ll give her a call while you’re out.’

  ‘Out?’ I was just about to bite into a biscuit, but now I put it back down on the plate. ‘Why would I go out? Where would I go out?’

  Aunt Felicity smiles at me in a way that reminds me of earlier times I’ve sat at this table, drinking tea and eating home-made biscuits, asking stupid questions. She has that schoolmistress expression of patience in the face of extreme foolishness.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Con dear. I quite understand you not going to your brother’s wedding. In the circumstances I’d probably do the same. But I’m not the one who has to be told. And neither is your father. No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to swallow your pride and go tell your mother.’

  18

  The last time I walked through the woods behind Folds Cottage, I was abducted by two ex-special forces goons and taken down to London against my will, all on the orders of the father of the woman my brother is about to marry. Before that, the trees had been my childhood playground, the undergrowth a tangle of rhododendron bushes whose hollowed-out insides formed cavernous halls far more inviting than the one I lived in. Ben and I would spend hours in here, playing the sort of games my mother would most certainly deem unsuitable for young ladies. And then we’d be called home and scolded for our muddy knees and dirtied clothes. Or at least, I would be scolded. Ben usually got off more lightly.