Something Hidden (18 page)

‘I’m looking into the deaths of Owen Copthorne, Wendy Boyes and Luke Methodist.’

Braithwaite licked his lips, smiling slightly. ‘Don’t we have police for that sort of thing? If you’re looking for a proper job, I’m sure I can find something for you to
do.’

‘Everyone assumes Owen and Wendy were killed by Luke on behalf of the Evans brothers because they wanted to get rid of witnesses after the jewellery robbery.’

‘I’d read something to that effect.’

‘The Evans brothers used to work for you and there are whispers that you were linked to the robbery too . . .’

Andrew let it hang as Braithwaite smiled thinly. He stared out towards the empty garden, leaving them in silence for all but the steady drumming of the rain. Andrew didn’t know how long
passed. It might have been a few seconds but it felt a lot longer.

Braithwaite eventually replied without looking at Andrew. ‘You can’t expect me to be responsible for everything my current or former employees might choose to do. I offer livelihoods
to thousands of people.’

‘I’ve heard all sorts of rumours since I started asking questions. People talking about the type of business you might be running alongside the importing. I’m not interested in
any of that, I’m bothered about people.’

There was a scratching sound from behind, with Andrew turning to see an orange cat slinking along the gap from the conservatory to the house. He did a double-take, cricking his neck to check the
black stripes and spots. It looked like a mini leopard. He had to force himself to blink away from it.

Braithwaite leant forward and took the final triangle of toast from the table, biting off the corner and chewing with his mouth closed.

‘Rumours are dangerous things to listen to, Mr Hunter.’

‘I completely agree – which is why I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone to listen to the whispers that you could possibly be associated with the deaths of an innocent young
couple. Two kids in love with their entire lives ahead of them.’

Braithwaite paused before speaking, choosing his words carefully. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I don’t think the Evans brothers got Luke Methodist to shoot anyone. I don’t think the eldest one even knew him – so if it’s nothing to do with them, then
it’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Why should I care what you think?’

‘Because it isn’t just me. All those little insinuations and assumptions will go away if I can find out what really happened. All your friends in the police who keep coming after you
might think differently.’

A grin cracked across Braithwaite’s face. ‘You’re a great philanthropist looking to do me a favour?’

‘Actually, it’s nothing to do with you. There are other people I want to find the truth out for. You just happen to be a part of it.’

Braithwaite finished the slice of toast and wiped his hands over the plate, before dabbing his lips with a thick embroidered napkin.

‘Oh, Mr Hunter, you’ve put yourself on such thin ice. Why would you do that?’

He dropped his hand down as the cat approached, slinking between the legs of his chair and nuzzling his fingers. At the back of the conservatory, a second cat was padding around, staring up at
the rain-soaked windows. Andrew didn’t want to appear too interested but they definitely looked like Bengals with their distinctive mix of dark spots and stripes against the gingery-orange
fur. Andrew took a risk, holding his own hand down until the second cat sloped across the floor looking for food. It drifted past his hand as he ran his thumb across the back of its neck, feeling
the chip underneath.

Could they be Margaret Watkins’? They could’ve had the old chips removed and new ones inserted and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility, even if it would be an enormous
coincidence.

Braithwaite watched the cat sniff at Andrew’s fingers before heading off to the far side of the conservatory.

‘Are you a cat person, Mr Hunter?’

‘Not really.’

‘Fascinating creatures: such independent thinkers.’

Andrew left the silence hanging, though it didn’t have the same gravitas as when Braithwaite did it.

‘Do you have a daughter?’ Andrew eventually asked, already knowing the answer. Even if he didn’t, the stables would have given him a clue: not many teenage boys were interested
in horses.

Braithwaite’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think you should leave.’

‘Luke Methodist has a daughter. She has to live with everyone saying her father’s a murderer. He probably is – but all I’m trying to do is find the truth for
her.’

Silence except for the rain. Andrew watched Braithwaite, who was staring out of the window, stroking his beard. He looked furious, knuckles white with tension.

‘It’s all about reputations,’ Andrew added. ‘And not just that of Luke’s daughter.’

From nowhere, Iwan appeared in the doorway between conservatory and house. He stood tall, bobbing on the backs of his heels. Andrew had no idea if there was some sort of secret button, or if
he’d been listening in, but his timing was dangerously impeccable.

Braithwaite spun in his seat, smiling gently at Iwan, before offering a small nod in Andrew’s direction. Before Andrew could move, the giant of a man had taken two steps forward, cracking
his knuckles and breaking into a grin.

Andrew tried to stand but the seat slipped on the tiled floor, making him stumble forward. He caught himself on the edge of the table but Iwan was barely a metre from him, the
pops from his knuckles echoing over the rain.

‘Iwan,’ Braithwaite said calmly.

The brute stopped where he was. ‘Sir?’

‘Grow up.’

Iwan stepped back, confused. He stared from Andrew to his boss. ‘Sorry, Sir.’

Braithwaite rolled his eyes. ‘I want you to tell Mr Hunter all about Mr Brasso. Okay?’

There was a momentary pause. ‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘No.’

Braithwaite turned to Andrew, lips pressed together. ‘You’re either incredibly brave or really, really stupid to involve yourself in something you needn’t. I very much hope you
know what you’re doing. There’s an order to things, checks and balances; if that begins to fall down, then what are we left with?’

Andrew couldn’t tell if he wanted an answer and didn’t really know what he was talking about. Braithwaite held him in his gaze for a few moments, before nodding towards Iwan
again.

‘That’ll be all.’

No smile, no goodbye; simply a solemn trudge through the rain along the driveway, half a step behind Iwan. Thunder Thighs didn’t seem bothered by the weather, not even ducking his head as
he sauntered across the paved area, slowing the further they went. Andrew wondered if the other man was egging him into overtaking but he didn’t anyway, staying in line and marching to the
beat.

Iwan used the device in his pocket to open and close the gates and then crossed the road, coming to a halt next to Andrew’s car. ‘It’s not going to drive itself.’

Andrew dripped his way into the driver’s seat, feeling the suspension drop and the car groan in protest as Iwan climbed into the passenger’s side. It felt like the vehicle was
tilting to the left.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Iwan growled.

‘I don’t know where you want me to go.’

‘Just drive.’

Andrew did as he was told, crawling away from the house, wondering what was going on. He checked his mirrors, wondering if he was being followed, though his only accompaniment was the
mid-morning rain.

‘You drive like an old woman,’ Iwan said.

‘I still don’t know where you want me to go.’

‘Stop being a girl.’

Andrew headed towards the motorway and the route back to Manchester, assuming he’d be told if he was going the wrong way. Iwan said nothing, spending around thirty per cent of his time
scratching his crotch and the other seventy tutting at Andrew’s driving. The car was feeling increasingly hard to manoeuvre, with Iwan’s bulk weighing it down. Andrew tried to come up
with things to say – ‘So when did you start being big?’, ‘What’s it like being a right-hand man?’, ‘Where do you get clothes to fit?’ – but he
didn’t think they would be appreciated.

He was about to cross the M60 ring road on the way back into Manchester when Iwan finally piped up: ‘Next left here.’

‘Left?’

‘Opposite of right. Are you thick?’

‘I understand the concept of left, it’s just that we’ve had such wall-to-wall chatter that I didn’t quite catch what you said.’

‘Funny.’

Andrew took the turn, sloping down a ramp towards a set of traffic lights. ‘Where now?’

‘Wherever.’

‘Are you the voice of my sat nav? I get similarly clear instructions from that.’

‘You should do stand-up – I’d bottle you off.’

Andrew turned right at the junction, glancing towards Iwan for a reaction he didn’t get. ‘So . . . is that an Irish accent you have? Or Scottish . . . ?’

‘Piss off.’

‘I’m terrible at things like that. I had a Brummie mate at university and spent a year thinking he was from Newcastle.’

No reply. Andrew was going for Scottish but with Irish parents. Or Irish with Scottish parents. Or Northern Irish! What did that accent sound like? Sort of Irish, but as if the speaker had
swallowed a cheese grater. Where a simple ‘hello’ came with an undertone suggesting that someone might find himself being kicked down a flight of stairs if he wasn’t careful.

‘Northern Irish?’ Andrew added.

‘Prick.’

‘I’ve been called that a lot recently.’

‘You must know some very observant people.’

‘Maybe
you
should do stand-up? I wouldn’t dare bottle you off, if that helps.’

‘Prick. Right here.’

‘Right?’

Finally a proper reaction. Iwan twisted in his seat to face Andrew. ‘Opposite of left.’

Andrew pressed on the brake a little too harshly, sending his passenger shooting forward until the seatbelt slammed him back into the seat with a clunk. Iwan grimaced as Andrew took the turn,
deliberately slowly. He could sense Iwan stewing, seething even. Braithwaite had told him to help Andrew out, so he wouldn’t risk anything stupid. If he wasn’t going to talk to him
properly, then winding him up might yank down the veil and give Andrew a glimpse of what was actually going on.

‘How’s business?’ Andrew asked.

‘Next left.’

Andrew reached forward and switched the radio on. ‘My sides are aching from all the witty banter,’ he said, fiddling with the buttons until it settled on the local station.

‘.
. . that was taking you all the way back to 1987 with “Love In The First Degree” by Bananarama. The follow-up track, “Love In The Second Degree”, didn’t
do quite so well . . .
’

The DJ laughed at his own joke, which was just as well as no one else was going to.

‘.
. . Coming up after the news and travel, Debbie Gibson is “Lost In Your Eyes”; watch out, ladies, because we have Genesis’ “Invisible Touch”; Rick
Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”; and Falco will be “Rocking”, er, “Me Amadeus” . . .
’

Iwan reached forward and used his giant thumb to punch the radio off, which elevated him in Andrew’s opinion.

‘Pull over,’ Iwan ordered.

Andrew did as he was told, wondering if Falco had pushed things a little too far. Either that, or Genesis. Who could possibly be offended by Rick Astley?

The rain had stopped, leaving the tarmac glistening in the murky grey, ready to freeze overnight. There was only one lane heading in each direction but the road was wide, with evenly spaced
skeletal trees scattered along either side and a smattering of houses.

Iwan leant back in his seat, facing forward. ‘Do you know what Brasso is?’

‘That stuff you use to polish trophies and jewellery?’

‘Aren’t you the clever one?’

‘I try.’

‘In certain professions, having things cleaned for you is a very useful thing.’ He waited for a reply, before adding: ‘Do you understand?’

Andrew knew exactly what he meant but wasn’t ready to let on. Sometimes, it was better to underplay your hand, make the other person spell things out.

‘Like with a launderette?’ he said.

Iwan didn’t laugh, didn’t even snigger. Andrew waited for him to say something else but he didn’t move at all and barely even breathed. Slowly, the windows were steaming
up.

‘I get it,’ Andrew replied eventually.

‘Sure?’

‘If I
found
a sack full of money, perhaps one that tumbled from the back of a lorry, I might need someone who can help me get the cash into a bank account where I can use it without
arousing suspicion.’

‘Watch a lot of TV, do you?’

Andrew didn’t reply.

Iwan nodded towards the house across the road from the car. Andrew had to wipe away the mist with his sleeve until he could pick out the tall hedges standing in front of the property beyond. It
wasn’t as large as Braithwaite’s but was impressive in a different way: six or seven bedrooms, two storeys, a large front garden and a sloping glass structure on the side that was
reflecting the shimmering blue of an indoor pool.

‘What do you think?’ Iwan asked.

‘I’ve seen worse places to live.’

‘Not too bad for someone who owns a simple jewellery store.’

‘Leyton Sampson?’

‘Mr Brasso.’

Cogs whirred. Andrew had already assumed a connection to Sampson, which was why he’d driven to see Braithwaite in the first place.

‘If Sampson serves a purpose in certain circles,’ Andrew said, ‘if he cleans up those sacks of money that fall off lorries for people, why would you tell me this?’

‘Not my decision.’

‘But you must have an idea.’

‘Mr Braithwaite doesn’t like it when people go off and do their own thing. He doesn’t like the rumours regarding the deaths of those kids and the links to people who used to
work for him. He’s very affected by things like that. He made a few inquiries about what might have happened but answers haven’t been easy to come by. If Mr Sampson – Mr Brasso
– has other interests away from those we know of, Mr Braithwaite would be very interested in finding out what they are.’