Hiding the Past
by
Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan DylanGoodwin 2013
Nathan Dylan Goodwin hasasserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to beidentified as the author of this work.
This story is a work offiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imaginationand any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
All rightsreserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission inwriting of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition thatit shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, orotherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding,cover or other eformat, including thiscondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
I would like to dedicatethis book to my son, Harrison River
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Prologue
6thJune 1944
When Emily woke, everything was dark and everythingwas still. The angry, vicious weather from the previous day had subsidedand yet something outside wasn’t quite as it should have been. Itcouldn’t have been an air-raid – they had stopped three months ago. Quietly rolling back her woollen blanket, Emily sat up in bed andlistened. She was thirty-one and effortlessly beautiful, even now, aftera bad night’s sleep. She gently switched on her beside lamp, not wantingto disturb her precious baby boy, who slept silently beside her in hiscot. The lamp cast a low, amber glow over his face. Whatever it wasthat had disturbed her, had not stirred her son.
Emily paddedover to the window and lifted the heavy blackout curtains. It took amoment for her to process the sensations she suddenly experienced: acharcoal-grey curtain of thick smoke, reeking of a chemical she couldn’t quiteplace, enveloped the beloved orchard which surrounded her home, as enragedorange flames fought their way towards the house. Emily snapped back toreality, let the curtains fall into place and quickly scooped up her child,still blissfully sleeping. She turned and picked up the small brownsuitcase beside her bed, which she had hastily packed last night.
Carrying theboy close to her chest with one hand and the suitcase in the other, she hurriedinto the kitchen, wearing her white, silk nightie. There was no time to changeor search for her shoes. She paused at the front door, momentarilyunwilling to loosen the bolts that kept her safe inside. Placing her handon the first metal bolt, she suddenly placed the chemical stench outside, whichwas now seeping through the cracks and crevices of the kitchen – petrol: shewas being driven out.
Emilypointlessly looked around the room for another means of escape, another plan,but she knew it was hopeless. Insidious tendrils of smoke began to creepfrom the bedroom ceiling, licking their way towards her.
The baby beganto cry, a soft, mournful sound that broke Emily’s heart. It reminded herthat nothing was real. This life that she had made was not real. Her home was not real. Even her name was not real.
With a finalglance around the room, Emily unbolted the brass fastenings. Maybethere is time to run, to get away from here, she thought. She pulledopen the solid oak door and could see only blackness tinged with the mutedlight from the raging fire at the rear of the house. Despite thedarkness, she knew that someone was there; waiting in the shadows for her.
Emily held thebaby tightly and ran from the house. She navigated the orchard easily -nobody knew it better than she - and made it to the periphery of thewoods. As the baby began to scream and pain spiked her bare feet as sheran, she knew she could never escape, yet she kept running – pushing further andfurther into the darkness, her nightie catching and snagging on branches. Behind her, the crunching of heavy boots was gaining ground, easily homing inon the sound of the screaming child. She pulled him tightly into herbosom, hoping to stifle his cries. From the blackness behind her, anunseen hand reached out and grabbed Emily’s shoulder. It was over.
Chapter One
Wednesday
Morton Farrier was perplexed. He wassitting at home running an online birth search and, according to the indexes,the man for whom he searched hadn’t ever been born. It was a rareoccurrence for a birth not to have been registered, he had to admit, but itwasn’t that extraordinary. Nothing to get over excitedabout. In his twelve years of working as a forensic genealogist he hadcome across it maybe once or twice before. Although, now that he actuallythought about it, he couldn’t bring the specifics of any particular case tomind. It certainly didn’t warrant the unnecessary histrionics that hisnew client, Peter Coldrick, had displayed when he had visited him for the firsttime yesterday afternoon.
Morton hadfound Peter living an austere life in a run-down council estate on theoutskirts of Tenterden, a charming Kentish Weald town not far from his own homein Rye. Peter’s house was crammed with a plethora of genealogical booksand guides. Years of personal research and three redundant genealogistslater, Peter Coldrick had come to the conclusion that any antecedents prior tohis father had been wholly obliterated. It was for the birth of Peter’sfather, James Coldrick, that Morton had searched in vain. He ran onefinal check on Ancestry, his favoured website for birth, marriage and deathsearches, but came to the same answer: there was no James Coldrick. Hewas pondering the implications of this when his mobile rang. It wasJuliette, his girlfriend.
‘What was thename of the guy that you went to see yesterday?’ she asked. TypicalJuliette, storming straight in with a random question, Morton thought.
‘What?’
‘The man you’reworking for, what’s his name?’ she asked in an impatient whisper.
‘Coldrick,Peter Coldrick. Why?’
‘I’m guardinghis house while SOCO are inside; he’s dead, Morton.’
Her wordsstruck him like a rock to the head. ‘What happened?’
‘Well,’Juliette began, lowering her voice so that Morton struggled to hear her, ‘we’llknow more when the Scene of Crime Officers are done but it looks like suicide.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Uh-huh. Look, I can’t talk long, just thought I’d let you know.’
‘Thanks,’Morton said absentmindedly.
Juliettepaused. ‘Listen, Morton,
