It took her a moment to realise that the noise was real. She spun, but the man was already within a couple of metres of her. He was fifties, maybe early sixties, but still built like a mutated bulldog, all padded out with a thick waxed jacket, dark jeans smeared with grease and oil and steel-capped boots. His grey prickly beard masked much of his mouth, but his gruff tone told enough of the story.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.
Twenty-Four
Jessica tried to step backwards away from the man, but there was nowhere to go. She was pressed against the window of the barn, staring up at the man who towered over her by a good six inches. His fists were balled, ready to attack and, for some reason, she was fixated on the hairiness of the backs of his hands.
‘This is private property,’ he added.
‘Um… yes.’
He leaned close enough that she could see the flecks of grey in his otherwise dark beard.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I… er… I’m going door to door in the area looking for my friend.’ Jessica scrambled into her pocket and pulled out one of the flyers showing Bex. She offered him one but he didn’t take it.
‘Door to door? Not many doors round ’ere.’
‘I know. I’ve been walking a lot. There’s not much out here.’ She offered a friendly giggle, but he didn’t even crack a smile. She held the flyer higher and he glanced down quickly and then returned his glare to her.
‘Not seen her,’ he said.
‘Could you look again?’
He flicked his gaze towards the poster and almost instantly back up, shaking his head. ‘Told you – not seen her.’
She pushed it into his hand. ‘Can you please have a proper look? I—’
He snatched the paper away, ripping it in half and screwing it up one-handed, before leaning in even closer. She could smell the coffee on his breath. ‘Do you want me to call the police? I told you, I’ve not seen her.’
The man stepped backwards, giving Jessica space to move. As she took a step towards the dark arch that led back to the road, there was another bang from the barn, louder this time. She twisted to peer through the window, but the man gripped her shoulder and pulled her backwards.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded.
‘What was that noise?’
‘None of your business.’
Jessica took another step towards the road but was interrupted by a shrill grating that made her wince. She jumped away as the large barn door swung outwards, hinges creaking with complaint.
A younger man emerged, wiping his hands on his checked shirt that had the sleeves rolled up. He jumped as he spotted the bearded man. ‘Jesus, Dad, what you doing there? You nearly—’
He stopped speaking when he noticed Jessica, eyebrows deepening to a frown. They were unquestionably father and son, with matching build, dark hair and brown eyes. The younger man’s beard was coming along gradually but failing to live up to his old man’s standards. There were fewer greys but none of the bushiness that only came with years of practice.
‘Oh,’ he said, straightening himself and re-wiping his hands. ‘Who’s she?’
‘She’s leaving,’ the older man replied, turning back to the house. ‘Make sure she finds the road and keeps going.’
‘Right…’ The younger man stepped between his father and Jessica and nodded at the darkened arch. ‘C’mon…’
Jessica had little choice but to follow. She glanced over her shoulder towards the barn and the older man, who was now in the centre of the courtyard glaring at her.
‘I don’t think your dad likes me,’ Jessica said.
To her surprise, the younger man laughed. He scratched his beard and then put his hands in his pockets. ‘Dad don’t like many people, ’specially not on the farm. Why you ’ere?’
Jessica realised she was still holding the ripped flyer. She folded it into her pocket and took out a fresh one, passing it over. ‘I’m looking for my friend.’
He took the paper, but they had passed under the tree arch and it was too dark to see anything. Jessica’s foot again sank through the surface into a puddle. The water was once more in her sock and she could feel the silty grit being crushed by her skin.
‘Puddle there,’ the man said.
‘Huh?’
‘Puddle. You stepped in it.’
‘Oh, right…’
He laughed and it took that for her to realise he was joking. A moment later, they were back on the road where the taxi driver had dropped her off. Jessica was wishing she’d asked him to hang around.
She blinked her way into the light and turned to face the man. He was attractive, in that rugged sort of way: the type of bloke who looked like he spent his days living in caves, chopping down trees and climbing mountains. There was grease on his cheek, more on his bare arms. He was clearly too masculine to need sleeves when it was this cold. He stared at the poster of Bex, bottom lip pouted, but his expression was hard to read, partly because he had so much facial hair.
‘Why you asking here?’ he said.
‘I’m going door to door.’
‘Not many doors ’round ’ere.’
‘Your dad said that.’
He peered up from the poster to stare at her properly. ‘So what ya doing out here?’
‘I told you – door to door. There aren’t many doors, but there are plenty of farms. My friend might have been looking for work, fruit-picking, manual labour, that sort of thing.’
Jessica had no idea where ‘fruit-picking’ had come from – but she impressed herself at how plausible it sounded.
‘Not much fruit-picking at this time of year.’
‘I know, but that doesn’t mean nobody’s seen her.’
He shrugged and handed the paper back. There were smudged words written on the back of his hand but Jessica couldn’t make any of them out. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘Have you seen her?’ she asked.
‘Nope. Nice piercings, though.’ They stared at one another before he turned away back to the farm.
‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.
‘Waverly. Max Waverly.’
That matched the name Andrew had passed on, meaning Max’s father – Mr Hairy Hands – was probably Vince.
‘I’m Jessica. Can I leave you one of my posters just in case?’
She offered him one of the flyers and Max took it without looking. He folded it into the front pocket on his shirt, his shoulders dropping slightly as he cracked a smile that didn’t suit him. ‘Sorry ’bout me dad, like. He’s paranoid ’bout being robbed. You see all this stuff in the papers ’bout rural crime, plus gangs and that. We’re a bit remote out ’ere, so you never know what might ’appen. Police are useless and, even if they weren’t, it’d take ’em ages to get ’ere.’
‘I understand.’
He nodded, stepping towards the hedge and then turning back. ‘You need a lift or owt?’
‘I’m okay.’
He shrugged a wordless ‘fair enough’ and took another step away before Jessica had a thought.
‘Do you ever go to Blackpool town centre?’ she asked.
‘Aye, sometimes. Always packed, like.’
‘Do you know the Honky Tonk Diner?’
‘The ’onky Tonky what?’
‘It’s a restaurant in the centre of town.’ Jessica nodded in the direction of what she thought was Blackpool. ‘There’s a big guitar over the door.’
‘Don’t ring a bell.’
He turned away quickly, caught in an obvious – and needless – lie. Anyone who’d visited the town would have a recollection of the diner, even a vague one. For someone who lived locally and visited the centre semi-regularly, it would be impossible to miss. Max shuffled away quickly, reaching into the hedge and pulling across a gate that had been hidden by the foliage. The metal was brown and crusty, with a large faded red semicircle arched across the top.
‘Good luck finding your friend,’ he said, l
ifting the bolt to clamp the gate in place. As he raised his arm, Jessica was able to see his thick Popeye inner arms. At first, she thought they were smeared with oil, but her heart skipped as the truth dawned. The lines spiralled outwards, the shape now obvious.
He had a spider’s web tattoo that matched the one on Bex’s arm.
Twenty-Five
Jessica had spent so long looking at the various photographs of Bex that the spider’s web tattoo was imprinted on her mind. It was one of the first things Jessica had noticed when they’d first met in a greasy late-night café. At the time, Bex had shrugged off a question about where she’d got it and it hadn’t mattered. Through the course of her police work, Jessica knew a little about tattoos – and Bex wasn’t someone who was heavily into the ink scene. She had her piercings and marks because she wanted them, not to make any sort of statement. The web on her inner arm was the only one of its kind Jessica had seen, but she’d never thought it was the type of thing that could be one of a pair.
She ripped her gaze away from Max and hurried along the deserted track, not daring to look back. It was hard to get her head around it all. Bex had called her from the payphone opposite a rank of hotels owned by Luke Eckhart. The hotels employed cleaners and kitchen staff ferried in by a van owned by Vince Waverly, whose son, Max, had a tattoo that matched Bex’s.
In a week of coincidences, this was one too far.
Max had emerged from the barn, even though Jessica had peered through the window and not seen anyone. He might have been working behind the hay bales, or high in the rafters, but wouldn’t he have spotted her? And what was going on with the van? Was it used as some sort of taxi service to bus staff to and from the centre? If so, it wasn’t much of a business.
At the end of the road, the rows of overgrown trees and hedges gave way to sandy verges and a slightly wider track. In the distance, Jessica could see the silhouettes of Blackpool Tower and roller coasters scraping at the murky sky. If nothing else, she knew which way to go. Soon, the bare track became a small row of houses before Jessica found herself on the main road. She thought about catching a bus, but the walk was doing her good, allowing everything she’d seen and heard to blend into one another. Not that she was coming up with any answers, other than the conclusion that somebody was trying to fit her up.
Jessica continued following the road as the buildings started to be more densely packed. She reached a small row of shops with a minimart, pizza takeaway and hairdresser, as well as more houses. She’d just passed a brown sign pointing her towards the Tower and Attractions when Jessica felt her pocket buzzing. She fumbled around, answering the wrong phone before she realised her old one was ringing.
She answered the unknown number in time and was met by a familiar voice: ‘I didn’t think you were going to pick up.’
‘Chief Inspector Fordham,’ Jessica replied.
‘You around?’
‘I’m out and about. Lots to see and do in Blackpool. Why?’
‘How long will it take you to get back to your hotel?’
There were too many houses around for Jessica to see the tower on the horizon but she’d been walking for long enough. ‘I’m not sure – forty-five minutes.’
‘I can send a car for you?’
‘Why?’
‘I need a word. We can meet at the station if you want?’
‘No!’ Jessica snapped her reply before catching herself and lowering her tone. ‘I’ll see you at the hotel. Okay?’
‘Suit yourself. Be quick.’
It wasn’t long before Jessica found herself in familiar territory. The houses and small shops became bed and breakfasts, then hotels. Before she knew it, Blackpool Tower reappeared, soaring high above the other buildings as if it had materialised from nowhere. It was the same as in any built-up place – the tallest buildings hid in plain sight until they were directly above and then it was impossible to see how they could have been missed.
Jessica walked along the promenade, passing dwindling numbers of people, until she was close to Luke Eckhart’s row of hotels. She was about to head into the car park when she spied DCI Fordham sitting with his back to her on the wall next to the payphone. His coat was draped over the bricks alongside him and he was talking on his mobile.
After crossing the road, Jessica sidled up behind him, but not in time to overhear the end of his conversation as he snapped the phone onto a clip on his belt. His psychic powers were in full swing as he twisted to see her. Either that or Jessica had the ninja skills of a particularly clumsy elephant.
Fordham nodded towards the spot on the other side of his coat and Jessica took a seat, peering down at the beach below. It was warmer than previous days but not exactly summer holiday weather. Despite that, a man was lying on the sand wearing nothing but a pair of stripy below-the-knee shorts and sunglasses. He was pasty and lean with muscled arms, a gym bunny desperate for a bit of colour on his skin. There was nobody else in sight, not even a dog-walker.
‘Will you look at the state of that,’ Fordham said.
‘The sunglasses are a bit overkill.’
Fordham peered up at the dim skies. Out at sea, there was a gap in the clouds and a slim barely-there shaft of sunlight. It was nowhere near the beach.
‘This type of thing only happens in Britain,’ Jessica said. ‘I can’t imagine Spaniards and Italians are out on the beach in this weather.’
‘How’s your morning been?’ he asked.
‘All right. You?’
‘Been seeing the sights?’
‘Something like that.’
Fordham reached out and touched the metal casing of the payphone. ‘So, this is where your friend called you from?’ he said.
‘Do you want me to tell you the same thing again? You have my phone number, check the records.’
‘We have – but it only tells us which phone called you, not who was calling.’
‘What do you want me to say? I tell you the same thing every time we meet. I’ve told you it in person, on tape, with a solicitor in the room. What more do you want?’
It took Fordham a few moments to reply. He was swinging his legs, probably unknowingly. ‘We got the blood work back from your car.’
‘Oh.’
‘It doesn’t belong to Peter Salisbury.’
‘Oh.’ It was the same word but inflected upwards this time. Jessica sat up straighter, turning to face him. She was convinced it would come back as a match, another way of pinning his killing on her.
She didn’t know what to say.
‘It comes from Rebecca Kellock.’
Jessica’s moment of elation was replaced by a sinking in her stomach that was so loud, she felt sure Fordham must have heard it. She felt sick, gulping back a mouthful of saliva. ‘Bex…?’
‘If Rebecca Kellock is “Bex”, then yes.’
‘How was her blood on my car?’
He twisted to face her, loosening his tie even further as he stifled a yawn with his other hand. He seemed exhausted. She knew that feeling.
‘That’s what I’m asking you,’ he said.
Jessica’s mouth was open and she had no idea how to reply. Of everything she might have expected him to say, this was perhaps the last.
‘I… it’s Bex’s blood?’ A pause. ‘But she’s been missing for three months – I reported her missing. I found hairs in her room to pass on to the DNA lot in case an unidentified body was found – without that, you wouldn’t know it was her blood. I came here to find her… If her blood had been on the back of my car all this time, don’t you think I’d have noticed?’
He shrugged. ‘Who said it’s been on there for three months?’
‘What? You think I reported her missing and kept her locked up somewhere, only to kill her now and dump her in my car boot? Then I came here to get rid of the body? After that, I—’
Jessica stopped herself, realising how bad it sounded out loud. She’d been trying to get inside Fordham’s head and read his suspicions. It was a step too far
. He stared at her, not needing to say anything, because Jessica already knew. If she’d been in an interview room and said this on tape, she’d have really been in the shite. It was so specific that it was close to a confession.
‘I want to find her,’ she whispered. ‘She’s my friend.’
‘“Friend…”’ Fordham repeated the word as if there was something dirty about it.
Jessica gripped his arm. ‘What do you want me to say?’
She was holding tight, but he didn’t snatch his arm away, waiting for her to realise their roles. She released him and turned away, biting her bottom lip with a sigh.
‘What do you want me to say?’ she repeated.
‘Lots of places in Blackpool if you did want to get rid of a body,’ Fordham said.
She’d had that exact thought herself and now it was coming true. He nodded behind them towards the swathe of sand dunes that coated the road back to Lytham and eventually Poulton-le-Fylde. Jessica wondered if he’d known where she’d been that morning.
‘You must be able to see what’s going on?’ Jessica said.
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s all so convenient. How many cases do you get where everything’s on a plate? Bodies left in the open, an easy trail to the last person to see them alive, blood on a car… it’s never like this. Never.’
He nodded crisply. ‘Perhaps that’s why I’m talking to you on a wall as opposed to at the station…?’
The man on the beach rolled onto his front, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was sorely lacking the one thing required for sunbathing, namely the sun.
‘Thank you,’ Jessica said.
Fordham was quiet for a moment, still swinging his legs. She wondered if it was nerves. ‘I don’t know you and you don’t me,’ he said, ‘but we both know how this looks. Whatever you might think, I’m not an idiot—’
‘I don’t—’
He talked over her: ‘—but answer me this: If Sophie Johns’ body shows up somewhere and there’s nothing else to go on, what would you do if the roles were reversed?’
Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13) Page 14
