Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

The landlord, perhaps as expected, introduced each room as if it was a wing of a palace before they ended up back in the living room. Jenny and Andrew nodded politely, as if they were actually interested. There was so little to see that the tour took barely two minutes.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mr Bose said, checking his watch.

  Jenny spoke before Andrew could. ‘Not bad,’ she replied. ‘How do you take payment?’

  ‘Bank transfer or cash. No cheques.’

  Jenny turned to Andrew, speaking absent-mindedly as if it had just come to her. ‘One of my old friends used to live round here actually. I can’t remember exactly where. I’ve not seen her for a couple of years.’ She turned back to the landlord. ‘You might remember her – Michelle…?’

  He frowned slightly. ‘I have lots of tenants.’

  Jenny was unfazed. ‘Michelle Applegate.’

  His eyes narrowed and then widened. ‘Applegate…?’

  ‘Right. I visited her once, but that was ages ago. We fell out of contact.’

  Mr Bose turned and waved a hand towards the opposite side of the street. ‘Your friend owed me money.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The man bounced on his heels and puffed his chest up, making himself appear marginally taller. ‘Her friend had a foul mouth, too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And the neighbours complained, not to her – to me. So much noise. Noise, noise, noise. Music every night.’

  ‘Are you sure that was Michelle?’

  He clapped his hands and started to wag a finger at Jenny. ‘Loads of rubbish, too. You have to pay for this stuff, you know? It costs money to go to the tip. She owed me money and then I had to pay more money to dump her stuff.’ Mr Bose opened the door and motioned for Andrew and Jenny to exit. ‘No more, I say. One was enough.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If you’re a friend of her, then no.’

  Jenny was in the doorway, level with the landlord. ‘No what?’

  ‘No rent. I’ve had it once, not again. You’ll have to find somewhere else.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, out you go.’

  At that, he pushed Andrew in the shoulder, sending him bumbling into Jenny and leaving them both on the short path outside. He slammed the door shut and then strode past them towards his van.

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened to your friend,’ he said, ‘but not again. No, no, no.’

  Mr Bose got into his van, closed the door and took out his phone. As he began to speak into it, Andrew and Jenny returned to the car and he started the engine.

  ‘That was weird,’ Jenny said.

  Andrew eased away from the kerb and headed to the first T-junction, waiting even though there was no traffic. He eyed the van in his mirror, watching Mr Bose pull out without indicating and then drive with the phone to his ear. Andrew turned left and so did the van, so he immediately indicated left again, heading back along the street parallel to the flat they’d viewed. When his mirror was clear, Andrew pulled over to the side of the road again. He left the engine idling, still watching his mirrors.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘When you mentioned Michelle Applegate and he worked out who you meant, he waved a hand towards the row of flats opposite where we were. She probably lived in one of them, so let’s knock on a door or two.’

  ‘Sounds like she didn’t get on with her neighbours,’ Jenny replied. A van turned onto the street, but it was a different colour to Mr Bose’s. ‘How many landlords do you know who’ll turn down money like that?’ she added. ‘Michelle must have been a really bad tenant if that’s how he feels.’

  ‘All the more reason for someone to remember her.’

  Andrew checked his mirrors one final time and then switched off the engine. Jenny followed as they made their way back to the street they’d just left.

  They walked the line of the flats opposite, waiting until they saw movement in one of the front windows and then knocking.

  A woman with tufty, greasy brown hair answered, hoisting a young child who was sucking a dummy onto her shoulder. She looked as if she’d been expecting someone else as she took a half step back. ‘A’ight…?’ she said.

  This time, Andrew did the talking. ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘we’re looking for someone named Michelle Applegate.’

  She turned between the two, eyebrows creasing into a frown. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Old friends,’ Jenny replied quickly. ‘She was in my year at school. I’ve been trying to track her down and my dad found someone who said she lived round this way.’

  Jenny nudged Andrew with her elbow.

  The child was fidgeting, so the woman put him down and told him to go and play in the living room. She glanced both ways along the street and then lowered her voice. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ she said.

  ‘Hear what?’ Jenny replied.

  ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you, but she died last year.’

  ‘Oh…’ Jenny turned to Andrew, her face full of such concern that he would’ve sworn she was genuinely stunned to discover the fate of her friend. ‘I didn’t know,’ Jenny added.

  ‘Did you know her?’ Andrew asked.

  The woman half shrugged, half shook her head. ‘I don’t want to talk ill of the dead and I know you were friends – but she lived two doors down and we didn’t get on.’ She looked at Jenny and winced slightly.

  Andrew placed a hand on Jenny’s shoulder. ‘Do you want to go sit in the car?’ he said. ‘I’ll be over in a minute.’

  Jenny looked at him and then muttered ‘thank you’ to the woman. She turned and sauntered away in the direction of the car.

  ‘Sorry,’ Andrew said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  The woman batted a hand. ‘Not your fault. Wish your daughter could’ve found out in a different way, but at least you know.’

  ‘How did she die?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘In the canal. Drunk, they reckon. None of us here were surprised.’

  ‘Did she drink a lot?’

  The woman shrugged again. ‘It weren’t easy raising a wee baby here with her noise all through the night. Music, noise. Always leaving bottles in her front yard, too. It’s hard enough round here, without all that.’

  ‘Did she have any friends on the street we could talk to?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘What d’you reckon? I think I saw her mum round there once or twice, p’raps a lad or two. I didn’t go sticking my nose in though.’ She started to close the door and nodded towards the inside. ‘I gotta get back.’

  Andrew thanked her for her time and then set off back to the car. From what people were saying, it seemed like neither Jack Marsh nor Michelle Applegate were angels.

  For now, he had far more pressing concerns – like the fact Jenny thought he could pass for her father and that the woman who’d opened the door believed it.

  Ten

  There was a party atmosphere around the vast expanse of tarmac as Andrew skirted through the crowds of football supporters. There were far more women than he’d expected – children, too. He’d not been to a live football match in nearly thirty years and all he could remember were lines of men shouting abuse at the referee.

  Despite the warmth of the day, people were still wearing hats and scarves in City’s sky blue. It was ninety minutes until kick-off and Andrew had expected the area around the stadium to be largely empty – but there was more to do than watch the game that would take place inside. There was an organised penalty competition for kids going on in one area, plus hot food stands, places to get drinks and all sorts of street traders selling everything and anything as long as it was in City colours.

  As Andrew tried to figure out where he was going, there was a loud cheer and he turned to see a coach edging its way towards the stadium. When it stopped and the door hissed open, there was a second cheer. He watched as a man in a tracksuit – presumably a player – stepped down and automatically grabbed a pen from the closest supporter who was pressed behind a barrier
. The player signed a dozen programmes with a swishing swirl that took barely half a second to create and then handed the pen back with a nod. Some of the other players did the same, while others kept their heads down and marched towards an open door of the stadium, listening – or at least pretending to listen – to music through sets of brightly coloured headphones.

  Andrew found himself watching the small group of misfits behind the barrier. They were mainly men, all wearing City shirts, though there were a few women too. Each seemingly knew what they were doing, having arrived with pens, plus items they wanted signing. When an olive-skinned man with long hair stepped from the coach, they started singing a song about shooting and scoring, which drew a wave and smile. One of the fans behind the barrier was singing louder than the others and it was only then that Andrew noticed the fan had grown his hair and probably fake-tanned his skin in order to look more like the player. There was a couple jostling for position, trying to push in alongside him. The woman’s shirt was heaving, the weedy man with glasses slotting in underneath her arm as if she was smuggling him through customs. He thrust a programme towards the long-haired player, but it was ignored. Next to them was a man at least a foot taller than anyone around him, wearing the full kit: socks, shorts and all. He wasn’t singing, wasn’t shouting, wasn’t trying to get anything signed. He was simply watching. It was all a bit strange.

  Another cheer went up as Jack Marsh stepped down from the coach. He was wearing bright blue headphones and carrying a small leather washbag. He offered a thin smile towards the crowd but didn’t stop, striding towards the stadium and disappearing inside.

  Andrew had seen enough, so he walked the long way around the coach until he found a gate marked ‘VIP entrance’. A pair of suited men were chatting to one another but went quiet as Andrew approached.

  ‘Hi,’ Andrew said, passing the largest one his driving licence. ‘I was told to report here with ID. I think I’m in one of the executive boxes.’

  The man eyed the ID and then scrolled along a list of names on an iPad. ‘You think you’re in a box?’

  ‘I was sort of invited.’

  ‘Hunter…’ He tapped the screen and nodded, before opening the door and stepping aside. ‘Someone will meet you at the top of the stairs. Show them your ID and they’ll sort you out. Enjoy the match.’

  Andrew thanked him and did as he was told, this time finding a woman in a suit who led him along a bright corridor until they reached a light blue door.

  ‘The Braithwaite party is in here,’ she said with a smile, not realising how ominous it all sounded, before opening the door for him. Andrew grimaced a near smile and then headed inside, whispering to himself to be calm.

  The first person he set eyes upon was Iwan the brute. The white strip lights above made the scar on his head stand out even more than before – a slim line of white against the red of his skin. As Iwan eyed Andrew wordlessly, Andrew couldn’t help but stare at it. A tyre iron would do that sort of thing. Iwan continued to say nothing, although his gaze never left Andrew.

  The room had one long table close to the door that was piled with food. A pair of slide-open metal serving trays were filled with curry on one side and pasta on the other, with rows of sandwiches and cakes on the tables. There were two ice buckets nearby with wine bottles poking from the top, and a pair of fridges underneath, stocked with bottles of beer.

  There were a handful of other men in suits milling around whom Andrew didn’t recognise, but then a voice boomed over them all.

  ‘Mr Hunter, what a pleasant surprise.’

  He turned as a hand clamped down on his shoulder and then Thomas Braithwaite was at his side, appearing as if from nowhere. Andrew hadn’t seen him in a couple of months but nothing had changed. Braithwaite’s black hair was greying but in a gentlemanly way that left him appearing seasoned and wise. He was trim and lean with neat facial hair – but none of that mattered once his eyes focused on a person. They were the blue of the ocean in a holiday brochure, enough to freeze a target to the spot. As soon as Andrew turned, Braithwaite’s eyes lasered in on him and he found himself gulping.

  Braithwaite clasped Andrew’s hand, squeezing tightly as he shook it. ‘Nice of you to come.’

  ‘I, um—’

  Braithwaite opened his jacket to reveal the dark blue football shirt underneath. ‘I hope you’re going to join us in being an Evertonian for the day…?’

  There was an undercurrent cheer of approval from a couple of nearby men who’d been listening in.

  ‘I’m not a big football fan,’ Andrew replied.

  Braithwaite laughed, finally releasing Andrew’s hand. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  He beckoned Andrew away from the food, through the mêlée, until they were at a floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond was the perfect green of the pitch and row after row of largely empty sky-blue seats. Braithwaite slid the glass open and stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the pitch, nodding Andrew through and then closing the door behind them. When Andrew looked behind, he could see Iwan hovering close to the glass, gaze still unwaveringly focused on him.

  The seats on the balcony were, unsurprisingly, the same blue as the others in the stadium. Braithwaite sat in the central one, meaning he was almost exactly level with the halfway line. He patted the spot next to him, waiting for Andrew to sit and then putting his feet up on the rail.

  ‘I’m glad you accepted my invitation,’ he said.

  ‘It sounded like more of a request.’

  Braithwaite pressed back further into the chair and laughed. He reached underneath, emerging with an already open beer bottle and swigging from the top. ‘How are you, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘That’s fine as well.’

  ‘What about your little assistant?’ He turned to Andrew and winked. ‘She still “fine”?’

  Andrew turned away, facing the pitch. ‘She’s none of your business.’

  Braithwaite nodded and then laughed again, louder this time. Andrew said nothing. Below, a group of people in fluorescent tops were trying to wrestle a sponsor’s banner into place over the centre circle. Someone had dropped their end and it was flapping in the breeze as they chased after it. No matter what the job, there was always one.

  ‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ Braithwaite said after another swig of his beer.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you have an interest in Jack Marsh.’

  Andrew felt a chill. He said nothing at first, focusing instead on trying to show he wasn’t concerned. ‘Are you following me?’ he asked. ‘Spying on me?’

  Braithwaite didn’t answer straight away, letting the tension build. ‘Not really.’ He nodded behind, towards the glass. ‘Iwan has big ears – and I always keep an eye on my investments.’

  ‘I’m not your investment.’

  Braithwaite dropped his feet to the floor, leaning forward and pressing his fingers into a triangle. He turned to Andrew. ‘You keep telling yourself that, Mr Hunter. Remember that unsolved fire near to your aunt’s flat? Wouldn’t it be awful if the police found a jerrycan with your DNA on?’

  Andrew felt his anger flaring. He spoke through clenched teeth: ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘Do you think innocent men never go to prison? We both know that’s not the case.’

  Andrew turned, locking eyes with Braithwaite. It felt dangerous. ‘I’ve never set fire to any flat,’ he said.

  Braithwaite smirked as the doors slid open behind them. Andrew feared Iwan, but it was a waitress in a short dark skirt and white blouse. She was defying gravity by lofting a tray loaded with champagne-filled flutes and canapés, somehow managing to keep everything level, even while opening the door, closing the door and then descending half a dozen steps. There had to be witchery involved somewhere. Or invisible wires. Andrew knew being a waiter would have never been a job for him – he’d have been dropping stuff all over the place.

  Braithwaite accepted
a glass of champagne, plus a couple of the finger foods. Andrew declined everything with an apologetic smile and wave. He was regretting showing up.

  After the waitress had returned inside, Braithwaite was quiet as he ate. Below, the players were warming up on the pitch, with a multitude of balls flying in all directions. To Andrew, a multi-ball game seemed a far more interesting prospect than watching an entire match in which only one was used.

  ‘Why am I here?’ Andrew asked.

  Braithwaite crunched into his final prawn-topped cracker thing and chewed slowly. He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief that had been in his jacket pocket and then turned to face Andrew once more. ‘I’ve had something stolen – and I want it found,’ he said.

  ‘I can give you the number for the police if you want. Dial nine, then another nine – and then one more nine.’

  Braithwaite smiled with his lips but not his eyes. Andrew knew he should have shut his mouth, but sometimes – since starting to work with Jenny – there was a tiny part of him that embraced the menace.

  ‘This is a matter in which the police will not be involved.’

  ‘I’m not hunting down drugs or anything like that for you.’

  Braithwaite drummed his fingers on the armrest between the seats. ‘I’m not sure who you think you’re dealing with, Mr Hunter – but I’m a legitimate businessman.’

  ‘Is that why you were talking about jerrycans and house fires?’

  The drumming stopped but Braithwaite’s eyes didn’t leave Andrew. The steely, staring blue burned gravely. ‘Thin ice, Mr Hunter.’ He let it sink in and then added: ‘I had an antique violin imported to a music shop in Manchester city centre—’

  ‘A violin?!’ Andrew was unable to stop himself.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Braithwaite replied harshly.

  ‘Nothing… What’s it worth?’

  ‘The money, Mr Hunter, is irrelevant. It was – is – my property and it’s been taken. I know it wasn’t any of the bigger operators in the city, so it’ll be some street kids or estate urchins mucking about.’ Braithwaite hissed the sentences, becoming clipped and more annoyed.