Something Hidden (8 page)

Andrew picked up the fallen chair and reached down, helping Joe up until he was sitting at the table again, slurping the final breath of the cigarette before dropping it onto the saucer. Andrew
sat opposite him.

‘How do you mean, cover?’ Andrew asked.

‘Some of Kal’s lot liked to have fun.’

Andrew thought about the definition of fun. ‘They’d get violent?’ he asked.

‘Not with Luke around. He was a bigger guy, plus he only liked to drink, none of the other stuff.’

‘So he wasn’t on drugs and he didn’t go along with anything Kal Evans had you doing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you tell that to the police?’

Joe began scratching at his ear, sending a flurry of dried skin flakes tumbling to the floor.

‘Joe?’ Andrew pushed.

‘What?’

‘The police.’

‘They’d already made their mind up – I knew Kal, so Luke did too, even though Luke would be off doing other things.’

‘Like what?’

‘He was getting help for his . . . y’know . . .’

‘Tell me,’ Andrew said.

‘The SPT, PST, PTD, something like that.’

‘Who was helping him?’

‘Dunno. He never wanted to say any more than that.’

Andrew took a breath, trying to unpick the last few minutes of conversation. ‘Just to be sure, then. You’re saying that Luke wasn’t on drugs, didn’t owe Kal Evans any
money, and wouldn’t have done anything for him.’

Another shrug. ‘Right.’

‘Would you tell that to the police now?’

Joe shook his head slowly. It took him a few seconds to reply. ‘I don’t talk to feds.’

‘You look tired.’

Andrew blinked back into the room, suddenly remembering where he was. He’d been thinking of Owen and Wendy, Luke and Fiona Methodist, and Joe with the shoes. A bizarre tangle of barely
connected people woven together in a way that he was waiting to unravel. There was definitely something there.

Around him was the scrape of cutlery, clink of glasses and general undercurrent of chatter. It was ridiculously loud considering how small the restaurant was.

‘Sorry,’ Andrew said, blinking again and suppressing a yawn.

‘We could’ve cancelled if you’ve had a long day.’

Andrew stared at his ex-wife, the dark birthmark next to her lips, blonde bob, hints of wrinkles around her eyes that, if anything, made her more appealing than when they’d met as
teenagers.

She looked as if she’d lived.

It was a date that wasn’t a date. Dinner with a friend, perhaps? Anything but a date.

He managed a thin smile. ‘I’ve spent the whole day chasing after people.’

Keira sipped her soup, returning his stare until he was forced to look away. It felt like she could read his mind.

‘This is the first time we’ve been out for dinner in Manchester in nearly nine years,’ she said softly.

‘It was a bit different then.’

She nodded at the rest of the room: men in suits, women in dresses, a tapas menu, wine list and waiters with shiny shoes. The type of place where grown-ups went. ‘You mean this isn’t
the uni refectory?’

Andrew laughed but those were the good times: cheap food in the students’ union, local pubs and, shortly before they broke up, marginally posher pubs. Lots of things had changed since
then.

‘How’s the soup?’ he asked.

Pathetic: a get-out question. He’d be talking about the weather next. Anything to avoid that massive elephant in the corner that he’d left her, broken both of their hearts, and now,
miraculously, they were sitting opposite each other as if it had never happened. They’d had a couple of lunches since she walked into his office three months ago and now this was the big one,
or, as he’d told Jenny, this was someone to see.

Keira saw straight through him, flicking a strand of hair away and offering him her spoon. ‘It’s good – want some?’

Andrew peered down at his barely started bread that he couldn’t remember the name of. ‘You’re all right.’

That was the end of that conversation.

Luckily, the waiter arrived to refill their wine glasses. Polite smiles, vague offerings of thanks, and they were back to their uncomfortable silence. The pair of lunches had been slightly
awkward affairs, punctuated by nothing conversations about what they’d each been watching on television, the type of music they were now into, and anything else that meant they didn’t
have to talk about real things.

Keira finished her soup and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, before leaning back in her chair. Andrew could feel her staring at him but remained focused on his food, sensing that something
important was coming.

‘So . . .’ she said, pursing her lips into an O, giving herself an opportunity to stop mid-sentence. One of them had to bring it up and Andrew had always been the coward when it came
to awkward conversations. ‘It’s been more than eight years – you must’ve seen someone in that time . . .’

‘Not really.’

‘What does that mean?’

Andrew took a bite of his starter, giving himself a moment to think. Considering he’d known this would come up at some point, he probably should’ve thought of an answer. Behind him,
a woman broke into cackling laughter, giving him an extra few seconds. Thank goodness for tipsy women with big gobs.

‘There were one or two,’ he said. ‘Nothing serious. I was seeing this woman, Sara, until a few months ago.’

‘Why’d you break up?’

He blew out loudly. ‘She was into celebrity magazines, Saturday-night TV, that sort of thing. We had nothing in common.’

‘Why did you start seeing her?’

Andrew threw his hands up, trying to make it seem like he didn’t know. He could hardly say that sex was great with Sara, even though he couldn’t stand to actually have a conversation
with her.

Keira giggled slightly. ‘Eight years is a long time for “nothing serious”.’

Andrew started to answer and then realised the implication. Did that mean
she’d
had something significant with someone else in that time? Or was she speaking for both of them? He
should probably just ask. The obvious truth was that he’d not had a full-on relationship with anyone else because no one else was Keira. He could hardly tell her that, though.

Or maybe he should?

No, he definitely shouldn’t.

Or maybe he should?

Stop it!

He felt like he was fourteen again, unsure how to talk to the opposite sex. Back then it was Jane Harris with her breasts that had developed before any of the other girls’. They’d
known each other since they were five years old; their mums took them for picnics when they were kids; they’d played with Lego together and, even as young teenagers, Jane continued to speak
to him in public, despite having cooler friends. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask her out, instead ogling her chest from across the classroom, while pretending he was looking at the
poster on the wall behind her.

‘Me neither, if you’re wondering,’ Keira said, reading his mind again.

Andrew pushed his plate to one side, hoping the waiter would spot it as the woman behind spluttered into laughter once more. Didn’t she realise they were trying to have a serious
conversation over here? Keira caught his eye, grinning at the inconvenience, before peering over his shoulder towards the woman who was currently snorting like a rabid piglet.

‘Don’t look now,’ Keira said, ‘but the bloke she’s with currently has a straw hanging from each nostril.’

‘And she’s laughing at that?’

Keira’s blue eyes drifted back to Andrew again, smirking at him in a way her lips weren’t.

‘So . . . what have you been up to?’ he asked.

By the time the words had escaped from Andrew’s mouth, he was already wishing they hadn’t. He really did say some stupid things. Weren’t human beings supposed to have a sort of
filter that made them think things through before the words flopped out of their mouths? He was asking her to condense more than eight years of break-up into a neat, snappy soundbite. What was the
best that could happen?

Before she could reply, the waiter returned to clear the table. He’d definitely be getting a healthy tip, if only for the perfection of his timing. What a hero . . . until he left.

‘I’ve been working for my dad,’ Keira replied, making Andrew shudder at the memory of his former father-in-law. ‘He retired from the bank a few months ago but is still
running a charitable division for them. It’s not a lot of work but he gets to decide where the money goes. Charities and other organisations can apply for grants to get their projects up and
running. I’d wanted to go back to work with kids for a while but he made me apply like anyone else. I have a project that’s helped create these before-school breakfast clubs around
south Manchester. It makes sure they all get meals, plus allows their parents to go to work.’

Andrew was still reeling from the news that she was working for her father. The image of him was as terrifying as it had always been.

‘That sounds good,’ he said, autopilot kicking in again. What else could he say? ‘Good stuff with the kids. Oh, but your dad’s a bit of an arse’?

‘Schools don’t really have money for things like that,’ Keira continued. ‘They were looking for external funding. We’ve been able to get the kids painting and
creating, or catching up on homework. Last summer, we even had sports. It’s beginning to take off and some schools are looking at bringing it back in-house with funding from the
council.’

Keira and kids . . . the two were never far away from each other. It was ultimately what had driven them apart. That and her father, or anything else which meant Andrew didn’t have to
blame himself.

She began to pick at her bob, relaxing into the seat and smiling. ‘They’re great kids. We go to the places that are most under-performing. Everyone thinks they’re scum hanging
around on street corners waiting to stab anyone who risks going near – but they’re just young people who didn’t have the chances we did. Once you give them a bit of encouragement,
it’s amazing what they come out with. I was working at this school in Altrincham and there’s this lad there – Ethan – he’s only fourteen but was expelled from his
previous place and had been in trouble with the police. At first, he’d sit in the corner scowling but he’s a really talented artist. It’s completely natural to him. Then
there’s this area around Huyton where we put together the funds to build them a skate park. Last summer, we got a professional in to show them some tricks once a week. The police told us
late-night call-outs from residents were down by over forty per cent between July and August. It’s actually making a difference and Daddy’s really supportive, he—’

Keira stopped as the woman behind Andrew launched into another mistimed burst of laughter, presumably because her partner was pulling a face, or something else of equal comedy gold.

‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ Andrew said, meaning it.

She nodded, not quite admitting that she was. ‘It’s nothing to do with my history degree, of course.’

‘My job’s hardly anything to do with criminology.’

‘How’s that going?’

Andrew was saved by the waiter returning with their tapas plates. There was a pause as they both poked and prodded, trying a bit of everything, with Andrew hoping Keira had forgotten her
question.

‘So . . . ?’ she said.

‘What?’

‘How’s work going?’

‘I’m trying to make it what I want it to be.’

‘How’d you mean?’

‘Being a private investigator
could
be finding out who’s cheating on whom, or who the father of someone’s baby is – but I don’t really go for
that.’

‘Isn’t that good money, though?’

Andrew plucked a chewy piece of chorizo from one of the plates and munched on it, ignoring the question. He didn’t need money – but could hardly tell his ex-wife that, or else
she’d ask where his small fortune had come from. If there was one secret he needed to keep, that was it.

‘I get by,’ he said. ‘Jenny’s good – she takes away a lot of the smaller bits and pieces, so I get to go and talk to people.’

‘She’s pretty . . .’

Andrew glanced up to catch Keira’s eye. ‘I can’t read her at all. I’m not entirely sure why she wants to work for me. She could do anything with her life but seems happy
– well, content. She has a problem with people . . .’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s complicated.’

Keira didn’t push the point but Andrew had no idea how to put it anyway.

They scraped away at their plates, listening to more booming laughter that was eventually drowned out by the general hubbub around them. The waiter returned, the table was cleared, glasses
refilled, bill presented. The evening wasn’t a write-off.

‘My dad hates you, y’know,’ Keira whispered over the top of her glass following an awkward pause.

‘Okay,’ he replied, unsure what to say. If only she knew the truth.

‘He wouldn’t approve of us being out.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘No.’ She finished her drink but continued to hold the glass in front of her face. ‘We should do this again.’

‘Let’s find somewhere without a human hyena next time.’

Keira giggled, peering over Andrew’s shoulder towards the woman. ‘Deal.’

Andrew sat staring at the house, enjoying the warmth that was blowing from his car’s heaters. ‘At least we’ve got the right place,’ he said.

Jenny wiped the mist of condensation away from her window and peered through the cloudy glass. ‘They’ve put that blue plaque up themselves, haven’t they?’

Andrew squinted towards the panel above the front door. It looked like one of the traditional signs that were dotted around the country, noting where significant figures had been born or lived.
They marked houses belonging to people like the Beatles, former prime ministers, artists, playwrights: people who’d changed life in Britain. This one looked as if it was made from
plastic.

‘I think that’s the safest assumption.’

Jenny read the sign: ‘Home of Michael, Tito and Jermaine: Northern Cats of the Year.’

‘These people are mental.’

‘You’re just jealous that you don’t have a Bengal.’