Something Hidden (6 page)

Jenny stopped reading from her screen, peering up to see if Andrew was watching her. He wanted to escape her gaze but it was too late.

Sometimes she didn’t know when to stop . . . ‘Weren’t you and Keira . . . ?’

‘More or less.’

Jenny’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, though didn’t say anything. Andrew had become engaged to his ex-wife when they’d been at the same university as Owen and Wendy
and were living barely a fifteen-minute walk from where the shootings had happened. Jenny usually said whatever was on her mind but she didn’t ask whether Andrew saw himself and Keira in Owen
and Wendy’s place. Whether that was why he’d told Fiona he’d look into things, even though he wouldn’t be paid.

‘What else do you know about them?’ Andrew asked.

Jenny held his eye for a moment longer before turning back to her computer. ‘They both had social media stuff all over the place, so I’ve been going through the archives of what they
posted. He had a degree in English Literature; hers ended up being in physical geography – but she flitted between courses in her first year. She was doing environmental science for a while
and then African Studies, or something like that. I’ve got some other stuff about friends and family, but—’

Andrew waved a hand to stop her.

‘Too much?’ Jenny asked.

‘It’s not that. Owen and Wendy’s family and friends have been through all sorts since it happened, plus we’re not supposed to be looking into them anyway –
it’s about Luke Methodist. We’re going to have to tread carefully with who we talk to. We’re going to have to take some things at face value from the reporting. It’s not how
I like to work but there aren’t many options.’

‘What are we going to do then?’

Andrew peered mournfully at the radiator. It had been a short yet satisfying relationship.

‘I’m going to have to go out again,’ he said. ‘You can enjoy the warm, keep going through their Internet trails and then, if you get bored, see what you can dig up on
Harriet Coleman.’

Jenny grinned. ‘The “bee-eye-tee-see-haitch”?’

‘Quite – she’s obviously got some sort of feud going on with Margaret Watkins over those bloody cats, so we’ll have to see if we can talk to her at some point.’ He
checked his watch. ‘Get through what you can and then go home. I’m going to freeze to death and then I’ve got someone to see later.’

‘Right.
Someone.
’

He knew that teasing tone. ‘What are you up to tonight?’ he asked.

Jenny twirled a loose strand of hair girlishly around her finger. ‘Not sure. My boyfriend wants me to go to his but . . . there’s this thing on BBC Four and I quite like going for a
wander in this weather anyway. You never know who you’re going to run into.’

‘Still no name for the boyfriend then?’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘It’s not that I’m interested – it’s that we’ve worked together for months and you’ve never mentioned his name. It’s always “my
boyfriend”, “my friend”, or something like that. You never give people names.’

Jenny let her hair go and pouted her lips. ‘Hmmm . . . so you think I’m minimising my relationships by refusing to give others an identity.’

‘Well I wouldn’t—’

‘I read a book about it once. One of those self-help things – it was a bit simplistic but I kind of knew what it was talking about. You’re probably right but I could say the
same to you. Instead of saying
who
you’re meeting later, you say you’ve got to see
someone
. That’s minimising the importance of it. We both know
who
you’re seeing and, even though I know how important it is to you, you’re trying to downplay it in case things don’t work out how you hope. That way, you get to say that it was
just
someone
and not the person we both know it is.’

Andrew knew it was a mistake to try to wind Jenny up. This was what always happened: somehow she turned things around and he ended up squirming.

He tried to think of something smart to say but his mind was blank, so he settled for a nod, a ‘have a nice evening’, and then headed out into the cold.

Andrew hurried past the Arndale Centre, surprising himself by meticulously plotting a route past the tactically placed army of chuggers. It was like playing Crossy Road.

There was the Greenpeace lot in green coats, obviously; a bunch in red jackets talking about a disease he’d never heard of; someone banging on about whales, presumably the animal, not the
country. Who’d donate to save Wales?

He didn’t have anything against charities and gave to a few – but it really would be nice if he could walk from one side of the city centre to the other without the zombie horde
descending upon him. Given the choice, he’d take the gnashing teeth and decaying skin over the clipboards and direct debit requests. He’d certainly have more chance of getting out in
one piece.

Shite.

Andrew accidentally made eye contact with someone wearing a blue jacket, breaking rule number one. It was too late to get his phone out and pretend he was on a call. She was on her way over.

‘
Hola!
Do you have a few minutes free?’

The answer was no –
always
no – but she was so bloody attractive. All short blonde hair, big smile and twinkling eyes: the type of girl who’d never give him a second
look in any social situation. And what was with the ‘
hola
’? None of them ever just said ‘hello’, it was always something wacky, or a dickhead with a finger puppet. On
one occasion, some bloke had been juggling. Where did they find these people?

Andrew tucked his hands into his pockets, offering the weakest of weak smiles. ‘I’m kind of in a rush . . .’

‘Only “kind of”? It’ll only take a minute. I’m Amie, with an I-E.’

Don’t think of her as a person!

The voice in Andrew’s head was being unhelpful.

Amie grinned wider, flashing a perfect set of teeth as she turned her clipboard around to show an image of a crying, malnourished baby.

He was really screwed now.

‘This is Bethany . . .’ Amie began.

It might have been two minutes, it could have been forty-five, Andrew wasn’t sure. Either way, Amie ended up with his bank details and Andrew sauntered away wondering if he was a better
person for donating, or if he’d just been blackmailed. It definitely felt like the latter.

It had happened again! Every time.

He continued on, weaving through the back streets of Manchester’s Northern Quarter, hands in his jacket pockets, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.

When the sun was out, or even when it was a little warm, the area would be buzzing, day or night. Against the frozen backdrop of a Monday afternoon, the array of small galleries, pubs and cafes
were looking a little sorry for themselves. Instead of interested tourists and hungry shoppers dropping in to see what was going on, there were a small number of locals, collars up, heads down,
rushing for home, the office, or anywhere that was warm. Hearts appeared on an array of posters advertising Valentine’s events, with so much red, pink and purple that it looked like all
marketing budgets had been invested in a succession of cackling hen parties.

He quickened his pace as he reached Oldham Street, waiting for a bendy bus to creep around the corner, and then heading for Ancoats. Andrew checked the address he’d noted on his phone and
then crossed the main road.

The Central Manchester Food Bank was either a triumph of human generosity, or an indictment of twenty-first century society. Perhaps it was both. Andrew skirted around the back of the huge
church until he reached the sorry-looking hall at the rear. Slates were missing from the roof, with a skip overflowing with bricks and rotting wood plonked next to the front door.

He smiled at the group of three men standing outside who were sharing a flask and then went inside. The peeling paintwork, high ceilings and wide wooden floor of what looked like an ancient
school gym offered little respite against the cold and when Andrew removed his hat he instantly wished he’d left it on. A table was set up at one end of the hall with a large vat of something
steaming, next to rows of bowls and spoons; at the other, tins of various foods were stacked high, alongside a dozen loaves of bread. Packed paper bags were piled on a nearby table, each full of a
day’s-worth of food for a family.

Andrew was met by a smiling woman somewhere in her twenties, with a neat bob of hair and a thick woollen jumper. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.

‘I was wondering if you could help me find someone named Joe?’

She shook her head blankly. ‘I’m not great with names at the best of times. We’ve got the soup kitchen here but we’re also running the food bank for local families. Is he
. . . ?’

‘He’s homeless – that’s all I know.’

She shook her head. ‘If you’re Press, then I’ve got a number for someone you can call—’

‘I’m not. It’s, er, probably worse.’

Andrew showed his identification but, as he suspected, it didn’t get him far. This was a place for privacy, where people felt embarrassed to ask for help, it wasn’t for someone like
him to poke around.

Out front, the trio of men were shuffling their way in the vague direction of the city centre, still sipping from the flask. Andrew hurried after them, the cold air tightening his chest and
reminding him how unfit he was. He eventually caught up with them close to the main road. Cars, buses and lorries zipped past, creating a cacophony of noise as Andrew tried to assure them he
wasn’t a nutter – which was particularly hard to do considering he was out of breath, half-frozen, and could barely be heard. He certainly had that nutter look about him.

The trio were each wearing shabby jeans, big boots and heavy overcoats, with a lingering smell of stale alcohol that wasn’t coming from Andrew. At least he didn’t think it was. One
of them had what looked like frozen mashed potato clumped into an overgrown beard, while another had two black eyes, and the final one was wearing a New York Mets baseball cap with a hole in the
side.

When they were confident he wasn’t trying to steal something, they finally started to listen, although the name ‘Joe’ seemed to confuse them.

‘Joe or Moe?’ asked Beardy.

‘Joe.’

‘I know a Moe,’ said New York Mets man.

‘I’m still looking for Joe.’

The three of them stared at each other, muttering loudly and incoherently. Andrew couldn’t make out a word.

Beardy seemed to be the most aware of what was going on, although he didn’t have much competition. ‘We know a Joe with the shoes and a Joe with the hair. Who are you
after?’

Andrew didn’t want to mention Luke Methodist’s name in case it caused a bad reaction, so he hedged his bets. ‘I’m not sure. If you tell me where they might be, I can see
for myself.’

After another mini conference, Andrew got his answer. Joe with the hair was staying somewhere close to Canal Street, because, according to the man with the pair of black eyes, ‘gays like
his hair’. None of them had seen Joe with the shoes any time recently.

Unsurprisingly, Canal Street ran alongside Manchester’s canal, with a row of rainbow-flagged gay-friendly bars close to Piccadilly train station. Andrew had spent a few interesting nights
in the area when he’d been out with friends as a student. He’d certainly seen some sights.

Dusk was beginning to darken the horizon as he hurried from one side of the city centre to the other. The stone canal banks were dusted with frost, the freezing cobbles surely plotting treachery
as he carefully worked his way along Canal Street. Aside from a few office workers and students using it as a cut-through to get to the train station, the main thoroughfare was deserted. After
making his way up and down twice, Andrew moved through to the tight collection of alleys that made up the rest of ‘the village’. Tall dust-speckled red-brick buildings bathed the area
in shadow, with weeks-old snow packed into the verges, looping around wheelie bins and abandoned black bags.

This really was no place for anyone to be sleeping rough.

Andrew had been worried that finding Joe with the hair might be a problem – but the name was plenty enough of a clue. As Andrew rounded a skiddy corner, he spotted a man sitting close to a
shopping trolley, with a tatty umbrella as a shade. He’d made a home for himself in the doorway at the back of a club, using paper bags to create makeshift bedding that looked surprisingly
comfortable. Despite his situation, Joe had maintained a thick afro that was shaped into a slightly squished heart shape. It was as impressive as it was incomprehensible.

Joe was sitting in the doorway as Andrew approached, one hand on the shopping trolley, which contained a mound of carrier bags covering something Andrew couldn’t see. He tugged his
trousers up, eyeing Andrew suspiciously.

‘Are you Joe?’ Andrew asked.

The reply was gruff. ‘What of it?’

‘I was wondering if you knew Luke Methodist. I was told he had a friend named Joe who lived on the street.’

Joe shook his head, making the afro shake in the breeze. It must really keep him warm. ‘You want Joe with the shoes.’

‘Do you know where I might find him?’ Andrew took out his identification card but the man didn’t seem that fussed, instead eyeing Andrew up and down.

‘How old are you?’ Joe asked.

‘Why?’

His accent was becoming more local the longer he spoke. ‘’Cos I’m asking.’

‘Thirty-odd.’

‘Hmm . . . that might work.’

‘What might work?’

Joe shuffled himself into a kneeling position, rummaging around his bed, reaching underneath carrier bags that had been stuffed with packing peanuts to make pillows, and then pulling out a jam
jar. He offered Andrew a smile, showing off his missing front teeth.

‘You clean?’

‘Of what?’

‘You’re not on anything, are you? Dibs, dope, crash, K?’

‘I don’t know what half of that is.’

‘You drink much?’

‘Why?’

‘Smoke?’

‘No.’

Joe held out the jam jar. ‘I kinda need your piss.’

Andrew peered from Joe to the jar and back again. ‘I’m not going to do that.’