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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  ‘Jessica. Are you in charge?’

  The woman straightened herself, filled with pride. ‘It’s not as straightforward as that, but… I suppose so.’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately? I’m a police officer.’

  Pam slipped off the hairnet and began tugging her hair down into a loose ponytail. She frowned at Jessica. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No… it’s just… walls have ears and all that.’

  Pam peered past Jessica towards a pair of booths on the side wall but she said nothing. With a flick of her head, she led Jessica towards a small circular table next to the hatch for the bar. It wasn’t completely private, but there was nobody nearby. Already on the table was a steaming cup of tea and a plate piled with three slices of toast that was oozing with melted butter.

  ‘I missed lunch,’ Pam said, picking up a piece of toast and biting into the corner.

  ‘What is this place?’ Jessica asked. She hoped it sounded like a compliment, because it was. Away from the glitz of the promenade, this would be a lifeline for those less fortunate.

  Pam continued eating, talking in between bites. ‘It’s a cross between a soup kitchen and a homeless shelter – largely funded through charitable donations, but we get some money from the council.’

  ‘And you run it?’

  She shrugged modestly. ‘I founded it and keep things ticking over. It’s me who goes begging to the supermarkets and bakeries for their leftover food. “Run it” doesn’t sound right.’ She nodded towards the other three people behind the bar. They were all young, definitely no older than twenty. Two of them were pouring cups of tea for a pair of blokes who were presumably homeless. ‘We’re all equal here.’

  ‘Where do people sleep?’

  Pam finished off the first triangle of toast and pointed a thumb towards the roof. ‘There are rooms upstairs. We can fit about twenty in, maybe a couple more depending on the gender split.’

  Jessica glanced backwards – there were at least thirty people eating and drinking. ‘How do you—?’

  ‘First come, first served. It’s the only way. Some of them grumble, but everyone knows how it works.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Why are you here?’

  Jessica took one of the posters of Bex from her bag and held it out. ‘I was hoping you might have seen her.’

  Pam didn’t reach for the poster. ‘We have all sorts here – people who’ve fallen out with their husbands, wives or parents; young and old; men and women. Some are runaways, some locals. I never ask the questions, because it’s none of my business. I just hope to provide them a roof.’

  Jessica put the paper on the table between them. ‘She’s a friend.’

  ‘I thought you said you were police.’

  ‘I am – but I’m asking for me.’

  Pam glanced down at the sheet, lips pursed. Her eyes narrowed and then she took a bite of toast. ‘Most here don’t want to be found.’ She lowered her voice, tailing off and raising her eyes over Jessica’s shoulder. ‘Everything all right, Fran?’

  Jessica turned to see a woman wearing a deerstalker shuffling from foot to foot a short distance behind her. She was in her twenties, hair bundled under her hat, clearly trying to listen in. ‘Fine,’ she replied.

  Pam and Fran eyed each other, neither speaking until Fran spun on her heels and headed towards a noticeboard next to the front door.

  When they were alone again, Jessica picked up the poster. ‘Have you seen her? She’s named Rebecca, but everyone calls her Bex.’

  There was a slight – though deliberate – roll of the eyes. ‘I’m not sure I’d tell you if I had, but… no. Not that I remember, anyway. Lots of people come in for a meal and then they don’t come back.’

  ‘Could you show this poster around for me? Or put it on the wall?’

  Pam lifted her mug, deliberately holding it in front of her mouth as she spoke. ‘People are watching. They’ve noticed you – you’re making them nervous.’

  Jessica fought the urge to turn and see who was looking at her, not that it really mattered. In a room full of hungry and homeless people, of course she stood out. A fair number would have already clocked her as police – if not that, then some sort of social worker.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Jessica replied, standing but maintaining eye contact. ‘Can you please ask around? My number’s on the bottom.’ She realised as she said it that the number on the poster belonged to the phone she’d switched off, but there was still voicemail.

  Pam nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Jessica kept her eyes on the ground as she hurried away from the centre. She’d had dealings with the homeless community in the past – it was where she found Bex in the first place – and she knew how places such as this needed to be left as a safe place for those who needed it.

  She had reached the corner of the street, about to head back towards her hotel when a voice called ‘hey’ over her shoulder. Jessica turned to see Fran with the deerstalker jogging along the street, one hand cupped around her mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ she shouted again.

  Jessica stopped and faced her. ‘Hello…?’

  ‘You really police?’

  The skin on her cheeks was taut and she stood tall. Everything about Fran said that she was somewhere in her mid- to late-twenties, except for her eyes. They were dark and sunken into her face. With the hat covering her hair, and pale, greying skin, she looked like a skeleton. Either that, or one of the shoddy waxworks from Tussauds on the seafront.

  ‘I am,’ Jessica replied. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘You look it. Bit stuck-up, like.’

  Jessica didn’t know how to reply, so she shrugged. She’d been called many, many things over the years – but never ‘stuck-up’.

  ‘I’m not Blackpool police, if that helps.’

  ‘Where ya from?’

  ‘I work in Manchester.’

  Fran nodded along. She had her hands in the pockets of a thick army-green coat that matched her hat. ‘You’ve lost your friend?’

  Jessica failed to hide the frown of annoyance that she’d been overheard. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

  Jessica took another of the posters from her bag and handed it over.

  Fran eyed the image and then peered up. ‘She in trouble, or something?’

  ‘Nope, she’s just a friend who went missing.’

  ‘And you think she’s here?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Fran folded and pocketed the poster. ‘You some sort of do-gooder?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘God-freak?’

  ‘Nope… why?’

  Fran was bouncing on her heels in the same way she had done inside. A strand of light hair freed itself from underneath her hat and swayed across her face. She didn’t seem to notice. ‘God-freaks are round here all the time, offering our lot food and shelter if they accept Jesus. As if we have to talk about their God to get our reward at the end of it. When you’re hungry, you’ll say you believe in anything.’

  ‘I’m not religious,’ Jessica added.

  ‘So, why’d your friend disappear? She have a boyfriend on the go?’

  Jessica had no idea where the conversation was headed, but, for a reason of which she wasn’t sure, Bex’s story came flooding out. She told Fran everything – how Bex had gone to live on the streets after bad experiences with her mother; how she’d moved in with Jessica; how she’d left without a word or sign. She finished with an exhausted sigh. Fran hadn’t interrupted once, instead bobbing on her feet and nodding.

  ‘And the first time you heard from her was the phone call?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Right. It was traced to Blackpool. That’s why I’m here.’

  Jessica had no idea who Fran was, but the other woman spoke with the authoritative confidence of somebody used to being in charge of others.

  ‘I’ve not seen your
friend,’ Fran said, ‘but I’ll ask around and look out for her. If she’s spent any time on the streets around here, then someone will know her.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jessica wasn’t sure if this was the end of the conversation. She took a small step backwards, but Fran moved towards her.

  ‘Perhaps you can help me with something…?’ she said.

  ‘I, er…’

  ‘Look, I’m friends with some of the girls who, y’know, live around here.’ She nodded towards the homeless shelter, making her point. ‘There’s this guy who comes around the streets at night, offering money and trying to get the women to go with him in his car. My lot always say no – we look out for each other – but there are other girls, younger ones, who don’t know what’s what. I always worry they might say yes.’

  Jessica turned to look at the web of alleys and streets behind. There were boarded-up shopfronts and a web of cut-throughs heading in all directions. Lots of places for people to shelter.

  ‘Your lot?’ Jessica repeated.

  Fran didn’t expand. ‘Look, can you help or not? You say you’re police, but—’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So can you help?’

  ‘I don’t…’ Jessica sighed, stumbling over her words. She’d come to Blackpool to look for Bex and somehow inherited a search for a missing Polish couple and now this. Not to mention all her own problems. ‘What does this bloke in the car look like?’ she asked.

  Fran’s features brightened. ‘He’s sort of… normal. Brown hair, thin… y’know… normal.’

  That didn’t really help.

  ‘I’m not really sure what I can do. Have you tried the Blackpool police?’

  She shook her head. ‘No way. I don’t trust that lot.’

  ‘How come you trust me?’

  Fran eyed her from bottom to top. ‘You’re different… d’ya have a phone? Is that your number on the poster? Can I call you?’ She rattled off the questions in exhausting fashion.

  ‘Yes, no…’ Jessica took out the new phone and started trying to find her new number.

  Fran took a mobile from her own back pocket and held it in her palm expectantly.

  ‘You have a phone?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘Most of us do.’

  ‘How do you charge it?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I figure it out.’ She read out her own number, telling Jessica to type it into the phone and call her. Moments later, the device in her hand started ringing. Fran pressed the reject button and then looked up. ‘We’ve got each other’s numbers now. I’ll call you if I see him, okay?’

  ‘How will I get here in time?’

  ‘If you don’t, you don’t – but he cruises around for a while, sometimes an hour at a time.’

  Jessica repocketed her phone, wishing she’d said ‘no’. She took another step backwards and, this time, Fran didn’t follow. Instead, she flicked her head up.

  ‘You really miss her, don’t ya?’ she said.

  From nowhere, there was a lump in Jessica’s throat. In all the time that had passed since Bex had disappeared, with all the people she’d spoken to, all the questions she’d asked, no one had ever pointed out the obvious.

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica replied with a gulp.

  ‘You f’real?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  Fran continued staring at her for a moment, features unreadable, and then she broke into a smile. She practically skipped on the spot, reaching forward and looping her arm through Jessica’s. ‘Come on, then. I’ll take you on a tour of the real ’Pool and we’ll ask around about Bex. You’re not going to get much sense by yourself – not walking around looking like that.’

  Jessica allowed herself to be dragged for a few steps. She peered down at her plain trousers and jacket. ‘What’s wrong with how I look?’

  ‘It’s how you stand, honey. All uptight and full of questions. Now, come with me and let’s see what we can find out.’

  Fifteen

  Fran was a walking, talking guidebook for everything that wasn’t on the official Blackpool tour. She steered Jessica well away from the tower, the piers and the promenade, gliding along a string of alleyways and inlets in a direction Jessica was pretty sure was taking them away from the sea.

  ‘Are we heading away from the centre?’ Jessica asked.

  Fran still had a hold of her arm and was hustling along a cobbled path. ‘You’re smarter than you look.’

  They slipped into a darkened ginnel with gloomy tree branches hanging low, dousing it in thick shadow. Jessica felt a moment of worry, but it was quickly gone as Fran sneaked through a gap in a sodden fence by lifting a rotting panel. They passed alongside a tall chain-link fence with train tracks on the other side and then emerged onto what looked like a dead-end cul-de-sac. More trees swayed above, leaving them in a heavy darkness as Fran let go of Jessica’s arm and strode forward, crouching through a gap in a second fence and heading into an overgrown garden. The out-of-control grass was damp with dew or rain that hadn’t had a chance to dry because of the eclipsing fence and trees. The ground was slightly mushy, but Jessica could feel a trail of small stones underfoot. They were following a well-trodden path.

  Without waiting for Jessica, Fran approached a wooden door at the back of a house and knocked four times, pausing for a second and then rapping twice more. There was a clunk, a click and then the door swung inwards.

  Fran turned back to Jessica, grinning as she stepped into the house. ‘Come on then.’

  Jessica ducked unnecessarily, almost walking into the back of Fran, who had removed her deerstalker, freeing a mane of very light hair. It was hard to tell if it was grey or blonde. As she took off her shoes, she grinned up at Jessica.

  ‘Welcome to the Shanty,’ she said.

  It took Jessica a few moments to adjust to the dim lights. They were in a large carpeted living room, with pillows, cushions and throws lining the walls. A window at the front was blocked by a large piece of chipboard, with a crumbling sofa pressed against it. There were eight or nine women sitting around, all looking at her. Two of them were eating from tins; another was reading a battered paperback directly underneath the bulb in the corner.

  ‘Say “hi”,’ Fran said chirpily.

  ‘Er… hi,’ Jessica said.

  No one replied.

  ‘Shoes off,’ Fran said, pointing towards a neat row of footwear against the wall next to the door through which they’d come. Jessica tugged hers off and added them to the end of the line.

  Fran took Jessica’s arm again and pulled her through a side door into a kitchen. There was no fridge or cooker, but there was a microwave, toaster and kettle atop a blueish sideboard. The window was boarded up, but a yellowing bulb glowed above. Fran clicked on the kettle and then leaned against the sink.

  ‘Where are we?’ Jessica asked.

  ‘I told you – the Shanty.’

  Fran grinned. With her hair loose around her shoulders, she seemed a different person, freer and happier. It was definitely grey, almost white. Fran unhooked a hair tie from her wrist and tugged the silver strands into a ponytail.

  ‘What’s the Shanty?’ Jessica said.

  ‘It’s a safe place. No one knows we’re here and that’s how we’d like to keep it.’

  ‘You’re squatting?’

  It had popped out before Jessica had thought about what she was saying. Sometimes it was hard to be off-duty.

  Fran grimaced for a moment, but it disappeared in an instant. ‘No… well, maybe. The problem with squatters is that they’re brazen about it. They annoy the neighbours, they make noise, they taunt the homeowners. With the new laws, the police come in and boot them out. The Shanty is different. We only usually arrive or leave when it’s dark, or when we’re sure there’s nobody around. We have rules, too. No drugs. No men. No noise. We look out for one another.’

  Now it had been pointed out, Jessica realised that everyone in the living room had been female.

  ‘Why no men?�
�� she asked.

  This time the frown lasted longer on Fran’s face. ‘Why would you ask that? I said “no drugs” – you could’ve asked why we don’t allow drugs.’

  ‘I suppose, well… excuse the cliché – but drugs are usually bad.’

  ‘And men?’

  ‘Men aren’t all bad.’

  They stared at one another, Jessica afraid to add anything else in case she dropped herself in it. Fran’s features were unmoving, unreadable.

  ‘This place was abandoned,’ Fran eventually said. ‘Don’t you think it’s immoral that there are all these empty houses, yet people have to live rough?’

  Jessica didn’t want to antagonise her: ‘I suppose.’

  ‘All these buy-to-let scumbags. They got houses below market price when Thatcher sold council homes off dirt-cheap, then flogged them on for huge profits. But what about us lot who were too young for all of that? We got screwed by the government, by the system. Now you have kids saving up for years so they can buy some two-bedroom rat-hole off some bloated fat Tory who kept voting Thatcher.’ She spat in the sink. ‘Fucking Tories. Fucking Blair. Bastards, the lot of them.’

  Jessica bit her tongue to stop herself speaking. She wasn’t sure how she felt about any of that but doubted replying would make it better.

  The tension was broken with the click of the kettle. Fran opened a cupboard door and took out a pair of chipped mugs. She poured in some long-life milk, dropped in a teabag from a large bag of PG Tips and then swilled it around with the water, using the same teabag to make both. She passed Jessica across one, saying far more softly: ‘We’re out of sugar.’ She pushed past Jessica through the door and added: ‘Come on, let’s go and introduce you.’

  Back in the living room, Fran and Jessica sat on a pile of cushions in the corner underneath one of two uplighter lamps. They were by themselves, though in a single room containing nine people, there was little degree of privacy.

  Fran plumped up a pair of pillows and leaned backwards, cradling her tea. Jessica copied until they were pressed closely together.

  ‘There are all sorts of girls here,’ Fran said. ‘Some lost their jobs, some fell out with their parents. Some got pregnant but things didn’t work out. Everyone has a story.’ She raised her voice, ‘Hey, Ruth – come and say hello.’