Nothing to Hide Read online

  Copyright © 2019 James Oswald

  The right of James Oswald to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in 2019 by WILDFIRE,

  an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5003 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

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  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for James Oswald

  Also by James Oswald

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Acknowledgements

  Biography

  Praise for James Oswald

  Praise for the Inspector McLean series:

  ‘The New Ian Rankin’ Daily Record

  ‘Oswald’s writing is a class above’ Daily Express

  ‘Oswald easily outstrips the formulaic work of bigger names’ Guardian

  ‘Crime fiction’s next big thing’ Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Literary sensation . . . James’ overnight success has drawn comparisons with the meteoric rise of EL James and her Fifty Shades of Grey series’ Daily Mail

  ‘Hugely enjoyable’ Mirror

  ‘The hallmarks of Val McDermid or Ian Rankin: it’s dark, violent, noir-ish’ The Herald

  ‘Creepy, gritty and gruesome’ Sunday Mirror

  ‘Oswald is among the leaders in the new batch of excellent Scottish crime writers’ Daily Mail

  Praise for the Constance Fairchild series:

  ‘Pacy, action packed and with a really rather fabulous heroine’ Sunday Mirror

  ‘A cracking story beautifully told’ Daily Mail

  ‘A fast-paced crime caper’ Irish Independent

  ‘A gripping thriller’ Daily Telegraph

  ‘Great characters and a fast-paced complex plot make this a story you’ll race through’ CultureFly

  Also by James Oswald

  Inspector McLean

  Natural Causes

  The Book of Souls

  The Hangman’s Song

  Dead Men’s Bones

  Prayer for the Dead

  The Damage Done

  Written in Bones

  The Gathering Dark

  Cold as the Grave

  Constance Fairchild

  No Time to Cry

  Nothing to Hide

  For Barbara

  1

  I always thought I’d miss London more.

  Time was, the lights and bustle and sheer busyness of the place gave me a buzz as good as any drug. Growing up in the countryside, with parents still happily living in an earlier century, I leapt at the chance to come to the big city. Even Edinburgh, where I spent four glorious student years, felt small and provincial in comparison. Which is why I joined the Met rather than what was then Lothian and Borders police, I guess. London’s been my home for long enough that I might even kid myself I’m a local, but lately the shine’s gone off its attraction.

  There’s the endless, unmoving traffic, for one thing. I never had a car before. Never needed one. Now I remember why that was, as I sit and watch the engine temperature gauge on my old Volvo creep slowly towards the red. Every so often a fan somewhere under the bonnet roars into life like a jumbo jet hauling itself into the air from Heathrow.

  It’s dark by the time I pull into my street, my trusty car still holding on. Against all the odds, I manage to find a parking space too. Someone up there must be smiling on me. There’s a familiarity to the block, the concrete stairs climbing up to my floor, the open walkway that is almost a communal balcony for all the flats on this level. Light spills from some of the windows, but the curtains are closed on whatever lives are being lived behind them.

  My front door’s a little grubbier than it was when I last closed it, although still cleaner than a year ago. I smile at the realisation that it was Roger DeVilliers who had it repainted and a new lock fitted, but the amusement is short lived. He’s the reason I’ve been away, and the reason I glance over my shoulder as I slide the key into the lock. The press have had a field day with what will likely be the trial of the decade, and I’m right in the middle of it. If I’d wanted to be photographed wherever I went, I’d have been a model or something. Not an undercover police officer.

  The flat is dark as I step over the threshold and a massive pile of mail, then close the door behind me. For a moment it’s just as I remember it, and then the smell hits. Something sour and rotten, as if the drains have backed up while I’ve been away. Has it been long enough for the toilet bowl to dry out? Do London sewers smell that bad?

  I work my way swiftly through the rooms, opening windows despite the chill and damp outside. There’s still a little water in the toilet, but I flush it anyway. Then run the taps to fill the U-bends in the basin and shower. It doesn’t help.

  Whatever it is, it’s worst in the tiny kitchen. The bin’s empty, I did that before I left, remember it well enough. Then I spot the dark stain on the floor tile beneath the fridge door. Shit. Did I leave something in there?

  It’s only as I open the door that I realise what a dumb idea that is. There’s a magnetic seal all around it keeping the worst of what’s in there inside. No light comes on, confirming my suspicion that the damn thing’s
broken down. Even so, I knew I’d be away a while, didn’t think I’d left anything to go off. Something brown and unidentifiable lurks in the salad box at the bottom, though, emitting a smell so noxious I have to run to the front door and open it wide, paparazzi be damned. Saliva fills my mouth and I can feel the bile rising, but I fight back the urge to vomit. That would be some headline in the Daily Mail.

  The first trip back inside I can hold my breath just long enough to find a roll of bin liners under the kitchen sink before I have to rush out again. I steel myself for the second trip, cursing that I’ve no police-issue latex gloves to pull on as I take out the entire salad box and shove it into the bag. I leave it by the door and lean out over the parapet for fresh air, gulping down lungfuls of London’s finest until the worst of the nausea has passed.

  I figure there’s no way anyone’s going to go in and nick stuff with the flat the way it smells, and besides, I’ve nothing in there worth stealing. So I leave the front door propped open to let a breeze blow through while I take the stinking bag down to the communal wheelie bins at the back of the building. The narrow space is poorly lit, and I’m a bit dazed from the smell. It’s been a long day, too, with a lot of driving. As ever, most people have just piled their rubbish alongside the bins, too lazy to lift up the lid. I’m tempted to do the same just to get rid of the stench, but I was raised better than that. Which is why I’m standing close enough to hear the quiet whimper of pain.

  ‘The hell?’ I’ve spoken the words before I realise. It could have been a wounded animal, but there was an all too human edge to the noise. Something shifts in the pile of abandoned rubbish beside the nearest bin, and I hear that moan again. I pull out my phone, swipe it into torch mode and play the pale light over the bags.

  That’s when I see the foot, naked and grubby and still very much attached to a leg.

  2

  ‘Christ only knows how he’s still alive. Poor sod.’

  It took less than ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, half that for the first police officer. Now the little alley at the back of my building is jammed with paramedics and uniform constables. I can’t help but notice the sideways glances, whispered conversations. Not to me, about me. They all know who I am, of course. I’m the one who busted open a network of corruption that had been festering in CID for decades. And I’m the one, at least in their eyes, who got a couple of police officers killed.

  ‘He’s barely breathing. You say he was moving when you found him?’ The first of the paramedics to arrive has moved aside for his more experienced colleagues to attend to the body lying with the discarded trash. I look down at the young man, still a boy really. Dark black skin and short wiry hair, he’s barefoot, poorly dressed for the weather. Dried blood flakes from his lips and chin, and there’s a stain in his trousers that isn’t urine. He smells worse than the inside of my fridge, but he had a pulse when I uncovered him.

  ‘Yeah. Wouldn’t have known he was there otherwise. Gave me quite a shock.’

  The paramedic looks at me as if he finds that hard to believe. Maybe he knows who I am too, although I don’t recognise him.

  ‘Any idea who he is?’

  ‘Not a clue. Don’t think he’s from the flats, but I’ve been away a while so he might have moved in recently.’ I’m about to tell him all about my fridge and the new life-form I discovered in the salad box, but we’re interrupted by a commotion from the far end of the alleyway. Judging by the way the uniforms are behaving, someone from plain clothes has arrived. It surprises me; there’s no need for CID to get involved at this stage. The boy’s still alive and the priority’s going to be stabilising his condition and getting him to hospital. Then a familiar figure emerges into the small circle of light spread by the street lamp overhead, and I’m even more surprised.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Fairchild?’

  Not CID. The man walking towards us works for the National Crime Agency, which adds another layer of complication to things. The swearing jars slightly, which is more a reflection of how long I’ve been away from police officers than his politeness. From what I recall of Detective Chief Inspector Bain, he’s no stranger to strong language.

  ‘I found the victim, sir.’ I indicate the boy, still surrounded by paramedics, then point up at the building. ‘And this is where I live.’

  It occurs to me, as I watch the conflicting emotions fight their way across his face, that he should know that. I can’t think of any other good reason why he’d have come. I’m due to have a meeting with his team next week to discuss my part in a couple of upcoming trials, but even so it seems odd someone of his seniority would rush to a crime scene like this one.

  ‘Might I ask why you’re here, sir? Seems a bit below your pay grade, a mugging.’

  Bain pauses before answering, and I can see the dismissal coming. Technically I’m still suspended from active duties. If I’m lucky they’ll let me start pushing paper around a desk soon, but actually out on the streets investigating stuff? No chance. Not until the various trials have concluded. Perhaps not even then.

  ‘Depends on whether or not it’s actually a mugging.’ Bain steps past me, hunkers down beside the two paramedics. One of them glowers at him, the other speaks.

  ‘Just about ready to move him, sir. You might want to give us some room.’

  Bain grunts, although whether it’s from annoyance or arthritis I can’t tell. ‘His injuries. What’ve you found so far?’

  The look on the paramedic’s face says it all. He wants to get on with his job, doesn’t need some interfering busybody detective getting in the way. He doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his voice as he answers.

  ‘Looks like he’s lost a lot of blood. That’s why he’s unconscious and why we need to get him out of here and to hospital as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Where’s he bleeding from?’ Bain finally seems to get the hint. He stands up and moves out of the way as the paramedic I was talking to steps in to help lift the injured boy onto a waiting stretcher. I don’t fail to notice how specific the question is. This is why he’s here. It has to do with whatever his team’s working on at the moment, and whatever that is, it’s just come to my back door. Wonderful.

  ‘Someone’s cut out his tongue.’ The first paramedic almost wheezes out the words as he works his hands under the boy’s shoulders, ready to lift. His colleague is being very gentle with the legs, and I can see they’ve cut away his shirt and part of his trousers looking for injuries. ‘But that’s not the worst of it. They’ve taken his testicles too.’

  ‘Thought you were still up in the Highlands of Scotland.’

  I suppress the urge to tell Bain it’s usually just referred to as ‘The Highlands’. We’re standing at the end of the alley behind my building, watching the ambulance wind through the traffic on its careful way to the hospital. Behind us, the uniform constables are busy sealing everything off for later investigation by forensics, which is going to be popular with the other residents and the folk who use that alley as a short cut home from the pub. At least they won’t also be using it as a toilet, I suppose. Small mercies and all.

  ‘You ever been there, sir? Perthshire?’

  Bain looks at me with a puzzled expression for a moment, then shakes his head.

  ‘Well, take it from me, it’s not the best place for a winter holiday. The only thing in its favour is that the gutter press aren’t interested enough in me to camp out in the snow. I figured the story had gone cold now so I’d be safe to come back down south.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Things’ll kick off again soon as the trial starts, you mark my words.’

  ‘That’s the other reason I’m back here. The CPS want to start getting me prepped for that, and there’s still a few things to sort out with Professional Standards, too. Got a meeting next week that’ll probably be the first of many.’

  Bain shakes his head at that for some
reason. I wonder whether I should invite him up to my flat for a cup of tea. Except that I don’t have any tea. Or milk for that matter. Given that I’ve left the place wide open for the best part of an hour, I’ll be lucky if I have any possessions at all. The air should have cleared though.

  ‘What’s going on, sir?’ I jerk my head back to the alleyway.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bain tries to pretend he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but he’s not that good at lying. Strange how he managed to climb the greasy pole to DCI without mastering that particular skill.

  ‘That boy. Beaten up, tongue cut out, bollocks off. That’s not your typical mugging. And you turning up half an hour after I’d called it in?’

  ‘Like you said, it’s a serious assault. CID need to look into these things. The sooner a detective’s on scene the less likely it is to have been contaminated too much.’

  I open my mouth to protest that there’s more to it than he’s telling me. He’s not CID for one thing. He stops me before I can get started.

  ‘I know you’re still suspended, but I want you to come in tomorrow morning. We’re working out of your old station still. Call it a debriefing if you like, or a witness statement. I’ll fill you in on what details I can then.’

  What details he can, not all of the details. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what’s going on.

  ‘He’s not the first, is he.’

  Bain shakes his head again. ‘Tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll tell you what I can.’ Then he steps off the pavement and walks away up the road.

  Against all expectations, my flat is empty when I finally return to it, a good hour and a half after I left the front door wedged open. The rotten smell has more or less gone, but the temperature is somehow even lower than outside, so I retrace my earlier steps, closing all the windows this time, before cranking up the heating with a silent prayer to the God of gas boilers. There’s a lot of noise that sounds like flames burning, and the pipes start gurgling worse than my stomach after a police-canteen lasagne. It’ll be at least a couple of hours before any heat works its way into the ancient radiators. In the meantime I dig an old hoodie out of the wardrobe and rifle the kitchen cupboards for anything to eat.