Hush Hush: From the million-copy bestseller comes the most gripping crime thriller of 2018. Mel Sherratt
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stood back from the road in a prime position. Once housing a preschool nursery, it was a single-storey building spread on an acre of land, with a car park to its right. According to Sam, the local authority register for business rates stated that Eddie Steele had been renting it since 2006. A large canvas banner hung on the wrought-iron railings at her side. ‘No pain, no gain. All-in monthly passes only £40.’ She doubted that would tempt anyone in today. They’d be more interested in what was going on outside in the car park.
‘Good to go?’ Nick asked her.
Grace looked back, unaware he had been watching her as she stared out of the window. ‘I’m not sure I will ever be ready for this.’
‘Just keep your calm. If they say anything, I’ll handle it accordingly.’
She released her seat belt and got out of the car, joining DC Perry Wright who had parked in front of them. Grace had warmed to Sam but not so much to Perry. He had turned forty the year before; she’d learned he had been married to his wife, Lisa, for thirteen years and recently become a father to Alfie, who was three months old. Just like Nick, his blond hair was shaven close to his head to hide his receding hairline. Allie Shenton said he’d either be nice from the get-go as he was that type of person, or be aloof – not only because he’d known and worked with Allie for such a long time, but because he’d put in for the job of detective sergeant and Grace had beaten him to it.
Even though it was still early in the morning, sweat clung to her back. Despite her anxieties, it was too warm to be wearing the jacket to her trouser suit, but she didn’t feel dressed without it, especially meeting new people. First appearances still counted in her eyes.
Across the main road, a crowd was already gathering in front of a row of terraced properties. As traffic zoomed by, three dogs sat patiently at their owners’ feet, their morning outings either interrupted or lengthened. Two residents stood in their doorways holding mugs, chatting to themselves. Grace could almost hear them saying, ‘Things like this don’t happen on our doorstep.’ It was the one thing she heard all the time, as if no one was allowed to bring ill repute to their part of the neighbourhood.
Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked in silence with Nick and Perry towards the entrance gates. The crime scene had been cordoned off with police tape; all around them people worked. A police constable stood guarding the scene, writing down the names of people entering, checking IDs and pointing out where to go. There were several uniformed officers taking notes, and she saw one directing the traffic as it struggled to get past the row of police vehicles parked half on and off the kerb.
Ahead of them, she could see a small car with the logo of the local newspaper splashed across its side and wondered what their staff were like to work with. She’d prided herself in getting on well with the local newspaper’s press team in Salford.
She, Nick and Perry each flashed their warrant cards. The crime scene tape was lifted and they dipped underneath it. They popped on white paper suits, latex gloves and covers over their footwear. Even though she was slim and toned, with a six-pack hidden underneath her shirt, the suit always made Grace feel as shapely as a hastily rolled snowman.
She tied back her long dark hair with a covered elastic band and placed a mask around her neck in readiness. Once she had it on, it would hide lips that had almost forgotten how to smile widely, but her eyes would still be seen. Grace knew you could tell so much by looking in people’s eyes. Her own were brown and large, with long lashes that she accentuated with mascara and sculptured eyebrows. They were her best feature – when she was happy. For now, they were skittish, glancing around, trying to take everything in.
As Nick went off to speak to a uniformed officer, Grace took a deep breath, held her head high and walked forward. A white tent had been erected around the spot where the body lay. Forensic officers already in situ were suited and booted too.
‘Do you get a lot of acid attacks in Stoke?’ Grace asked Perry as they walked.
‘Not many at all. I think the last one was some time last year.’
‘And someone from the gym called this in, you say?’
Perry nodded his head in the direction of a man in his early twenties wearing a red tracksuit at the far end of the car park. He was giving details to a police constable, talking energetically and waving his hands.
‘Trent Gibson. He was the first on shift. The gym opens at seven and he found the body in the car park about ten minutes before.’ Perry pointed to a black BMW where another forensic officer was going over it. ‘That’s Parker’s car. Not sure why that wasn’t burnt out to hide evidence. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Well, it all seems to have been done for show, rather than someone trying to cover it up.’ Grace turned back from checking out Gibson. ‘I know we can’t confirm the body until we have positive ID, but maybe our suspect thought it would prove who our victim was a little quicker?’
They reached the entrance to the tent and, after flicking the mask on, Grace stepped inside. She still put a hand to her mouth, trying to stop her instant gag reflex as her eyes fell on the seared face and hands of their victim. He was wearing gym wear, shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt due to the weather being unseasonably warm. Splashes of accelerant had burnt holes in the material.
There were several people dotted around the crime scene. A forensic photographer was clicking away next to a man hunched over the body. His stooped position meant Grace couldn’t see his frame, but she guessed him to be tall, perhaps early forties. He pushed up his glasses and smiled at her.
‘Dave Barnett. Senior CSI, as I’m known as now since a nifty title change.’
‘Grace Allendale.’ She smiled back, even though he wouldn’t be able to see it behind her mask. ‘DS.’
‘Yes, I know. Big boots to fill, but nice to meet you.’
‘Do you have an approximate time of death yet?’ Grace stooped down, repulsed but fascinated by the body at the same time. Even in her line of work, it never failed to amaze her what one human being was capable of doing to another.
‘I’d say he died between ten p.m. and midnight last night. His face is a mess, but he has some quite distinctive tattoos on his biceps. He has recent dates and names of two people. Caleb and Mia.’ Dave pointed at the body.
Perry gagged behind his mask and Grace hid a smirk. She already liked Dave Barnett.
‘I’m not certain of cause of death yet, although it won’t be because of the obvious.’ Dave pointed to the body. ‘But with the single stab wound to the chest as well, it looks like someone wanted to make sure he was dead.’
Having left the CSIs to do their job, Grace removed her mask and suit outside the tent. As she did so, she spotted a man waving for their attention. A leather satchel large enough to hold files or a laptop hung over his shoulder.
‘Ah, come and meet Simon. Local press.’ Perry placed the last of his protective gear into an evidence bag. ‘What are you loitering round for?’ he asked once he and Grace drew level with him.
‘I wanted to know if you have anything for me?’ the man responded, running his hand through blond, short, choppy hair as he caught Grace’s eye. Close up, he reminded her of Callum Best, the celebrity. A cheeky-chappy sort who wouldn’t look out of place if he came out with rhyming cockney slang or did a jig around a chimney up on a roof. He was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt with a navy tie that matched the colour of his trousers.
Perry shook his head. ‘Nothing yet.’ He looked at Grace. ‘This is the legendary Simon Cole, senior crime reporter for the Stoke News.’
Simon laughed as he offered his hand to her and she shook it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Can you confirm it’s Josh Parker?’ he asked, looking at them both in turn.
‘Where did you get that name from?’ Perry narrowed his eyes.
‘It’s