Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  It was as if the side of him he’d been suppressing made another bid for freedom as Jack turned to Jenny again, giving her the eye as if to say she must be sensing the pheromones in the room and know what he was talking about.

  He turned back to Andrew: ‘She’d go out with her mates, too. She’d text, saying some lad off the telly was eyeing her up. She’d send me photos of her hanging onto some bloke. She was always trying to make me jealous.’

  ‘She can only make you jealous if you cared for her in the first place.’

  It took a second or two, but there was another barely there nod.

  ‘Her mum wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. We might’ve had differences, but we were together for over a year. Then she dies and that’s it? How would you feel?’ He nodded at Andrew, demanding an answer.

  ‘Not good,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘Right – yet I’m the bad guy. I’ve got people calling me a murderer in the street. I’ve got people singing songs about me.’ Jack opened his legs wide again and had a scratch for good measure. ‘We done?’

  ‘Just one final time – to be absolutely, one hundred per cent clear – you did not leave the hotel on the night Michelle died…?’

  Jack shook his head vigorously. ‘I told you, bruv. No way. We were playing cards.’

  He scraped his chair back and stood, taking one small step towards the stairs before bobbing back. He grinned at Jenny, the old cockiness returning.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘can I look at your phone?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  Jenny frowned but removed it from her satchel anyway, unlocking the screen and handing it over. Jack’s fingers danced back and forth and then he handed it back with a grin. Andrew was only half surprised.

  ‘What have you done?’ Jenny asked.

  He winked. ‘You’ve got my number now, babe. Just in case you’re ever feeling lonely. Nice earrings, by the way.’

  Eighteen

  Andrew had only just pulled away from the training ground when his phone’s Bluetooth started to ring. The dashboard told him it was a redirected call – which happened during the day when the office was empty. Someone was calling the number listed for his business rather than his actual mobile.

  He was ambling along in a 20mph zone and pressed the button on the steering wheel to answer. There was a crackle and then a man’s voice said hello.

  ‘This is Hunter Investigations,’ Andrew said. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Is Jenny there?’

  The voice was slightly squeaky, but it was hard to figure out if that was because of the way it was being broadcast through the car’s speakers. Andrew glanced to Jenny, who took a moment and then shook her head.

  ‘She’s not in the office. Can I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘Um… don’t worry.’

  There was a plip and then the radio cut back in as the call dropped.

  ‘Who was that?’ Andrew asked.

  Jenny was uncharacteristically silent. She was holding onto a Jaffa Cake but not eating it, which was even stranger.

  ‘No one ever asks for me,’ she said.

  ‘Did you recognise the voice?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Andrew pulled into the main flow of traffic. ‘Could it be Jack Marsh?’

  Jenny still hadn’t bitten into the Jaffa Cake, which was creeping Andrew out. She was very much see-food, eat-food. ‘No, he gave me his number. I don’t think he took mine – and even if he did, it’d be my mobile.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Andrew eased onto the accelerator, wondering if he should ask outright. In the end, he simply went for it: ‘Are you ever going to tell me his name? If you’ve broken up, it doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘I would have told you before.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because you never asked – not properly. Anyway, his name’s Oliver… well, Ollie. Ollie Raphael. His name reminded me of the painter at first.’ She cut herself off by finally eating the Jaffa Cake. ‘That or the Ninja Turtle,’ she added.

  When Jenny took out her phone and started tapping away, he figured she didn’t want to talk about it any longer – which was fine with him. It had been a very strange few minutes.

  Britain as a nation had never quite got the hang of building roads in a straight line, instead preferring to create bizarre labyrinth-like housing estates, from which nobody but those who lived there knew how to escape.

  This particular area of Manchester was an exception.

  Jenny helped Andrew navigate the backstreets of Moss Side, trying to read Griff’s handwriting. He’d given them Darren Wiley’s address, saying that’s where he’d been offered the second-hand flute. There were long straight rows of red terraces spread into a grid, with narrow ginnels running parallel along the backs of the houses. Cars were parked half on the pavement, half on the road along both sides, their wing mirrors folded in, leaving a tight space along the centre for cars to weave in and out. If that wasn’t bad enough, speed humps were dotted along the road – but the markings were so worn that they were hard to spot. Andrew’s first indication was when he accelerated into one, sending the car lurching upwards and his head into the ceiling with a whump.

  ‘Speed hump there,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The houses were unerringly similar, with faded white window frames and brown doors, offset against the murky red of the buildings. Almost every one was decorated with a burglar alarm and a satellite dish. Andrew moved from one street to the next, but it all looked the same.

  Jenny eventually pointed to a gap between two cars and Andrew spent four minutes and seven seconds parallel parking. He knew that because Jenny had a stopwatch on her phone running and was helpfully telling him that he was ‘close’ or ‘really close’ to the cars in front and behind.

  Darren Wiley’s door was double-glazed and grubby, with a flimsy piece of golden tinsel dangling from the top corner. There was no doorbell or knocker, so Andrew rapped hard on the plastic. Moments later, it was wrenched inwards, revealing a porky man in a black Iron Maiden T-shirt.

  ‘Are you Darren?’ Andrew asked.

  The man looked at Jenny, then Andrew. ‘Aye. What ya after?’

  ‘I heard you had some instruments for sale.’

  Andrew expected some questioning about who he’d heard this from, but Darren acted as if this sort of encounter was normal. He turned and headed along a hallway, shoulders hunched forward, head drooped.

  Andrew and Jenny followed through the hallway, which was lined with boxes, and then into the kitchen. Andrew only knew it was a kitchen because of the way the fridge was buzzing like a swarm of annoyed bees. The floor and countertops were covered by an array of battered boxes. There were toasters, blenders, kettles, slow cookers, at least four microwaves, two coolboxes, three mini beer fridges, a dozen or so knife sets complete with wooden blocks, a food mixer and a small television. Probably a partridge and pear tree somewhere.

  That was just what Andrew could see.

  The doorway into the living room was open and there were mountains of more boxes dotted in the murk.

  ‘I got an eBay business,’ Darren said, answering the unasked question. ‘Raking it in, mate.’ He nodded towards the living room. ‘You after a PlayStation? I just had a bunch come in over the weekend.’

  Andrew didn’t want to know where they’d come in from, though he could guess. ‘I’m only really interested in any musical instruments you might have.’

  ‘You sure? I can do you a deal on a fish tank?’

  ‘I don’t have any fish.’

  ‘Yeah, but if you have a tank, you could get some.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m much of a fish person. I’d forget to feed them and then I’d feel guilty…’

  Darren gave a ‘suit yourself’ shrug. ‘What instruments you after?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  For the first
time, there was a hint of annoyance in Darren’s face. His grin slipped, which made his jawline appear far more solid than before. He stared at Andrew, keeping his voice level. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘A violin…?’

  ‘I ain’t got no violin.’

  Andrew wasn’t about to question him, but it was hard to back down now. ‘How about a flute? My daughter, she—’

  He didn’t get a chance to expand on the lie because Darren wasn’t bothered. He cut Andrew off with a ‘wait here’ and then pushed past him, heading back along the hall and then clumping upstairs.

  Jenny waited until the sound of his booming footsteps were echoing from above. ‘How can the police not know about this lot?’ she whispered.

  Andrew looked at the mass of boxes littering the kitchen. He knew Darren’s type better than he liked to admit. ‘Some of this might be legit – a mix of nicked stuff and cheap gear he got from a mate. Perhaps the police do know? Sometimes they’ll sit and watch a bloke like Darren because they’re more interested in if there’s someone else higher up the chain. Either that or he’s a very lucky boy.’

  There was a thump on the ceiling and then more footsteps banging down the stairs until Darren re-entered the kitchen, out of breath and gasping like he’d just been up Kilimanjaro. He thrust a long, rectangular case towards Andrew and then opened the fridge, removing a can of already open lager and a plate containing three-quarters of a Sara Lee chocolate gateau. He shuffled a couple of the boxes aside and then put the plate down on the small area of counter. Under Jenny’s watchful, envious eye, Darren tucked into the cake with nothing but a fork.

  Andrew clicked open the case and tilted it so that Jenny could see. It contained a silver flute split into two parts. There were no distinct markings that might indicate it had come from BD Music, but it was an odd thing for Darren to be selling given the nature of his other goods.

  ‘Where’d it come from?’ Andrew asked.

  Darren had a mouthful of Sara Lee. He twirled a finger around while flashing a row of chocolate-coated teeth.

  Quite the catch.

  When his mouth was clear, Darren shook his head. ‘Dunno, mate. I get stuff in all the time. Probably some sort of house clearance.’

  Jenny chirped up before Andrew could add anything, the only surprise being she wasn’t asking for a piece of cake. ‘Have you got a toilet?’ she asked, pushing her knees together and hunching over slightly.

  Darren had another chunk of cake on his fork as he eyed her suspiciously. He put it in his mouth and chewed as he continued to watch her, eventually swallowing and telling her it was upstairs, first door on the left. Jenny offered a cheery ‘thanks’ and then disappeared out of the kitchen.

  Unlike Darren, Jenny’s footsteps were barely audible as she padded up the stairs – just as Andrew’s phone started to ring. The screen gave the office number, so Andrew held it up, asking ‘You mind?’ and getting a shrug from Darren, who seemed more interested in setting some sort of record for inhaling a gateau.

  Andrew quickly headed along the hall until he was by the front door. He swiped to answer, muttering a quick ‘Hunter Investigations’. There was no answer, so he repeated himself, before turning up the volume. All Andrew could hear was the sound of someone breathing.

  ‘Hello?’

  More breathing. It sounded wheezy and nasal – not that it particularly meant anything, considering altering a voice on a phone call was easy enough to do.

  ‘Who is this?’ Andrew tried.

  Nothing.

  Andrew hung up. When calls redirected to his mobile, it gave the office number – but he’d be able to find out who’d called once they got back to the office.

  By the time Andrew got back to the kitchen, the cake was no more and Darren was washing it down with the lager. He nodded towards the flute. ‘You want that, pal?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Forty. You sure you don’t want anything else? I can do you a deal. I’ve got those remote-control things that turn your lights on and off. Going like hotcakes on the booters at the moment. Got some mini drones on the go, too. Give yourself a sneaky peep into your neighbour’s window.’

  He winked.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘I’ve got a mate who reckons he can get his hand on a hot tub. Might have to wait a week, but I know another guy who can fit it.’

  ‘I’m sorted for hot tubs, thanks.’

  Andrew took out his wallet and handed over two twenties. Darren’s greedy eyes lit up and he dispatched the notes into his pocket with a piggy grin.

  The sound of the toilet flushing echoed through the house and then Jenny re-emerged. ‘We sorted?’ she asked.

  Andrew nodded to the door. ‘Let’s go.’

  Nineteen

  As soon as the car doors were closed, Andrew and Jenny both spoke at the same time.

  ‘He’s our guy!’

  They went silent, waiting for the other to elaborate and then again spoke over one another. Eventually, Andrew started the engine and told Jenny to go first.

  ‘Did you see the way he walked?’ she said.

  Andrew reversed the car and started to find his way back off the estate. ‘I knew he was our bloke the minute he started shuffling along the hallway.’

  ‘There was a dark hoody hanging on the bedroom door as well. Did you keep on at him about buying other instruments?’

  ‘No point – if he’d had something to sell, he’d have been keen enough to hand it over. He’s one of our robbers, but there are two others we don’t know. When we get back to the office, see if you can find out who his mates are. After that—’ Andrew was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing over the car’s Bluetooth. The office number showed up on the dashboard.

  ‘You gonna answer that?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  Andrew didn’t reply, letting the phone ring off instead. ‘I had a call while you were upstairs in Darren’s house,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No reply, just loud breathing. That’s my first job – check the call logs. Something weird’s going on.’

  When Andrew had been looking for offices to rent, there was one major reason he’d gone for the one he had. Location was one thing – it was central, yet on a quiet street and close to a couple of nice cafés. The biggest reason, though, was the parking space that came with the office. A good car parking spot in central Manchester that didn’t cost more than the vehicle itself was rarer than a government minister pootling up to the city when there wasn’t an election on.

  The space was around the corner from the office, barely a minute’s walk away. Andrew could – and frequently did – walk to work, but he often left his car in the office space so that it was easy enough to get out and visit clients or witnesses. If someone had offered him a naked supermodel who had eyes only for him at the expense of losing the parking spot, he’d take the spot every time.

  At least he had a good idea of what to do with a parking space.

  The shadow of the surrounding buildings left Andrew tugging his jacket tighter as he and Jenny walked along the cobbled street that intersected with the one that led to the office. He was lost in his thoughts – trying to weigh up Jack Marsh and his mother, wondering if he believed them. On balance he probably did, though he felt there was more to it than either was letting on.

  Then there was Thomas Braithwaite and his weird obsession with some violin. Was there something hidden inside the instrument? Or was it valuable? Searches online for the engraving ‘LK’ or the apparent maker, Louis Kleinholt, had thrown up very little. If Kleinholt was a specialist, then he hid it well. Andrew suspected the only reason Braithwaite was so infuriated by what had happened was because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone stealing from him. He used other people, not vice versa – which was why Andrew was still stuck in his clutches.

  As they neared the junction, he spied Tina through t
he glass front of the building opposite his. She was the receptionist in a place that housed half a dozen businesses. She glanced up towards them and, though he wasn’t sure she’d actually stopped typing, she somehow managed to wave at the same time, flashing a row of sharp, rainbow nails. It was like she had three hands. Andrew and Jenny returned the wave and then Tina somehow answered the phone too. Did she have four hands? It was extraordinary.

  Andrew was so mesmerised that, as they rounded the corner next to the office, he didn’t realise Jenny wasn’t at his side any longer. She was lagging a few steps behind, slowing and falling further behind.

  Andrew stopped and turned. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  Jenny was tight-lipped, nodding past him towards the office.

  Andrew had been looking at his feet as they’d turned but followed Jenny’s eyeline until he spotted the person sitting on the steps of his office. She was wearing a thin sweater and tight jeans, arms folded around her knees.

  She stood, offering a narrow smile. ‘Hi.’

  Andrew took a breath, not certain his eyes were telling the truth. He turned between the newcomer and Jenny, before settling on Jenny. ‘Can you hold the fort for a couple of hours?’ he asked.

  Jenny hoisted her key aloft and bounced on her heels before striding past him. ‘When I was a kid, I built forts out of boxes, so holding one? No problem.’

  Twenty

  The woman across from Andrew was wonderfully familiar and yet intoxicatingly different. Her blonde hair was shorter than the last time he’d seen her, no longer a bob, now tousled and slanted to one side, with a wide green headband across the top. Her skin was slightly browned from her time away. There was still the dot of a birthmark near her mouth, too – but it had gone even darker from the sunshine.

  The café doors were open, allowing a steady breeze to billow around the warm insides. There was chatter, too. The sound of shoppers shopping, workmen working. Somewhere in the distance, a pneumatic drill was being put to good use. Well, hopefully good use. Every few minutes, the coffee machine inside would whoosh and pop, then the till would ding.