Jessica skirted out of the room, clicking the door closed behind her and locking it. The maid stared at her open-mouthed as the voices below started to get louder and then the staircase creaked. Jessica dashed to the end of the corridor and the photo of Blackpool as it used to be. She rammed down the horizontal bar for the fire exit and burst through the door onto a cold set of concrete steps. She was about to set off downstairs when she felt a hand on her arm. The maid had followed and was standing in the doorway shaking her head.
‘What?’ Jessica hissed.
The maid pointed down, shaking her head. ‘Men,’ she said.
Jessica squeezed herself against the freezing metal rail, peeping down to see that the stairs twisted and turned – but eventually ended up emerging at the front of the hotel. Precisely where the officers were waiting for her. She jumped at the noise from beyond the fire exit as Fordham knocked on the door of room seven.
‘Where?’ Jessica asked, trying not to panic.
The maid gripped Jessica’s arm and started to head up to the next floor. Figuring she had little to lose, Jessica allowed herself to be dragged along. The maid moved quickly but quietly, making little noise, even though the steps were solid concrete. They rushed past the entrance to floors two and three and then opened the door to floor four. Without a word, the maid hurried along the deserted corridor, pausing momentarily at the top of the stairs. The sound of fist banging on a door echoed from three floors below. It wouldn’t be long before Fordham got Brandon to unlock the door. When he realised she wasn’t there – and Brandon told him he’d not seen Jessica leave the hotel – the uniformed officers would start their search. Skeleton key or not, there’d be no hiding place in the end.
‘Is there a way out?’ Jessica realised she’d put all her hopes on a complete stranger who’d shown little indication that she understood English.
The maid continued along the hall, waving an arm for Jessica to follow. From below, the banging had stopped. Brandon would be opening the door to her hotel room any moment.
The maid paused in front of a green metal hatch in the wall. There was one on the first floor that Jessica had assumed was a fire hose. She pointed to Jessica and then the square.
‘What’s in there?’ Jessica asked.
The maid frowned, probably annoyed at Jessica’s stupidity. She lifted the catch, holding the flap in place, and then creaked it open. There wasn’t a fire hose inside. Jessica felt her heart rate increase again as she saw the cube of a dumb-waiter hatch. There were sheets and towels folded across the bottom but more than enough space for Jessica to fit inside. She didn’t need to be told twice: spinning and lifting herself until she was sitting inside the mini elevator. She folded her legs underneath herself and ducked her head into the confined space.
‘Under,’ the maid said, pointing downwards.
‘Basement?’ Jessica asked.
The maid nodded and then pressed one of the buttons on the wall. Jessica hugged her knees tight as it felt like an earthquake was rocking through her. The lift moved slowly but quietly – especially considering how much the cable was vibrating. Jessica was grateful she’d not gone too crazy with her meals – a few more pounds here and there and she could be hurtling downwards at a far greater speed.
The hatch clanged closed above and Jessica held her breath as the dumb waiter continued to move down. It was almost entirely dark, but there were a few shafts of light coming from somewhere above, allowing her to see the bricks. A few times, the lift bumped forward and back, colliding with the tunnel and sending a thin shower of cement tumbling. Jessica clamped her eyes closed, holding her breath, waiting… waiting… waiting. Sod the Big One roller coaster – this ride was far more terrifying.
It took Jessica a few moments to realise the lift had stopped descending. There was no ding, no electronic doors sliding open, just a halt to the bone-quaking tremors. She opened her eyes and realised she was still shaking, could still feel the vibrations. She took a couple of breaths and then reached through the darkness, pawing at the metal panel. There was a slit along the centre where the doors snapped together, but, as she fingered around the edges, Jessica started to panic that the hatch could only be opened from the outside. She tried to adjust the way she was sitting but only succeeded in banging her head.
‘Breathe,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Come on.’
When she tried again, Jessica found the catch instantly. There was a lever concealed on the inner wall, rough to touch and riddled with rust. She pulled it down carefully and was instantly flooded by light as the doors popped open. It took her a couple of seconds to get her bearings, but she was in a dimly lit room lined with washing machines, tumble dryers and a large steam press.
Jessica’s legs creaked as she unfurled herself from the lift and tried to stand. She’d only been inside the dumb waiter for a minute at most, but it was so cramped that she was left feeling like someone twice her age. She cricked her neck and cracked her knuckles as she stepped into the empty room. There were pipes running across the ceiling and around the walls, plus a large pile of clean, pressed sheets. This room did go some way to explain what the maids did all day. In the summer, they’d be busy cleaning. There were far fewer guests as winter approached, yet they were still arriving early in the morning and leaving late in the afternoon. Presumably, the rest of their time was spent in this hothouse. Heat poured from the pipes, creating an improvised sauna, with sweat beginning to bead on Jessica’s forehead.
She wiped her face dry and then quietly closed the doors to the dumb waiter. The ceiling was only a few inches taller than she was and when she stretched up, she could actually touch the roof, something she wasn’t sure she’d ever been able to do before. It was incredibly disorientating, confusing even, as if she’d crossed into some sort of hobbity underworld.
Her senses felt sluggish, but Jessica soon realised the light was coming from a window above a pair of the washers. It was wide but not very tall and would definitely be a squeeze. It was a really good job she hadn’t overindulged at mealtimes.
The window had been painted with gloopy white gloss at some point in years gone by, welding the frames closed – or at least they were until Jessica climbed on top of the washing machine, ducked under the low ceiling, lifted the catch and then rammed her shoulder into the wood. It took three attempts, but the window flew outwards, popping like a tin can in a microwave as flecks of paint and wood exploded free.
There was no time for messing around. Jessica squeezed herself through the gap, feeling concrete underneath her hands. She scrabbled on the gritty ground, heaving her legs through the window, which clanged closed behind her. Dust, sand and shingle scraped at her skin, but Jessica was out. She was flat on her front, lying on a patch of wasteland at the back of the hotel next to the bins. She pushed herself up, trying to brush away the dirt, but it was far too late for that. There were rat droppings close to the nearby drains and a partially chewed pizza box within touching distance, not to mention a fly-tipped sofa.
There was nobody in sight, so Jessica ran for the wall at the back. She jumped, clasping the top and ignoring the shooting pains as she wrenched her arm muscles and heaved herself over the top. Without pausing, she dropped down to the other side, landing on all fours with the grace of a drunken, elderly cat. Jessica turned, trying to get her bearings, and then headed for a weed-ridden ginnel as fast as her legs would take her.
She was out of breath, covered in dirt – and possibly worse – but she was free… for now at least.
Twenty-Eight
Jessica ran for all she was worth, bolting along the lane until she lifted herself over a locked metal gate and emerged at the back of a row of shops. There was a bank of wheelie bins, a skip and some disintegrating wooden pallets pressed against a wall. With her hands, arms, clothes and probably face covered in dirt, it was likely she’d get a few sideways glances if she were to venture onto the main streets of Blackpool. Jessica winced, held her breath and opened the lid of a lar
ge wheelie bin. Inside was the filth and horror she expected, but she skimmed around the edges until she found a flattened cardboard box that was as clean as she was going to get. She pulled it out and then wiped as much of the filth from herself as possible. It wasn’t quite dressed, primped and ready for dinner at the Ritz, but it would do until she could come up with something better.
She’d brought very little to the hotel anyway, but her pockets were packed with posters of Bex, her police warrant card, far more cash than she’d ever usually carry and her two phones. The moment she pulled out her old one – the good one – it started to ring with an unknown number that would likely be DCI Fordham. If not him, then her solicitor asking where she was. Jessica turned the device over and jabbed the tip of her fingernail into the hole that made the SIM card pop out. The phone instantly stopped ringing.
The card was tiny and solid. It had served her well, but all relationships came to an end: this one in particularly brutal fashion as Jessica dropped the SIM card down the drain. Now that was how to instigate a break-up.
After a bit of back and forward with the phone companies, the force could track a person by their phone signal if they really needed to find somebody. Her phone had been an even more loyal sidekick than the SIM card, but it was no time for sentimentality. Jessica switched the device off and then dropped it in the wheelie bin, covering it with a few items before closing the lid. She couldn’t remember if it was insured. The salesperson would have definitely offered it, but Jessica had little heart for shopping, especially technology shopping, and there was every chance she’d have bought what she needed and scooted for home. Ah, well…
One of the few things in Jessica’s favour was that the police didn’t know for sure that she’d deliberately escaped. Brandon had been in the café when Fordham had shown up, meaning there would’ve been a window in which Jessica could have left the hotel without him noticing. Couple that with the fact that her phone could have run out of battery – and she’d done nothing wrong. They’d try calling her and contacting her solicitor. After that, they might go to Manchester and try her house. They had her car, so they’d be looking at the transport hubs to see if she’d caught a bus or train, then checking her credit and debit cards. That’d all take time, which at least left Jessica with a glimmer of hope that they wouldn’t stick her on the most-wanted list any time soon. When they found out she’d withdrawn the maximum amount of cash on successive days, they’d start worrying that she’d planned everything – but that was a little while off.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she said out loud to no one but herself.
Jessica checked that her remaining phone was switched on and then headed along the path until she found the main street. There was a fancy-dress shop across the road with rows of garish masks in the front window that she recognised from her walks around the town. Apart from the mini supermarket next door, the area was still largely residential, with rows of terraces stretching away from her. The shop helped Jessica get her bearings and she hurried along the road in the general direction of the town centre until the houses gave way to bed and breakfasts and, eventually, shops.
By keeping half a dozen streets away from the promenade, Jessica was able to move relatively unnoticed. It was late afternoon and the sky had gone from a bluey-grey to very purple. Within an hour or so, it’d be dark and the temperature would plummet. The daytimes might be just about warm enough for sunbathing lunatics, but it was nudging freezing after dark and Jessica didn’t have the clothing for that.
The smell of salt and vinegar was hanging on the breeze, drifting from the myriad of local chippies hoping to entice visitors. Jessica turned the corner just as half a dozen women in matching bright pink T-shirts half staggered, half fell down the stairs at the side of a casino. They were pissed, cackling as they clasped onto one another in order to stop themselves tumbling onto the pavement. Each of the shirts had different slogans – ‘Big Momma’ (who was definitely big), ‘Bridezilla’ (who was vomiting into the gutter), ‘Maid of Dishonour’ (who was swigging from a bottle of Blue VK, while smoking and chatting on her mobile phone), and ‘Superbitch’ (who was holding back Bridezilla’s hair). Jessica couldn’t see the names on the back of the final pair, but they were busy squaring up to one another, arguing over an electronic cigarette.
She crossed the road, not making eye contact, only to walk into a second cloud of cigarette smoke from a bunch of suit-clad workers standing outside an office. She caught the phrase, ‘yeah, but Julie’s such a whore’, before slipping into an alley.
As she emerged onto another shopping street, Jessica stopped, frozen, like a cat caught with a dead bird in its mouth. A police community support officer was striding through the centre, his dark stab-proof vest making him look like he’d gone swimming and forgotten to get rid of the buoyancy aid. The PCSOs weren’t official police officers but were routinely sent out on patrol to act as the force’s eyes and ears. They were unpaid volunteers, meaning the job attracted certain types of people. Some were genuinely community-minded, hoping to help out. Good men and women who put themselves in danger for the greater good. A minority were desperate for the tiniest amount of power to hold over people. This PCSO was definitely the latter. He was walking upright as if he had a board strapped to his back, hands clasping onto the lapels of his stab vest, peering from side to side in case there was someone he could throw an icy glare at. Given his limited powers, there was little more he could do than that, but most people wouldn’t know that – especially the tourists.
It was too late for Jessica: she had already stepped out of the alley when his gaze slipped across her. For a moment, she thought he’d stop and come over, before calling for backup. As soon as he looked at her, he turned away again, distracted by some kids up the road kicking around a squished can of Vimto. His head snapped around towards them as if he’d set eyes on the Great Train Robbers riding Shergar and then he was off, bounding along the street with an ever-lengthening stride.
Jessica spotted one of her flyers about Bex stuck to a lamp-post across the road. They were useless now that she’d ditched her phone, but it did give her an indication of where she was. She continued along the road away from the PCSO for a short distance and then slipped into another narrower alley, continuing until she found herself at the Help the Homeless centre. From there, she surprised herself by retracing the route she’d taken when she met Fran. She lost the trail a few times, but it wasn’t long before she found herself close to the chain-link fence by the train tracks.
It was easy from there. Jessica emerged onto the cul-de-sac and hunched through a gap in a fence until she was in the familiar overrun garden. The grass was wetter than the previous time she’d been, seeping through her socks – again – as she followed the crunching stones to the back door of the house.
Jessica knocked four times, waited, and then patted the door twice more. Nothing happened for a few seconds, leaving her to stew over the possibility of spending a night outdoors in the wet and the cold. Perhaps it would rain and she’d need to find somewhere undercover where the police wouldn’t think of looking for her? Was this worth it? Then there was a clunk and a click, and the door of the Shanty swung inwards.
Melissa was there, the woman whom Fran had called the ‘mum’ of the house. She was wearing the same earphones as the last time Jessica had seen her, the sprawling grey-black hair recently washed, still wet and more of a shambles than before as it tried to strangle her. She blinked a few times, one hand on the door handle.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.
‘Can I come in?’ Jessica asked.
‘Um… hang on.’
Before Jessica could say anything, the door was closed in her face with the quietest of clicks. She hugged her arms across her front, beginning to feel the bite of the cold as the doubts scratched at her again. She’d come here because, well, she had nowhere else. There was no easy way to get back to Manchester and she didn’t want to involve her friends in what was going o
n. It was either give herself up to Fordham and hope for the best, or try to take control of her own fate. She still needed somewhere to sleep, though.
Time passed, she wasn’t sure how long. It was probably only a minute or so, but Jessica’s teeth were chattering. She didn’t think it was the cold, more that the adrenalin of her escape had worn off, leaving her with the weight of what she’d done.
This was as bad as it got. There would be no winners from here.
With another clunk-click, the door opened again and this time it was a concerned Fran standing there. She was wearing her deerstalker but it was looser, slightly askew in a way that shouldn’t work but did. Her skin didn’t seem as pale as the previous time they’d met and the moment she saw Jessica, her arms were outstretched, welcoming her in.
‘I didn’t expect you to come knocking,’ she said. ‘You want a cup of tea?’
There were times in life when everything had gone wrong, when every decision seemed wrong. Where hope was tough to come by and friends even harder. Those were the times for which tea was invented.
‘I’m so glad you have a kettle,’ Jessica said, blowing into her hands and stepping inside.
Jessica and Fran sat in a corner drinking tea as Jessica explained everything that had happened since they last met. It had only been a day but felt like a lot longer than that. By the end, Fran’s loud puff of breath said it all.
‘How much trouble are you actually in?’ Fran asked.
Jessica was on a beanbag, cradling a chipped Mr Strong mug for warmth, even though she’d long finished the drink.
‘Potentially, a lot.’
‘You reckon they’ve found the body of that girl?’
‘Sophie? They must have done. With that, the body of Peter and Bex’s blood on my car, I’ll be lucky to get out on bail.’
Silent Suspect: A completely gripping crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Jessica Daniel thriller series Book 13) Page 16
