‘You loved it really.’
Andrew pulled away from the kerb and edged towards the main road. ‘I really didn’t.’
‘What about those photos?’
‘I think I’m scarred for life. It was like looking at a butcher’s counter.’
Jenny giggled and then unzipped her satchel, fishing out a cereal bar. ‘Want one?’
‘No.’
Jenny had it unwrapped and had devoured half the bar before Andrew could get away from the junction.
‘Eloise Marsh called last night,’ Andrew said. ‘She’s given me the address for the training ground and says Jack will talk to us at lunchtime.’
‘I didn’t expect that.’
‘Me either.’
‘Where are we off to now?’
Andrew indicated and turned off the main road, heading towards the estate where his Aunt Gem lived. ‘My mate got back to me last night, too, saying he knows someone who’s been offered a flute.’
Jenny giggled. ‘Is that a euphemism?’
‘For what?’
‘It sounds like something Jack Marsh might receive a photo of. Anyway, I thought you had to find a stolen violin?’
When Andrew had told Jenny of his meeting at the football stadium with Thomas Braithwaite, she’d reacted with the same bemusement as Craig.
‘I do. You can have a look at the video from the pen drive later, but the thieves nicked a few things – including three flutes. If someone’s been offered one, it might be by a person who has everything.’
Jenny was back in her bag, digging out a second cereal bar and munching her way through it as Andrew headed through the backstreets of Manchester. He made good time, arriving on the estate that bordered the one on which his aunt and Craig lived. It was depressingly similar, lined with grimy two-storey blocks of flats that stretched a long way past a slushy patch of unmown grass. A pair of taller towers eclipsed much of the light, casting thick, cold shadows across an expanse of gritty wasteland. There was an abandoned mustard yellow skip on the side of the road overflowing with rubble and dust. An intermingled mess of graffiti tags was sprayed onto the side.
After getting out of the car, Andrew checked the address Craig had given him and then headed into the closer of the two towers. From the relative warmth of the sun through the car windows, it was chilly enough to raise the goosebumps on his arms.
The tower block was around a dozen storeys high, with an echoing, concrete-clad entrance that offered the choice of solid steps, or a lift that had the F-word graffitied across the front in thick black letters. There was a low groaning from the shaft beyond, as if the spirits were warning of a likely death trap.
‘Stairs?’ Andrew asked, turning to Jenny.
She eyed the metal doors as the elevator creaked once more.
‘Stairs,’ she replied.
The flat they were looking for was on the third floor, or – as Jenny put it – sixty-four steps up. She’d only reached eight when Andrew felt as if counting the steps was putting him off from actually climbing them.
When they finally got there, the floor had two long rows of peeling dark blue doors. There was a flickering white strip bulb above but no other windows. It was a few dead flies away from being the setting of a horror movie. Some of the doors had numbers, some didn’t. The one immediately by the staircase had a large crumpled dent in the lower half that was distinctly foot-shaped.
‘If I say I wouldn’t want to live here, does that make me a snob?’ Andrew asked.
Jenny’s nose was twitching, probably from the undercurrent of bleach that was masking who knew what. ‘I’ll let you off this time,’ she said.
There was no flat thirty-one as such – though there was an unmarked door between thirty and thirty-two. Andrew knocked and waited.
And waited.
He felt as if he was being watched, as if there was a dot on his back on which someone was focusing. When he turned, there was no one there. Jenny felt it, too, because she was peering over her shoulder and returned his curious gaze with a nervous smile.
Andrew spun back as the door opened, revealing a man in loose tracksuit bottoms, a T-shirt with two holes in the front, scruffy dark hair and a beard that had a couldn’t-be-bothered-shaving vibe to it.
The man stepped forward and peered past Andrew along the empty corridor. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Andrew. I think my friend told you I was coming…?’
The man continued looking from side to side and waved them in with a flick of his head. Andrew chose the wrong moment to breathe in, gagging as the reek of cigarettes punched the back of his throat. The walls and dimpled ceiling were a throwback to pubs of days gone by, with sticky brown tar clinging to the once-white paint, creating a mucky mosaic of filth.
‘I’m Griff,’ the man said, shuffling past Andrew and leading them along the hallway into a kitchen that mercifully had the window open. Not that the view was much – the window faced the sibling tower block, meaning almost all of the light was blocked. Aside from a potential glimpse of other people through their windows, Griff had the view of a life prisoner.
The inside wasn’t much better. Griff’s kitchen furniture looked like it had come from someone’s back garden. It was white moulded plastic, with the feet of the table crusted brown. He sat in the only chair, leaving Andrew bobbing awkwardly in the doorway, Jenny at his side.
‘You want a tea?’ Griff nodded at a kettle that was covered with the same brown filth as the rest of the house. Next to it sat a mug that was more chips than ceramic.
‘We’re fine,’ Andrew replied.
Griff shuffled his chair towards the sink, using it as an ashtray after lighting a cigarette.
‘Craig reckoned you were after a flute or summat like that…’
‘Not exactly,’ Andrew replied. ‘He said you’d been offered something second-hand for sale.’
‘Aye.’
‘What?’
Griff puffed away on his cigarette, flicking a chunk of ash towards the window. He nodded at a photo that was attached to the fridge with a magnet. Not a fridge magnet – an actual red and silver horseshoe magnet. On it was a girl in a crisp navy blue school uniform. She was standing rigidly in the way kids do when an official photographer is around.
‘That’s my daughter,’ Griff said. ‘Lives with her mam. Good girl – goes to school every day, does her homework. That sorta thing. She was round here last weekend telling me how she wants to join the orchestra. I ’eard this fella’s got some instruments on the go, so thought I’d see what I could get.’
‘What did he have?’
Griff gasped another breath of his cigarette. ‘I was only after a flute. Reckoned he could do me one for fifty quid – but I don’t have fifty quid. He reckoned he had another buyer lined up, so told me it was that or nuffin’. Ended up being nuffin’.’
‘Did this fella have any other instruments for sale?’
Griff shrugged and then smiled, flashing a row of yellow-brown teeth. ‘Dunno. Didn’t ask.’
‘Can you give us his name?’
He scratched his stubble, eyeing Jenny and then looking back to Andrew. ‘I can tell you where he is and that, but y’didn’t get it from me, right?’
‘Didn’t get it from who?’ Andrew said.
Griff’s brow furrowed. ‘You didn’t get it from me.’
Andrew was momentarily confused. ‘I was trying to make a joke. Like I didn’t know who the name came from – even though you’d tell us.’
‘But it would come from me…?’
‘I know that.’ Andrew turned to Jenny for help, but she was smiling to herself, enjoying the spectacle. ‘If you tell us, I’ll then forget it came from you,’ Andrew said.
Griff’s eyes narrowed, though Andrew still wasn’t sure he got it. He wished he’d never tried to joke in the first place.
‘Darren Wiley,’ Griff said. ‘Lives out Moss Side. I’ll give you the address.’
Griff wrote the address on
a pad and then handed over the top sheet. His handwriting was as poor as Andrew would have predicted.
‘You didn’t get it from me, right?’ Griff said.
‘We didn’t get it from you,’ Andrew confirmed.
Seventeen
Andrew was parked across from the gates that led to the football club’s training ground. It was almost in the shadow of the main stadium, with acres of crisp grass surrounded by tall fences. A steady stream of expensive-looking cars and 4x4s with tinted windows were pouring from the gates, with burly bouncer-types standing nearby, eyeing Andrew as if he might be a terrorist.
‘All this for a violin,’ Jenny said for the third time since they’d left the block of flats.
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Something weird’s going on.’
‘I know that – but if I can find the damned thing, we can take it from there.’
There was a sputter of diesel and then a sporty-looking silver 4x4 roared out of the car park, clipping the kerb as it accelerated away. There was another small group of fans hanging around on the opposite side of the road from the training ground gates. Some were clutching autograph books but most were taking photos of the departing vehicles on their phones.
Andrew checked his watch and then got out of the car, heading to the gates. The bouncer-type looked at Andrew as if he was a yappy little dog that had just peed on his shoes, standing with his arms folded. It took five minutes for him to accept that they’d actually been invited – and another fifteen for a similarly clad gorilla to march out to the gates in order to escort Andrew and Jenny inside.
They ended up in the lobby of what was a cross between a hotel, a posh gym and a restaurant. The walls were covered with framed photographs of various football teams and there was moody lowlighting, with soft carpets. The smell of something meaty and delicious drifted from nearby.
When Jack Marsh jogged his way down a set of steps, it was almost underwhelming. He was a figure Andrew had seen in numerous clippings, a person idolised by many and demonised by some – and yet he was just a man. He had short dark hair that was gelled forward and was wearing a tracksuit in various shades of blue. There were headphones around his neck that were so chunky, it was like he was wearing a neck brace. Without the suit he’d been wearing in the players’ lounge, he seemed… normal.
Jack nodded at the bouncer-type and then turned to Andrew. ‘You’re an investigator, then?’
Andrew offered his hand. ‘Andrew Hunter.’
Jack ignored it, turning to Jenny and breaking into a smirk. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be something to look at.’
He offered his hand and Jenny started to shake it. Before she could do anything, he lunged forward and lightly kissed her hand.
‘What’s your name?’ he cooed.
‘Jenny.’
‘Jen… knee…’ Jack rolled it around his mouth and then grinned. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
Andrew was being ignored, but Jenny took control anyway. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ she asked.
Jack nodded towards the stairs. ‘We’ll find a corner in the canteen. C’mon.’
Jenny removed her hand from his and then wiped it on her skirt when his back was turned. She and Andrew followed Jack up the stairs, emerging into a wide hall that was filled with rows of tables and chairs. At the far end was a huge serving counter that reminded Andrew of the kitchen front at his old school – except there was no ladle-carrying head cook with a face like a cement mixer scowling at the passing kids. There was also no undercooked pizza or ropy tubs of baked beans, let alone the weird smell that school kitchens always seemed to give off that was one part food to five parts gag reflex. Instead, there was a menu pinned to the wall that listed chicken dishes, along with pasta, rice, noodles and all sorts of other foods that seemed generally healthy.
Jack headed towards the table in the corner, plopping himself down and sitting with his legs splayed wide. He scratched his crotch, unknowingly giving off something of a lice problem vibe, and then nodded at Jenny. She acted like she hadn’t seen it, taking a seat next to Andrew on the other side and using the table as a barrier.
‘Did your mother tell you why we wanted to see you?’ Andrew asked.
Jack’s eyes reluctantly left Jenny and focused on Andrew. ‘Summat about Michelle? People never shut up about her. You’ve heard the songs…’
Probably naively, it hadn’t even occurred to Andrew that fans of rival clubs might get onto Jack about the rumours surrounding him. Andrew could imagine the lyrics, though.
‘I know the police spoke to you about this at the time,’ Andrew said, ‘but I was wondering if we could hear it from you about what you were up to on the night Michelle died.’
Jack nodded along, as if in agreement before his top lip turned into a snarl. ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’
Andrew remained calm. ‘I don’t think anything.’
‘I know your type. You read things about me, hear things about me. You think you know me.’
Andrew was about to reply when Jenny leaned in, a knowing, cocky smile on her face. ‘He didn’t know who you were.’
Jack turned to look at her, frowning. ‘What?’
Jenny touched Andrew’s arm. ‘He’s not a football fan. When Michelle’s mother came into our office, he didn’t know who you were.’
It wasn’t exactly true, but it had the desired effect. Jack’s ego shrank in front of them. First his head rocked back as he turned between them, momentarily unable to believe someone wouldn’t acknowledge his fame, and then he was swallowed by his seat as he closed his legs and focused a bewildered stare on Andrew.
‘Oh…’ was all he said.
Now Jenny had given him the upper hand, Andrew jumped back in, finding the authoritative tone with which he so struggled. ‘I’m not interested in stitching you up, Jack, nor in getting one over on somebody. I don’t care about any rumours involving you and I care even less about football. I was in the players’ lounge on Saturday – and that’s the first football match I’ve been to in almost thirty years. All I’m worried about is finding out what happened to Michelle Applegate – and that’s if there’s anything to find out. Okay?’
Jack’s façade had dropped with his ego. He looked like a confused young man as opposed to a cocky cover photo of a lads’ mag. He glanced over Andrew’s shoulder, making sure no one was nearby, and then nodded slightly. ‘A’ight.’
‘So, what happened on the night Michelle ended up in the canal?’
Jack sighed. He unclipped the headphones from around his neck and placed them on the table next to his phone. ‘I told them and I’m telling you, bruv, I was playing cards in the hotel all night. The gaffer don’t let us out after dinner. Everyone’ll tell you that. ’Chelle called a coupla times, but I didn’t answer. We weren’t really going out then.’
‘Weren’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘We were and we weren’t. She always thought it was more serious than it were.’
‘What was your relationship like?’
Jack sucked on his top lip, exposing a row of perfect white teeth that probably hadn’t originated in his mouth. ‘All right.’
‘You were both equally happy? All going well?’
‘Well…’ He glanced at Jenny and then back to Andrew. He was hard to read, but there was perhaps a hint of embarrassment. ‘…I s’pose I was only really in it for one thing. Y’know what I’m sayin’? I dunno about ’Chelle – but she liked being seen out and about with me. I guess we both got something from it.’
‘Not a long-term thing, though?’
Jack answered with a subtle shake of his head.
‘You know what I have to ask you next.’
For the first time, Jack made full eye contact with Andrew. It was only a moment and then he blinked and turned away, gazing towards the wall instead. In that moment, Andrew could see that there was hurt there, pain at the things that had been written and said about him.
&
nbsp; Jack lowered his voice as he leaned in. ‘Look, I ain’t no angel – but if you reckon I could shove her in the canal, then you’re an idiot. People say things about me – that I beat up women or whatever…’ – another glance at Jenny – ‘I mean…’ He gulped, not knowing what to say. It took him a few seconds and then he continued, ‘All right, I’ve done some stupid things – but you show me some eighteen-, nineteen-year-old who ain’t. It’s different now.’
‘Did you ever hit Michelle?’
Jack reeled back as if he’d been hit by a blunt object, rather than asked a blunt question. For a moment there was another snarl of the lip; a cocky, legs-wide objection about to be hurled back. But then the self-esteem fell away again.
His reply was barely audible over the cleaning up that was going on in the kitchen behind. ‘Why don’t you ask if she ever hit me?’
‘Did she?’
There was a microscopic nod and then Jack rolled up the sleeve of his tracksuit top, showing a large scar that ran from an area slightly above his sparkly, chunky watch, all the way to his elbow. ‘One of her nails did that.’
‘But you sometimes hit back?’
Jack didn’t answer. He rolled his sleeve back down and slumped in the chair. He pointed at his arm. ‘If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say you made it up. My mum’s got guys in the newspapers. They’ll look into you, find out all your dirty little secrets. See how you like it.’ He spat the words like a scorned child, but Andrew didn’t doubt there was truth in what he said.
‘Anything you say won’t go beyond here,’ Andrew said.
Jack snatched his headphones from the table, snapping them back around his neck, apparently ready to go. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘You’ve not really told us about your relationship with Michelle.’
Jack threw his hands up. ‘Look, what do you wanna know? She didn’t like other girls talking to me. She’d go mental. This one time, we were in a club in London. She’d gone to the toilet but was off for ages. While she were away, this other girl came and said hello. That were it – “hello” – but ’Chelle went mental. Threatening to kill this other girl, kill me – all that. There were witnesses. What d’you want me to do? Lots of people – guys and girls – wanna say hello.’
Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller Page 11