Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Darren took a poster and stared at the image. ‘Don’t think so.’ He paused for a moment and then added: ‘Did you ask at the Help the Homeless place?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  He motioned past her. ‘Not far that way. There are a couple of signs for it. I’ve never been in, but they run these fundraising events a couple of times a year and so on.’

  Jessica made a mental note of where he’d indicated – it was something to think about later.

  ‘I’ll take some of those if you want,’ Darren added. ‘We’ve got a youth action meeting later and there’ll be loads of young people there. Someone might know her.’

  Jessica handed them over, trying to pretend that she hadn’t engineered this, though she knew herself too well. ‘My number’s on the bottom and I’m staying at the Prince Hotel on the southern prom in case you hear anything.’

  He nodded, adding the papers to his own as she thanked him again and headed into the town hall.

  Jessica was so used to public officials going out of their way to obstruct what she was doing that she was pleasantly surprised by the helpfulness of the woman behind reception. She was escorted to the library room, in which the full electoral roll was kept, and then, within a few minutes, she had the information she wanted.

  There were only two Salisburys listed in the Blackpool area. One named Greg, the other Lewis. Assuming Peter’s father was registered to vote, then he would be one of the two.

  Jessica typed both addresses into her phone’s maps application, picked the closest and then went on her way. Who needed a police database?

  Nine

  Greg Salisbury lived on a street that ran parallel to Blackpool’s main promenade. It was a few roads back from the city centre, largely anonymous unless a person was to go looking for it. Long terraces ran along each side of the street, with cars parked nose to tail half on the pavement, leaving a vehicle’s width along the centre of the street. Wheelie bins were lined up at the edge of everyone’s pathways and a small group of children were congregating on a low wall at the far end, cigarette smoke and youthful chatter drifting into the rapidly chilling air.

  Peter’s father lived halfway along the road, in between a pair of properties both listed ‘To Let’. There was a small, cluttered paved yard at the front, with weeds seeping between the gaps around the edges. It was close to dusk, the final embers of daylight finally swallowed by the clouds and evening. Jessica knocked and took a step back, waiting as the curtain in the living room window wisped back and forth, revealing a man’s face. They locked eyes for a moment and then he disappeared. There was a clatter of locks and bolts and then the door opened.

  ‘Are you Greg?’ Jessica asked.

  The man peered over her shoulder, twisting to look towards the far end of the street. ‘You a reporter or something? I told them I wasn’t talking.’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘I’m really sorry but I have to ask if your son is Peter Salisbury.’ She almost corrected herself to ‘was’, but there was no need because his tight lips and mention of reporters confirmed it. She could see the resemblance, too. It wasn’t glaring, but he had the same eyes, looked at her the same way that Peter had.

  Greg started to close the door, so Jessica spoke quickly: ‘I think I was the last person to see Peter alive.’

  He stopped closing the door, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘You knew Peter?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s complicated.’

  ‘Complicated…’ He repeated the word, but made no effort to reopen the door fully or invite her in. He was unshaven, with large rough hands that betrayed a lifetime of manual work. His upper arms and chest bulged against his shirt, but it was difficult to tell if it was muscle or middle-aged spread. Perhaps both. Jessica felt guilty for thinking it, but he definitely had a whiff of dodgy plumber about him. ‘How is it complicated?’ he asked.

  ‘I called a number on a poster about a missing person. Peter was the one who answered.’

  ‘Missing person?’ Greg’s eyes goggled. ‘What missing person?’

  For a moment, Jessica wondered if she’d gone to the wrong house. Surely there couldn’t be two men named Salisbury with sons named Peter?

  ‘He said it was his sister, Katy.’

  ‘Who was his sister?’

  ‘The missing girl.’

  They stared at each other, neither apparently knowing what was going on. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person,’ Greg eventually said, starting to close the door again.

  ‘Didn’t you identify your son’s body this morning.’

  The stare-off continued. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because the police visited. They say I was the last person to see Peter.’

  ‘But Peter doesn’t have a sister. He’s an only child.’

  ‘I…’ Jessica had no idea what to say. She’d not expected cream tea and a scone as a welcome but this was just… strange.

  Greg’s face suddenly contorted into anger. He threw the door wide and took a step towards her. ‘What are you trying to do? Why are you lying about a sister? Is that what you told the police?’

  Jessica stumbled backwards, surprised at the sudden movement. ‘No, I—’

  ‘What did you do to him?’

  He was shouting so loudly that the kids at the other end of the street stopped what they were doing. They were each on their feet, pointing towards Jessica, wondering what was going on.

  She backed quickly onto the pavement, trying to get away.

  ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t do anything.’

  Greg was on the edge of his yard, thankfully barefooted and seemingly unwilling to venture any further. ‘I’m calling the Old Bill,’ he said. ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  Jessica broke into a jog, heading in the direction from which she’d come, not peering back over her shoulder. She moved into the first alleyway she came to, zigzagging through a series of cut-throughs and following the lights until she found herself in front of an Asian supermarket. Two young men were pushing through the front doors, carrying a drum of cooking oil between them, before loading it onto the back seat of an Audi. Neither said anything to her as they returned inside. She leant on the wall and caught her breath, half expecting to hear Greg Salisbury padding after her.

  What on earth was going on?

  Her explanation for the previous night was already falling apart – and she had told DCI Fordham that she’d spoken to Peter Salisbury about his missing sister. Now it turned out there was no sibling. Fordham would already be aware, of course. He might have known when he’d spoken to her. There were only two explanations – either the man who’d identified himself to Jessica as Peter was someone completely different; or it was Peter and he’d lied for some reason. The only certainty was that he was now dead.

  As she was lost in her gloomy thoughts, Jessica felt her phone begin to vibrate. The ID read ‘unknown’ – but that only meant one thing.

  ‘Hello,’ Jessica said.

  ‘DI Daniel?’ a man’s voice replied.

  ‘Chief Inspector Fordham.’

  ‘Are you still in Blackpool?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to leave a place like this?’

  ‘I was hoping you could come to the station in the morning.’

  ‘Oh… I don’t know where it is.’

  It was a pathetic piece of reasoning that had slipped out. Fordham sounded stern and didn’t soften. ‘It’s at the back of Madame Tussauds, next to the court. I can send a car for you if you want?’

  ‘No, I’ll find it,’ Jessica replied. ‘Why do you need to see me?’

  ‘It’d be best if we talk here.’

  ‘Right… I can come now if you want?’

  He shot straight back. ‘Now’s not a good time, Inspector. Tomorrow morning – let’s say nine o’clock.’

  ‘Right…’ Jessica wondered if she should mention the fact that Katy Salisbury seemingly didn’t exist, but figured she’d deal with everything at the same time.
r />   ‘You still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Nine o’clock – I’ll be there.’

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you have a solicitor, bring him or her along. If you don’t, get one.’

  Ten

  The interview room of Blackpool Police Station was similar to the ones at the Longsight station where Jessica worked. There was a video camera high in the corner recording everything; an old-fashioned cassette recorder built into the wall; a table bolted to the floor; grim, grey walls; and uncomfortable plastic chairs. There was a thick metal curve screwed to the table, through which handcuffs would be attached if she were considered dangerous or a flight risk. Luckily, she was apparently neither.

  It felt strange to be on the other side of the table, claustrophobic with the eyes of whomever was beyond the video camera watching her – not to mention DCI Fordham across the table. He was interviewing her by himself and had done everything as officially as if she was some pleb off the street who was being done for a Saturday night D&D. He read her the usual cautionary gumpf about things being used in evidence, blah-blah-blah, all the while tip-tapping his fingers on top of a cardboard folder. Jessica knew it off by heart.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he finished with.

  ‘Yes.’

  Although Fordham was by himself, Jessica at least had some backup. Mr Percy – she wasn’t entirely clear on his first name – was an old friend of her late father’s. He’d been the family solicitor for as long as she could remember, though Jessica had never needed him for anything like this. He was in his early sixties, if not older, and surely close to retirement. A bit of a silver fox, with youthful looks, a sharp suit and a short, officious manner that made it sound like he was talking down to everyone – which he probably was.

  ‘First things first,’ Fordham said, still tapping the folder but not opening it, ‘did you visit Greg Salisbury yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Before Jessica could answer, her solicitor leaned in. ‘Are you saying there was any reason why she shouldn’t have spoken to Mr Salisbury?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then she is surely free to visit whomever she wants?’

  Fordham peered between the pair of them, leaving Jessica unsure if Percy was helping or hindering. If she had been on the other side of the desk, this would only be winding her up. ‘I was trying to get a bit more of an idea about who Peter was,’ she said softly.

  ‘Because, prior to the night before last, you’d never met him…’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Tip-diddy-tap. Fordham’s drumming was either deliberately designed to annoy her, or he couldn’t help himself. Either way, it was irritating. ‘I know we spoke about this yesterday but, for the benefit of the recording, I’d like to ask you about the events that happened that night.’

  And so he did.

  For the second time, Jessica told her version, complete with details about the poster pinned to the phone booth; Peter’s story about his missing sister; the way she left him in the town centre and how she checked into the hotel room. Even though she told the truth and left nothing out, it still felt as if she was tripping herself up because she knew that the poster was no longer there and that Peter didn’t have a sister.

  Fordham said little throughout, not pressing the points, nor making notes. He was one of those annoying types who kept everything in his head.

  When she finished, he took a sip of water, returned the glass to the table and then raised it again for a second drink. He was prolonging things, wondering if she’d fill the silence with something stupid. It was a good trick, but one she was already familiar with.

  Eventually, he started to lay down his hand. ‘We’ve checked the CCTV next to the phone booth,’ he said.

  ‘And…’

  ‘I really wish it could corroborate your story, but the camera isn’t working – if it ever was. Unofficially, around two-thirds of those CCTV poles on the prom don’t have a functioning device inside. It’s more of a deterrent than a security measure.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘Not really.’

  That was one more part of Jessica’s alibi blown away.

  ‘Whose blood was on the bumper of your car?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought you were checking that? My best guess is some sort of roadkill.’

  ‘Do you remember running over any sort of animal?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘When did you move your vehicle to the car park at the front of the hotel?’

  ‘When I checked into the Prince Hotel.’

  ‘Which was between six and seven in the evening…?’

  ‘Right.’

  Fordham was nodding along – he’d heard all this before. ‘Did you move it after that?’ he asked.

  ‘No – I told you, I went to my room and stayed there. Then you woke me up the next morning.’

  ‘We spoke to the receptionist – Brandon. He says he was on duty but spent some time in the back room and, of course, he needed to use the toilet on occasion. He says any guests could’ve left the hotel without him knowing.’

  ‘I didn’t leave.’

  ‘What are you going to say if results from the lab come back to say the blood on your car is human—?’

  Jessica didn’t get a chance to answer because Percy leapt in: ‘Don’t answer hypothetical questions,’ he said. ‘If your results say anything other than roadkill, then that might be an issue.’

  There was a stinging silence in which Jessica felt as if she’d been rebuked, too. She was used to solicitors cutting across her – but never on her behalf.

  ‘Someone might have splashed it there,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Jessica!’ Percy reacted sharply, patting her shoulder, but it was too late.

  ‘Why would a person do that?’ Fordham asked.

  ‘I don’t know – why would Peter Salisbury tell me he had a sister that had disappeared? Why would my missing friend call me from a phone booth at the end of South Shore? None of this makes sense.’

  Fordham hadn’t flinched. ‘What do you think’s going on?’

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ her solicitor said gruffly, but Jessica couldn’t help herself.

  ‘I came to Blackpool because I thought there might be a clue to Bex’s location. I got a call from that phone booth opposite the hotel – you can check that, because that’s what I did. All I did was come to look for her.’

  ‘Have you found any trace?’

  ‘No – I’d only just got into town when all the crazy stuff happened. I called the number on the poster and it all led to this.’

  ‘Except that the poster you say you saw is no longer where you say you saw it.’ Fordham rattled the sentence out like a tongue-twister.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ Jessica replied.

  Now his fingers had finished tip-tapping, he was instead nodding like a toy dog in the back window of a car. Jessica knew what was coming and he didn’t disappoint.

  ‘I suspect you already know this,’ Fordham said, ‘but Peter Salisbury does not have a sister, let alone one who’s missing.’

  ‘He told me he did – or whoever it was who introduced himself as Peter Salisbury.’

  ‘Katy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘There’s no record of anyone with that name anywhere in the north of England. When did you find out she didn’t exist?’

  She met his gaze. ‘Yesterday, when I visited Peter’s father.’

  ‘Are you sure this wasn’t something you made up the day before to give you a reason for being with Peter Salisbury? A story of his missing sister tied in nicely with your missing friend – gave you a reason to be seen with him.’

  Percy sighed, mouth open about to interject, but Jessica replied anyway: ‘No.’

  Fordham bit his bottom lip, still nodding. ‘How about t
his? For whatever reason, you ran into Peter Salisbury on Blackpool Promenade. That part, I think, is something there’s little dispute over. Perhaps you were on the street, maybe you were in a bar, perhaps it was one of those Internet dating things? Either way, you met up the night before last. Except that he wasn’t who you thought he was. He was a bit touchy-feely, a little too friendly, wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was a knife, one thing led to another and—’

  Jessica’s solicitor cut in with a scrape of his chair leg. ‘All right, I think we’ll leave it there.’ He held a hand in front of her to stop her saying anything. ‘You have no basis at all to insinuate that anything of the sort happened.’

  ‘There’s blood on her car.’

  ‘Blood for which you don’t know the origin.’

  ‘But we will.’

  Fordham was eyeing Jessica, ignoring the other man in the room. Something had changed in the past twenty-four hours. Fordham was likely having pressure put on him from above and the friendlier parts of his nature that seemed to believe her had dissipated. Jessica glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room, wondering if there was a superintendent on the other side.

  ‘I didn’t know him,’ she whispered. ‘We only met once and even then it was briefly. He told me about his missing sister, I told him about Bex, then we went on our way.’

  ‘Except that he never made it home.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  Jessica turned to her solicitor and he leaned forward, fiddling with his wedding ring.

  ‘If you’re going to charge my client, Chief Inspector, then do so. Presumably, you’re still waiting for results of your blood tests and I would suggest that, until they arrive, there’s very little else to be said.’

  Fordham nodded to agree and started to move his chair backwards when something obvious slipped into Jessica’s mind.

  ‘Do you have a picture of him?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’ Fordham replied.

  ‘Peter Salisbury. Perhaps the person I spoke to was someone else entirely? It’s not like I asked for a passport. He told me his name and I took it at that.’