Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  She spelt it and Andrew wrote that name down as well.

  ‘Sounds like a fish tank cleaner,’ Andrew said. ‘“Want your tank cleaner than clean? Try our new formula Finn Renton”.’

  Jenny smiled, humouring him. ‘Renton’s got a much longer charge sheet. He—’

  ‘You’ve got his as well?’

  Another bat of the hand. ‘Stop worrying! Renton’s on bail, awaiting trial for theft from a shop. He doesn’t seem to know what belongs to him and what doesn’t. He’s a terrible criminal, too – always getting caught. He lives in Longsight and I’ve got an address.’

  ‘Any violence on his record?’

  ‘Just thieving, plus drunk and disorderly and a cannabis possession.’

  ‘Any photos?’

  She turned her monitor, allowing Andrew to see a pasty, pointy-faced, snub-nosed rat of a man. ‘Quite the catch,’ she said. ‘I reckon—’

  Jenny didn’t get a chance to say what she reckoned as the phone started to ring. Andrew and Jenny looked at each other, both thinking the same thing.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Andrew said.

  And he did.

  Twenty-Three

  By eight o’clock the following morning, Andrew was in the car waiting across from Finn Renton’s house. He was about to knock on his door when Finn emerged, picking his nose and fumbling in his baggy grey trackie bottoms. The pants were so loose that they almost fell down as he searched through his various pockets until he eventually found the door key, which he promptly dropped.

  After picking it back up and locking the house, he headed along the street, one hand in his pocket, the other scratching his arse. Not knowing if he was going to be back anytime soon, Andrew set off after him. Considering his thin, runty physique, Finn kept quite a pace and Andrew had to jog in order to catch him at a pedestrian crossing.

  He filed in a little behind Finn, largely anonymous among the bevy of uniform-wearing schoolkids and adults heading for the bus stop. Andrew followed him along Stockport Road, past the sports hall until Finn headed into the Nisa Local. He waited outside, leaning on the barrier next to the pelican crossing, enjoying the trickle of morning sun.

  When Finn re-emerged, he was struggling with the plastic wrapper of a cigarette packet. He first tried digging in his fingernails, then used his teeth, spitting the remains of the wrapper onto the ground.

  ‘There’s a bin there,’ Andrew said, making Finn jump with surprise.

  ‘Y’what?’ Finn replied.

  Andrew nodded at the transparent wrapper that was wedged in the gutter, barely a metre from the bin. ‘There’s a bin there. You missed.’

  Close up, Finn Renton was even weedier than he seemed from a distance. It was hard to tell for sure because of his baggy clothes – but his shoulders were like a malnourished child’s, the collarbone jutting out near the V of his top. Andrew suspected he was the taller person from the CCTV footage of the music shop robbery. He was pretty sure Finn was still wearing the same tracksuit. There were at least three bristled reddy-brown stains on the top, likely a remnant of dinner from any night in the past few days.

  It suddenly dawned on Andrew that it was one thing to be a smart-arse – but a person could end up looking a hell of a lot less smart-arsey if some rodent-faced thug had a knife on them.

  Luckily, Finn seemed more confused than aggressive, his nose twitching as if he knew trouble was ahead. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, stepping away from Andrew.

  ‘Was there any particular reason you chose to rob that music store the other week?’

  Finn goggled at Andrew, eyes widening so that thin veiny strands of red were nibbling around the edges. For a moment, Andrew thought he might actually pop with surprised bemusement, but then Finn ducked his head, flipping his hood up and hurrying past Andrew.

  ‘Dunno what you’re on about, mate.’

  Andrew must’ve woken up on some magical side of the bed because he was feeling surprisingly fit as he strode alongside the younger man, keeping pace and not losing his breath.

  ‘I know you burgled the place,’ Andrew continued.

  ‘Not me, pal.’

  ‘You busted in with two of your mates, nicked some instruments, some music books. You’re on CCTV wearing the exact hoody you’ve got on now.’

  There was the briefest of pauses, before: ‘No way.’

  ‘The music books were a bit weird – but I wonder if you know whose violin you took.’

  Finn ignored him, upping his pace even more and charging across the road without waiting for the blinky green man. Andrew lost a few steps as he stepped onto the road and then had to jump back as an angry driver honked her horn and gave him the fingers for good measure. Presumably, it wasn’t the Churchillian V for victory. After the car zoomed around the corner, Andrew set off again.

  ‘Ignoring me isn’t going to make this go away,’ Andrew called after him.

  Finn continued to say nothing, walking so quickly that he was practically jogging. He got to his front door a moment before Andrew, but as he fumbled for his keys, Andrew got in front, blocking the way. Finn’s teeth were gritted as he reared back, as if about to strike, but Andrew could see in his eyes that he didn’t have it in him. He wasn’t ready to fight – he was ready to sprint.

  ‘Seriously,’ Andrew said firmly. ‘Do you know whose violin you stole?’

  Finn motioned to run but then stopped, torn between his escape and what Andrew was actually saying.

  ‘Whose?’ he growled.

  ‘Why would you care if you didn’t take it?’

  Finn was caught between ignorance and wanting to know if he’d annoyed the wrong person. ‘I dunno what you’re on about,’ he said unconvincingly.

  This time, Andrew stepped past him, away from the front door, leaving it clear. ‘It’s no skin off my nose, Finn. You can either invite me in for a brew, or I can go and tell the owner of that violin who took it. It’s your choice – but if I were you, I’d open the door and stick the kettle on.’

  It was risky, more of a Jenny scheme than something Andrew would come up with, but after a few seconds of posturing and pocket-groping, Finn wrestled his front door open, disappearing into the darkness without closing it behind him.

  Andrew took that as an invitation, following inside, closing the door and then turning to find himself in a dimly lit bedsit. The carpet was manky cream-brown, covered in muddy footprints and smelled of a mouldy old PE kit. Everything seemed to be in one room, with a sofa and TV close to the door where Andrew was. Aside from a stack of CDs on the floor, there was little else to see, except for a small kitchen at the opposite end of the room.

  Finn was struggling to connect his kettle to the wall, the plug scraping around the plastic casing. He growled and swore under his breath before reaching into the drawer under the sink and pulling out a knife. He was about to jab it into the socket when Andrew got to him.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Andrew said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stick a knife in the socket. You’ll electrocute yourself.’

  Finn pushed him aside and jammed the knife into the socket anyway, giving it a jerk until there was a fizzing crack. Andrew winced but nothing happened. Finn pushed the kettle’s plug into the wall and flicked it on.

  ‘You Old Bill?’ he asked, not looking at Andrew.

  ‘My name’s Andrew. I’m a private investigator.’

  Finn turned, leaning against the sink as the kettle started to hiss. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Basically, I find stuff out – like I found out you were one of the blokes who broke into the music shop.’

  ‘Weren’t me.’ Finn shook his head with the conviction of someone saying they’d love a plateful of sprouts.

  ‘I’m giving you a chance here, Finn. I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘No one… not really. But the man who that violin belongs to isn’t happy about it going missing. He’s…’ Andrew struggled for the right words. ‘Let’s just
say he’s not the forgiving type.’

  Finn wrinkled his nose and then started to scratch his arms so hard that Andrew thought he might draw blood. There was a thin, blade-shaped scar from his ear to his neck and he’d clearly seen the rougher side of Manchester. This time, he didn’t even bother to give it the hardman act.

  ‘Look, man, I’ve done stupid things. I can’t even nick stuff without getting caught. They’ve done me with DNA, fingerprints, a footprint. One time, I even left my coat behind.’ He sighed, close to tears. Not at all what Andrew had been expecting. He crumpled against the cabinet like a soggy slipper.

  ‘Finn…’

  ‘My dad was a rum ’un. Used to be all sorts of nicked stuff around the house. Like a bloody Argos catalogue at times. No surprise I turned out like I did. What did people expect? He weren’t interested in me doing my schoolwork, he was more bovvered about whether I could fit through the neighbour’s cat flap to get the door open.’

  ‘Finn…’

  The man wasn’t listening. He flung a hand towards the room in general and then looked Andrew dead in the eye. This time there were tears. ‘Look, Mr Private Investigator. Mr Clever Dick. I have a lad who’s really got something. I dunno where he gets it from ’cos it ain’t me and it definitely ain’t his mum – but he’s amazing at music. His teacher reckons he’s the bee’s bollocks. She’s talking ’bout seeing if she can get him into that music school in the centre. Reckons she knows someone who can pay for it.’

  ‘Chetham’s—’

  ‘He ain’t cheating nobody, mate.’

  ‘No, Chetham’s School of Music.’

  Finn flapped another hand, talking over Andrew. ‘Whatever. There’s this piano at his school and he can just play it. Christ knows how. He don’t need music books. You name it, he can play it. I bet he’s even a genius on the triangle.’

  Andrew couldn’t stop himself – the triangle remark brought a smile and then Finn finally relaxed, grinning proudly to himself, too. The kettle clicked off, but they both ignored it.

  Finn tugged on his baggy top. ‘When you come from a place like me, people assume you’re scum.’ He shrugged, accepting it. ‘But my lad’s different. He don’t have to be like me. His teacher’s got him an audition at that Cheat-em place you were on about. But he needs an instrument. His school can’t move the piano and it ain’t as if I’ve got a pile of trumpets lying about. I had to do something.’

  Andrew had expected denials, perhaps aggression, definitely stupidity. What he hadn’t expected was tears from someone who, if nothing else, unequivocally loved his son and wanted to provide a better life.

  ‘Where’s the violin?’ Andrew asked.

  Finn shook his head. ‘You can’t take it, man. It’s my kid’s. His name’s Nathan.’

  ‘Things will be much worse if the owner finds out you’ve got it.’

  Finn tried to stand taller and puff out his chest. It didn’t work. ‘You reckon? I’ll get me mates together and take on whoever it is. They want it? They’ll have to take it.’

  Andrew said nothing at first, waiting for Finn to realise how ridiculous he sounded. ‘All that for a violin?’ he asked.

  Finn shook his head again, more softly this time. ‘All that for my kid.’

  Andrew stared at him and then couldn’t take it any longer. He sighed and moved back out of the kitchen. ‘Tell you what. Let me borrow it…’

  Twenty-Four

  When Andrew let himself into the office, a higgledy-piggledy pile of mail was scattered across the concrete entranceway. He scooped it up, holding it under his armpit and cradling the violin case, before heading up the stairs.

  Jenny was at her desk, tapping away on her keyboard. She turned, gasping an ‘oh’ of surprise.

  ‘What?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Is that… the violin?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Finn Renton nicked it?’

  Andrew didn’t answer properly, slipping the case under his desk instead. He didn’t want to talk about it. Next, he dropped the mail by his keyboard and then started to pick through it.

  ‘Bin, bin, bin, bin, mine, bin, yours, bin, bin, mine, mine…’ He paused, holding a large brown envelope up. It was slim and bendy, a single word written in capital letters on the front: JENNY. There was no address, no stamp. It had been hand-delivered. Andrew held it up for her to see.

  Jenny first removed her glasses to squint away from the screen and then leaned across to take it from him.

  ‘Recognise the handwriting?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘No…’ She turned it over, looking at the back, which was equally devoid of clues. ‘Should I open it?’

  It was strange to hear her so reticent. Usually she’d go storming into situations and think about the consequences afterwards.

  ‘I suppose…’

  Jenny carefully pulled apart the corner of the envelope, peeping inside and then sniffing it for some reason. Seemingly satisfied, she ripped along the rest of the top and pulled out a card that immediately dispatched a coating of glitter onto her desk.

  ‘This is a first,’ she said, holding it up for Andrew to see.

  She was holding a large Valentine’s Day card, with a bright red heart on the front alongside some cutesy teddy bears that were either cuddling or dry-humping. Probably cuddling.

  ‘It’s about two months late,’ Andrew said. ‘Does it say anything inside?’

  Jenny opened the card and turned it for Andrew to see. The single-word message was loud and clear: BITCH.

  ‘It must be someone who knows me,’ Jenny said with a smile, although there was little humour behind it. She put the card on her desk and then swept the glitter into the bin with the side of her hand.

  ‘Jen…’

  Jenny ignored Andrew, turning back to her screen and typing something. Andrew tried again and she replied ‘What?’ without looking up.

  ‘The calls and now the letter… I think we should tell someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I have a friend in the police. She’ll at least be able to get onto the phone companies so we can find out where the calls are coming from.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Do you know who it might be?’

  Jenny didn’t reply at first, flipping her glasses back onto the end of her nose and focusing on her screen. Once again, Andrew couldn’t read her. She didn’t seem scared. Perhaps it was embarrassment or self-consciousness because he was witnessing what was going on.

  ‘Jen?’ he repeated.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s fine – don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Could it be Ollie?’

  She made a low popping sound as she puckered her lips. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘How upset was he when you broke up?’

  Jenny stopped typing, digging into her bottom drawer and emerging with a Hobnob. It was like she had a mini bakery on the go. She didn’t take a bite, instead holding it in front of her lips as if it was a small shield. ‘Quite upset, I guess. I didn’t really notice. I was just, “It’s over,” and he was all “Why?” and that. I wanted to get out of there, he wanted a conversation.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I got out of there.’

  ‘Out of where?’

  ‘We were in a pub just off Oxford Road. It was busy.’

  ‘You broke up with him in a busy pub?’

  ‘Yeah…’ She spoke with no comprehension of why that might be awkward.

  ‘It’s just…’ Andrew stopped, wanting to get the words right. Occasionally he felt like Jenny’s teacher, which was always unnerving. ‘Were you frightened of him?’ he asked.

  ‘Why would I be?’

  ‘If you weren’t scared of being around him, then breaking up in a public place is quite a brutal thing to do. Other people would’ve seen, perhaps overheard. If he didn’t see it coming, it means he could have been doubly humiliated. Doubly hurt, perhaps? I don’t know him, but, if someone was breaking up with me, I’d rather it was in a quiet, p
rivate place.’

  Jenny removed her glasses and then put them on again, before finally biting into the biscuit. She seemed to be considering what he’d said. ‘Yeah…’ she replied, ‘that probably would have been a better idea.’

  Andrew nodded at the card. ‘What do you want to do with it?’

  She took a breath. ‘Nowt… for now.’ Her grin was back. ‘What do you want to do with the violin?’

  Andrew returned her smile. ‘Nowt… for now.’

  She snorted and it was as if everything was back to normal.

  ‘Right,’ Andrew declared, wanting to move on. ‘Mia Church worked at the Radisson on the night Michelle Applegate went missing. She left three weeks ago. What else do we know about her?’

  Jenny scoffed the rest of her biscuit and bashed away on her keyboard. ‘She’s a final-year student at MMU, so she’ll either be doing exams now or very soon. According to her LinkedIn account, she’s studying ornithology.’

  ‘Birds?’ Andrew asked, unsure.

  ‘Birds. I didn’t even know you could study ornithology as a degree.’

  ‘Any idea how to get in contact with her?’

  Jenny grinned. ‘As a matter of fact she was complaining about her postman on Twitter a month or so ago. I have the road she lives on, but I’m not sure which number. She’s not on the electoral roll up here, but that’s not unusual for students. She lives with a couple of other girls, which might be a clue. I might be able to get a phone number from one of my sources…’

  Andrew thought for a moment and then reached for his jacket. ‘Let’s go for a wander instead.’ He picked up the violin case and tapped it. ‘First, I have a shop to visit.’

  Mia Church lived on a street not far from the pleasant green of Gartside Gardens, a short walk from the main university campus – and only five minutes from where Jenny lived. There was a collection of relatively new semi-detached houses in the shadow of a monster pair of cranes that were busy erecting something that was likely going to end up being new student flats. There was always something being built in the area, with the general Peter Street and Oxford Road parts of the city a perpetual building site.