Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (13 page)

Her face flushed red. ‘What?’

‘Insufficient evidence, whatever you want to call it. We’ve kept them away from the Miller home for a while, given them a scare. Let them go.’

Her voice was rising. ‘After all I’ve done—’

Phil squared up to her. ‘You made the play. You carry it through. Maybe you’ll think twice next time, before you go all Dirty Harry on me.’

Rose clamped her mouth shut, swallowing whatever it was she had been about to say. She took a deep breath. Another. Phil waited.

‘So that’s that, is it? I’ve learnt my lesson and I’m back on active duty, right?’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Phil didn’t rise to it, kept his voice calm and level. ‘Just about.’ Then he glanced at Anni, back to Rose. A smile played on his lips. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘DC Hepburn here, I don’t know if you’ve met, is coming to join us but needs a bit of help in wrapping up her case. If you wouldn’t mind . . .’

Phil led Anni and Rose over to Anni’s desk. Both women looked surprised. ‘Anni’ll give you the details. Just one last thing before home time and then the slate’s clean and tomorrow is another day. OK?’

He left them to it, crossing the floor to Fenwick’s office.

Unable to keep the smile off his face.

26

P
hil knocked on the door, entered. Fenwick looked like he was expecting him. He sat down before the desk. Fenwick leaned back on the other side, scrutinising Phil. He was sure it was meant to be intimidating but one thought went through Phil’s head:

David Brent
.

‘So how’s it coming, then? The Julie Miller murder inquiry?’

‘We’re making progress. But we don’t know for a fact that it’s Julie Miller yet. Let’s not call it that until we know for certain.’

Fenwick sat back, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, no one else has gone missing recently from Colchester, have they?’

‘Well . . .’ Phil told him about Adele Harrison. Watched the expression on his face change, the smile disappear. Concern - or something like it - crept into his eyes.

‘Oh. Shit.’

‘Indeed. Does that change things?’

‘John Farrell doesn’t think so.’

‘John Farrell’s an arsehole.’ Fenwick stared at him. ‘Sir.’

Fenwick seemed happy with that.

‘I just think we should be aware. If Adele Harrison’s body turns up and we haven’t done all we could have done . . .’ Phil left the threat hanging in the air. Fenwick stared at him, deciding whether Phil was trying to start a fight.

There was animosity between himself and his superior. Phil thought Fenwick insincere, two-faced. Paying lip service to progressive ideas, hiding his reactionary soul in management-speak so he could advance up the political police ladder. Mostly they managed to work together but occasionally there was conflict. Sometimes huge.

‘Just covering ourselves, sir,’ said Phil, using a phrase Fenwick would understand.

Fenwick nodded. ‘Covering. Yes. In case it does, you know . . .’ He made what Phil assumed was a thoughtful face. ‘Perhaps we should call in a profiler.’

‘Marina’s on maternity leave.’

‘Of course. Congratulations, by the way.’

Was there relief in Fenwick’s features? Phil had met Marina when she had been brought in to work a case with him as a profiler. Fenwick had shouted her down, humiliated her, derided her input. Then gone crawling to her afterwards when he realised that her help had been invaluable in bringing the case to a successful conclusion.

Fenwick then frowned, spoke as if arguing with himself. ‘But the expense . . . Budgets are already being cut, overtime slashed . . . Plus we don’t know for certain that this is a serial. Not yet.’

Phil said nothing, waited to see how Fenwick’s dialogue with himself played out.

He sighed, nodded. ‘I’ll make some calls,’ he said. ‘See what we can get. Still got contacts at the university. The hospital. And a lot of incoming officers are of the new breed, Phil. Trained in behavioural science and profiling. Much better able to make informed judgements. Might not be as expensive as we think, eh?’

‘Well, if you’re getting one we need them to start as soon as possible. And be good.’ Fenwick was still looking at him. ‘And cheap, of course. Sir.’

Fenwick narrowed his eyes, wary. Was Phil being cheeky again?

‘Covering ourselves, sir, remember?’

Fenwick, sensing no threat this time, agreed. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, time to be off. Early start tomorrow, briefing eight thirty. No overtime for now, but let’s see if the powers that be upgrade this case.’

They will if there’s another murder, thought Phil, but again didn’t voice it.

‘Oh, by the way,’ said Fenwick, a slight glint in his eye,

‘what d’you think of your new team, Phil? Working out all right?’

Phil again kept his face blank. ‘OK so far. We’ll see.’

‘DS Martin comes highly recommended.’

‘You’d know more about that than me, sir.’

Fenwick reddened immediately, his mouth opened, about to say something, but he was too late.

Phil had already left the office.

27

R
ose’s temper was flaming.

It was bad enough that Phil Brennan was punishing her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, but spending over a quarter of an hour driving up and down Greenstead Road trying to find a parking space just made it worse.

If it wasn’t permit parking it was double yellow lines. She could have just parked anywhere, flashed her warrant card and claimed official police business if hassled. Fine in theory, but it still didn’t make a space appear.

She eventually found one at the far end from where she wanted to be. Took a quick look at the notes, familiarised herself with the case, and, still fuming, set off to walk.

The houses on Greenstead Road were small. Red-brick terraces with minuscule gardens slabbed over for car parking. The only remaining greenery weeds poking between the cracks. From the lack of both upkeep and pride in the exteriors, most of the houses looked rented. Those that weren’t seemed to belong to people who were either starting out on the property ladder or whose progression had stalled.

Rose walked along to the far end of the road, the second to last house before a Chinese takeaway and a patch of waste ground. The day still held residual warmth as she pulled her top away from her chest, checked the address. The brickwork had been plastered over and painted a pale herb green, now darkened from road dirt. The windows were white casement, paint peeling, panes dirty. The front door, dark-stained with flaking varnish, led directly on to the pavement.

She raised her hand to knock but stopped as a sound ripped through the air. Like a car or burglar alarm turned up to eleven. The level crossing at the side of the road. The houses backed on to the main line to London. Lovely, thought Rose. And wished she wasn’t there.

Rose Martin was ambitious. She had made no secret of it. Married for two years to a solicitor and with a comfortable-sized Edwardian house in the Old Heath area of town, they had a good life. No kids - she was adamant - or at least not until her career had gone as far as she felt it could.

Her husband, Tim, was a good man. Dependable, honest, stoical. Taciturn, even. All manly traits she admired. And, yes, she loved him, sure. But that hadn’t stopped her having an affair with Ben Fenwick.

It had started, the way these things often do, with a few drinks after work. All the gang together, then the pair of them had got talking, found a spark, started to see each other separately. Before too long they were both telling their spouses they had to work late and booking hotel rooms where they could indulge in levels of lust that Rose found surprisingly animalistic but very cathartic.

The affair wasn’t anything she had thought about greatly. Just a mutual attraction acted upon. Easily compartmentalised and coped with. Ben had something that Tim hadn’t, provided her with something Tim couldn’t. She couldn’t specifically say what it was but it was fun finding out. But nothing serious, at least not as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to leave Tim and she didn’t want Ben to leave his wife and kids. Just a bit of fun. Filthy, flirty, secret fun. Well, possibly career-related. Ben was a DCI, two steps above her. And it was always handy to have someone higher up to be able to put in a good word for her, to help with advancement. She certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of having an affair with anyone ranked lower than her.

But now Phil Brennan knew about it. A higher ranking officer who seemed to be developing a grudge against her. Not good. He had leverage against her now and that could make him a threat. An affair like this could halt her progress if it was discovered. And she didn’t want that. She would have to tread carefully. Do something about him, even get something on him if she could. Or get Ben to.

But that was for tomorrow. She cleared all that from her mind, concentrated on the job in hand. Waited for the noise of the level crossing and the train passing to subsist, then knocked on the door.

No reply. She knocked again.

Eventually she heard someone making their way to the door. It opened. A man stood there, tall, dark, greasy, messed-up hair, young. He wore a T-shirt with a logo on that Rose didn’t recognise or understand, jeans, glasses. His eyes behind the glasses were red-rimmed, like he had been staring at a screen for too long. He blinked at her. Said nothing. Like voice production involved a different part of the brain to the one he’d been using.

‘Mark Turner?’

He nodded.

She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Martin. Can I come in?’

Mark Turner blinked again. Eyes narrowing, focusing, as if understanding that something was catching up with him. ‘What?’

She tried a smile, not wanting him to catch any trace of her earlier temper or irritation, all professional now. ‘Just need to talk to you about something. Might be better to do it inside.’ She gestured behind him. ‘Shall we?’

Mark Turner blinked again, stood out of the way, allowing her entry.

She went in.

The curtains were closed, the house in near darkness. It felt odd, a complete contrast to the early evening sunshine outside. Dust motes danced and jumped, caught in the beams of light that crept in through the chinks. She made the outlines of furniture, square and heavy looking. Covered with sheets or throws. The room was cold. It felt remote, cut off from the world, Dickensian almost. Rose half expected to find Miss Haversham lurking in some corner.

‘Sorry,’ said Mark Turner, ‘I was . . . working upstairs. I . . . My Ph.D.’ He looked round as if seeing the room through her eyes. Then turned back to her, remembering who she was. ‘Why are you here, please?’

‘Is there somewhere we could sit?’

Mark Turner found the light switch. An old three-bulb chandelier lit up the room. Rose saw that the house was small, living room and dining room all in one. Stairs in the centre. A kitchen at the back of the house. A brick chimney breast with a gas fire in front of it. Shelves on both sides, crammed with books. A TV and DVD player underneath the window. CD system beside it. Throws covered the furniture. It looked functional, nothing more. A student or academic house. Except for one thing. Halfway down the room was a tree. The trunk against the wall, the branches spreading out along the ceiling, separating the one room into two areas.

‘Nice feature,’ said Rose. ‘Still alive?’

Mark Turner looked at it, frowned, as if it was the first time he had noticed it. ‘What? Oh. Here before me. Dead. Think it’s just for ornamentation.’

‘Right.’ She sat down in a covered armchair. Took out her notepad and pen.

He sat also, on the sofa. ‘So . . . what’s happened?’

‘You used to be involved with . . .’ She checked the notebook. ‘Suzanne Perry.’

A wariness came into his eyes, as if whatever answer he gave would lead him into a trap. ‘Yes . . .’

‘You and her were an item?’

‘Yes . . . why?’

A quick check of the notes again. Concentrate. Into the groove, get the answers quickly, then off home. ‘She was attacked at home last night.’

He reeled backwards as if a sudden gust had taken him by surprise. ‘What? She . . .’

‘Was attacked.’ She dropped her voice, calm and authoritative. ‘So we’re talking to anyone who knew her and who may have a key to her flat.’

‘Well, I . . .’ Mark Turner’s eyes widened. ‘You think I . . . you mean, I . . .’

Three ‘I’s in one breath, thought Rose. He might look innocuous enough, but that was a sure sign he had an ego on him. ‘When you and her split up, was it harmonious?’

He shrugged. ‘Is any break-up easy?’

‘You didn’t want anything more to do with her.’

His voice raised slightly. ‘Right. No. I didn’t. Had enough of her.’

‘But you kept her key.’

His eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘Her key. To her flat. You kept it.’

Mark Turner said nothing.

‘Any reason?’

‘I . . .’ His eyes darted all round the room as if looking for something or someone to answer for him. Eventually, finding nothing, he answered for himself. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t leave any of your stuff there to pick up later?’

He shook his head.

‘You still in touch with Suzanne?’

‘No.’

Rose looked at her notepad, read back something she had just written. ‘You’d had enough of her.’ She looked up at Turner. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking like he wanted to run. ‘What do you mean by that?’

He ran his hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, searching for inspiration, playing for time. ‘I’d just . . .’ He sighed, his whole body deflating. ‘She wasn’t an easy person to get on with.’

‘Why not?’

‘She . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t trust her.’

Rose leaned forward, interested now. ‘You mean with other men?’

‘Not . . . really. Just . . . well, she’d tell me things, right? Little things. Plays or films she’d seen, who she’d been there with. Or people she’d met. And then we’d all be out together, the rest of the people from her course, and they wouldn’t know anything about it.’