Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

‘But you’re not one of us, are you?’

  Jenny shook her head, leaving Andrew to feel as if he’d missed something. Both girls turned to Andrew. On the surface their features were the same, but it felt as if they were about to explain some piece of new technology to Granddad on Christmas Day.

  ‘’Chelle and I had gone out on the Saturday night,’ Chloe said. ‘She knew Jack was staying at the Radisson but he’d told her not to go to the hotel. ’Chelle was in a mood about that, so we went to the bar in the Hilton instead.’

  Andrew pointed towards the northern end of Deansgate. ‘That one?’

  ‘Right – but it was dull in there and they had this creepy barman on.’ She turned to Jenny: ‘Y’know the type, all chest hair and waxed eyebrows.’

  Andrew didn’t personally know the type, but he nodded anyway. Jenny did the same.

  ‘We moved on to this champagne place near Great Northern. Sometimes they get footballers or actors in. ’Chelle was always going on about it.’

  Suddenly Andrew got it – Michelle and Chloe were fame-chasers. Chloe had been asking Jenny if she was part of the crowd. To Andrew, it seemed ridiculous. Of all the people he knew that might crave attention, Jenny would have been bottom of the list – and yet she’d not denied it outright.

  ‘Wasn’t Michelle going out with Jack at that point?’ Andrew asked.

  Chloe glanced at Jenny, then back at Andrew. ‘So?’

  ‘But she wanted to go to the champagne place because there might be celebrities there…?’

  Jenny rolled her eyes and batted a dismissive hand towards him. She twisted until she was sitting sideways, facing Chloe. ‘What was it – lads’ mags? Papers?’

  A glimmer of a grin crept onto Chloe’s face. ‘You name it. At first she wanted to marry an actor to get into OK!. She was keen on this Corrie bloke for a while. We kept seeing him out, but I think he already had a girlfriend – some scally skank. Then she gave her number to this lad who used to be on Hollyoaks, but he never called. For whatever reason, she thought it would be easier to go out with a footballer.’ Chloe reached into the curve at the front of her top, pulling a mobile phone out from her bra and tapping at the screen. She turned it for Jenny to see. ‘Look.’

  When it was Andrew’s turn, he could only make out a photograph showing a series of balloons and lines drawn onto a sheet of paper.

  ‘This was ’Chelle’s masterplan,’ Chloe added. ‘She had this step-by-step guide. She wanted to find a lad, get married, sell the rights to a magazine, get an advice column and then some sort of book deal. She was obsessed by those hardbacks that come out every Christmas. She’d get her mum to buy her them and then only look at the pictures.’ Chloe paused, then added quickly: ‘She wasn’t stupid. She could read.’

  ‘What then?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘She wanted a TV show – ITV2 or Living. Either that or Big Brother, something like that. She was always going on about it.’

  Chloe tucked her phone back into her bra and turned to look at the clock again. Their five minutes was almost up, but the other waitress was standing at the counter, chatting to a lad in a red bow tie who either worked there or dressed particularly extravagantly.

  Jenny had eaten half the cookie and licked her finger clean. ‘Celebs not your thing?’ she asked.

  Chloe shrugged. ‘Sort of… not really. ’Chelle would follow all these people on Twitter, Instagram and whatever else. She’d see where they were going out in the city, then we’d follow. I went along more to keep an eye on her. She wasn’t the only one – but I’ve not been part of that crowd since the night she, well… y’know…’ She swallowed, then added, ‘It was exciting, though.’

  There was a sparkle to her voice and, for a moment, Andrew felt that excitement. The draw of money and fame. He didn’t interrupt and neither did Jenny. Chloe seemingly felt compelled to fill the gap.

  ‘I think I always knew it was a bit of fun,’ she said. ‘I’d work here during the day, then go out at the weekend. It was a distraction from real life. For ’Chelle, it was real life.’

  ‘What happened on the Saturday in the champagne bar?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Not much. It was quiet. You can never judge it. Sometimes, you go out and there are famous people all over. Actors, footballers, sometimes even a movie star. When it’s Christmas and there are pantos on, you get all sorts. Other times, it’s just a bunch of normals. We’d been drinking for a few hours and I was ready to get a taxi home.’

  ‘With Michelle?’

  Chloe shook her head. ‘No, I’m still with Mum and Dad. ’Chelle had her own flat. Sometimes I’d stay over when she first got it – but then she started getting a bit funny, saying she couldn’t have Jack round if I was there. It wasn’t a problem.’

  ‘Where was her flat?’

  ‘Hulme way. I can’t remember the address, but it was near the Asda, on the same road as some church. It was re-let about a month after. The landlord was a right bell. ’Chelle’s mum wanted to pick up her stuff and he made a right fuss over letting us in. He kept going on about how busy he was. Eventually he arranged to see us one Sunday morning, but then he was annoyed because we couldn’t clear everything into ’Chelle’s mum’s car. He said he’d keep the deposit for cleaning, as if it was a big deal. I told him to piss off and stop being a knob.’

  ‘Can you remember his name?’ Andrew asked.

  Chloe glanced out the window towards the Asian family. ‘I’m not racist, like.’

  ‘I’m not saying you are.’

  ‘Yeah, but you know what it’s like. You say a bad thing about someone who isn’t white and then you’re automatically racist.’

  ‘I’m only asking for a name.’

  Chloe chewed her lip and folded her arms. ‘Something Bose – like the speakers. He owns a bunch of flats round there. He won’t talk to you, though.’

  She looked over her shoulder again and said she’d be right back. It took Chloe a few minutes to deal with the teenagers at the back, clearing their table and then showing the patience of a saint as they divided up the bill, each paying with a selection of coins. Chloe dumped the money in the till and then had a brief chat with the other waitress before returning to the table.

  ‘I’ve only got a couple more minutes,’ she said.

  ‘We could talk properly another time?’ Andrew replied.

  Chloe shook her head. ‘No… It’s not you – but I thought this was all done months ago. I can’t keep going over the same things. Just ask what you want.’ She turned to Jenny. ‘More milk?’

  ‘If you can.’

  She returned quickly with another frosty glass for Jenny and then slotted in alongside her.

  ‘It was quiet on the Saturday you were out,’ Andrew said. ‘You wanted to go home but Michelle wanted to remain out. So what happened?’

  ‘I hung around for another hour or so because ’Chelle wanted. It was about half twelve and then we went outside. I thought ’Chelle was going to get in a taxi – but she said she was going to stay out for a bit. I thought about doing the same, but, well…’ She tailed off.

  ‘Where did you get the taxi from?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Close to the champagne place near Great Northern. You can flag ’em down, even if they’re pre-book only.’

  ‘You left but Michelle stayed out?’

  Chloe turned away, gazing through the glass at the front of diner. ‘It’s not like I knew what was going to happen.’

  ‘I know, I wasn’t—’

  She glared at Andrew, a mix of anger and regret. ‘It happened most weeks. I’d normally call her on Sunday to see if she wanted to go for lunch. Don’t make me a bad friend.’

  Andrew didn’t reply immediately, learning his lesson. He didn’t think Chloe was a bad friend. ‘Which direction did she go when she left?’

  ‘Towards the Radisson.’

  ‘Did she say—’

  ‘She didn’t say nothing. She just walked away. The police asked all this. They said she wasn’t caught on
any of the hotel’s CCTV, so what do you want me to say? That’s the way she walked. I got a taxi that went the other way.’ Chloe pushed herself up and adjusted her cleavage. She placed a bill on the table, looking at Andrew. ‘That’s for whenever you’re ready. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Can you answer one more thing?’ Andrew said quickly. ‘Was Michelle seeing anyone other than Jack?’

  Chloe turned to look at the clock again. ‘She weren’t no slag.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Look, I don’t know you and you don’t know me.’ She turned to Jenny, lowering her voice. ‘They weren’t exactly exclusive, but it was what it was. ’Chelle couldn’t believe her luck with Jack. She had her plan about magazines, TV and all that.’ Chloe clicked her fingers. ‘She would’ve married him like that.’

  ‘Did he ever hit her?’ Andrew asked.

  Chloe bit her lip again, stepping away from the booth. She stared at Andrew, eyebrow twitching. She took a deep breath and then sighed the reply, ‘Sounds like you already know the answer.’

  Six

  Jenny finished her cookie and Andrew left a twenty-pound note on the table. He couldn’t wait to get away from the diner, striding into the side alleys that led away from the shopping area. Only locals or the occasional lost tourist used the cobbled cut-throughs and shadows hung from the surrounding buildings, leaving a slight chill, despite the warmth of the day.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Good cookie,’ Jenny replied.

  ‘I meant about Chloe and Michelle.’

  Jenny nudged him with her elbow. ‘I was only joking.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Andrew said, unsure why he was annoyed.

  ‘I knew girls like Michelle,’ Jenny said. ‘At school and uni – we weren’t friends or anything, but I reckon most teenagers probably know one or two people like that. At some point they either marry someone famous or they grow out of it. I guess Michelle didn’t get the chance.’

  ‘It wasn’t a flattering picture though, was it?’ Jenny didn’t reply, leaving Andrew to ask, ‘What?’

  ‘You’re being a snob,’ she said.

  ‘Huh?’

  They emerged onto a street with a small park across the road. Jenny crossed between two parked cars without waiting for Andrew. When he caught her, she was heading for a bench on the edge of the green. She sat, patting the space next to her and then pulled out a Dairy Milk from the satchel she was carrying.

  ‘Want some?’ she asked.

  ‘You just ate a cookie the size of a car wheel.’

  ‘Your point?’

  Jenny unwrapped and bit into the chocolate, before offering it to him.

  Andrew shook his head. ‘Why am I a snob?’ he said.

  ‘Because you’re looking down on Michelle just because she had a certain plan for her life.’

  ‘Not much of a plan, is it?’

  Andrew wasn’t trying to be mean, but he got The Look anyway.

  ‘Right,’ Jenny said, sounding annoyed. ‘Say you had a daughter. She studies hard at school, she goes to college, then university. Perhaps she does a Master’s. She spends years and years working as hard as she can, then, at the end, she gets a job working in some massive company. She’s incredibly successful and makes loads of money. Are you proud of her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Say you have a second daughter. For whatever reason, she’s not as driven as the first. It doesn’t matter why, because people are different. She drops out of school but meets someone who she really likes. They have kids and he ends up being really rich and famous. Both your daughters end up with the same amount of money in their bank accounts, so who’s your favourite?’

  ‘It’s not just about money.’ Andrew was trying not to sound annoyed.

  Jenny held up a finger to stop him. ‘Exactly. For whatever reason, Michelle Applegate was looking for a shortcut. You’re assuming it’s because she was stupid, but perhaps she’s the smart one? Maybe, if everything in her master plan works out, she gets to have everything she wants. Someone could work seven days a week; ten, twelve hours a day, give everything they have to their careers and end up with the exact same thing as Michelle. Nice house, car, holidays, whatever they fancy. Who’s the smart one? Michelle who’s written that plan and devoted herself to getting what she wants, or the other person who studied every moment for twenty-odd years and then works every day?’

  Jenny bit off another chunk from her chocolate bar, leaving Andrew to stare at her. Things had really gone full circle if she was lecturing him about the nature of people.

  ‘Were you ever part of that celebrity-hunting crowd?’ Andrew asked.

  Jenny swallowed. ‘Before I knew you – but not really. Not my thing.’

  Andrew wondered if he should follow it up but figured Jenny would tell him if she wanted. He couldn’t imagine her on the arm of someone famous, not because she didn’t have the looks, more because she’d be the centre of attention without trying.

  ‘I wasn’t being snobbish,’ Andrew said, more quietly. ‘Or, I wasn’t trying to be. I suppose I figured… well, I don’t know.’

  ‘If everyone was some high achiever, life would get pretty boring very quickly,’ Jenny said. ‘Not everyone wants to sit around sipping chai and talking about nineteenth-century literature.’

  ‘Not everyone wants to sit around reading celebrity magazines, either.’

  Jenny jumped up. ‘Good – so we’re agreed. There’s room for everyone, no need to be snobby.’ She squeezed the final chunk of chocolate into her mouth and dropped the wrapper in the bin. ‘What now?’ she asked.

  Andrew joined her, suitably chastened. ‘Probably the Radisson. I’ve never been in but I want to see the layout.’

  The Radisson Hotel in the centre of Manchester was on Peter Street, stone-throwing distance from the main Bootle Street Police Station – if the thrower had a good arm.

  First, Andrew and Jenny walked the route that, according to the papers at least, was roughly the way Michelle Applegate had headed. They strode along Peter Street, passing the hotel and then continued past the square next to Manchester’s Central Library. They turned on Portland Street, passing the ‘genting club’ – a term that Andrew had always thought sounded particularly appalling. What exactly did ‘genting’ mean? And, if it was what he assumed, did that imply watching strippers was something all ‘gents’ should do? They followed the row of back-to-back hotels, heading towards the bright lights of Chinatown and then turning right onto Sackville Street.

  At the corner, Andrew and Jenny peered up at the CCTV camera, which was the final time Michelle had been spotted. The image of her stumbling past was still on the websites of the police and the Morning Herald – grey and fuzzy but undoubtedly Michelle.

  After that, her exact movements were unknown. It was a five-minute walk along Sackville Street to the Gardens, the Turing Memorial, and, ultimately, the canal in which Michelle had been found. Andrew and Jenny followed the road, which was particularly bland compared to the blinking lights behind. There were a couple of pubs, but neither seemed the type that would be particularly busy at one o’clock in the morning when Michelle would have been passing.

  Although it took them five minutes, given Michelle’s apparent state of inebriation, there was every chance it would have taken her longer – and that was if she’d gone in a straight line.

  Having walked the route, Andrew and Jenny paced the edge of the canal. The main road was a bridge over the water, but from both Canal Street and Sackville Gardens there was only a climbable fence that separated them from the plunge.

  Canal Street was the heart of Manchester’s Gay Village, with a long row of pubs displaying rainbow flags. The exact place where she was found might have been well populated by revellers at the time Michelle was there – but there was every chance her body had drifted to its resting spot.

  With no way of knowing what happened after the final CCTV sighting of Michelle, Andrew wasn’t sure what else the
y could do by tracing her route. The police would have spoken to bar owners, servers and pub-goers, not to mention checking the security cameras. Too long had passed for Andrew to be able to double-check any of that. If someone who’d been drinking outside the pub at the time was unable to help the police, there was little chance of Andrew getting any assistance many months on.

  Jenny took a few photos anyway and then they made their way back to the Radisson. They headed into the reception area, which was largely what Andrew expected – tall ceilings, lots of white, people in suits, some bloke in a top hat for an unspecified reason, and a widescreen television next to the bar showing the BBC News channel. The lift needed a key card to open, as did the adjacent door that led to the stairs. With Top Hat Man hovering, Andrew had little choice other than to approach the reception desk.

  ‘Can we have a room for tonight?’ he asked.

  The man behind the computer screen peered at Jenny and then Andrew. He had a slim smile fixed on his lips that had a knowing look about it. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said. ‘Twin, double or suite?’ His gaze flickered to Jenny once more, no doubt taking in that she was a decent age younger than Andrew and that they had no luggage.

  ‘Suite,’ Andrew replied, sliding his credit card from his pocket and not asking the price. The receptionist went through the rigmarole of taking Andrew’s address and not raising an eyebrow at the fact it was ten minutes down the road. He took Andrew’s phone number, email address and a host of other details he had no reason to know. Pretty much the only thing he didn’t ask was Andrew’s inside leg measurement. By the time he’d handed over a pair of keycards, Andrew had long since switched off.

  They were in the lift heading to one of the upper floors when Jenny finally spoke. ‘Suite?’ she said.

  ‘You said the footballers were in nice rooms.’

  ‘Good point.’

  The doors pinged open and they stepped into a hallway lined with a springy carpet and moody lowlighting. Andrew headed along the corridor until he reached their room. The key card slot flashed red the first three times he tried it, finally plipping green and allowing him in on the fourth. Those things never worked first time.