Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  She was more than an employee, she was a mate, someone he trusted implicitly. But he wanted to ask who she was, what was going on in her head. He frequently wondered why she worked for him when it was clear she was capable of so much more. Despite that, he didn’t want to push, not after discovering the handful of incomplete, patchy details about her past. He didn’t want to admit he knew any of it and make it seem like he’d been spying. It wasn’t long ago that she’d lunged for a thug more than twice her size, raining blows down on the back of the man’s head until Andrew had pulled her away. She’d been fearless that day, as on many others. Fearsome, even. All because that man had called her a psycho. Andrew wanted to know why she had been so triggered, yet he didn’t.

  What’s more, even though Andrew knew Jenny was keeping things from him, he was also hiding details from her – not least the reason they’d been in the club with Max Grayson.

  Before Andrew could become too immersed in the other things going on in his life, the ‘I heart MCR’ mug was plonked on the desk in front of him. The postcard that was angled against his monitor fell over, photo side down, leaving the message on the back clear to see. Jenny glanced at it but said nothing, righting the card and then heading to her own desk.

  On the front was a photo of a beautiful golden tiger, surrounded by greenery and a clear, perfect lake, with the word ‘THAILAND’ over the top. On the back was the address of Andrew’s office on one half, with three words on the other: I need time.

  Andrew was drifting, thinking of the person who’d written the message, when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He called ‘come in’ and a woman appeared. Considering some of the people who came asking for help, she was distinctly normal-looking: jeans, plain jacket, non-wild dark hair, a bag that could be designer but was probably knock-off from the market.

  She looked between Andrew and Jenny, settling on Andrew. ‘Are you Andrew Hunter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re an, um…’ She left it hanging, possibly too embarrassed to say what Andrew’s job was.

  ‘…Private investigator,’ Andrew said.

  She gasped and nodded too quickly. ‘Right and you, erm…’

  ‘…Investigate stuff.’

  She nodded some more. ‘Right, I um…’

  The woman seemed confused, but Jenny leapt into action, offering her a seat close to Andrew’s desk and then delving into her own bottom drawer and emerging with a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.

  ‘Biscuit?’ she asked.

  The woman batted her hand.

  ‘Brew?’

  ‘Okay… that’d be nice. Just a bit of milk.’

  Jenny was soon in the back corner, giving the kettle yet another early-morning workout.

  Andrew turned back to the woman. ‘How can I help you, Mrs…’

  ‘Applegate. Anna Applegate. It’s a bit awkward, I’m afraid. You’re not the first investigator I’ve visited.’

  ‘Right…’

  There was another moment of silence in which Andrew wondered if he should know the identity of the woman. Her last name seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

  ‘Are you a football fan?’ Mrs Applegate asked.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  Jenny chirped a ‘me either’ from the back of the room, which the woman didn’t seem to mind.

  Mrs Applegate shrugged. ‘I don’t get it myself, but you know what it’s like round here.’ She sighed, but there was more to it than a simple gasp for breath. She sucked in her cheek and started to chew on the skin, waiting until Jenny had placed a mug of tea on the desk in front of her. She nodded a ‘thank you’ and then offered a slim, sad smile. ‘You know Man City, don’t you?’ she added.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mrs Applegate flicked her temple with her middle finger. ‘Course you do. Everyone does. Sorry. It’s my daughter, Michelle, she…’

  As she tailed off, the memory of where he’d heard her name before clicked into Andrew’s mind.

  ‘The canal…’ he whispered.

  She nodded, cradling the mug near her mouth. ‘Last September, they found my daughter’s body in the canal near the Turing Memorial. Her name was Michelle and her boyfriend is a footballer.’

  ‘Jack Marsh.’

  Another nod. ‘Right. Jack Marsh.’ She said the name as if it was a swear word, then added: ‘You remember it?’

  ‘It’s hard to miss anything even vaguely related to football in this city,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘So you know all about his alibi, then?’

  Andrew scratched his head. He remembered it being a big story for a few days and then it had slipped off the agenda. A lot had happened in the seven months since. ‘Bits and pieces – it’s better if you fill me in.’

  ‘Marsh claims he was in a hotel with his teammates at the time my Michelle ended up in the water. He did a big interview – going on about how the death of his girlfriend had affected him – but it’s all rubbish. I know he was involved.’

  Andrew opened his top drawer and removed a pad and pen. He wrote the name ‘Jack Marsh’ at the top.

  He looked up, locking eyes with Mrs Applegate. ‘How do you know he did it?’

  ‘Have you heard the rumours about him?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘Even if I have, let’s pretend I haven’t.’

  She sipped her tea, squinting slightly, apparently sizing him up. For a moment, Andrew thought she was going to stand and walk out. He’d seen it before – some clients didn’t like being questioned themselves, wanting their version of events to be taken as nothing but the whole truth.

  ‘He pushed her down the stairs,’ she said quietly. ‘She had her own place, but I think he was paying the rent, or at least giving her the cash to afford the rent. It was hard to get details from her at the time. I didn’t even know until I went round to see her one morning.’ Mrs Applegate put the mug down and separated her hands as if she was holding a balloon. ‘Her ankle was out to here and she couldn’t walk on it. Told me she tripped – the usual.’

  At that she gulped back a sob, her voice cracking. Jenny slipped around her desk, offering a box of tissues that was accepted with a tear-ridden smile.

  Mrs Applegate continued talking as she dabbed her eyes. ‘It was only a few weeks before that when she came round mine with a black eye, plus he’d punched her so hard in the kidney that she was weeing blood for a weekend. I wanted her to go to the doctor, but she wasn’t having it. Kept saying it was an accident. There’s no official record any of it happened. She wouldn’t even let me take photographs. There were always bumps and bruises. I stopped asking where they came from in the end because she’d only say it was a door handle or corner of a table. It wasn’t just that – he cheated on her all the time, tipped a pint of beer over her head on her birthday when he was pissed – I could go on, but… no point, is there? You either believe it or you don’t.’

  Andrew hadn’t added to his single note. In one way – the biggest way – even if all of that was true, all it showed was that Jack Marsh was a special type of scum. It didn’t mean he was a killer.

  ‘What about the night she died?’ he asked. ‘Why do you think he killed her?’

  Mrs Applegate blew her nose and then balled up the tissue, dropping it in the bin next to Andrew’s desk and apologising. ‘She was out with one of her friends, doing what young girls do. They say she died of alcohol poisoning and then ended up in the canal, but I know it was him. When the police got involved, Marsh said he was with his teammates in a hotel in the centre. Apparently the team often stay in the same place the night before a match. His friends covered for him and that was that. They said they couldn’t prosecute.’ She swirled her hand. ‘No evidence.’

  Andrew was about to ask something else when the door to his office banged open. At first he thought it could have been the wind, but, when he turned, the light in the stairwell behind silhouetted a beast of a man.

  Iwan’s last name was a mystery to
Andrew, but he was the hired thug who had been a constant shadow in his recent life. Iwan was easily over six foot, with monster shoulders, a puffed-out steroid-freak chest and a squat dumpling head on top.

  Andrew got to his feet, taking a step towards the door. ‘I’m with someone,’ he said.

  Iwan glanced around Andrew towards the woman sitting at the desk. He ignored Jenny, though he didn’t budge from where he was standing. ‘I need a word.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’

  ‘I don’t have time for that. Now.’

  Andrew took another step forward, resting on Jenny’s desk in an attempt to hide the fact his knees had wobbled. ‘I’m with a client. You’ll have to wait outside.’ He almost sighed with relief that his voice hadn’t quivered.

  Iwan glared down on Andrew and, for a moment, Andrew was certain he wouldn’t move. He considered his options. Calling the police? Yeah, right. Physically ejecting a bloke who was twice his size? No chance.

  Iwan’s eyes narrowed and then there was the merest hint of a nod. It was hard to tell what happened next because, before Andrew knew it, Iwan was back in the hallway and the door was closed. He was pretty sure Iwan hadn’t turned, hadn’t allowed his eyes to stop boring into Andrew, and yet he was gone.

  Andrew had his back to Mrs Applegate and took a breath, giving himself a second or two to try to get his heart rate down. He soon turned, all apologetic smiles.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Misunderstanding over times. You were saying that the police were unable to prosecute Mr Marsh…’

  Mrs Applegate didn’t seem to have realised anything was too amiss. She nodded. ‘Right – they said his alibi checked out, that he hadn’t left the hotel all night. They’d spoken to him, his teammates, staff, checked CCTV – that sort of thing.’

  Andrew leaned back in his seat, chewing the end of his pen, trying not to think of the man outside his office door. ‘I hate to be blunt, Mrs Applegate—’

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘Sorry, Anna. I’m just not sure what exactly it is you want me to do. You said your daughter died of alcohol poisoning… are you questioning that?’

  ‘No – the coroner said that. I’ve no reason to doubt him.’

  ‘Then where do I fit in…? Don’t get me wrong – if I was a certain type of person, I could take your money, read some papers, type up a report and come back to you to tell you what you already know. I’m not going to do that, though.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I want you.’

  ‘Sorry…?’

  ‘The other investigators I went to almost bit my hand off, promising all sorts. They said they’d get police files, they’d contact the football club, interview Marsh – all that. They were after easy money, but you…’ She glanced towards Jenny, then back to Andrew. ‘You’ve said everything I wanted. I know you might not be able to do any of that. But I also know Marsh killed my daughter. I want someone with an open mind who isn’t just in this for the money.’

  Andrew took a moment to think, still biting the end of the pen. ‘You want me to prove Jack Marsh killed your daughter?’

  ‘I know there are holes in his story, but, for whatever reason, they’ve been missed.’

  Andrew looked to Jenny, whose lips were tight. She raised her eyebrows as a reply. He turned back to the woman: ‘I… um, look, Mrs— Anna. I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a couple of things to finish off and then we’ll do a bit of digging this afternoon. If I can find an angle or an inconsistency in the coverage of what happened to your daughter, even something small, then we’ll see how far we can take things. I don’t want to give you false hope and I don’t want to rip you off. We’ll be in touch later in any case. If this is something I feel we can look at properly, Jenny will talk rates with you then and she’ll take a few more details. Okay?’

  Mrs Applegate stood and shook his hand. ‘That’s all I wanted. I don’t want ridiculous promises.’

  Andrew led her to the door and opened it. Iwan was resting against the railing outside, but Andrew ignored him, escorting Mrs Applegate down the stairs and showing her onto the street. He took a few seconds to compose himself, waving to Tina who worked in the office opposite, and then headed back inside towards the office.

  Iwan was in the doorway, cracking his knuckles, sporting a sinister smile.

  ‘I need a word,’ he said.

  ‘So I gathered.’

  Three

  As Andrew squeezed past Iwan to get into his office, he noticed the crinkled scar across the top of the man’s bald head. His skin was the dimpled pink of a regular drinker, but the blemish was seared white – the result of Andrew cracking a tyre iron across the other man’s skull. It should be an action of which he was ashamed and, perhaps, in some ways, he was. It came after Jenny had leapt onto Iwan’s back and hammered her fists into his head because he’d called her a psycho.

  Andrew sat at his desk and swivelled the chair around, trying to appear calm, as if Iwan was just another man, not a behemoth with a grudge.

  Iwan didn’t look at her, but he nodded sideways in Jenny’s direction. ‘Get lost for a few minutes, eh, darling?’

  Jenny didn’t move.

  ‘Don’t talk to my staff like that,’ Andrew said, heart chundering.

  Iwan grinned lopsidedly. ‘You want to do this in front of your tart?’

  ‘Don’t talk about my staff like that… especially not when she’s someone who’s kicked your arse.’

  Jenny remained silent and Iwan still didn’t acknowledge her, instead glaring at Andrew.

  ‘You get what you were asked for?’

  Andrew let the silence hang for a few seconds, wishing he’d been brave enough to resist the task he’d been given in the first place. ‘We got it,’ he replied. ‘Max Grayson deals drugs on the side. Definitely cocaine and possibly other substances.’ Andrew pulled a cardboard wallet out from underneath his keyboard and passed it across. ‘There are photographs in there, as well as an audio recording on a pen drive.’

  Iwan opened the folder and flicked through the photographs from the night before. When he was satisfied, he snapped the cover closed and slipped it under his armpit. ‘Well, well, well. Little Max is off to the naughty step.’

  Andrew didn’t reply, waiting to see if Iwan would expand. When the larger man took a step to the door, Andrew called after him. ‘Hey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re clear now, right? No more requests.’

  Iwan moved back into the office, bowing ever so slightly to ensure Andrew could see the scar on his head. ‘Clear? You reckon everything’s equal?’ He thrust a pudgy finger in Andrew’s direction. ‘Things are equal when Mr Braithwaite says they are. Got it?’

  ‘I’m not your lapdog to do jobs whenever you want.’

  Iwan took another step towards Andrew, towering over him and grinning. He motioned to throw a punch, stopping himself but making Andrew jump anyway. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  He waited for a second or two and then finally headed out the door and down the stairs.

  Andrew remained in his seat for a few seconds, listening for the sound of the outside door before getting up to close the door to his office. He hovered next to it, biting his bottom lip, before turning to Jenny.

  ‘I should’ve told you,’ he said.

  She motioned at the door. ‘We were following Max last night because he wanted you to?’

  Andrew nodded. ‘I’m sorry.

  ‘He’s your terrible mistake?’

  ‘Sort of. Not him – his boss. Thomas Braithwaite thinks I owe him a favour.’

  Jenny didn’t reply instantly – she knew who Braithwaite was as they’d stumbled across him while investigating the case of a young couple who’d been shot in broad daylight. He owned an importing and exporting business and yet there was more to him than that. He had an enormous house close to Liverpool and had been linked to various bribery allegations. Andrew and Jenny both had their suspicions over what sort of criminal activity with which
Braithwaite might be involved, but, from her point of view, their connection to him finished when the case ended. That was months ago, yet now Iwan had shown up in the office.

  ‘Why do you owe him a favour?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘I don’t… it’s a long story. He thinks I do and that’s enough for him.’

  Jenny licked her lips, eyes narrowing as she stared at Andrew. It only took a couple of seconds, but then she was nodding, fully accepting what Andrew had said. ‘Braithwaite wanted you to look into some drug-dealing kid?’

  ‘Max is the son of Steven Grayson, who sits on Liverpool’s city council. I don’t know – I didn’t ask – but I’m guessing Braithwaite wanted dirt to use against Steven. I didn’t want to use you and I know I shouldn’t have, but—’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘But I do – and so should you. I thought this would be the end, that it would all go away.’

  He stared at her, riddled with shame. He’d misled someone he liked – really liked – in order to manipulate Max Grayson into a position that would allow some gangster to blackmail his father. What sort of person did that make Andrew? He’d asked himself that question so many times recently that he wasn’t sure any longer. At one time, he thought of himself as a good guy, now he didn’t know.

  Jenny opened her bottom drawer and offered him the Hobnobs. Her solution to everything.

  Andrew shook his head.

  ‘What do you think’s going to happen now?’ she asked.

  Andrew ruffled his hair. ‘I have no idea.’

  Four

  Andrew felt his eyes clouding over as lunchtime approached. The sentences on his screen were blending into one another to form one much simpler word: BORING.

  As he stifled a yawn, Andrew spun in his chair to face the other desk. ‘Save me, Jen.’

  She didn’t always wear glasses and he’d never quite figured out if she actually needed them, but Jenny nudged them to the end of her nose and peered over them towards him. ‘Save you from what?’