Something Hidden (32 page)

Steyn stared open-mouthed at Andrew for a moment, before spinning on his heels, almost treading on a pigeon. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Sit
down
, Mr Steyn.’ Andrew glared at him, refusing to let him go, in the way Keira’s father had to him. In the way Braithwaite could. Steyn was so confused that he
turned in a circle, before focusing back on Andrew and lowering himself onto the bench.

‘The owner of Sampson’s is, perhaps unsurprisingly, named Sampson – Leyton Sampson,’ Andrew continued. ‘He seems very talented. He was telling me and my friend all
about the repairs he can do, plus he seemed very proud of the fact that he has people mining diamonds directly for him in Botswana. I checked and that’s an extremely uncommon thing to happen.
Usually, there are middlemen, wholesalers, more middlemen, you name it. It’s like any business – lots of people in a line chip, chip, chipping away at the profits. It sounds like
he’s onto a really good thing – he can undercut his rivals, make more money in the process,
and
provide higher-quality jewels to his customers. It’s incredible and so easy
to take at face value. Someone says “Botswana” and you almost blank it out. It’s just a country somewhere else in the world. Africa? Asia? Maybe South America? Somewhere foreign
and they mine diamonds. Amazing. I wonder if anyone has ever thought to question it.’

Steyn rubbed his shoe along the gritted path, making the remaining pigeons strut towards the bushes or flutter away into the skies. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me
this.’

‘I’m pretty good on a computer but my friend, well, she’s something special. It’s natural to her. Sometimes I wonder if she can type faster than I can think. We were
looking into Botswana together and what becomes really clear is that you can’t do much out there unless you know the language. It’s tucked away in southern Africa, wedged between
Namibia and Zimbabwe, this huge place. It’s more than twice the size of the UK, but with only two million people living there. There are four times more people than that in London alone. If
you put Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham together, that’s your two million people.’

Steyn was perched on the tip of the bench, hands pressed together as if praying.

‘So there’s this enormous country,’ Andrew continued, ‘where the official language is supposed to be English, yet four out of five people speak Setswana. I’ve never
heard of that but it’s easy enough to look up. It’s a regional dialect related to the Bantu family of languages, something else I’d never heard of. It’s interesting what you
can find out on the Internet, though – when you get past the pornography, there’s all sorts. For instance, when I was on the university’s website, it lists every member of staff,
including research fellows, like your good self. Guess what I found under your entry?’

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘I do, because it’s important you understand exactly why I’m here. Under your interests and specialities, it says that, having grown up in South Africa, you speak a dozen
languages, including many dialects of Bantu. That left me wondering, what if Sampson’s contact isn’t some bloke in Botswana on the end of a crackly phone line, what if he’s a few
hundred metres down the road in a warm university office?’

Steyn stood again, this time turning his back. Andrew watched him take a step and then there was fury raging through him: Iwan patting him on the head; that runt Kevin Leonard taking Gem’s
money and nearly burning her flat down; his former father-in-law ending any hope he had with Keira, even though he’d eventually told her the truth. Too many people were willing to trample on
him but he’d made a pledge to a young girl that he was going to keep. He lunged forward, grabbing the scruff of Steyn’s shirt, wrenching him downwards and slamming him back onto the
bench.

‘You’re going to sit still and listen to me!’

Steyn tried to stand again but Andrew shoved him hard in the chest, looming over him.

‘
Sit still
.’

‘I’ll shout for help.’

‘Do that. Shout and shout until the police turn up. Let’s see what they have to say.’ Steyn glared at him, so Andrew leant in closer. ‘Do it!’

Steyn started coughing, making Andrew step back. He fumbled in his pockets, pulling out a small orange tub and unscrewing the lid before popping a white pill into his mouth. He was shaking,
flapping a pudgy arm but not making contact.

Andrew sat next to him again, twisting to face the professor, who was loosening his collar.

‘You can’t keep me here,’ Steyn said.

‘So walk away. I’ll head down the road to Longsight police station and have a word with a friend of mine.’

Steyn was out of breath, rubbing his elbow from where Andrew had pushed him down. ‘Fine. I’m listening.’

‘You’re on the site as a senior clinical research fellow and it lists the projects you’ve been involved with, including that you recently headed a study into post-traumatic
stress disorder. It’s quite hard to find out anything more about that as you haven’t published yet, but I wonder if the name “Luke Methodist” is buried in there somewhere as
someone you met. He told his street friends he was looking for help from someone but the medical records are confidential. Then there’s the fact that you do a little bit of work away from
social sciences, teaching an African Studies module on the side. Bit of extra money, I guess, multi-talented gentleman like yourself. With your background, there’s probably no one better. Of
course, that means you already knew Wendy Boyes before you saw her dead body – she did her first-year elective with you. I wonder if you told the police that.’

Steyn’s wriggle and coat-fiddling gave Andrew the answer he already suspected.

‘That Saturday afternoon, when Sampson’s shop was robbed, he either called you in a panic, or he came to see you. He said he’d come up with a plan to make some quick insurance
money but it had gone wrong because the idiots he was working with had stolen the wrong thing. Perhaps you owed him money or a favour? Either way, he wanted you to sort it. You were a lecturer and
these two kids had witnessed the robbery in his shop and were now all over the news blabbing about it. Sooner or later, one of them would work out the wrong thing had been taken. What he
didn’t realise was that you already knew Wendy, the pretty girl with the wavy black hair who’d been in your module. She’d probably laughed a few times, chatted to her friends,
perhaps come to ask you a question or two after the workshops. She’d stuck in your mind.’

Steyn popped another pill from his pocket, shaking his head furiously.

‘Something had to be done quickly. Everyone’s email address and phone number is stored on the internal university database, but that would have left a trail if you’d contacted
Wendy from your own phone or email. One way or another, you went to her, asking to meet her and her fiancé, saying you’d seen them on TV. You could have said anything. You wanted their help
for a project? Something like that. Meanwhile, you contacted Luke Methodist too – and arranged for everyone to be in the same place at once.’

Andrew paused for breath, to compose himself, to try to lose the edge of fury that was engulfing him. ‘
You
might have shot them all but maybe it
was
Luke who was disturbed
and lost it for whatever reason. Maybe it was his Browning, or maybe it was one bought in a pub. We’ll probably never know. Regardless, it
was
you who arranged it. You then
contaminated the scene: an anguished onlooker, who couldn’t control his stomach. “He shot them both” became fact. What was there to check? And why would people bother when it was
so obvious? Then the Evans brothers were arrested and everyone assumed they’d organised it anyway.’

Steyn stood again and Andrew let him. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

‘So I can go to the police and ask their opinion, then?’

‘What is it you want? Money? Are you trying to blackmail me?’

‘I’ve already taken go-away money once. Never again.’

‘What then? If you were going to the police, you’d already be there, not harassing me on a park bench while I eat my sandwiches.’

Andrew stood, brushing down his front and pulling up his trousers. He’d lost weight, which was hard to do when spending time with Jenny.

‘I just want you to know that
I
know.’

‘So what?’ Steyn turned to leave but then twisted back. ‘Perhaps you should ask yourself one thing, Mr Hunter.
Andrew
Hunter. If this jeweller is as powerful and corrupt
as you think, if I’m capable of everything you say, if we can pull all of this off underneath the noses of those around us, what makes you think you’re untouchable?’

Andrew put his hands in his pockets, ready to head in the opposite direction. He couldn’t force a smile. ‘Because, Professor Steyn, you can’t harm a man who’s already
made a deal with the devil.’

With the slush fest of Valentine’s Day out of the way, spring was coming early to Manchester. Sort of. A lone daffodil had sprouted on the edge of a flowerbed, not far
from a fountain that wasn’t working. It was an obvious hard-ass, showing off to its mates that not even the February chill was enough to scare it. Snow? Bring it on. Frost? A big girl’s
blouse.

Andrew had his own handful of flowers, some sort of orange and white lilies which Jenny shrugged at, saying they looked ‘flowery’. Her level of botanical expertise was up there with
his.

Fiona Methodist had been silently standing next to him but now she crouched until she was on her knees and then sat on the dewy grass with her legs outstretched, resting her back against a thick
stone slab.

‘Is it wet?’ Andrew asked.

Fiona was all pointy elbows and knees again, her dark hair bundled underneath the same purple bobble hat she’d been wearing when they first met. ‘What do you think?’

‘Will you at least take my coat?’

‘What will you wear?’

Andrew slipped out of his thick woollen coat and handed it over. ‘I’ve got a jumper on, I’ll live. You look like you’re going to freeze.’

For a moment, he thought she was going to argue, but then she took it, slipping her slender arms inside, without removing her own thin jacket. She pulled it tightly closed and breathed out.
There was no plume of steam: spring really was on the way!

Andrew nodded, indicating the cemetery around them. ‘How often do you come here?’ He rubbed his hands together, not wanting to admit he was chilly.

‘A few times a week. It depends on the weather. There’s not much you can do when it’s lashing down, which is most days.’

‘How have you been?’

‘All right. I got taken on by an employment agency. They know my last name but none of the clients do. When I go to a new place, I tell them I’m Fiona and everyone gets on with it.
The girl at the agency has a dad in the army. She sort of knows what it’s like, not completely, but . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘It’s not much money but it’s better than nothing. I’m still in that flat but if I can keep getting work, then I might be able to find somewhere else.’

‘Good for you.’

She tugged her hat down a little further and then dug her hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘You’ll think I’m weird, but I like it here. It’s really
peaceful.’

Andrew stood still, listening. He didn’t spend a lot of time in graveyards but couldn’t argue. Aside from a dog barking somewhere in the distance, a gentle breeze, and the faint
sound of cars, there was nothing except their voices.

‘The police told me this is what Dad’s grave had to be like,’ she whispered, her words almost lost to the rustle of the trees.

Andrew stared down towards where she was resting her head, a completely blank gravestone that looked as if it was there holding the spot for when somebody important passed away. Everybody who
died was important to somebody, of course, even a person who killed an innocent young couple.

‘They said people would desecrate it,’ she added. ‘It was either have him buried in a different area of the country, have him cremated, or this. I didn’t like the idea of
burning the body, it seems so . . .
final
.’

Andrew let the moment hang before telling her why he’d called. ‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Fiona.’

She didn’t move her head from the stone, but she did close her eyes, breathing in through her nose. ‘It wasn’t him.’

‘I wish I could tell you for sure that’s true but I can’t.’

She turned to face him, peering straight up, showing the whites of her eyes. ‘
I
know he didn’t shoot them.’

Andrew pointed to the spot on the ground next to her. ‘May I?’

She nodded, so he slipped onto the grass beside her, resting his back against the empty headstone. He had no idea what the etiquette in this type of situation was supposed to be but if it was
good enough for Luke’s daughter, then it was good enough for him. The dew on the grass soaked straight through his trousers but he ignored it, listening to the silence.

‘I’m never going to be able to tell you whether your father shot Owen and Wendy. He might have done, but, even if he did, it was because he was under pressure from somebody
else.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t tell you that. You wouldn’t know the person anyway. I wish there was a way I could let the world know but it’s not going to happen.’

‘I’d like to know.’

They sat in silence for a few moments. Andrew gazed towards the horizon, where Beetham Tower soared into the sky. Somewhere near the top was the apartment he’d bought with his go-away
money. He’d not heard from Keira since she’d stormed out of there on Valentine’s night, but neither had he heard from her father. Was that the last of the Chapman family? Or would
Edgar take his revenge at some point when Andrew wasn’t expecting it? For now, all he could do was continue with his life.

‘Would you like to know a secret?’ he asked.

‘About my dad?’

‘About me.’

‘Oh . . . okay.’

‘Everybody tells you that hate is a negative emotion, that it builds within you and makes you do horrible things. I’ve hated someone for the past nine years, longer than that,
really. I’ve loved this girl for what feels like my entire life and her dad hasn’t just pulled us apart once, he’s done it twice – just because he could. Some of it was my
fault and I know I made mistakes – but I also know that if he wasn’t there, then we’d be together now.’