Something Buried: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller

by Wilkinson, Kerry

  Jenny giggled and Andrew couldn’t resist joining in. ‘The poor little guy,’ she sniggered.

  ‘I know. Considering everything that’s happened, Gem’s doing all right.’

  ‘What about her flat?’

  Andrew shook his head. ‘The fire was contained – just – but there’s no way she’ll be back anytime soon. Actually, there’s no way she’ll be back at all. I should have put my foot down a long time ago and made her go somewhere else. I’ll find her a bungalow or a flat somewhere that’s nice, where there are neighbours she’ll be able to chat and gossip to. That’s all she wants, I think – community. She grew up in those flats when there used to be a society and didn’t realise it had slowly disappeared.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll go?’

  ‘She won’t have an option. Even if the flat could be tidied up, it’ll be months away. It’s a crime scene at the moment anyway. The neighbours got out safely and the police are doing the usual door-to-doors. They were saying they’re hopeful of getting something, but it’s not the sort of area where people routinely talk to the police.’

  Jenny stared at him, perhaps reading his mind. ‘And…?’

  Andrew didn’t feel ready to say it… not yet. He nodded towards the cakes. ‘Can I have one?’

  ‘They’re not cool enough to ice yet.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  She picked one up and handed it over. ‘Icing’s the best bit,’ she said.

  ‘So why bother with the cake?’

  She threw her hands up. ‘Exactly! I’ve been saying that for ages.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, you’re joking.’

  Andrew offered a small smile and then nibbled the corner. ‘It’s good,’ he said.

  ‘Of course it’s good. How can anyone make bad cakes?’

  She watched as Andrew ate, a role reversal from how things usually played out.

  Andrew leaned against the sink, yawning and eating. He was so tired – not just physically but of everything that had been happening.

  ‘Braithwaite,’ he said quietly.

  Jenny nodded. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Who else?’ Andrew apologised for not telling her sooner and then told her how Braithwaite had been blackmailing him to do jobs; threatening that Andrew’s DNA could be implicated with a previous house fire. He didn’t know if it could happen, but the threat was enough. He told her about switching the violins because of some ridiculous loyalty he felt to Finn Renton’s apparently talented kid, even though they’d never met. He told the story of how he’d been abducted from outside the office and that Braithwaite had threatened him, her and Keira.

  He didn’t know whether he should be surprised – but Jenny’s reaction wasn’t one of fear, or resentment that Andrew had kept things back, it was determination. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Let’s do it then.’ Jenny was already untying her apron as if they were about to head out the door and get cracking.

  Andrew held an arm across her. ‘Jen…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to ask you to do something I have absolutely no right to do.’

  She stared up at him with big, bright brown eyes. ‘Sometimes, perhaps all the time, I think I’d do anything you asked me.’

  Andrew couldn’t meet her gaze. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of, Jen.’

  ‘Why?’

  The room felt as if it was closing in. Andrew could still feel the prickle of the fire on his back, hear the fizzing and cracking of the paint. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to force himself to get the words out. He felt Jenny’s hand taking his and opened his eyes again. She was half a step closer than she had been, all eyes and dimples.

  ‘Hi,’ she said softly.

  ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  The words were stuck in Andrew’s throat. He couldn’t look at her. ‘Braithwaite said something to me a while ago,’ he said. ‘He told me you had an interesting past, that I should beware of you and watch my back. Then Ollie said—’

  ‘You talked to Ollie?’

  Andrew nodded, wishing he’d told her before. ‘Briefly. I thought he was the one harassing you – the phone calls, the brick through the window. I should have said. He told me you had a brother.’

  He could feel Jenny staring at him. She said nothing, waiting… waiting… waiting until Andrew finally looked at her. There were tears clinging to her eyelashes. He’d never seen her cry before, wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her upset.

  ‘Do you know?’ she asked, voice bobbing with emotion of which he didn’t know she was capable.

  Andrew shook his head.

  ‘You could know. You’re a detective. You could’ve gone looking.’

  ‘I didn’t… I haven’t.’

  ‘Why? If you knew there was something there, why wouldn’t you want to know?’

  They stared at each other for a while. Andrew didn’t know how long. She wasn’t crying, but the tears remained where they were, defying the gravity that wanted to drag them along her cheeks.

  ‘Because we’re friends,’ Andrew managed. ‘Because, if you want me to know, you’ll tell me.’

  Jenny’s eyes were so large that she was on the brink of looking like a Japanese cartoon. She reached up and wiped away each of the tears individually, then took a deep breath. ‘Do you want to know the truth?’

  And there it was.

  As simple as that.

  All the worry he’d had over what might be in the past, the agonising over barely concealed hints from others. All that and she was willing to tell him anyway.

  All he had to do was ask.

  Slowly, Andrew shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Not today.’

  Jenny beamed up at him. In wiping away the tear, she’d smeared the chocolate further across her cheek. ‘Cake?’ she asked, stepping away. ‘Cake solves everything – even carrot cake and I don’t count that as cake.’

  ‘If carrot cake isn’t cake, then what is it?’

  ‘It’s just sort of… there. An abomination. I’d ban it if it was me.’

  ‘What about apple turnover cake?’

  ‘Oooh,’ Jenny gushed, ‘I love a bit of apple turnover cake. And pineapple turnover. Slightly warm, bit of ice cream. It’d probably squeeze into my top-ten cakes of all time. Maybe. Well, perhaps not. It’s up there though. Top twenty.’ A pause. ‘Top thirty.’

  She stopped, the grin slipping. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if I could think of another way.’

  She continued smiling, not needing to say anything.

  Andrew gulped, took a deep breath, and then asked if she’d ever been to Lancaster.

  Forty-Four

  Days later

  Andrew waited at the gates to Thomas Braithwaite’s house, feeling the pressure of the watching cameras. He didn’t bother to look up at them, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing how scared he was.

  In a chart of monumentally stupid things he’d done in his life, this was a new entry, straight in at number one.

  He pressed the buzzer a second time and waited, still not looking up at the cameras. Nothing happened and he continued to stand, counting to sixty in his head and then pressing the buzzer again. He did it eight times before the shape of Iwan finally appeared from the back of the house. He ambled along the driveway, taking his time and prolonging the wait. Once Andrew reached sixty, he leaned forward and pressed the buzzer again anyway.

  It was too late to go back now.

  When Iwan reached the gate, he stood on the other side, examining Andrew through the bars and scratching his chin. There was a crooked half-smile on his face. ‘I can’t figure out if you’re the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve ever laid eyes on, or if you’ve got the biggest set of balls. If it were me, I’d have been running for the hills. I’d be on a plane, trying to get as far away from this area as possible. But he
re you are – not just running, but on Mr Braithwaite’s doorstep as if you’re here for a tea party.’ He chuckled to himself and shook his head disbelievingly.

  ‘Is he in?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘Is who in?’

  ‘You know who.’

  Iwan half turned towards the house. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ He nodded towards Andrew’s car. ‘You can drive away now and get back to whatever it is you do.’

  ‘Is he in?’

  Iwan sniggered again. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, removing a small box from his pocket and pressing a button to open the gate.

  Andrew stepped inside, waiting politely until it was closed behind him and then trailing Iwan up the driveway. He tried to keep his pace level, ignoring Iwan’s ‘how’s the head?’ remark, and generally trying to pretend he wasn’t terrified out of his wits.

  They continued around the side of the house into the spectacular rear garden. There was a pristine, perfect lawn, with a stable in the far corner and a set of jumps in front. Andrew had been before and knew the way, following the path towards the enormous conservatory that was attached to the back of the house. It was bigger than Gem’s flat, probably bigger than many of the shoebox new-build houses.

  The door was unlocked and Iwan headed inside, holding it open and allowing Andrew to pass. Braithwaite was sitting at a small black metal table, wearing a suit even though it was breakfast, and there was a gourmet feast in front of him. Andrew spotted croissants, jam, toast, marmalade and a large espresso pot. It was like a hotel’s breakfast buffet.

  Braithwaite smiled up at Andrew, ensnaring him in the water-blue gaze from which it was so hard to escape. Andrew found himself sitting on the other side of the table without being invited, though nobody objected.

  ‘Thank you, Iwan,’ Braithwaite said, nodding slightly towards the other man, who bobbed his head back and then disappeared into the house. Braithwaite picked up a knife and started to butter some toast. ‘Good morning, Mr Hunter. To what do I owe this very great pleasure?’

  ‘Do you have email on your phone?’ Andrew asked.

  It wasn’t what Braithwaite had expected. He stopped what he was doing, butter poised. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your phone. Does it have email?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going to send you a Tesco voucher. Why do you think?’

  Braithwaite’s eyes narrowed. ‘Of course it has email.’

  ‘What’s your email address?’

  There was no reply for a moment and then Braithwaite finished buttering his toast before putting down the knife. He bit off a small corner, chewing thoughtfully. When he was done, he read out an address.

  Andrew took out his own phone, tapped an email as quickly as he could and pressed send. Then he sat back and waited.

  It was probably only thirty seconds or so, but it felt like a lot longer than that. Sweat was trickling along Andrew’s back and the collar of his shirt was suddenly so itchy, he wanted to rip off his own skin. Andrew did his best to ignore it all. Sitting impassively. Waiting.

  Braithwaite had two more small bites of his toast, chewing with his mouth closed, before reaching into an inner pocket of his suit and taking out his phone. He pressed a couple of buttons and then stopped, staring intently at the screen.

  Andrew tried to read him. Fury? Surprise? Fire of a thousand suns? The other man didn’t even twitch. Andrew thought he must be an incredible poker player.

  Braithwaite eventually tapped a couple more buttons and then returned the phone to his pocket. He had one more bite of his toast and then looked up.

  Andrew fought not to shrink under the gaze. He had to sit tall, to be confident, even though he wanted to do exactly what Iwan had suggested – run for the hills.

  ‘So…’ Braithwaite said, his lips barely moving. ‘What is this?’

  Andrew leaned in. He’d gone through the words so many times in his head and now here they were, actually coming out of his mouth.

  ‘This is the end of whatever it is that’s going on between us,’ he said, voice holding steady. ‘We have no feud, no alliance, no anything. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. This is what used to be called Mutually Assured Destruction. If anything happens to me, my ex-wife, anyone who works for me, my friends or my family – hey, if anything happens to someone I say hello to on the street – those photographs will be sent to every newspaper in the country. They will go to every business rival you have, not to mention the police. Everything I have is with two separate solicitors – one of whom isn’t in the UK. They know what they have to do if they don’t hear from me regularly. I didn’t start this – I didn’t want this – but I’m finishing it.’

  Braithwaite leaned back in his seat, smiling with so little humour, he could have been drowning a small animal. ‘You’re the big man now, are you? Taking pictures of my son at university?’

  ‘You gave me the idea,’ Andrew said. He even managed a wink.

  ‘You got a couple of shots of my son snorting what appears to be drugs, so what?’

  ‘Not just taking drugs, dealing drugs. Like father, like son, hey? I’ve sent you the tiniest selection of what I have. There are far more incriminating ones. It’s one thing to blackmail a councillor because of his kids, not so fun when it comes back to you, is it?’

  Braithwaite’s smile widened. He sucked on his teeth, pinching his lips together into a pensive pout. ‘You know this is a Pandora’s box you’re opening. Once you’ve done that, there’s no going back.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Andrew replied firmly. ‘This is me closing that box. Nothing – and I really do mean nothing – will happen to me or anyone I know because of those photos. You continue doing whatever it is you do and I’ll continue to run my business and live my life. That’s it.’

  Braithwaite nodded, his grin like a viper’s. Broad and thin, ready to strike. ‘That’s how you think this goes?’

  Andrew stood. His leg wobbled slightly, but he disguised it by stepping around the chair and using it as a shield. He glanced towards the inner house, but Iwan was nowhere to be seen. He gripped the back of the chair to keep level, telling himself not to lose it now.

  ‘It’s how I know it goes,’ he said. ‘You kidnapped me and then tried to burn down my aunt’s house. She could have died – and for what? Your ego? Your satisfaction? She’d done nothing to you. She’s the type of woman who takes in a battered dog and spends all her money looking after him. She feeds him better than she does herself. She asks after the local kids, even though they’re the same lot who go knocking on her door. She’s pined after her husband for twenty-odd years and, aside from a night or two out at the bingo or the legion, she lives in her tiny little flat and causes nobody any harm.’

  Andrew had blown it. There were tears pouring down his face and his voice that he’d somehow managed to keep level for so long was now a cracked mess of tear-streaked words. He stepped around the chair, towering over the seated Braithwaite, pushing a finger into his face.

  ‘…And you, like the chicken you are, hide away in your massive house using creatures like him’ – Andrew jabbed a hand towards the house – ‘and kids, estate kids, to set fire to her house?!’

  Andrew used his sleeve to wipe away the mix of tears and snot. Braithwaite was trying to push himself backwards, though there was nowhere to go.

  ‘We. Are. Done,’ Andrew said. ‘You’re too scared to do your own dirty work, but I will promise – promise – you this. If you want to go man-to-man, one-on-one, whatever you want to call it, you know where I am. No one to hide behind, no games. If you want to do that, then I’ll meet you anywhere you want. Otherwise, I never want to see you again.’

  Andrew finally stepped away, almost tripping over the chair in which he’d been sitting but not caring. He kicked it away, sending it crashing into the glass with a thunderous thwack that boomed around the enclosed space as if lightning had struck. Andrew wiped his face once more, just as Iwan rushed through the doorway to the ho
use. He saw the chair, saw Andrew and lunged for him in a growl of spitting fury.

  ‘No!’ Braithwaite shouted. He was on his feet, too, straightening his suit as Iwan did as he was told and stepped away.

  Iwan was left standing between the two men, unsure where to look.

  ‘Thank you, Iwan,’ Braithwaite growled. When Iwan didn’t move, Braithwaite darted across the room, pushing the larger man in the chest. ‘I said: Thank. You. Iwan.’

  He spoke with such wrath that it was impossible to miss the meaning. Iwan turned, eyes not leaving Andrew as he headed back into the house. Andrew and Braithwaite stood apart from each other, both apparently out of breath.

  ‘Fine,’ Braithwaite hissed. ‘We’ll do it your way.’

  Andrew didn’t know if he was being genuine or simply saying that. Only time would tell. He spun and headed for the door, only stopped by Braithwaite’s loud cough. He turned to see the other man’s hand outstretched, ready to be shaken.

  Andrew eyed it, then looked up into the deep blue eyes of the man who was offering the apparent olive branch. Then he turned and walked away.

  * * *

  If the secret behind Michelle’s death had you gripped, don’t miss Something Wicked, the first Andrew Hunter book. Eighteen-year-old Nicholas went missing deep in the woods, and no one’s seen him since. Can Andrew find him alive, or is he already too late? Order it now!

  Something Wicked

  Andrew Hunter Book 1

  Your son walked out of the house one night. He never came back.

  Nine months ago Elaine Carr’s only son, Nicholas, disappeared in the dark woods near his home. He hasn’t been seen since, and she’s falling apart.

  Investigator Andrew Hunter suspects Nicholas is alive, but in grave danger. He wants to know how no one in the small town of Prestwich has any answers. Why the teenager’s girlfriend is so cagey, and to get a proper look at the tattoo on her wrist. And as he follows the trail of an unsettling clue found in the boy’s bedroom, he begins to wonder if Nicholas’s disappearance is connected to a chilling case buried in the past.