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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Only one way to find out…

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  The chief inspector said nothing for a while, the only sound the tapping of his fingers on the hardback. Eventually, he nodded slightly – just a minute dip of the chin, but it was his tell sign. ‘Peter Salisbury’s a local electrician,’ he said. ‘He had a couple of his own business cards in his wallet. We’re still going through the motions, but he’s self-employed by the look of it. His dad is coming down to ID the body at some point this morning.’

  Jessica bowed her head a tiny amount to show her thanks for the admission. ‘I’m not sure what I can tell you. I said goodbye to him near the pier and that was that.’

  Fordham stood, placing the book back onto the table and putting his hands into his pockets. ‘You’ve not got any foreign holidays planned for the next few days, have you?’

  ‘On our wages?’

  That got a grin as he nodded towards the door. ‘Let’s have a look at this phone box poster of yours.’

  Jessica hunted under the bed for her shoes and then they headed down the stairs, past the empty reception desk and into the car park. They crossed the road side by side until they were next to the sea wall where Jessica turned to see a big empty space on the side of the kiosk. The poster of Peter’s missing sister had gone, leaving small sludgy paper marks in four corners. Jessica turned in a circle, wondering if there were somehow two booths and she’d missed one the previous night, but there was nothing.

  ‘It was right there,’ she said, pointing to the metal.

  Fordham peered at the gap and then at her. There were posters advertising gigs pinned to the wall, plus more on the lamp-post, but nothing about Katy Salisbury.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the only phone here.’

  He nodded, confirming she wasn’t crazy. ‘Well it’s not there now.’

  ‘But that’s how I got Peter’s phone number. I wouldn’t have known him otherwise.’

  Jessica couldn’t stop her voice from rising in a mix of confusion and annoyance. She couldn’t quite twist her mind around what was happening.

  ‘Why would someone remove a missing person poster overnight?’ Fordham asked, eyeing her.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If it was the council, the other banners would be gone.’

  ‘I know – I can’t explain it.’ Jessica turned in another circle, wondering if there was a second poster anywhere nearby. If there was, she couldn’t see one. She was making herself dizzy. ‘Did Peter’s body have a phone on it?’ she added.

  Fordham had his own phone in his hand, nose wrinkled in annoyance as if he’d just got another one of those endless PPI claim texts. ‘It wasn’t among the listed possessions.’

  Jessica took out her phone and scanned through the contacts, thumb hovering over where she’d added Peter’s number. ‘I called him last night. I’ll try his phone again now. Somebody might have found it, or it could be under a rock or something.’

  She wasn’t quite sure what she was trying to prove but Jessica pressed the button to call, waiting as she felt Fordham watching. She hoped for a ring and at least expected the long single tone to indicate an unobtainable number. Instead there was silence and then a female voice telling her that the call could not be connected.

  ‘It’s not even ringing,’ Jessica said, putting her phone away. The two of them stared at each other, but Jessica felt small under Fordham’s gaze. ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she added.

  ‘Did anyone see you and Peter separating in the centre last night?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. There were people around – there was this woman riding a bucking bronco on the pier and a bunch of lads. Then there were some girls on one of those dancing machines.’

  Fordham tapped something into his phone and then put it away, hands returning to his pockets until he emerged with a notepad. ‘What was Peter’s number?’

  Jessica read it out and he scribbled it down, knowing the call history would be checked to corroborate her version. She pointed to the CCTV camera on the pole. ‘You can check the footage on that. You’ll see me and the poster.’

  ‘Will do.’

  They crossed the empty road in silence, moving into the car park. Jessica’s red Corsa was in a spot by itself, but there were three other vehicles dotted around.

  Fordham nodded at the car. ‘That yours?’

  ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Police wages, remember?’

  She laughed gently. ‘Right. I should probably get it washed.’

  They had almost passed it on the way towards the hotel when Fordham stopped and crouched, pointing to a spot on the rear bumper. ‘What would you say this looks like?’ he asked.

  Jessica stepped around him so that the area was coated by shadow. She gulped, knowing exactly what it was. A person couldn’t spend as many years in the force as she had and not recognise a scene such as this. Her throat felt dry, a sinking sense of inevitability setting in.

  ‘It’s blood,’ she whispered.

  Six

  The sticky red liquid was relatively fresh, perhaps a few hours old judging by the way it had glooped together on the bumper of Jessica’s car. It was spread in a circle underneath the clasp for the boot, with a speck or two clinging to the mud already on her number plate.

  DCI Fordham was still crouched, but shuffled backwards, peering from one end of the back bumper to the other and then stooping lower and looking underneath. When he was done, he stood, walking around the vehicle and stopping every few moments to inspect the various marks of grime and filth. Jessica followed him like a sullen, silent lapdog. She was afraid to say anything stupid, let alone protest her innocence too much. The guilty ones always blabbed about how blameless they were. Fordham soon arrived back at the rear of the car, standing with both hands in his pockets, coat-tails flapping gently behind.

  ‘Why is there blood on your car?’ he asked. He didn’t sound as if he was accusing her, more that he was staring at a nearly complete puzzle with three spaces and only two remaining pieces.

  ‘I don’t know. Roadkill? Maybe I ran over a rat or a squirrel or something on the way here?’

  ‘Do you remember running over a rat on the way here?’

  Jessica glanced away and didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Why would the blood be on the back bumper?

  Fordham’s features were unmoving. ‘You’re not making this easy.’

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not… I don’t know why there’s blood on my car.’

  ‘We both know the drill…’

  Jessica didn’t know if the uniformed officer had just arrived, or if he’d been hanging around the front of the Prince Hotel the whole time she’d been with Fordham. Either way, after the merest wave of the chief inspector’s arm, a fresh-faced too-young officer bounded across the car park, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘When do I get it back?’ Jessica asked, staring longingly towards her car.

  The uniformed officer must have been telepathic because he held out a hand, silently asking for Jessica’s car keys without being asked and then hovered next to the driver’s side door. His arms were crossed, stare fixed across the empty road. Christ alone knew what he thought might be about to happen.

  ‘I’ve got to call in a flatbed to come and pick it up,’ Fordham said, removing his phone from his pocket and frowning at the screen again. ‘Be right back.’

  He ambled across to the furthest side of the car park, either talking into his phone or doing a good job of making it appear that way. Jessica stared at the dried blood and then realised she was being watched. As soon as she glanced up, the uniformed officer’s head spun away, pretending he hadn’t been looking at her.

  ‘All right?’ Jessica asked, trying to sound friendly.

  He mumbled something she didn’t catch and then took a couple of quick steps backwards to put himself between her and the car. She tried a warm, welcoming smile, but he was delib
erately not looking at her.

  Jessica backtracked from the car, thoughts muddy, and found a spot on the low wall that circled the car park. She sat, staring across the road towards the sea, wondering what she’d got herself into. Had she stumbled into a trap that had been laid for her? Everything had happened so quickly that she hadn’t had time to take any of it in. One moment she’d been staring at a phone that had called her a couple of days before; the next, there was a dead man and blood on her car.

  As Fordham continued to talk on his phone, Jessica closed her eyes, plotting through what she’d be doing if the situation was reversed. First, there would be the forensics from the body, then her car. They’d check phone records and the CCTV if it was working, plus ask for any witnesses in the town centre who may have seen Peter with her the previous evening. She wasn’t automatically a suspect, not yet, not until the results came back on the blood on her back bumper. If it turned out to be Peter’s then who knew what would happen? Presumably they’d charge her, bail her and start looking to build a case. There was nothing to build – the last time she’d seen him, he had most definitely been alive – but then that was what everyone said. The angry mother with a dead baby daughter definitely didn’t shake her. The furious drunken man whose fiancée had been beaten into a coma definitely hadn’t laid a finger on her. The BMW driver definitely hadn’t driven at the cyclist on purpose. It was always the way – but this time she was on the other side.

  The wrong side.

  ‘Jessica…?’

  She opened her eyes, realising Fordham had taken a seat on the wall next to her.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied.

  ‘They’re on the way to remove your car. I don’t know when you’ll get it back. I guess that depends on what the results say.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know. You can ask the guy on hotel reception – I checked into my room at half six or so, whatever time it was, and then I didn’t leave. His name’s Brandon – he’ll tell you.’

  ‘We’ve already talked to him.’

  Jessica’s mouth was open to protest some more when she clocked onto what he’d said. ‘You already talked to him?’

  ‘I rang him before I knocked on your door. Got his number off the manager.’

  ‘Oh…’

  Neither of them spoke for a short while. Slowly, Jessica was beginning to realise how much trouble she might be in.

  ‘I want to have a proper look in your room,’ Fordham said.

  ‘You were already in there.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was little point in arguing and Jessica had nothing to hide, so they headed back inside, past the still empty reception desk towards the stairs. From the door on the right, there was a clattering of teacups on saucers from the breakfast room as a woman’s voice cracked with laughter. The smell of burnt bacon scorched the air, attracting both of their silent attentions.

  Jessica half expected her room to already be turned upside down by investigating officers but everything was as she’d left it. Not that there was much to see. The sight of her jacket hanging over the back of a chair made Jessica realise she’d been outside in just a thin top and jeans. She’d not even noticed the cold.

  Fordham had said that the stabbing of Peter Salisbury would have produced a lot of blood. Someone would have had to ditch their clothes – exactly in the way it appeared Jessica had, given the bare room. Fordham headed straight for the empty vodka and whisky bottles, using gloved hands to drop them into an evidence bag he’d either magicked from thin air or his pocket when she wasn’t looking. He lifted the bedcovers and peered underneath, then opened a couple of drawers.

  ‘Not much of a party, was it?’ he said.

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Have you got an overnight bag or something?’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on staying. I’d only come to check out the phone box and then things just… happened. I didn’t have any spare clothes.’

  He nodded, pretending he hadn’t been asking about that. ‘Good job they had a minibar, hey?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Fordham peeped inside the empty wardrobe and then stepped towards the door. There wasn’t much else he could do. ‘Why did you stay here?’ he asked.

  ‘Blackpool? On a whim, I suppose. I didn’t fancy the drive back to Manchester.’

  ‘I meant here in particular. There are better hotels in Blackpool.’

  ‘Police wage, remember?’ He didn’t smile, waiting for the real answer. ‘It was convenient,’ Jessica added. ‘Across the road from the phone. I don’t really know.’

  ‘Manchester’s only an hour and a bit down the road.’

  They locked eyes and Jessica suddenly realised what he was implying. ‘I’ve not been down and back,’ she said. ‘Check the motorway ANPR cameras if you want.’

  She knew what he was thinking because it’s what would have been on her mind. Drive to Manchester, ditch the clothes she was wearing when she killed Peter, get some clean ones, then nip back. It didn’t matter much whether her vehicle showed up on the automatic number plate recognition cameras, because, if this had been planned, she’d have a second vehicle anyway – plus the alibi from Brandon on reception.

  ‘Do you live with anyone in Manchester?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I really hope we won’t need a warrant.’

  Jessica continued holding his stare and then, from nowhere, there was a flash of white anger burning within her. A flicker of fury from her younger days, sizzling and raw. ‘A warrant?! Who do you think I am? You won’t need a warrant, because you’d never get one. What do you think you’ll find in my house?’

  Fordham blinked his gaze away, saying nothing and remaining annoyingly calm. In an instant, Jessica’s anger had gone and she felt stupid for raising her voice in the first place. He was only doing his job – saying he hoped they wouldn’t need a warrant because the blood on her car wouldn’t turn out to be Peter’s. He hoped it was a big misunderstanding. For some stupid reason, she’d thought it was an implied threat.

  ‘I’ve got to get back,’ he eventually said, moving towards the door. ‘Don’t go far.’

  ‘I can’t if you’ve got my car.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  He stopped in the doorway, turning to face her. He took a deep breath and reached for the handcuffs on his belt loop. For a moment, Jessica thought she’d misread the situation – that she was under arrest. He could nick her if he wanted and wouldn’t be breaking any rules. At this point, with so little information and no positive ID of Peter’s body, all sorts of things were up for grabs. It’s why cooperating with the police was always a good idea – at least at first. Investigating officers could play as nicely or harshly as they wanted. Bundle a person into a cell for twenty-four hours without a second thought.

  Fordham’s fingers brushed the cuffs before they scratched a spot close to his belly button. ‘Not yet,’ he whispered, before turning and heading for the stairs.

  Seven

  Jessica sat in the armchair in the bay window of the hotel room. In the daylight, she could properly see the car park, the road, the sea wall and browny-grey beach, plus the sea tickling the horizon. No Ireland, though.

  She was by herself, watching as a large flatbed truck hoisted her car onto the back. It was beeping for no apparent reason as the uniformed officer half watched, half tapped away on his phone. Three burly garage-type men had fixed the various winches in place and were now standing back gawping as the crane hoisted her vehicle into the air. A smattering of bemused onlookers were standing close to the sea wall, pointing, chattering and taking photographs. They were too far away for Jessica to make any proper judgement, but if they were from overseas, they’d likely think this was some bizarre English ritual.

  Detective Chief Inspector Fordham was gone, off to the police station or wherever else he had things to do. Jessica hadn’t been able to read him and was unsure if he genuinel
y suspected her of being involved in Peter’s death, or if he accepted that she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d have been suspicious if it was the other way around, leaping on what she knew were small inconsistencies in her own story. The biggest one was why she was in Blackpool at all. The call from Bex had been traced to the phone booth – but there was no particular reason to drive up and see it. She wasn’t sure she knew the reason why she’d come, other than the indisputable fact that curiosity was an infrangible part of who she was.

  The question was: what now?

  She could get a train back to Manchester and wait for Fordham to call with the results. If she’d been formally arrested, there was a chance she’d be suspended – it wasn’t automatic – but, as it stood, to all intents, nothing had changed. She hadn’t been planning to stay in Blackpool for longer than a night, but there was something going on that she couldn’t quite get her head around. Coincidences were a fact of life and happened far more often than a lot of people believed – but there were too many here. Had someone drawn her to this resort to set her up? Was Bex involved, or was it Bex herself? If so, why?

  As her car was lowered onto the back of the flatbed, the lorry continued beeping. It took her a few moments to realise what was happening, but Jessica’s stomach was gurgling in time to the beeps, a mixture of hunger and protest at her previous night’s liquid dinner. It was getting on for eleven in the morning and she’d have to check out of this pit of a hotel.

  With few belongings to collect, Jessica reloaded her pockets and locked the room behind her, heading down the stairs towards the reception desk. There was a man standing behind the counter, glancing quickly between a sheaf of papers and a computer. He pressed one or two keys at a time and then shifted his attention back to the papers, muttering under his breath in frustrated annoyance.

  ‘’Kin’ thieving shites,’ he mumbled, before noticing Jessica was standing in front of him. He stared up in surprise.

  ‘Who’s a thieving shite?’ she asked.