Silent Suspect
A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense
Kerry Wilkinson
Contents
Also by Kerry Wilkinson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Something Wicked
Hear more from Kerry
Also by Kerry Wilkinson
A letter from Kerry
Something Hidden
The Wife’s Secret
Last Night
The Girl Who Came Back
Two Sisters
The Death and Life of Eleanor Parker
Ten Birthdays
Also by Kerry Wilkinson
Standalone novels
TEN BIRTHDAYS
TWO SISTERS
THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK
LAST NIGHT
THE DEATH AND LIFE OF ELEANOR PARKER
THE WIFE’S SECRET
The Jessica Daniel series
THE KILLER INSIDE (also known as LOCKED IN)
VIGILANTE
THE WOMAN IN BLACK
THINK OF THE CHILDREN
PLAYING WITH FIRE
THE MISSING DEAD (also known as THICKER THAN WATER)
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
CROSSING THE LINE
SCARRED FOR LIFE
FOR RICHER, FOR POORER
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
EYE FOR AN EYE
The Andrew Hunter series
SOMETHING WICKED
SOMETHING HIDDEN
Short Stories
JANUARY
FEBRUARY
MARCH
APRIL
Silver Blackthorn
RECKONING
RENEGADE
RESURGENCE
Other
DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
WATCHED
One
Now
Bosh-bosh-bosh-bosh.
Detective Inspector Jessica Daniel rolled over with a groan, top lip lapping at the crusted drool that coated her chin. Her mind strained and flailed in an attempt to figure out exactly what was going on. She had one clear, concise and entirely accurate thought: some bastard was being noisy. Really noisy. And they were nearby, his or her thumping hand disturbing the peaceful utopia of whatever it was she had been dreaming about. Actually, it was definitely a ‘him’ – only blokes biffed and banged around that loudly.
There was a pause, allowing Jessica to open her eyes and slowly survey her surroundings.
Grotty, she thought, the word swirling into her mind from the final embers of sleep. Greying light flooded through the gaping raggedy curtains, as a gust of wind shook the single-pane windows, the frames of which were cracked and peeling with years-old scabs of paint that had once been magnolia. Jessica wondered why the drapes were open – they must have been left like that all night.
Then she remembered precisely why she was in this hotel room.
She clung to the threadbare pillow, even though its cushioning properties were somewhere in the region of a deflated balloon.
Bosh-bosh-bosh-bosh.
The pounding rattled once more, louder this time. As Jessica shuffled in a failed attempt to get comfortable on the squished mattress, the additional throbbing in her head left her wondering how much of it was real and how much was alcohol-induced.
‘Ms Daniel?’ A man’s voice sounded from beyond the door. ‘If you’re in there, can you open the door, please?’
It took Jessica a few moments to realise that she was the ‘Ms Daniel’ to which the mystery voice was referring. She kicked her legs free of the bedcovers, surprised to find herself wearing the same pair of jeans and top from the previous day. Then she tried to sit up.
The room spun.
The spattered black and brown mould spots from the ceiling darted at her, blending with the faded, flowery grimness of the carpet. Jessica clamped her eyes closed, swallowing, trying to get some sort of lubrication to the back of her parched throat.
‘Ms Daniel?’
‘Um… yeah… hang on.’ Jessica’s mouth was dry, the words cracking and sticking as she tried to speak. When she opened her eyes again, they spiralled in on the battered alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed, green digits telling her it was a few minutes after nine as the colon in between the numbers blinked hypnotically. She grabbed the glass of water that sat next to it, downing the contents in one, allowing her to finally feel as if she was something close to human.
She stood and approached the door, pausing mid-stride with her hand outstretched. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘It’s the police.’
That was strange. Jessica squinted towards the door, wrestling with a creeping sense that the universe had somehow become muddled. She was police. Shouldn’t she be on the other side, knocking and trying to wake someone up?
Jessica straightened her clothes as best she could, turning sideways to face the full-length mirror that was covered in a thin film of… something translucent. She didn’t step any closer to find out what it was. Jessica untied her hair and then scrunched it back together, clumping it into a greasy ponytail. For now, it was the best she could manage.
A blink and then the groaning creak of the door to reveal a man in the hallway. His dark hair was waxed to a point at the front, with a chin speckled by day-old stubble. He was early forties, hands in his Marks and Spencer trouser pockets, elbows jutting in front of the long brown raincoat that hung to his ankles. His red and white tie was loosely knotted and slightly askew, top button undone, jacket collar turned up.
He offered a watered-down, non-committal CID smile. It was the type of facial expression at which Jessica was an expert: not too friendly, not too stand-offish. It said everything, yet it said nothing.
‘Ms Daniel?’ he said.
‘Hi.’
‘DCI Ashley Fordham,’ he thrust his warrant card towards her, adding: ‘I understand you’re an inspector…?’
‘Yeah…’
Jessica glanced at his ID, not taking it in before he tucked it away again. They shook hands and then Fordham bobbed awkwardly in the hallway, peering over her shoulder into the room.
‘Oh, er, come in,’ Jessica added, stepping out of his way.<
br />
He ambled inside, hands back in pockets as he peered around. ‘Greater Manchester?’ he said.
Jessica closed the door, fighting gallantly against a yawn, the cloud of confusion still winning a battle with her sensible thoughts. ‘Isn’t this Blackpool?’
‘I mean you work for Greater Manchester Police…?’
‘Oh, right, yeah. Metropolitan division, in the centre.’
‘That must be fun.’
‘You could say that.’
Fordham’s gaze swept across the scattering of mini vodka and whisky bottles close to the bin next to the bed before he focused back on Jessica. She leaned against the wall, still grappling with the urge to yawn, embarrassed at the leftover remnants of the previous night.
For a moment, he said nothing, allowing the gentle hum of traffic to filter through the window. There was a distant beep of a car horn, but it was quiet compared to Manchester. Still, it was early. It had been a different story the previous evening.
‘Do you know the name Peter Salisbury?’ Fordham finally asked.
Jessica nodded.
‘And did you spend time with Mr Salisbury last night?’
Her eyes gawked past him towards the ruffled bedcovers, reading his thoughts. ‘Well… yes, but not like that. Not how you’re thinking.’
His smile crept slightly wider, head angling fractionally towards the bed. ‘What was I thinking?’
‘Just that…’ Jessica huffed in annoyance. She should have simply said ‘yes’. ‘I saw him yesterday. It was the first time we’d met.’
‘You didn’t know him before?’
‘No.’
‘He’s not an old friend, or anything like that?’
‘No.’
Fordham nodded knowingly, as if that was something of which he was already aware. ‘So… how did you come to meet one another?’
Jessica could no longer hold his stare. This was all wrong. She was police. She asked the questions. She made others squirm.
‘It’s complicated,’ she coughed, trying to keep her voice level. ‘I was… looking for a friend.’ She could feel Fordham eyeing her, wanting her to meet his gaze. She knew that game. ‘What’s going on?’ she added.
He ignored her question: ‘You were looking for Peter?’
‘No, I told you, I only met him yesterday. I sort of… stumbled across him.’ Jessica realised her arms were crossed, protecting her midriff from who knew what. It was bad body language – defensive, as if she had something to hide. She dropped them to her sides and then stared at a spot on the carpet next to Fordham’s feet. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ she added. ‘Look, you’re going to think it’s a bit odd. I would if I were you.’
‘Okay…’
‘I’ve been looking for a missing person… a missing friend.’ Jessica nodded towards the rattling windows. ‘She called me from the phone box across the road.’
Fordham turned to face the outside, removing a hand from his pocket to scratch his chin and then replacing it. ‘There’s a phone box over there?’
Jessica shrugged. ‘It’s this sort of kiosk thing. On the seafront.’
‘I didn’t know anyone still used them nowadays.’
‘Me either.’
He spun back. ‘So how did you come to meet Peter?’
Jessica sighed, quickly scanning the hotel room as she knew Fordham already had. Crumpled bedcovers; inhabitant still asleep at nine in the morning; empty alcohol bottles. That was before he got to her breath, which likely smelt like a sailor’s on leave – it certainly tasted like it.
It all felt wrong.
That wasn’t because hotels weren’t a haven for residents with hangovers at this time of the morning; it was because of her. She was a detective inspector in a grungy, cheaper-than-chips, hellhole of a room, still wearing the same clothes as the night before. She was what was wrong in this scenario.
‘I can tell you what you want to know,’ Jessica said, ‘but I know how it’s going to sound. If I were you, looking at me, I’d be thinking it was a bit weird, too. Perhaps if you could tell me what the problem is…?’
She met his stare, seeing the imperceptible signs that something bad had happened. Deep down, she’d known the moment the banging had woken her up. Things had felt strange the night before when she’d met Peter. It had been too convenient.
Fordham was chewing on his bottom lip, nodding slightly. ‘Have you been here all night?’
Jessica nodded at the pile of empty bottles. ‘I had a one-woman party.’
‘Is there anyone who can vouch for that?’
She shrugged. ‘Only one woman.’
He was still nodding but puffed out a large breath. ‘Peter Salisbury was found on the beach a few hours ago with his throat slit. As far as anyone can tell, you’re the last person to see him alive.’
Two
17 Hours Earlier
Jessica cupped her hands around the lower part of her face and blew hard. She’d never been to the Arctic or Antarctic, but it was hard to believe either would be colder than Blackpool seafront. She’d long thought Manchester had the worst weather in Britain, but it had nothing on this place. Even though she was sitting inside her car and wearing gloves, the glacial blast still howled, making her teeth chatter, her fingers tremble.
It was a few minutes after four in the afternoon and already close to dark. Those government bastards were always arseing around with the clocks, sending them forward or back whenever they saw fit. Assuming it was the government. If not them, then who? MI5? MI6? The BBC? Some member of the Royal family? Someone, somewhere was having a laugh. It would have been grim in any case, but with the clocks recently having gone back – or forward – it was far darker than seemed normal. Winter was well and truly on its way.
Jessica stared across the empty road towards the small booth attached to the railing of the sea wall. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected – not flashing lights and a big ‘LOOK HERE’ banner – but it felt too small, too insignificant.
She reached into the well on the side of the door for a bobble hat, zipped up her coat and then climbed out of the car. She’d barely closed the door when the chill bit at her face, clawing and scraping as she tried to bury her mouth under the collar of the coat. Jessica tugged the hat down further, looked both ways and then crossed the still deserted road, stopping in front of the phone kiosk. The receiver was black plastic but surprisingly heavy, attached via a metal cord to an aluminium facia, into which someone had carved the word ‘BENDER’.
Jessica held the phone to her ear, listening to the low, unbroken dial tone, before replacing it on the cradle. It was a wonder to find a working public telephone in the twenty-first century. Many of them had been removed as the gadget plague of mobile phones had spread across the nation; those that remained – at least most of the ones she knew of – had been smashed up by kids, drunks or druggies. Whoever it was things got blamed on nowadays.
She stepped away, forgetting the cold as she stared at the telephone. Two days previously, this phone had been used to call her a few minutes before midnight. The young woman had said only one word – ‘Jessica’ – and that was that. There had been silence and then nothing. The voice was her friend, Bex – Rebecca – and Jessica had spent the ensuing hours trying to read as much as she could into the three syllables. Had Bex sounded scared? Worried? Was it an assuring tone to say she was fine? A pleading tone to be picked up? In truth, Jessica couldn’t remember. Bex had spoken for less than a second and then it had been over.
Then there was the other voice in her head, the one that asserted it hadn’t been Bex at all. The one that whispered and conspired, insisting that Jessica had twisted the tone to make it that of her missing friend. There was no recording, no number to call back and check.
Bex had been a troubled teenager living on the streets on Manchester when Jessica had offered her a room to stay. They’d shared a house for the best part of a year in a relationship that was hard to define, but which worked for the
m. It wasn’t mother–daughter, nor sister–sister, but it wasn’t exactly friends, either. It was simply them, living together and being there for one another. Bex had plans to go to college, to make something of herself. She had friends, a life, she’d just had her birthday… and then she disappeared. Since then, Jessica had heard nothing from the girl – until the phone call.
It had taken her two days to find out the origin of the call. During that time, she’d had to travel to Wales for something heartbreakingly important, and then she’d jumped through hoops and greased palms in order to find out where the call had come from.
Here.
Fifty miles up Britain’s motorway network from her Manchester home, on the west coast of the country. This was the spot from which Bex had called and whispered Jessica’s name.
Jessica knew that coming here wouldn’t lead to anything spectacular. The word ‘Unknown’ had shown up on Jessica’s phone, so Bex had gone out of her way to pre-dial 141, hoping to mask her location. With that, the teenager was hardly going to be waiting on the nearby bench, legs crossed in anticipation of being picked up. Yet everything was so… normal… that it felt crushingly underwhelming. Bex might have been here, but she certainly wasn’t now.
Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13) Page 1
