Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  Then it was just black as something was thrust over his head. He tried to grab at whatever it was – a sack or a bag – but his arms were being wrenched backwards with such force that his shoulders felt like they were going to pop from their sockets. Something hard clamped around his wrists, keeping his hands firmly behind his back. He tried to scream for help, but there was nothing except a squeal of agony.

  Andrew felt himself being lifted, outnumbered and outmuscled, and then he was dumped on the cold, hard metal inside the back of the van. Before he could move, the doors clanged closed, the echo resounding through his already sore ear and sending Andrew spinning and tumbling, until he collapsed on his side. With his hands locked behind, he struggled to right himself and had no opportunity to regain his balance because the wheels screeched once more, sending him head-first into the solid metal wall.

  Thirty-Three

  Andrew felt helpless. He couldn’t see a thing and was left trying to anticipate the movements of the van based on the revs of the engine. Even sitting down didn’t help much. He found what he assumed was a corner, feeling the metal against his sides, but every time the vehicle hit a pothole, he was thrown into the air, landing painfully on a combination of his arse, thighs, arms and back.

  There was little respite even when the van was idling at junctions or traffic lights. Whatever had been used to secure his wrists was so tight that it was digging brutally into his skin. His breath was short and tight, but thinking about it only made it worse because of the sack over his head.

  Andrew could still feel his phone in his pocket, but there was little he could do except try not to land on it when the van took one of its regular lurches to the left or right. He thought about shouting for help when the van rolled to a stop but could barely hear anything over the roar of the engine. It was doubtful anyone outside would hear him and, even if they did, he was helpless enough as he was. What did he think a passer-by might do? Rip the doors off their hinges? Even if someone called the police, it could be too late by then.

  Aside from the engine, the only thing he occasionally heard when the engine revs softened was the muffled sound of the radio. Perhaps he was hearing things, but it sounded like Radio Three or Classic FM, the gentle tones of an orchestra seeping into his empty cabin, providing a bizarre melancholy considering the situation in which he found himself.

  After a while, the van slowed and then bumped over what felt like a pair of speed humps. Andrew had almost become used to steadying himself and managed to remain upright as the vehicle slowed even further and then – finally – rolled to a stop.

  Andrew heard a set of doors open and then clunk shut. He braced himself, feeling tense at what might be to come. Was it worth crying out for help now?

  Silence.

  He’d expected the back doors to be yanked open, but there was nothing. Should he bang on the sides?

  Andrew shuffled along the wall of the van, listening.

  Nothing.

  Was this why he’d been snatched – to be left to rot in the back of a van? He could make a noise but had no idea where he was. Surely it wouldn’t be a public place? If it was somewhere more private, drawing attention to himself could make his predicament worse by annoying his captors.

  Andrew sat and waited. He twisted his fingers as best he could, thumbing the harsh plastic that was digging into him. It felt like the type of cord that came attached to extension leads. He tried to wedge his fingers into any slack loops, but it had been yanked so tightly that he couldn’t find any.

  More waiting. More nothing.

  It might have been a few minutes but it could have been a lot longer. Andrew wasn’t sure, but he jumped as the doors were pulled open with a metallic squeak. There was no warning before the hands were on him again, heaving him up and shunting him forward. He felt weightless for a moment, only realising he was being lifted when he was already back on the ground – this time out of the van.

  Andrew was poked in the sides and back, forcing him to move ahead. There were multiple sets of footsteps echoing around what felt like pure concrete. Wherever they were felt cold. He didn’t fight because there was no point. His wrists were still secure and he couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Stop.’

  The single word was the first Andrew had heard since being snatched. He did as he was told and then there was a scratching as something was dragged across the ground. An object creased into the back of his knees, forcing him into a sitting position, where, surprisingly, he found a chair waiting for him. Somebody grabbed his wrists and, momentarily, he was free – except that he wasn’t because his arms were pulled back further and then he realised he’d been untied and then retied to the chair.

  More footsteps, more echoes and then silence.

  He waited but nobody spoke. As far as he could tell, nobody was moving.

  ‘Hello…?’

  Andrew’s voice echoed around a room that felt much larger than wherever he’d been walking.

  ‘Hello…?’

  The final ‘O’ reverberated around, bouncing back and forth, making him shiver. Then, without warning, the sack that had been over his head was gone. There was a blinding white and Andrew screwed his eyes closed, fighting against the pain of the light. Even with his eyelids clamped closed, it still hurt, the brightness of the room battling against his senses.

  It took him a short while, but Andrew slowly began to open his eyes until the sizzling array of multicoloured stars slowly morphed into a room so white it felt like he was in an operating theatre. Bright light poured from above and, aside from the blank wall ahead of him, Andrew could only see two things: a dark silhouette in the shape of a man all too familiar and a single wooden chair.

  ‘Hello, Mr Hunter,’ Thomas Braithwaite said. He was wearing a smart suit, with black shiny shoes. Dressed for a day in a boardroom or court, not for this blank room.

  With the bag removed and his eyes uncovered, Andrew began to feel his other senses return. He could smell bleach, almost taste it. He twisted sideways but could see nothing other than blank walls. No windows, not even a door – though he was unable to look directly behind.

  ‘Where am I?’ Andrew gasped.

  ‘I borrowed this room from a friend,’ Braithwaite said. ‘It’s for special occasions only. You’re underneath something very noisy. You can shout if you want, but no one will hear you.’

  Andrew sensed movement behind but still couldn’t twist enough to see what – or who – was there. He suspected Iwan had been one of those who’d snatched him – Braithwaite’s burly henchman certainly had the physique. Andrew had no idea who the other man might have been, not that it mattered. Iwan had been waiting to have a crack at Andrew for months, this time with no tyre irons. Well, this time when Andrew didn’t have a tyre iron.

  When nobody emerged from behind, Andrew focused back ahead. Braithwaite was removing his jacket carefully, folding it delicately and then placing it over the back of the empty chair at his side. He unclipped his cufflinks, pocketing them, and then rolled his sleeves up slowly and deliberately.

  He stood, staring at Andrew, face free from emotion, and then strode purposefully forward. Andrew winced as Braithwaite neared, expecting a blow that never came. Instead, Braithwaite leaned over him, so close that Andrew could smell the aftershave on the other man’s neck. Braithwaite reached past him and then stood up, clutching the violin case. He stepped back and presented it with one hand, even though Andrew was still tied to the chair.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Braithwaite asked. He sounded calm, in control.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  Whump.

  The case whistled through the air, thumping into the ear on which Andrew had already been struck. He reeled to the side, the chair rocking and then bouncing back into position. Andrew’s ears were ringing as he tried to blink away the pain. It took him a few seconds to recover and then he blinked his eyes open to see Braithwaite still standing in front of him, the case in his hand. Andrew hadn’t s
een him move.

  ‘This might be a simple violin to you, Mr Hunter, but it is a symbol of respect to me. I don’t allow myself to be scammed and people do not fail me. So, with that in mind, I have one very simple question for you: are you a failure or a scam artist?’

  Andrew shook his head, croaking, ‘Neither.’

  This time he saw Braithwaite coming, not that he could do anything. The case fizzed through the air once more, cannoning into the same ear. The chair screeched sideways, again rocking but not overbalancing. The sound was muffled, as if he was underwater and Andrew realised his ear was probably bleeding.

  Braithwaite waited for Andrew to open his eyes and compose himself once more. Braithwaite’s calm was evaporating, knuckles shaking as he thrust the violin case into the air. His voice was a growled fury.

  ‘This is not the instrument I asked you to retrieve – and yet it comes in the correct case.’ He straightened his shirt, calming his tone once more. ‘Where is the real violin, Mr Hunter?’

  Andrew shook his head, readying himself for a blow that didn’t come.

  ‘Do you have it?’ Braithwaite continued.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you think you’d sell it yourself, knowing what it might be worth, or are you incompetent?’

  Andrew shook his head. He didn’t know why, but he’d felt sorry for Finn Renton. The thieving, scrote of a man who’d mucked up his own life but had a kid who was actually talented. Andrew had taken the genuine violin and the one he’d bought from the car boot to a different music shop a little out of the city and asked them to copy the engraving. He’d put the one from the boot sale in the genuine case and returned Braithwaite’s to Finn. He knew he was playing with fire when he’d handed Braithwaite the forgery, but once he’d heard Braithwaite play the instrument, he convinced himself all would be okay.

  He could have done it the other way around – given Finn the forgery. Why not? It seemed the obvious thing to do, and yet Andrew suspected that, deep down, he wanted to get one over on Braithwaite. He thought Jenny could be reckless and perhaps he’d learned from her?

  He knew Iwan would continue to visit. Braithwaite would keep coming for him. There would always be one more job. He could give up Finn Renton, but so what if he did? All he’d be doing was condemning one more person in the way he had by following Max Grayson and handing over details of his drug-dealing. It would never end.

  ‘Do you have an answer?’ Braithwaite demanded.

  Andrew shook his head.

  Braithwaite turned and threw the case into the wall. As it struck, the catches sprang open, sending the instrument from inside crashing to the floor. Braithwaite stomped across to it and then put his foot through the back of the violin. There was a solid crack as the wood wrapped itself around his foot, which only seemed to enrage him further. Braithwaite stamped up and down and then kicked the splinters away.

  He turned and headed back to Andrew, standing over him, out of breath. ‘You know what you’ve done, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve put those around you in danger. Your girlfriend – that blonde with the short hair, not to mention your bit of stuff in the office.’

  ‘Leave them out of this.’

  Braithwaite smirked a vile snarl. He leaned forward, eye-to-eye with Andrew. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Andrew tried to meet the gaze, but there was no way he could match the ferocity. He craned his neck backwards, trying to get away.

  ‘Come on,’ Braithwaite taunted. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Andrew didn’t reply.

  ‘Exactly,’ Braithwaite spat. ‘You’re going to do nothing. You’re in no position to make demands. A click of my fingers and you’ll never leave this room.’ He took a step backwards, walking behind Andrew and then leaning in to whisper in his ear, ‘Not alive anyway.’

  Andrew fidgeted but still couldn’t escape. The words had brushed his ears, tickling, hissing. Braithwaite continued to walk around him.

  ‘Did you hear about that poor girl in Rusholme? Snatched from the street, driven to a car park and raped repeatedly. Awful crime. Terrible. Imagine if that were to happen to one of the women in your life…?’

  Andrew dived forward but only succeeded in falling flat on his face. His hands were still bound to the chair and he ended up rolling around, trying to get to his feet but only managing to entangle his limbs with the chair’s. Braithwaite’s foot connected with Andrew’s back, but compared to the rest of the pain he was in, he barely felt it.

  ‘Leave them alone,’ Andrew shouted.

  Another blow rattled into his back and then Braithwaite was in his face again. Any trace of calm was long gone, saliva dripping from his lips. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Don’t you ever threaten them,’ Andrew hissed back. ‘This is nothing to do with anyone else. This is you and me.’

  Braithwaite dragged Andrew up until the chair was standing again. Despite his trim physique, Braithwaite was sweating, panting for breath.

  ‘Is this really the way you want to play it?’ Braithwaite said.

  Andrew said nothing.

  Braithwaite continued to eye him and then stepped away, nodding to whomever was out of sight behind Andrew. He heard the footsteps but he could see nothing.

  Then there was only black.

  Thirty-Four

  Andrew woke in a heap next to his car. He assumed it was Iwan who had been behind him in the white room. Iwan must have whacked him in the head and then… Andrew didn’t know. His hands were unbound and, considering the circumstances, he didn’t feel too bad. That was apart from the storm of a headache pounding behind his eyes. The drumming was so loud, there were stars speckling the rim of his vision.

  He pushed himself to his feet, using the back of the car to support himself. The car park only had room for a dozen vehicles and each of the spaces was occupied. There was nobody else around. No white van. No Braithwaite or Iwan. Andrew checked his phone, which was somehow still working, and realised that he’d lost two hours. If it wasn’t for that – and the pain – the entire incident could have been a dream. There were a couple of missed calls from the office – Jenny – but that was it.

  Andrew took a step towards the exit, but his knees were jelly and he stumbled into the vehicle adjacent to his. He put his palms on the bonnet, trying to clear the disorientation. Everything was spinning, the walls and cars flying towards him and then zooming away again.

  Slowly, Andrew clawed his way to the exit. He pulled himself up the stairs, crawling the first few and then finally managing to get to his feet. When he reached the outside, the fresh air hit him in the same way as Braithwaite’s violin case. He pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes closed.

  ‘C’mon…’ he muttered to himself.

  Miraculously, the preposterousness of his pep talk seemed to do the trick. When Andrew opened his eyes, he could see the cobbles ahead of him with clarity. He kept one hand on the wall, tracing his way forward until he was opposite the glass office. Tina spotted him, offering a trademark wave while still managing to type with the ferocity of a whirring Tasmanian devil. Andrew managed something close to a wave in return, but the speed of her work was making him dizzy.

  He let himself into his own office and then headed up the stairs, bundling through the door into the smell of instant coffee and Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. Jenny spun in her seat.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Andrew replied, before moving as quickly as he could across the office into the bathroom.

  The mirror told a harsh story.

  There was a cut just hidden by his hairline and blood had oozed into his right ear. It had pooled and then scabbed, leaving a near-black trail that looped around his cheek. Andrew turned the warm tap on full, letting it run until the liquid was steaming. He wadded a handful of toilet roll and then dabbed away as much blood as he could. The wound itself stung, but the rest of the marks on him seemed to be s
uperficial. With his top off, he twisted as best he could, trying to see if there were any more bruises on his back from where Braithwaite had kicked. It looked clear.

  Andrew washed the rest of his face and then turned off the taps, staring at his reflection and running through the events of the day once more. He’d almost forgotten everything Jack Marsh had told him.

  He dressed himself again and then tidied up the bathroom before heading back into the office. He popped a pair of aspirin from his top drawer and then clicked the kettle on.

  ‘Brew?’ he asked.

  Jenny was staring at him. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘Well… you’ve been gone for around four hours. I tried calling but there was no answer. I didn’t know if you were still at Jack’s, or if there was something else going on.’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  She tilted her head. ‘You look like you’ve fallen down a set of stairs.’

  Andrew turned back to the kettle. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your eye’s a bit black.’

  ‘I hit my head while getting out of the car earlier. Nothing major.’ He could feel Jenny’s gaze burning into his back but ignored what she’d said. ‘Do you want a tea?’ he asked.

  Jenny said no and Andrew settled for the gooiest of black coffees for himself. It was so thick, he thought about taking a spoon back to his desk.

  ‘Any cards in the mail today?’ he said as he finally sat down.

  ‘Junk, mainly. Nothing else.’

  ‘Phone calls?’

  ‘A couple but nothing dodgy.’

  That was one thing. Andrew slurped his coffee and rubbed his head. He wondered if perhaps Ollie was responsible. There hadn’t been any incidents since Andrew had confronted him. Hang-ups and Valentine’s Day cards certainly weren’t Thomas Braithwaite’s style for intimidation.