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

by Kerry Wilkinson

‘Oh, er, hi…’ It was a young woman’s voice and, for a moment, Jessica thought it was Bex. It had the same mix of youth and wisdom, with the hint of a northern accent. ‘I, er, saw your poster,’ the voice continued.

  It wasn’t Bex.

  Jessica felt a twinge in her chest, a thump of defeat, before she realised what the call might mean. ‘Oh, right,’ she said. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s my friend. She’s been missing for a few months.’

  The voice coughed, sounding nervous. ‘I don’t know her name, but I think I’ve seen her around.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I, um…’ Another cough. ‘I don’t really want to talk on the phone. Can we meet?’

  If there had been alarm bells in the room, they’d have been off the charts, with huge orange lights flashing on and off.

  ‘I don’t have any money if that’s what you’re after,’ Jessica replied.

  ‘I don’t want money.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me on the phone?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I’d rather show you.’

  ‘Show me what?’

  The voice sighed. ‘Look, if you don’t want to meet, then we don’t have to. I was trying to be nice. I—’

  ‘No, wait.’ Jessica didn’t want her to hang up. ‘Okay, fine. We can meet. Are you in Blackpool?’

  ‘Yes. Do you want to meet in the centre somewhere? On that square bit next to the tower. Seven o’clock. I’ll wear a red coat.’

  ‘All right. I’m Jessica, by the way. What’s your name?’

  Jessica waited for the reply but it never came. It took her a moment to realise the other person had hung up. It didn’t seem right, didn’t sound right, and yet Jessica had brought this on herself by posting her phone number so publicly. It could turn out to be some sort of robbery, but the caller had suggested a very public place. Would she lead Jessica to somewhere deserted and then do who knew what? Would she have people lying in wait?

  Or perhaps she really had seen Bex around?

  Meeting whoever had called on the square next to the tower wouldn’t be too big a deal and there would likely be people around. Jessica could refuse to go anywhere until the girl had told her what she knew. If it was a scam, the girl would take off.

  There was only one way to find out.

  The evening wasn’t as chilly as when Jessica had first arrived, with the wind finally taking a night off. Given the time of year, it was perfectly pleasant, with barely even a need for a jacket. Jessica headed along the prom, now as familiar with the local layout of the streets as she was with the area around her house in Manchester. As she reached a roundabout, there was a small crowd of people, pointing and using their phones to film a man who was pacing around the circumference of the central reservation. He was pumping a banner up and down into the air, with ‘HIRE ME’ emblazoned across the front and a phone number underneath.

  She stopped to watch him for a few moments as most of the rest of the crowd moved on, easily entertained. Jessica didn’t know what to say, so she was about to get going when four vest-wearing thugs with big shoulders swaggered into place next to her. Two of them were drinking from cans of lager while another cradled a cardboard case of beer under his arms.

  ‘Look at this bell-end,’ one of them sniggered. He was bald, veins throbbing in his pitbull neck as he raised his voice, shouting at the man on the roundabout. ‘Oi, you!’

  The man with the banner turned. He was likely still a teenager, rakish, but wearing a suit with shined shoes and smart, smoothed-down hair. By acknowledging their presence, he’d already got himself in trouble.

  ‘What you doin’?’ Pitbull shouted.

  ‘Nothing…’

  ‘You want a job?’

  ‘Er, yeah…’

  Pitbull reeled back and lobbed the can of lager towards the teenager. He jumped out of the way, but it slammed into the ground, exploding and spraying him with beer. In an instant, the other man with a can threw his too. This time it thwacked into the teenager, exploding on his back in a fountain of foam.

  ‘Wa-hey!’ Pitbull shouted. One of his friends took out a can from the crate and rocked back, but Pitbull wrenched the beer from his grasp. ‘Don’t be a prick – this has got to last us all night.’ He blew a kiss at Jessica and then cracked open the can, swaggering along the prom as if he had a pair of grapefruits between his legs.

  A few cars continued around the roundabout as if nothing had happened, but when there was a break, Jessica crossed the road until she was on the central area with the young man. When he turned and saw her, he flinched away until she held up her hands.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said.

  He was gulping back tears as he packed his banner down into a bag. There was beer dripping from the back of his hair, running along the seam of his suit. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m going home. I knew this was a stupid idea.’

  ‘Whose idea was it?’

  He stood up, trying – and failing – to brush down his sopping jacket. ‘Mine. There are no jobs around here. I worked in a hotel over the summer and my girlfriend was in a café. We both got laid off last month. I don’t want much – just something that pays minimum wage – but there are all these cheap foreigners over here.’ He humped the bag over his shoulder and it squelched into his back. ‘You know of anything going?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Without another word, he stomped off, heading away from the lights, away from the prom, into the darkened back streets of the town. Jessica watched him go, admiring the effort.

  She made her way back to the prom and then crossed over when she reached the tower. There were more people out compared to the evening she’d been in this area with Peter Salisbury. Some kid was lumping around an oversized dinosaur that was twice the size of him, with many more scoffing ice creams and candyfloss as they excitedly made their way up and down.

  Jessica continued to the square next to the tower, sitting on a bench and waiting. A steady stream of people was heading towards the nearby theatres, tickets clutched, best shoes on. Some kids were loitering in a shop doorway passing a cigarette between them, before getting bored and moving onto their next place. A woman with a scruffy supermarket bag for life overflowing with clothes asked Jessica if she had any change. A man asked her for a light.

  There was no girl in red. Five to seven. Seven o’clock. Five past. Ten past. Nobody came. Nobody rang. Jessica tried calling the number that had contacted her, but there was no answer. Quarter past. Twenty past.

  Jessica waited until it was a few minutes after eight. The theatre crowd had disappeared to watch their shows, the tourists were either back in their hotels, or out having a meal somewhere. The square was quiet and Jessica was alone.

  Eighteen

  Jessica was struggling to sleep in the hotel bed. It wasn’t uncomfortable as such, but it wasn’t hers. The mattress was softer, the pillows squishier, and it didn’t smell of home. She wasn’t a great sleeper at the best of times, and this was only making matters worse. Jessica woke up half a dozen times through the night, wondering where she was and then forcing her eyes closed in a desperate hunt for a bit more kip. She eventually gave up at half past seven, checking both phones to see that nobody had bothered contacting her and then heading downstairs for breakfast.

  Luke Eckhart was behind the reception desk, still single-finger typing on his keyboard. His shirt was unbuttoned even lower than the previous time Jessica had seen him and the abundance of chest hair made it look like he’d taken up rug-smuggling. He tugged at his moustache and scowled up at her, which she figured was probably a standard greeting as opposed to one he reserved specifically for her. Other than them, everything was quiet.

  ‘Morning,’ Jessica said cheerily.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, peering back down.

  ‘How are things?’


  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I was wondering…’ she waited for him to acknowledge her, ‘which of the hotels are the best?’

  ‘What?’

  Jessica motioned towards the rank they were on. ‘You own a few of these hotels, don’t you? Is this the best one to stay in?’

  He clenched his teeth together. ‘They’re all tip-top.’

  Perhaps shit-top, she thought.

  ‘Do you live nearby?’ she asked.

  His forehead creased into a V of overlapping valleys. ‘Bit nosy aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Jessica reached into her pocket and took out two twenty-pound notes. ‘I wanted to pay for another night. Cash okay?’

  Ching-ching! His eyes sparkled like a jackpot machine.

  ‘I only wanted to make sure I’m staying in the best possible place,’ she added.

  ‘You won’t do better than here,’ he said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. He licked his lips, stretching for the cash as Jessica passed it across. He offered something close to a smile and then disappeared into the office and quickly back out again. He seemed as if he was about to say something when the door swung open and two women in purple maid uniforms walked in. They each dropped their heads, not making eye contact as they went through the connecting door into the café.

  Jessica took a step backwards to give herself an angle to see through the front door. She heard the snarl of the engine before she saw it, but the white van was again tearing off the car park towards the main road.

  Eckhart was frowning once more. ‘Same time tomorrow?’ he grunted, trying to sound inviting, even though his facial features weren’t matching his words.

  ‘Probably,’ Jessica replied, stepping away and heading for the breakfast room.

  An older couple who were up from Cardiff for a week were the only other guests present. They were staying in the Excalibur next door and proceeded to tell Jessica that they had been coming to Blackpool every summer for the past forty-nine years. She wasn’t sure whether to congratulate or commiserate, but they seemed happy enough.

  ‘It’s where we came for our honeymoon,’ Bronwen said.

  ‘Is it better now or then?’ Jessica asked, after finishing a mushy mound of black pudding.

  Bronwen looked to her husband, Alf, who scratched his greying head. ‘Bit of both,’ they replied in perfect unison before taking each other’s hand. They told Jessica of how the seafront used to look, before the wall was built; of the ancient trams; the fairground music that used to hang on the breeze and the way every square inch of beach was claimed during the summer months. They’d started coming in the winter a decade ago, put off by the noise and heat of July and August.

  For a short while, Jessica forgot everything else that was going on. She happily ate, drank tea and allowed herself to be charmed by the older couple with a lifetime of stories. It was only when they started bickering in the way that only elderly couples could that Jessica remembered how much she had to do.

  ‘I’ve not eaten butter in years,’ Alf said, holding the incriminating tiny tub of butter in the air.

  ‘Yes you have,’ Bronwen replied.

  ‘No, margarine. That poly-statue stuff.’

  ‘We have butter in the fridge at home.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since always.’

  Alf rocked back in his seat, eyes wide with shock as if he’d just found out he’d won the lottery. ‘I don’t even like the stuff—’

  It might have been rude, but Jessica cut in before the great butter–margarine debate could rage any longer. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ she said.

  Bronwen and Alf both turned to face her, argument forgotten in an instant. ‘Of course, dear,’ he said.

  ‘What are the rooms like in the Excalibur?’

  They peered at each other again, before both replying: ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Well, it’s not bad,’ Alf added.

  ‘We’ve been in better,’ Bronwen chipped in.

  ‘It’s clean,’ he said.

  ‘Always clean,’ she confirmed.

  ‘They could do with better biscuits,’ Alf said, earning a small backhanded clip across his arm.

  ‘The maid never says “hi”,’ Bronwen said. ‘I don’t think she speaks English. Still, it’s cheap.’

  ‘Cheap and cheerful,’ Alf said.

  ‘That it is.’

  Jessica thanked them for the time and was about to return to the table containing small cereal boxes when the door leading to the Prince opened. The man sauntered across the café, nodded a silent hello to the Welsh couple, and then sat himself at Jessica’s table.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jessica asked, knowing Bronwen and Alf were listening to every word.

  Detective Chief Inspector Fordham looked at the remains of Jessica’s cooked breakfast and the dregs of the bran flakes clinging to the bottom of her bowl. She rarely ate breakfast at home, but stick her in a hotel, include it in the bill, and she’d eat everything going.

  ‘That looks good,’ he added.

  ‘You here to have a conversation about breakfast?’ Jessica said, not bothering to hide her annoyance.

  ‘Shall we step outside?’

  With little choice, Jessica dumped her cutlery in the bowl and stood. She said goodbye to Bronwen and Alf and then followed Fordham out of the front door onto the car park. He was again wearing the long coat and only took his hands out of his pockets to push the door open and hold it for her. He’d had a shave but was really the master at the art of the casual tie. The knot was small and halfway between his top two buttons. Not too high, not too low. A really professional job.

  He led Jessica over to the wall on which she’d been sitting when they took her car away. They sat next to each other, facing the sea, listening to the breeze and the waves.

  ‘What have I done this time?’ Jessica asked, only half joking.

  Fordham sighed, scratching at his chin, mourning for the stubble that was no longer there. ‘Do you know the name Sophie Johns?’ he asked.

  ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She’s missing.’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘I’ve still never heard of her.’

  ‘Funny,’ Fordham replied, sighing once more. ‘We’ve got her mobile phone and the last number she called was yours. The last person who called her was also you.’ He turned sideways, waiting for Jessica to do the same. ‘Want to explain that?’

  Nineteen

  Jessica explained that she had given out some flyers in the town centre, asking for people to call if they’d seen Bex. The girl now identified as Sophie had done just that: they’d arranged to meet by Blackpool Tower the previous evening, and then Sophie hadn’t turned up. A simple explanation, easy-peasy, where’s the problem?

  She unfurled one of the flyers and passed it across. Fordham eyed it, turning it over to look at the blank rear and then folded it into his own pocket.

  ‘It’s really not your week, is it?’ he said without a hint of humour.

  Jessica didn’t reply. She was rocking on the wall, lifting her feet off the pavement and trying to balance using only her arse. She felt like she had to be doing something with her body because her mind couldn’t figure out what was going on. The first time, with Peter Salisbury, might have been a coincidence. Now that a second person had disappeared having last been in contact with her, it could only be a concerted attempt to frame her. Someone knew how to play her – and they were doing it perfectly.

  Fordham let the silence sit for a few seconds and then couldn’t help himself: ‘Sophie was working at the Honky Tonk Diner yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Down the street from the Winter Gardens – it’s hard to miss with the oversized electric guitar sticking out of the top.’

  Jessica remembered walking past it without clocking what it was called. It was in the centre, easily within walking distance of Blackpool Tower.

  �
�That was the last time anyone saw her,’ Fordham added. ‘She called you within minutes of finishing her shift. You’re the last person she contacted. We got the call from her parents late last night. Usually, we’d wait to see if she went home – but they had that phone tracker thing.’ He wafted a hand in the air. ‘You have that on your phone?’

  ‘I went through a stage of always losing it, so I set up my laptop to make it ring.’

  He patted his pocket. ‘Bloody clever these things. In the old days, we’d have left it and then scratched around trying to find her. Anyway, her parents hadn’t heard from her, so did that “find my phone” thing. They traced it to some side street close to the Honky Tonk. When they went down there, they found the phone in a wheelie bin, but no sign of their daughter. That’s when they called us. One thing led to another and here I am.’

  ‘Here you are,’ Jessica whispered.

  ‘That’s two people: one dead, one missing. The connection is you.’

  Jessica was shaking her head.

  ‘Then there’s your other friend, too – what’s her name?’

  ‘Bex.’

  ‘Rebecca Kellock. She’s been missing for three months now.’

  The sound of Bex’s full name made Jessica shiver. She’d only heard it once or twice in the past and it was too official, too real. Rebecca Kellock wasn’t the name of the girl with whom she’d lived.

  ‘The only reason I’m here is because I’m looking for Bex,’ Jessica said.

  Fordham nodded and she wondered if he was thinking what she would be if the roles were reversed.

  ‘It’s too clean,’ Jessica said. She waited for him to reply, holding her breath, hoping he’d nod and say she was right. He said nothing.

  From the centre, there was a gentle hum of traffic. Ahead, over the sea wall, there were waves licking at the shore. Nearby, there was a click-click-click of the Big One roller coaster being hoisted into the sky, ready to hurl the train down its steep incline. Jessica hadn’t even realised it was open at this time of year. She wondered if they were testing it.

  They sat in silence listening to the resort. She willed Fordham to break the impasse, but he was better at this game than she was.