Hiding the Past

been hit by a Taleban sniper?  He chastised himself for hismorbid pessimism about Jeremy’s ability to survive in a war-zone.  As heglanced out at the erect needle commemorating the town’s war dead, the thoughtoccurred to Morton that maybe he was projecting his own inadequacies onto hisbrother.  He often thought that he would have been a conscientiousobjector if he had been alive in either of the World Wars, although he wasnever quite sure if this was from cowardice, or with the benefit of hindsight.
His disjointedthoughts were interrupted when a Volvo V70 police car, with luminous blue andyellow bodywork, parked outside his house and two officers climbed out andknocked officiously on the front door.  Morton showed them into the loungewhere they peeled off their hats and introduced themselves as PC Glen Jones,who gave Morton the stark impression of being on day-release from the SAS, andWPC Alison Hawk, a feline-like creature with cold grey eyes.
‘Had you knownPeter Coldrick long?’ Jones asked, the very moment that they were seated.
‘No, I firstmet him yesterday morning,’ Morton answered.
‘And he phonedyou last night?’ Hawk asked, scrunching up her face.  Morton met herstare, fixed on him, unblinking, ardently scanning for inconsistencies. He nodded, went over to the answer-phone and duly pressed play.  Youhave one new message.  Message left yesterday at six twenty p.m. Morton, it’s Peter Coldrick.  Can you come over as soon as you getthis?  I’ve got into my dad’s copper box and found something. 
‘Having seenyou yesterday morning, why do you think he was so desperate to see you again inthe afternoon, Mr Farrier?  What do you think he had found?’ she asked,pen poised over a notepad in anticipation of his answer.
Mortonshrugged.  ‘I’ve no idea.  I wish I’d gone over there now – maybehe’d still be alive if I had.’
‘And what wasthe nature of your relationship with Peter Coldrick?’ Jones asked.
‘I was workingfor him,’ he answered.
‘Doing what?’Jones asked.
  ‘He paid meto research his family tree, that’s all.  I'm a forensic genealogist.’
‘Can I ask howmuch he paid you?’ Hawk asked.
Morton paused,knowing that the figure would sound preposterous to them.  It soundedpreposterous to him.  He also knew that there was no way ofwithholding the information: they would undoubtedly be able to produce abreakdown of his bank account faster than he could.  ‘Fifty thousand.’
‘Fifty thousandpounds?’ Hawk repeated.  ‘Peter Coldrick paid you fifty thousandpounds so that you could tell him who his family was?’  She cast anominous look to her colleague, and Morton felt sure that he was about to beread his rights.
‘Yes, that’sright,’ Morton answered, finally regaining his confidence and realising that hehadn’t actually committed a crime.  Thank God he had a PCSO as an alibifor last night.  ‘He paid me a lot more than I have ever been paid beforeor ever will be again, I’m sure.  You’re right, it does soundstrange.  But if you are listening to me, you’ll also realise that Ireceived that money in good faith.’
Jones produced,seemingly from nowhere, a small white envelope bearing Morton’s name. ‘Open it,’ he directed.
Morton took theproffered envelope and tentatively withdrew a short, typed letter.  Hefelt strangely obliged to read it aloud, despite a rather large obstructionunhelpfully lodged in his larynx.  ‘Morton, please stop theresearch.  I’ve realised that it’s all irrelevant now my parents aregone.  Please keep the money and enjoy it.  Peter.’
‘Of course,’Hawk said with a caustic smile and a knowing glance to her esteemed partner,‘we don’t yet know if the letter is genuine.  We will be having itanalysed.  Is there any reason you can think of as to why Mr Coldrickwould take his own life the very day he paid you such a significant sum ofmoney?’
‘No.’
‘And how did heseem to you?’
Mortonshrugged, having nothing to compare it to.  ‘Not suicidal.’
There was apause as Morton watched a whole conversation passing unspoken between the twopolice officers.
WPC Alison Hawksuddenly stood up and Morton felt sure that she was going to arrest him. Would they handcuff him even though he wasn’t resisting?  How ironic,Morton thought, living in a former police station.  Maybe theyshould just convert the cellar back into a cell.  It wouldn’t take long:the four-inch-thick metal door was still intact, as were the bars on thewindow.  A life sentence with boxes of Christmas decorations, old schoolreports, congealed tins of paint and thirty-nine years' worth of generaldetritus.
‘We’ll be intouch, Mr Farrier,’ Jones said.  ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
Morton saidgoodbye and watched from the lounge window to make sure that they actuallyleft.  The Volvo left the square with gratuitous speed, leaving in itsfume-ridden wake a welcome silence.
He emitted along and protracted sigh when he realised that it was all over. Everything was finished now that Coldrick was - whether by his own hand oranother's - deceased.  Whatever mystery might have lurked in his familyhad died with him.  And that was that.  Job done, thank you verymuch.
‘Tell me everything,’ Morton said, thevery moment that Juliette had stepped across the lounge threshold.
‘Let me get infirst, Morton.  Jesus.  Hello?’
‘Sorry. Hello,’ he said, kissing her on the lips.
Juliette sighedand made a meal of removing her steel-toe-capped boots before sheanswered.  ‘It’s suicide, Morton.  No sign of forced entry, nosuspicious prints.  Ballistics, forensics; everything points towards himkilling himself.  Not to mention that there were suicide notes, includingthe one to you: imagine how that looked.  “Morton Farrier, isn’t heyour bloke, Juliette?”  Christ.’
Morton resentedthe implication that he was somehow to blame for Coldrick’s suicide note, butknew better than to change the tracks along which their discussion was runningif he wanted further information.  He wondered if he could really have itso wrong in his mind when all the weight of the evidence was stacked againsthim.  Then he considered what Juliette had just said.  ‘Ballistics?’
Shenodded.  ‘Uh-huh.’
Calm,passive Peter Coldrick had shot himself?  Morton couldn’t imagine a less likely method ofsuicide.  Riding an elephant into an electricity pylon seemed onlyslightly less of a plausible way to die.  It was so absurd as to be laughable. ‘It can’t be right, Juliette.’
‘Well, we’llfind out soon enough - there’ll be an investigation and inquest after thepost-mortem in the next few days.  It’s going to be a thorough one, theChief Constable of Kent has decided to descend upon us