Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  ‘You didn’t get on with her then?’

  ‘We never really met, and when we did, she hardly said anything. I found out most of that through Jack. He used to laugh about it. I think he just liked spending time with me because his mum disapproved.’

  Jenny took that in, offering a quick glance to Andrew before continuing. ‘When did you break up?’

  Megan ate a couple of forkfuls of her food and then leaned back in her seat. ‘Do you really need to know this?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Perhaps not. It’s up to you.’

  She chewed another mouthful, seemingly considering it. ‘It was on my nineteenth birthday. I know that makes it sound like we’d been going out for five years, but we hadn’t really. We’d break up and make up, plus there were times when I wouldn’t see him for a week or two because he’d be off touring, or playing or whatever. Things drifted and then he didn’t turn up to my party – didn’t even call to say he couldn’t make it. I ended up phoning him and saying we were done. I got a text about a week later saying “sorry” – but that was it. I’ve seen him out and about a couple of times since – but only to say hello to.’ She paused, smiling and even giggling slightly. ‘He did buy me a birthday present in the end, though.’

  Megan waited for Jenny’s inevitable question and then added: ‘He bought me a brand-new car. That was four years ago and I’ve still got it. I guess it was a sort of goodbye gift, too. I never asked for it, but Jack could be weird like that. He was on a lot of money and he’d pick an expensive place for us to go out and eat. He’d make a big deal about having to pay for it – even though it was his choice and he knew I’d never be able to afford anything. He’d go on about that for ages, then turn around and buy something crazy a week later. As well as the car, he got me a ring the Christmas before, too. I ended up selling it a year ago and it was still worth two grand then, so I’ve no idea what it cost new.’

  ‘Do you regret breaking up with him?’

  Megan shook her head. ‘It would never have worked. I’m surprised we were together that long.’

  ‘Why?’

  It was subtle, but Megan’s posture changed. She’d been relaxed: leaning back and tolerating the conversation, if not slightly enjoying the memories. After Jenny’s question, she ate some more food but then leaned forward, elbows on the table. She sighed and looked at Andrew, perhaps wondering why he was there given he’d said little.

  ‘Jack wasn’t always nice.’ Megan’s voice was a whisper, almost lost among the chatter of the people around them. She glanced up, making sure they’d heard and then focused on her food again.

  ‘What did he do?’ Jenny asked.

  Perhaps subconsciously, Megan brushed her right eye. When she realised Andrew was watching, she quickly moved her hand away.

  ‘Did he hit you?’ Jenny asked.

  The reply didn’t come immediately, but, when it did, it was even quieter than before. ‘Once.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.’

  There was another pause, leaving Andrew to think about how he would never have said that. The biggest problem with this job was that people didn’t need to speak to them. There were no warrants, no compulsion. Any information paid for could be compromised, even though, indirectly, that was what had happened with him buying the dress. Actually telling Megan she didn’t have to talk to them could’ve broken the spell and encouraged her to stand up and walk away. Instead, Jenny had made it sound like she cared. Perhaps she did? Andrew was never sure with her.

  Megan nodded, breathing through her nose. ‘I’d spilled some nail varnish and a bit got on these new trainers he’d bought. I didn’t see it coming.’ She rubbed her eye again. ‘He bought me a necklace to say sorry. I’ve still got it.’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Seventeen, I think.’

  ‘And that was the only time…?’

  Megan shrank in front of them, cradling her arms across her front. ‘It was partly my fault again. I got mud in his car and…’

  There was a long pause in which Andrew wanted to jump in and say it wasn’t her fault, but the conversation was little to do with him.

  From nowhere, Megan shunted her chair back with a loud screech. ‘Look, when he gave me the car, he also gave me a piece of paper from a lawyer saying that if I spoke to the papers or whatever, he’d be able to sue me. I don’t really want to say any more.’

  Jenny and Megan continued watching each other, but there was another long pause in which neither of them spoke. Andrew thought about the implications of the gagging contract Megan had been asked to sign. That could be why she hadn’t sold a story to the media. Perhaps the car was what she got for signing it, or maybe it was a genuine gift?

  Andrew eventually broke the silence, speaking slowly and deliberately. ‘If you think he could sue you, why talk to us?’

  Megan stared at him briefly and then turned away. Her voice was croaky and soft. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to have someone that’ll listen.’

  Eight

  Jenny was eating a bowl of Sugar Puffs at her desk when Andrew got into the office the next day. ‘Brew?’ she asked, before he’d sat down.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Andrew dumped a spoonful of instant coffee granules in his mug and clicked the kettle on, then leaned against the fridge, watching Jenny eat. If she felt self-conscious, then she didn’t show it, crunching her way through her breakfast and then drinking the leftover milk by tipping the bowl upside down and emptying it into her mouth.

  ‘It’s hard to beat a good bowl of Sugar Puffs,’ she said, with a satisfying gasp.

  ‘I’ve never really been into cereal. I’m more of a toast sort of person.’

  ‘Do you know there’s a café in London that serves only toast?’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  Jenny shrugged. ‘Who knows? That’s London for you. Anyway – I’ve got us an appointment for later.’

  ‘At the toast place?’

  No! We’re looking to rent a flat out Hulme way, so we have a viewing.’

  It took Andrew a couple of seconds to realise what she was implying. ‘Good stuff,’ he said. ‘I was going to get to the landlord. What time?’

  ‘Two o’clock – but there’s something else you need to see first.’ She waved him over to her desk and swivelled the monitor so the light wasn’t reflecting quite so brightly. ‘I should’ve found this earlier, but it was so obvious, I almost missed it.’

  The screen was showing a large photo of Jack Marsh playing football. Instead of the sponsor’s name on the front of his shirt, it had been altered to read ‘danger’.

  ‘What’s this?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Anna Applegate’s blog. It’s one long list of libels.’

  She clicked onto a page marked ‘The Truth’. At the top was a photo of Jack sitting with a pretty blonde woman in a restaurant somewhere. They were chatting amiably, obviously unaware the photo was being taken.

  ‘Did Anna take that?’ Andrew asked.

  Jenny shook her head. ‘It’s from a magazine – one of those “spotted” column things. The woman he’s with was in Emmerdale.’

  Andrew peered closer at the picture but didn’t recognise the blonde. Jenny scrolled down and pointed at the screen.

  CITY SLICKER! Soap siren Hannah Bertram was out and about last weekend, smooching with Premier League footballer, Jack Marsh. A witness says the blonde bombshell was tucking into a carb-loaded plate of penne. She must not know our golden rule: Forgetti da spaghetti.

  ‘Is that from the magazine column?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Who writes this?’

  Jenny wagged a finger at him. ‘Snob. Anyway, that’s not what’s libellous.’

  ‘Who cares what someone else is having to eat?’

  Jenny ignored him, scrolling to the next passage of text.

  CITY STRIPPER! Soap siren Hannah Bertram was taking her life in her hands last weekend, smooching w
ith Premier League simpleton, Jack Marsh. A witness says the blonde bombshell was being lined up as Marsh’s next victim after a string of sex attacks. She must not know our golden rule: Don’t Turn Your Back On Jack.

  ‘I’m not sure I get what’s going on,’ Andrew said, having read it through twice.

  Jenny clicked onto a second page, this one showing Jack Marsh wearing a Santa hat. He was in a hospital, next to the bed of a grinning but ghostly pale child and handing over a large Christmas present.

  ‘Anna Applegate’s going through the papers and magazines, finding anything she can about Jack and then uploading it to her site. She leaves the original caption or story, but then adds her own twist. Everything’s about him being some sort of sexual predator or a danger to women.’ She pointed at the picture of Jack with the sick child. ‘You don’t want to read this one.’

  Andrew took Jenny’s word for it. ‘Anna didn’t tell us that when she was here.’

  ‘No… I’m surprised it’s not been shut down. You know what lawyers are like.’

  ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘Someone had linked to it on a football forum.’

  ‘Is it easy to search for?’

  Jenny didn’t reply, instead trying it out. She typed in a dozen different search combinations revolving around Jack’s name, his club, football and the like. Anna Applegate’s libel-ridden blog didn’t appear on the top page for any of the search terms.

  ‘I guess that if they launch some sort of legal complaint, it’ll draw attention to it,’ Andrew said. ‘More people will see it if they make a fuss – this way, it’s just a woman ranting to a handful of people.’

  He sat on his chair and swivelled to face Jenny.

  ‘Does this mean we shouldn’t do any more work on the case?’ she asked.

  It took Andrew a few moments to reply. ‘Probably…’

  ‘She thinks he killed her daughter – we knew that then and we know it now.’

  Andrew spun back to his desk, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. ‘It’s one thing to be angry, another to do this. I think we both have an inkling Jack Marsh might not be very nice – but what if everything he says is true? He had nothing to do with Michelle’s death. Imagine if you were innocent and you knew all this was out there…?’

  He was expecting a smart reply but instead Jenny was staring at him. When she realised he was watching her back, she spoke quietly. ‘It’s not nice to have people spread lies about you.’

  She was right, of course – but it didn’t feel as if she was expressing an opinion. There was recognition there.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Andrew asked.

  Jenny blinked and then the dimple in her cheek returned and she was smiling again. ‘Yeah, sorry, spaced out for a second. What are you going to do?’

  Andrew lingered on her for a moment longer and then picked up his phone. ‘I’m going to let Mrs Applegate choose whether she wants us to continue looking into things or if she wants that site to stay up. She can’t have both.’

  It took Andrew fifteen minutes to persuade Anna Applegate that she couldn’t keep the anti-Jack site live and continue to employ him to look into her daughter’s death. He’d expected her to tell him to get lost, but, when she realised he wasn’t going to budge – and that he didn’t care about her money – she wilted. She told him the site would be offline by the end of the day and then asked if he’d found anything. Andrew gave it the usual ‘don’t want to get any hopes up’ line and she seemed satisfied enough.

  He felt exhausted by the time he hung up, leaning back in his seat and yawning as if he’d just woken up. Jenny was flitting around, sorting the recently arrived mail.

  ‘Yours,’ she said, putting a padded envelope on his desk and then continuing through the stack. ‘Yours, yours, mine, bin, bill, yours, bin, bin, bill, yours, bin.’ She finished by flicking the final piece of junk mail into the bin along with the others and then nodded at the Thailand postcard that was still resting against his monitor. ‘No new postcards.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Were you expecting another…?’

  Andrew picked up his pile of mail, pretending he hadn’t heard. The first was the water bill, which was typically exorbitant considering they only used the tap to fill up the kettle, plus flushed the toilet a few a times a day.

  Jenny took the hint, returning to her desk and tapping away at her computer.

  The next letter was something from the bank, then more junk mail cunningly disguised as non-junk because it had his name on the front. By the time he got to the padded envelope, Andrew was wondering if he could recall the last time he received anything interesting. He remembered being a child, writing out stamped-addressed envelopes to enter competitions on television. Every once in a while, he’d get something himself from a relative on holiday. Getting and sending letters was a thrilling experience, now it was another in life’s long list of mundane happenings.

  He was about to rip it open when he noticed there was no proper address or stamp on the front. It simply read: ‘Mr Andrew Hunter, Private Investigator’ in felt-tip-etched capital letters.

  Andrew turned and held it up. ‘Jen – was this with the rest of the mail?’

  She peered up from her desk and shrugged. ‘Everything was in a pile on the doorstep.’

  There was nothing written on the back and the envelope was new, sealed with the glue it came with, rather than any sort of tape. Andrew pulled one of the ends apart at arm’s length, not sure what he was expecting. He couldn’t remember having anything hand-delivered before. When nothing leapt out, he peeped inside but was unable to see anything. Still at arm’s length, he tipped it upside down onto his desk, whereby two rectangular pieces of thin cardboard dropped.

  Andrew picked them up, glancing at the first and then reading the words on the second. It was handwritten, the characters topped and tailed with elegant swooshes and curls, the neatness of which Andrew couldn’t have managed if his life depended on it. His eyes darted along the paragraphs and then returned to the start again, reading the note over and over.

  ‘Andrew.’

  Jenny’s single word brought him back into the room and he spun on his chair, coughing and blinking because of the light.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve not moved in three minutes. Nearly four.’

  Andrew held up the first piece of card. ‘I’ve been sent an invite for Man City against Everton tomorrow. There’s a spot reserved for me in an executive box.’

  Jenny pouted out her bottom lip. ‘Very nice. If you’re going to watch something you’re not bothered about, you may as well be in comfort. I’ve heard you get free food, free drink, the lot. Who invited you?’

  Andrew switched the cards around, showing her the second that had been handwritten. ‘Thomas Braithwaite.’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘I thought getting those pictures of Max Grayson dealing in that club meant everything might be even again…?’

  ‘Me too…’

  ‘Do you think it’s because he knows something about Jack Marsh?’

  Andrew didn’t reply, instead rereading the card.

  ‘Because, if it is,’ Jenny continued, ‘then how does he know what we’re looking into?’

  Andrew wasn’t listening. He was focusing on the final three words, which had been underlined: Don’t be late.

  Nine

  Manish Bose was late.

  Jenny was in the passenger seat of Andrew’s car tapping away on her phone as he sat and watched the front door of the flat they were supposed to be viewing.

  ‘What time did you arrange?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘It’s ten past. Did you definitely arrange for two?’

  ‘Definitely. Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Were you in the Scouts?’

  ‘No – I was only interested in joining when someone said they didn’t let girls in. When I found out they did accept girls, it all seemed a bit boring.’

  Andrew found that un
surprising. ‘I’m going round back,’ he said. ‘Call me if he turns up.’

  After getting out of the car, Andrew slipped into the alley that skirted the rear of the flats. Everything was one- or two-bedroom, red-brick and new-build – but it still had a look as if no one chose to live in the area – they were forced to through circumstance. The lane was covered with moss and black bin bags, plus someone had dumped a pizza box against a gate, leaving a red and yellow gooey mess mashed into the gutter. Someone a few streets over was playing some sort of booming crime against music, the brain-frying bass doing its absolute best to annoy anyone in a half-mile radius.

  Andrew wasn’t sure in which flat Michelle Applegate had lived, but it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference given everything looked the same. The lane cut between a row of small houses on either side before opening back onto the narrow road, where yet more identikit Lego buildings had been plonked. Andrew had a peep over the back gate of one of the houses, but there was little to see because the space was so small. The bathroom in his Radisson suite had been larger than the play area any kids would get here.

  As he reached the main road, Andrew’s phone started to ring. He saw Jenny’s name, so didn’t bother to answer, instead quick-stepping around the corner until he was back where he’d started. Jenny was leaning against his car, chatting with an overweight Asian man, who was dressed in a long, cream thobe with sandals.

  ‘Here he is,’ Jenny said, pointing towards Andrew and offering a friendly wave. ‘This is Mr Bose,’ she added, indicating the man and then introducing Andrew. They all said hello and then the man unlocked the nearest flat and let them inside. It was even smaller inside than it seemed from the outside, a reverse TARDIS effect. What Andrew thought were small two-bedroom houses were instead minute one-bedroom flats. The living room and kitchen occupied the same space, with a small cupboard that was actually the bathroom and then a bedroom that could fit a bed and little else.