Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  ‘How was Jack?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘He had quite the story to tell…’

  Andrew told Jenny everything about the first part of his morning, stopping at the part where Jack had explained why he was creeped out by her. He said he’d had a few errands to run after that and omitted to mention anything about his encounter with Braithwaite.

  Jenny was excited. ‘So he’s finally admitted he sneaked out of the hotel?’ she said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you believe him about the escorts?’

  ‘If he was going to make up something, he could have come up with anything that painted him in a better light, but he didn’t.’

  ‘If he didn’t kill Michelle, did she just fall in the canal?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Jenny reached into her bottom drawer and held up a packet of Hobnobs. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘No.’

  A packet of chocolate digestives. ‘Choccie biscuit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mini Roll?’

  ‘I’m fine, Jen.’

  She nodded, returning the packets to her drawer, and then held up a chocolate bar. ‘KitKat?’

  ‘Jen – I’m fine. How much have you got in there? It’s like you’re running a corner shop.’

  She grinned. ‘I’d love to run a corner shop. Imagine having a cash and carry card. I’d go crazy in a place like that.’

  Andrew was going to mention that his business was eligible for a cash and carry card but couldn’t take the potential excitement.

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever know what happened to Michelle?’ Jenny asked, tucking into her KitKat.

  Andrew clucked his tongue, thinking. ‘I’m not sure where to go from here. We’ve walked her route. The CCTV is online, showing her heading through the city, but I don’t see how we can ever know for sure what happened when she turned off Portland Street. There’s no cameras, no witnesses to talk to – certainly no one the police wouldn’t have already been in contact with. We could get down to Canal Street and ask some of the bar owners if they were working that night. The worst that can happen is they’ll tell us to get lost, or say they didn’t see anything.’

  ‘The police will have done that, though, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Yes – and they’ll have been able to find potential witnesses who were out drinking that night.’ Andrew accidentally touched his ear and then winced away. ‘Did you find out anything about Danny McMichael?’ he added.

  ‘Only really football stuff. It doesn’t look like he’s ever been in trouble and the papers don’t seem that bothered by him. He’s married with a couple of kids. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean much, but unless we can talk to him—’

  ‘We can’t.’

  ‘In that case, I’m not sure what else we can do.’

  Andrew agreed. Danny McMichael was a dead end – as were most of his other ideas of how to go about things. Jack Marsh had a murky past, but Andrew didn’t believe he was a killer. He hated being defeated, but it felt like the end of the line.

  He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers. ‘I’m going to let it sit for a day or two,’ he said. ‘Maybe one of us will come up with someone else to talk to, or there’ll be something we’ve missed. I’ll take the file home later and read it all through.’

  Andrew realised Jenny was watching him. It felt like she wanted to say something.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘My flat’s sorted, but I was wondering if I could stay at yours another night. It’s just that—’

  ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  Andrew didn’t know what her motivations were, his opinion had been warped enough over the preceding days. Beyond anything Jenny might have to say, it didn’t matter. Braithwaite’s threat to Jenny and Keira was still fresh in his mind and the closer he had them to him, the safer he hoped they’d be. At least his flat was relatively secure. Many floors up, security cameras on the ground floor – and so on. If someone was determined, it wouldn’t stop them getting to him, but his flat was more secure than Jenny’s house.

  ‘I’m not going to be in this evening,’ Andrew added. ‘You can still stay there, but you’ll have the flat to yourself. There’s food in the fridge, so eat what you want.’ He paused, then added: ‘That’s not a challenge, by the way.’

  Jenny laughed but sounded surprised. ‘You up to anything fun?’

  ‘I’m meeting Keira for tea. I’ll walk you back and give you my spare key, then I was going to go straight out.’

  ‘You don’t have to walk me. If you’re going out, just go. It’s only five or ten minutes.’

  Andrew thought about it, wanting to tell Jenny about Braithwaite’s threat but desperate not to worry her. Deep down, he didn’t believe Braithwaite was being serious when talking about either Jenny or Keira. It was a tactic to get to Andrew. Sooner or later, he’d be back, wanting another job doing, and then Andrew would have to make a decision.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. He crossed the room and unlocked the filing cabinet, rifling through the bottom drawer. He tossed one of his spare keys across to Jenny, who caught it one-handed. ‘Please don’t lose that.’

  ‘When have I ever lost stuff?’

  ‘Good point.’

  She pocketed the key and then looked up. ‘Is there anything I can help with?’

  ‘Where’s the Braithwaite file?’

  ‘Under B. Surprisingly.’

  Andrew flipped through the files until he found the Braithwaite one. Considering the nature of the man, the brutality of what Andrew had been through a short time ago, it seemed ridiculous that the details they had on him were kept alongside those of the other cases they’d had.

  After locking the cabinet, Andrew returned to his desk and started to read. One way or another, he had to bring all this to an end.

  Thirty-Five

  Andrew had not eaten out in the Curry Mile area of Rusholme for years. It stretched along Wilmslow Road to the south of Manchester, one long row of brightly coloured Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi restaurants, all competing with one another for customers and space. That was only the start, with dozens more takeaways from all cuisines and then a host of new shisha places that toed the line of operating within anti-smoking laws. Considering the length of time Andrew had called the city his home – plus the fact he’d been a student there – his lack of time in the area was something of a disgrace. Some people came from miles around to sample the south Asian cuisine and yet he’d not bothered to get off his arse and travel down the road since he’d been a younger twenty-something.

  After a text that morning, it was Keira’s suggestion to change that.

  Andrew parked close to Platt Fields Park and then walked up the road as if he were heading back to the city centre. The air smelled of exotic spices, though there was an undercurrent of cheap kebab meat as well.

  It was still early, not long after seven, and the sun was clipping the tops of the buildings. The area sat roughly halfway between the Fallowfield and Oxford Road university campuses, but the tight Moss Side terraces bordered it as well and the streets were teeming with people.

  Andrew checked the text from Keira with the name of the restaurant. There were far too many vowels in it for his liking, but that at least made it easy to find.

  Crossing the road was an altogether trickier proposition.

  The tarmac was a bewildering jumble of bike lanes, bus lanes, bus stops, and other criss-crossing white lines. It was like whomever was in charge of line painting had suffered a seizure but had carried on regardless.

  Andrew stood opposite the restaurant waiting, waiting, waiting… and then he darted across when there was something vaguely resembling a gap in the traffic. He remembered too late that much of him still ached from the van abduction, though he made it across in one piece.

  The restaurant was impressive, in a Vegas-Blackpool tacky sort of way. There were pink and green flashing bulbs strobing needlessly given it was still light outsi
de – and some sort of rotating globe above the door. As he got inside, an Asian man in a suit shook Andrew’s hand and welcomed him while simultaneously helping him to slip off his jacket like a particularly creative pickpocket.

  Further inside and the restaurant was at least twice the size Andrew would have guessed from the outside. Long rows of tables stretched deep into the darkness, with everything immaculately laid out and the type of low-level lighting more usually associated, or so he presumed, with ‘genting’.

  Andrew pointed towards Keira, muttering that he was with her and – perhaps politely – not getting a raised eyebrow of ‘she’s-out-of-your-league’ confusion from the waiter.

  Keira was sipping from a wine glass and toasted Andrew with it as he sat. ‘Found it then?’ she said.

  Andrew’s first thought of a reply was a sarcastic ‘well, duh’. In the old days, he’d have blurted it out, but now, with things the way they were between them, he wasn’t sure if they had that sort of relationship.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he replied, wishy-washily, sickening himself. It was small talk for idiots. Like the month after Christmas, where everyone’s first question was, ‘Have a good Christmas?’

  Andrew hated those people. What was the reply ever going to be? ‘No, pretty bad, actually. Nan died, the dog got ill, I put on half a stone and then, to top it all, I ran over a homeless man and didn’t stop’? People only ever offered the same mundane ‘yeah, not too bad’ and then started to talk about the weather.

  ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ Keira added.

  Andrew mumbled something about the weekend’s forecast, but, inside, a tiny part of him was dying. Once, they’d talk about everything and anything. They’d watch passers-by and take the piss, they’d discuss places they wanted to go, things they wanted to see. They had friends to gossip about, books to dissect, movies to go over. Now they were talking about directions and weather.

  There was some respite as Keira started to list the things she fancied on the menu. Above and beyond small talk, food was one thing in which Andrew could get interested. There was some curry laced with pineapple that she pointed out, strongly hinting that he should order that because she was going to go for something with coconut. In the end, he let her choose for them both and then they were back to awkward silences and the type of conversation more usually associated with two people who didn’t speak the same language.

  The biggest problem was where did they go from here? Andrew had spent years dreaming of moments like this, of being back with his ex-wife and doing the normal things he so missed. But it was all an illusion, because things could never be as they were. They were older and their lives had taken different paths. Besides, he was hardly going to tell her that someone had thrown him in a van that day and then threatened her.

  They spent the wait for the courses talking in a not talking kind of way. So many words, so little meaning.

  It was likely because of the barely there lighting, but it took Keira a little while until she noticed the mark around Andrew’s hairline. She leaned forward, dabbing it with her finger like a mother poking an injured child’s knee. ‘What did you do here?’ she asked.

  ‘One of those spring-back doors,’ Andrew replied. ‘I opened it and then forgot the whole “spring-back”-thing. Caught me in the ear.’

  She nodded and then looked back to the table.

  ‘How was Thailand?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Hot. Everyone’s gearing up for Buddhist new year at the moment, so it was exciting.’

  ‘How long’s the flight?’

  ‘Twelve hours.’

  ‘Non-stop?’

  ‘That’s how I went. You can get a layover but…’

  Another dead end of conversation, which was thankfully overshadowed by a tray of poppadums and pickles arriving. Andrew didn’t know why he’d even asked. What was next? How’s the airport? What food did you get on the plane?

  ‘How’s Jenny?’ Keira asked, not looking up from her plate.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘What happened with her window?’

  ‘I’m not too sure. Someone put a brick through it, but she didn’t want to go to the police. She says it’s probably just kids.’

  Keira crunched into a poppadum. ‘She’s pretty.’

  Andrew finished his mouthful but couldn’t bring himself to look properly at his ex-wife. ‘You’ve said that before.’

  At that moment, the waiter chose the worst possible time to float by and ask if everything was okay. He checked if they wanted more to drink and then drifted away, the damage done. The silence lingered, broken only by the snapping of poppadums.

  ‘All she does is work for me,’ Andrew eventually said.

  ‘And live with you.’

  ‘She’s not living with me!’ Andrew snapped the reply before realising he’d done it. He quickly lowered his voice. ‘She’s staying at mine for a couple of nights while her window is fixed. She’s, what, ten, twelve years younger than me? This isn’t an issue.’

  Keira swiped a dribble of mango chutney up from her plate with her finger and licked it clean. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and then sat back. Her lips were pursed as if she wanted to say something.

  ‘What?’ Andrew said.

  Keira leaned in, her voice low. ‘I don’t want to sound like a bitch, but there’s something about her that…’ She puffed an exasperated breath. ‘I don’t know. Something not quite right.’

  Andrew looked up to her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t put my finger on it. We’ve only met a few times and even then it’s only been for odd moments. We’ve never had a proper conversation, never been together when you’re not there. I can’t explain what it is. I just…’ Another breath. ‘Sorry – I just don’t like her.’

  Andrew felt lost, sinking. Was it only him with whom Jenny had some sort of rapport? He had people queuing up to tell him all wasn’t right, but nobody could give a proper reason.

  ‘Sorry,’ Keira added. ‘You know I’m not normally like this about people. I don’t know why I said it.’ She touched his arm, forcing a smile. ‘Look, your business is literally your business. I’m being stupid. Take no notice.’

  ‘She’s really good at her job,’ Andrew said. ‘Really good to the point that I’m not sure how I’d get by without her. I’ve never entirely got my head round the computer system, but she’s helped with all sorts. She’s really smart. She comes up with ideas I’d have never thought of.’

  Keira shrugged. ‘You don’t have to defend her to me. You’re the one who works with her. I’m not sure I even understand what you do – and I’m not trying to be a cow when I say that, just honest. I’d be annoyed if you started criticising the people I work with. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. Forget it.’

  Andrew nodded, indicating he would – except there was no way he could. Was he the only one who got Jenny, or was he the only one blind to whatever her true nature entailed? Right now, he felt like he was the only sane one in an institution. He was screaming at the world that he was fine and it was everyone else with the problem.

  Thirty-Six

  After the meal, Andrew walked Keira back to her car. The Curry Mile was a very different place after dark, with a glittering wash of dappled lights blinking from both sides of the road. It was underwhelmingly spectacular: long rows of fruit machines next to each other, battling for attention. Andrew both liked and disliked it.

  When they got to her vehicle, Andrew told Keira to ‘stay safe’, thinking of Braithwaite’s threat, although she – obviously – took it as a more general piece of well-wishing. He’d already made the decision not to tell her about Braithwaite, largely because he didn’t want to worry her and also because he didn’t think Braithwaite would go that far. It was Andrew he wanted.

  There was a moment in which they looked at each other and he wondered if he should take the lead by making some sort of grand romantic gesture of sweeping her into his arms.

  It wasn’t him.
He’d probably end up losing his footing and drop her on her head, or something like that. Nothing said ‘I love you’ better than a trip to A&E with a fractured skull.

  In the end, knowing him too well, Keira grinned and leaned in, hugging him. Andrew held her back, cheek pressed into her hair. She wanted to go back to the beginning, to take it slowly, and here they were doing just that.

  She kissed him on the cheek – nothing more – and then they said goodbye.

  ‘We should do this again,’ she said.

  Andrew agreed and then watched her go. It had been awkward at times, but their second first date hadn’t been a total disaster, which, considering his record with women since his divorce, wasn’t bad at all.

  Andrew drove back to his flat and parked. He waited for a moment, overly aware of potential white vans and terrors within, then he headed up the lift to his floor. He fully expected Jenny to be curled up on the sofa watching television while eating ice cream, cereal, chocolate or whatever else she’d found. Instead, when he pushed the door open, the lights were off. Andrew switched them on, though all it revealed was an empty living room. The duvet under which Jenny had slept the night before was still folded at the end of the sofa, seemingly untouched in the hours since they’d left.

  ‘Jen…?’

  Andrew’s voice echoed around the flat, unanswered. He went to his bedroom, though the bed was still unmade and the blinds down, the way he’d left everything that morning. He checked the bathroom, but that was empty, too. Andrew did one more lap of the flat – Jenny’s overnight bag was next to the sofa where she’d left it and the sink still contained a bowl and a plate from their breakfast. As far as he could see, all was as it had been from the morning.

  If Jenny had been back, why would she have left her bag?

  Andrew’s chest tightened. He slipped his phone from his pocket and dialled her number. It rang and continued to ring until: ‘Hi, it’s Jenny. Leave a message after the beep… beeeeeeeeep!’ Andrew waited for the next bit. ‘That wasn’t the actual beep,’ her voice added. ‘There is no beep there’s a sort of plip thing, so leave your message after that.’ She sounded bright and happy. There was a pause and then a plip.