Finding Secrets

by Westwood, Lauren

  ‘No. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘Take her to the car,’ the DI says.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, standing my ground. ‘There’s obviously some mistake. I’m the manager here. Someone locked me in the loo.’

  ‘We had a call from a Catherine Fairchild – the owner of this house – that an intruder had broken in. Are you Catherine Fairchild?’

  ‘No, of course not. She’s not here.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. But—’

  ‘Turn around against the wall, please, and put your hands behind your back.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I blink.

  ‘We’re taking you to the station under caution for trespass.’ One of the armed men steps forward and forcibly turns me to the wall. I turn to the side and see the officer take out out a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘Wait!’ I panic. ‘You don’t need those.’

  ‘Take her to the car.’

  ‘But – I live here!’ I make a last ditch plea to stop this nonsense.

  The detective raises an eyebrow. ‘Is this your driving licence?’ He holds up what, from the photo, is obviously my driving licence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your residence is Ivy Cottage, Abbots Langley?’

  ‘No. I mean, that’s my parents’ house.’ I’ve been meaning to change my address with DVLA. But I’ve never managed to get around to it.

  ‘Yeah right,’ the DI snorts. ‘Take her to the car,’ he repeats. ‘And you,’ he points to one of the armed men, ‘search the house. Find this Catherine Fairchild and make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘But she’s not here! I mean – I could call her…’ I exhale in futility. ‘Except, she doesn’t have a mobile, and I’m not exactly sure where she is.’

  DI Whoever silences me with a look and a tsk. Feeling once again like a common criminal, I hang my head and allow myself to be escorted out to the waiting police car.

  - Chapter 9 -

  I can’t believe this is really happening. From the back of a police car, the familiar world that blurs by outside the window looks hostile and forbidding. I’ve done nothing wrong – why can’t they just accept that? My skin crawls like eyes are peering at me through twitching curtains as we drive through the village. At least they haven’t put the siren back on.

  The nearest police station is in Aylesbury. When we arrive, the officer ushers me in through the back door, and down a grey corridor towards an imposing wooden desk. I feel like Josef K in Kafka’s The Trial, arrested without knowing why. Except, I do know why – someone framed me. Why they’d do that is the part that’s puzzling.

  The officer escorts me to the duty sergeant who takes my details and confiscates my mobile.

  ‘I’d like to make a phone call,’ I say. ‘I’m entitled to that, right?’

  The sergeant shrugs and passes me back my mobile. My hand is shaking as I scroll through my contacts. I wish I knew who Mrs Fairchild is staying with so I could ring her and sort it out – but I don’t. I scroll down, pausing at Karen’s number – she’s a vicar of the Church of England. Her voice will carry sway. But she lives in Essex – too far to come to bail me out. I scroll past Karen until I find Edith’s number. She’ll back me up – and maybe her boyfriend can put an end to this ridiculous nonsense. I ring Edith’s mobile but it goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message. The duty sergeant smiles smugly, and holds out his hand for my phone. I relinquish it, the reality of my situation beginning to hit home.

  A female officer comes and escorts me to an interview room. She gives me a quick pat-down, and immediately finds the velvet bag with the jewelled locket.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I raise my chin indignantly. ‘It’s part of the costume exhibition I’m curating at Mallow Court in conjunction with the V&A.’ If I’m hoping that will put her in her place, I’m dead wrong.

  ‘What’s it doing in your pocket, then?’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of a long story—’

  She cuts me off with a raised hand. ‘Save it.’ She puts the locket in a plastic evidence bag, tossing it in the tray along with my mobile and handbag. ‘Someone will be in to take your statement shortly.’ She points to a moulded plastic chair on one side of a table. ‘Sit.’

  I sit. The female officer goes out with my things and returns a few minutes later with a Styrofoam cup of coffee I didn’t ask for. She sets it on the table in front of me and leaves again. I take a sip of the coffee and begin to sputter – it’s lukewarm and bitter, and I have to choke it down. With a sigh, I push the cup away and settle in for the long haul.

  The room is tiny and painted a soul-crushing shade of grey-green. The table has a Formica top, the chair is hard and upright. On one wall is a large ‘window’ that lets in no light or air, but hides anyone on the other side who might be watching. I’m fairly sure no one is watching me – the station seems too short-staffed for anyone to take an interest in a lowly loo-breaker like me. Still, the fact that it’s there, just like in TV crime dramas, makes me uneasy.

  I get up, do two laps of the room and sit back down again. The minutes tick by – or maybe it’s hours. They’ve taken my phone and I don’t have my watch. Clearly it’s some kind of plan to break me down. And that’s fine – I’m ready to break. Anything to get out of here. But no one comes.

  To pass the time, I think of how many other people have sat in this room, some deserved, some, like me, under unfortunate but false pretences. How many hours, days, weeks and years of productive human time have been sucked away into these depressing walls? How many cups of undrinkable coffee forced down, how many environmentally unfriendly Styrofoam cups tossed out? How many endless, pointless thoughts, self-debates and ‘if onlys’ generated?

  I stare at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, my hands, when suddenly, outside of time, the door handle clicks. I’m half-expecting a man in a trench coat and Homburg hat, come to inject me with sodium pentathol, or maybe a sadistic vicar here to read me my last rites. At the very least, a bored-looking policeman with thinning hair and a thickening waistline, come to tell me that, unfortunately, his boss has been held up in traffic, and hopefully I don’t ‘mind’ waiting a little longer.

  Instead, I stare up at eyes that are as dark and brown as melted chocolate. Eyes that I recognise from the back of a tour of elderly Americans. They disturbed and intrigued me then, and now, I want to stand up and take a running swan dive into them.

  ‘Ms Hart,’ he says in the same sonorous voice that enquired about the origin of the ‘knicker fortune’. ‘I’m sorry there’s been this mistake. I’ve spoken to DI Anderson, and you’re free to go.’

  I stand up, feeling limp and gooey, and generally disorientated. The fear that I’ve been holding inside rushes through my body like a passing fast train.

  Thank you so much! I want to blurt out. But I take a deep breath and manage to compose myself. ‘It’s about time,’ I say. My eyes meld with his as I point to the cup on the table. ‘One more sip of that stuff and I’d have grounds to sue for police brutality.’

  He laughs. ‘Shame they let you go, then. I’d definitely have taken your case.’

  He stands at the door and I walk past him out into the piss-yellow corridor. I’m aware of him watching me as I pause and look in both directions, unsure which way leads to the quickest exit.

  ‘It’s this way.’ He points to my right. His hand is inches from mine, and I can feel a burning sensation in my skin at his nearness. And as eager as I am to leave before anyone can change their mind and throw me in a cell, I can’t let this chance slip away.

  ‘Who are you?’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, rude of me. I’m Timothy Edwards, call me Tim.’ He holds out his hand. I put my hands on my hips.

  ‘Okay, Tim,’ I grill, ‘and how do you happen to be here?’

  Two officers turn down the corridor. He leans close enough to me that his breath tickles my hair. ‘Happy to tell you everything. But can I buy you a r
eal coffee?’

  ‘A coffee would be nice.’

  ‘Great. I know a little place just around the corner.’

  - Chapter 10 -

  I collect my mobile, my handbag, and the plastic bag with the locket, drawing a smirk from the sergeant and a scowl from the female officer. I resist the urge to tell them where to go, and follow my rescuer out of the station and into the street. He takes me to a chippie slash kebab shop round the corner that, from the look of the teenage hoodies occupying many of the tables, seems to be doing a rollicking post-arrest trade.

  He buys us each a coffee and we sit down at a table by the window.

  ‘Thanks for helping me,’ I say, taking a long drink that warms my whole body. ‘Sorry if I sounded ungrateful before.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Ms Hart.’ His eyes hold a twinkle of amusement.

  ‘Please, call me Alex.’

  ‘Alex.’ He smiles. ‘Seriously, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was there to visit a client – a repeat offender, I’m afraid.’ He spreads his hands apologetically. ‘I’m a barrister. I’d just finished with my client when I walked down the corridor and spotted you in the interview room. Of course, I recognised you…’ he stares at me and I blush. ‘So I asked the sergeant why you were there. He told me, and I set him straight – I said I’d taken a delightful tour of your stately home and that you were no intruder.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m not sure exactly what happened. But I do know that I was set up.’ I tell him about someone locking me in the loo and the anonymous call to the police from a ‘Catherine Fairchild’.

  He raises a startled eyebrow. ‘Someone actually locked you in? Did they take anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But they left something behind.’ I tell him about the envelope addressed to ‘Catherine Bolton’ left on top of my handbag. ‘It must be from someone from her past,’ I say. ‘Bolton is her maiden name.’

  ‘How bizarre,’ he says. ‘Really, you probably need to get the police around to check the house.’

  ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Not after what I’ve just been through. I’ll follow up with the security company. They’re getting paid to sort things out.’

  I finish my coffee and Tim gets up and procures me a refill. I watch him, admiring his tall frame, smart suit and neatly cut hair. ‘Do you live around here?’ I ask him when he returns.

  ‘Actually, no. I live in London. I do most of my work at the Crown Court. So it really was a lucky coincidence that I was here.’

  ‘Lucky for me, that’s for sure.’ I take a ladylike sip of my coffee. ‘And what about the tour of the house that you were on? Why did you ask those questions about Frank Bolton?’

  ‘Ah, so you remember me?’ His face takes on the look of a satisfied cat.

  ‘Of course I do.’ I return his smile. I’m unused to flirting, but with him, it seems to come easily. ‘And I certainly remember if anyone asks me questions I can’t answer.’

  ‘You did all right, if I remember correctly. “There were lots of opportunities available after the war for an ambitious young man”,’ he quotes. ‘It certainly impressed the Americans. It’s always nice to hear about a “self-made man” who came from nowhere and eventually managed to buy a stately home. It gives hope to the rest of us who aren’t “to the manor born”.’

  ‘Like me too, then.’

  He gives me a look of mock-surprise. ‘Surely not. You’re so well-spoken. Like a true Lady of the Manor. I’ve been trying to place your accent – is it Oxford or Cambridge?’

  ‘Okay – I admit, it’s Oxford,’ I say, feeling a little defensive. ‘I did my degree there.’

  ‘I knew it must be one of the two – as you’re working in that fancy house and all.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘No? So you didn’t grow up eating your baby mush from a silver spoon?’ It’s clearly meant to be a joke, but I don’t laugh.

  ‘I grew up in a semi in Hertfordshire. Mum’s an accountant in Hemel Hempstead. Dad’s a yoga instructor.’

  ‘Really? What kind?’

  ‘Hatha,’ I reply automatically. Everyone tends to ask this, though few people know the difference.

  ‘And do you partake in the “flexible arts”?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘My idea of chilling out is a glass of wine and a book. Not that I get much free time. I like my job, so I work a lot.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He leans forward. ‘Sounds like you don’t get out much.’

  ‘So I’m told. But is that really so bad?’

  ‘No.’ His dark eyes smoulder. ‘Some of my favourite activities involve staying in.’

  Before I can process the frisson between us, the moment is spoiled by the ringing of his mobile phone. He takes it out of his pocket, looking annoyed. I don’t mean to overhear, but I can tell it’s a woman, her voice sounding croaky and frantic.

  ‘Yes, okay,’ he says. ‘I said I’d come by tonight, and I will.’ He checks his watch. ‘I’m leaving now. Watch Newsnight till I get there.’

  There’s more haranguing and a few seconds later, he hangs up, looking sheepish.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s my gran. She’s been having nightmares lately. Duty calls.’

  ‘Of course. No worries.’ I feel absurdly relieved that the caller wasn’t a wife or girlfriend.

  He takes a final sip of his coffee and stands up. ‘Let me drop you home on my way.’

  ‘It’s not necessary. I can get a taxi.’

  ‘Really, Alex. I’d feel better if I knew you were safe.’

  I smile when he says my name. ‘Okay, then.’

  We leave the chippie together and walk a few blocks to his car – a swish-looking silver BMW.

  I get in and he drives off – quite fast, in my opinion. Fifteen minutes later, we drive through the gates, just as a car from the security company is pulling out. Tim stops and I roll down the window. ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask the man in the car.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ve checked the house and reset the alarm. I’ll send someone round first thing tomorrow to speak with you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  Tim drives on down the tree-lined avenue, and eventually pulls up in front of Mallow Court. The house is dark, the silhouette of the roofline jagged and forbidding. I direct him through the gate around the side that leads to the coach house.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ His forehead creases with concern.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Inside, I’m warring with myself – part of me wants him to come in – have a drink; see what happens. Another part of me is relieved that he’s due at his gran’s.

  ‘Here.’ He takes a business card from his pocket. ‘Go to your flat and then give me a call. I’ll wait here until I get the all-clear.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘And Alex, I’d love to have your number too. We can go out for a proper drink – or maybe dinner in London?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’ Anticipation at the prospect fizzes in my chest.

  I type my number into his mobile contacts, then and go inside the coach house and up to my flat. Nothing is out of order. I phone and let him know, watching as the tail lights of his car disappear down the drive. Then I go to the kitchen and pour myself an extra big glass of red wine, contemplating how my ordeal might have a happy ending after all. Karen would be proud of me, I muse. I consider ringing her, but decide that just for tonight, I’ll keep my newfound plans for ‘getting out more’ under my hat.

  *

  I spend the next day dealing with the fallout from my bizarre experience. First, I do a walkthrough of the main house to see if I can spot anything missing. There’s nothing obvious. However, when I check the voicemail on the office phone, I’m relieved to find that there’s a message from Mrs Fairchild, apologizing for ‘forgetting’ to tell me that she was going away, and saying that she’ll be back tomorrow. The message ends without her lea
ving a number. I pick up the envelope addressed to ‘Catherine Bolton’ that was left on top of my handbag and hold it up to the light. It’s made of thick paper and I can’t see through it. I’m tempted to open it – by locking me in the loo, someone has made it my business too. But just then the security people arrive for a debriefing and I leave the letter on Mrs Fairchild’s writing desk.

  The security people double check the house and once again find nothing. I remain hopeful that it was a one-off incident, maybe a prank, though I still have no idea who would do such a thing, or why. To be on the safe-side, I have the security team install some cameras that will hopefully deter any after-hours shenanigans.

  I gather the staff together and stress the need to keep their eyes open for anything suspicious, until I figure out what’s going on.

  ‘Gosh, Alex, I feel terrible that I left you alone last night,’ Edith says.

  ‘You couldn’t have known,’ I reassure her. ‘It was a freak thing.’

  ‘I wonder if it was the man I saw earlier.’

  ‘Is there anything else you remember about him?’

  ‘Not really.’ She laughs awkwardly. ‘It’s like now that I’m with Paul, I don’t really notice other men.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say. Unhelpful, but nice.

  ‘And what about Mrs Fairchild?’ Edith asks. ‘You say someone phoned up the police pretending to be her?’

  ‘That’s what I was told. She left a message this morning – just saying she’ll be back tomorrow. At least we know she’s well.’

  ‘What do we tell her?’

  This is something I’ve puzzled over. ‘I’ll let her know that that someone was snooping around. And to be on her guard. But I think she’ll be safe. Whoever it was probably took advantage of the fact that she was away.’

  ‘So it was planned, then?’ Edith’s voice holds a note of fear.

  ‘I guess so. But the security team has checked everything now. We’ve taken action.’

  ‘I could get Paul to come around.’

  ‘No police,’ I say firmly. ‘Not until I talk to Mrs Fairchild.’ I decide not to tell Edith about the envelope that was left by the intruder. ‘Let’s keep this under wraps for now.’