Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (15 page)

I’m here. I’m thinking.

Relief washed over him. Flooded through to his nerve ends. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’

I know you will. Let me think.

He waited, hardly daring to breathe.

I think
. . .
it’s time for me to change.

‘What? Again? But you’ve just . . .’

Doesn’t matter. You know what to do. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.

‘Yes. I will. I never doubt you.’

Good. I’ll tell you where I’ll be soon.

‘I know you will, but . . .’

But what?

He looked at Rani again, sitting there on the sofa, the blonde bitch with her arm around her, her mouth moving but different words coming out to the ones the blonde bitch was hearing. Words for him and him alone. The truth. The blonde bitch getting any old lies.

He smiled.

But what?

He heard the sharpness in her voice, jumped. ‘The blonde bitch,’ he said quickly. ‘What about that blonde bitch?’

What about her?

‘She’s sitting there, talking to you . . .’

I’m only pretending to be interested. You know that, don’t you?

‘Yes . . .’

It’s you I want to be with.

‘So . . . what should I do?’

I don’t want her. You decide.

‘Right . . .’ He smiled.

You know what you’re doing?

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Good. Then do it. For me.

And she was gone.

He kept looking at her. Rani was alone now. The blonde bitch had got up, gone into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. Rani looked up. Right at him.

His heart jumped, he pulled a breath quickly into his body. Smiled at her.

‘For you . . .’

Stretched his fingers out. He could feel her, stroked her.

‘Soon,’ he said to her. ‘Soon, it’ll just be you and me . . .’

31

Z
oe couldn’t sleep.

There should have been no problem, given the amount of wine she and Suzanne had put away. Not to mention the stress of the day. And if there was an intruder, the huge kitchen knife she’d placed under her side of the bed would offer plenty of protection. So she had expected to just drop straight off. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Suzanne, lying next to her in bed, was spark out, but that may have been a combination of wine, exhaustion and sleeping pills. For Suzanne every little creak and groan from the old house, every car or lorry that went past the window was an intruder.

They should never have stayed. She knew that. As soon as they found that disgusting thing in the fridge they should have upped and left. Zoe should have insisted. But no, she had given in to Suzanne who didn’t want to be driven out of her own home. So they had stayed, tried to be comfort for one another, draw strength. And now, in what must have been the middle of the night, it seemed like a very stupid idea.

And, to make matters worse, she was hungry.

Another car went past, another jump and involuntary tug on the duvet. Another sigh, once it had gone.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Zoe.

Zoe had made a decision. She wasn’t going to be scared any more. There was no one else in the flat but herself and Suzanne. She had checked, double-checked and rechecked the locks on the doors and windows. No way anyone could get through them. At least, not without making a hell of a racket in doing so. So they were alone. They were safe.

And she was still hungry.

She flung the duvet back, got out of bed. Her head spinning slightly from the wine. Suzanne didn’t wake, didn’t even move.

She padded to the kitchen, checked her watch as she went. Just after three a.m. What was that quote? Something about in the real dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m.? Was that it? And who said it? Scott Fitzgerald, wasn’t it? Well, she thought, looking round the kitchen, seeing yellow sodium streaks of street light and shadow snaking round the window blind, he had a point.

She crossed to the fridge, opened it, glad of the unapologetically bright light that shone out, looked inside. Suzanne didn’t have much. Cheese, milk, some leftover pasta, a bit of salad. A couple of bottles of white wine. Cheese gives you nightmares, she thought. She doubted that. You had to be asleep to have nightmares. That would do her.

Taking out a lump of cheddar, she stood up, closed the door, turned.

And stopped dead.

Was that a shadow flitting across the doorway? Someone moving in the hall?

Her heart tripped. ‘Suzanne?’

No response.

Zoe looked round. It was impossible. She had locked the doors and windows, checked and double-checked them. No one could have got in. She would have heard them.

She stood still. Listened.

Nothing.

Must have been a trick of the light. Seeing things out of the corner of her eye. Her imagination working overtime. Yes. That’s what it was.

But still . . .

The knife. She had left it in the bedroom. It was the only sharp thing in the kitchen, Suzanne being domestically useless. She should get it, just in case. She would feel safer with it in her hand.

The cheese forgotten, she put her head slowly round the kitchen door, checked both ways up and down the hall. Nothing. She hurried across to the bedroom. Suzanne was still lying there, sound asleep, mouth open, snoring slightly.

Zoe knelt down at the side of the bed, felt for the knife.

It was gone.

Her heart hammered once more.

The rational side of her brain kicked in. She must have pushed it underneath, knocked it with her foot, sent it further in than she had realised. She felt around, arm extended as far as she could.

Nothing.

Quickly, she straightened up. Thought of waking Suzanne, decided against it. She was too out of it. Instead, she ran across the hall to the kitchen, pulled out drawers, frantically searched for another knife, anything she could use as a weapon.

Nothing.

Then, a noise. From behind her. Zoe turned.

A figure moved forwards. Big, dark, like a living shadow had detached itself from the corner of the room and come to life. It seemed to flow towards her.

Zoe didn’t have time to cry out, to scream.

She barely had time to feel the knife - the missing knife from underneath the bed - slice quickly across her throat, push into her neck.

She knocked the lump of cheese from the worktop to the floor as her hand went to her throat.

Thoughts spat, rapid fire, through her head.

Cheese gives you nightmares - that was quick, haven’t even eaten it yet
. . .

The real dark night of the soul is always three a.m
. . .

Sodium yellow streetlights and living shadows
. . .

I checked all the locks, I double-checked
. . .

The knife
. . .

Hungry
. . .

She fell to her knees, her hands feeling hot and wet at her throat.

Nightmare
. . .

She saw the shadow flow out of the room, head towards Suzanne’s bedroom. She tried to call out but no sound would leave her lips, just more hot redness.

Darkness began to grow before Zoe’s eyes, a darkness more than night, untouched by streetlights or shadows.

Then her eyes closed and she felt hungry and sad and anxious.

And scared.

Very scared.

Her head hit the floor, her body shuddered and vibrated like it was trying to expel its last few atoms of air and there was no more time to think or feel anything.

Nothing.

PART TWO

32

P
hil stood once more on the threshold. The gateway to another world.

There is a darker world, Phil knew, that lives alongside the everyday one. This secret world was unpleasant and depressing, a world of pain and hurt and sudden, senseless death, loss and despair. It turned homes, places of refuge and safety, into cold, abattoir death scenes. Destroyed lives both by what it took and what it left behind.

It was a place most people were aware of but chose to ignore, hoping that entry would only be for others, something that only happened to someone else. Not them. Never them.

But it didn’t work like that. The doorway to the secret world could be opened at any time, anywhere by anyone. This was the silently acknowledged truth. Its worst kept secret.

And here it was again, on Maldon Road in Colchester.

Suzanne Perry’s flat was now the latest gateway to the secret world.

Dead bodies in homes were the worst of all, Phil thought. Finding the body of the woman he presumed to be Julie Miller was horrific enough. But that had been outdoors with the possibility of looking away. A dead body in a domestic environment was much more upsetting to him. There, it was impossible to look away. Everywhere he looked he ended up looking back at the body.

‘Oh God, not again . . .’

Phil didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until everyone else turned to look at him. But they knew he was just voicing what the rest of them were thinking.

He stood in the kitchen doorway. Or it had once been a kitchen, now it was a killing room. Blood sprayed on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. On every surface, in every nook and cranny. Blood. Everywhere.

He looked down at the body of a blonde-haired woman. Her head was right back, at an angle that would have been impossible during life. The gash in her throat was so deep, wide and scarlet it was a parody of an extra smile. Her hands were at her throat as if trying to stop the spray of blood and her legs were splayed out at awkward angles to the rest of her body as if she had been kicking violently against death. Her eyes were wide, staring, her mouth open, as if she didn’t understand what had happened to her. Phil’s heart went out to her.

Mickey Philips appeared alongside him. ‘Morning, boss.’

‘Mickey,’ said Phil, his eyes still on the body. ‘What we got?’

Mickey opened his notepad. ‘Name’s Zoe Herriot. Speech therapist at the General. Boyfriend called it in.’

Phil frowned. ‘Boyfriend?’

‘Friend’s been having trouble, apparently. She stayed over.’

Phil nodded, still not looking at his DS. He became aware, however, that his DS was looking at him. He looked at Mickey. ‘What?’

Mickey quickly looked away. ‘Nothing, boss. Just . . . nothing.’

Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care. He had read Marina’s letter the previous evening. All about needing space to make decisions. Wanting time to think things through. She had taken Josephina with her, was promising to look after her. Don’t call her, don’t contact her. Just give her time and space. To get her head straight.

To sort out my love
.

He had no idea what that meant. But it scared him.

Putting the letter down he had felt the murmurings of a panic attack begin to grip him. He had stood up, walked round the house breathing deeply, trying to shake it off. But he kept going back to the letter, reading it and rereading it, looking for clues, hidden meanings, anything that might tell him where she had gone, what she was doing. She was the love of his life. He had gone through too much to have her in his life for her to leave it again.

It was too much for him. Eventually he had broken down, cried. Then picked up the phone.

He knew that wasn’t a good idea, going directly against Marina’s wishes, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help himself. He rang her mobile. Waited, hands shaking. Nothing. Voicemail. Left a message. Short, together.
Call me. Let me know you’re OK
. Nothing. Then another call. Nothing. Then another. Nothing, every time.

Eventually he ended up sitting on the side of the bed - Marina’s side of the bed - staring at the cot, unable to move. He had stayed that way for most of the night, the phone next to him, his hand on it, just in case she called.

But there had been nothing. No call, no text. Nothing.

At some point he must have fallen asleep fully clothed, curled up on Marina’s side of the bed. He was woken by his mobile. Thinking it was Marina he scrambled to the floor, grabbed it from where it had fallen, put it straight to his ear. Chest pounding, hoping it was Marina.

It had been Mickey. Telling him of a murder at a flat on Maldon Road and to get down as quickly as possible.

He had got straight up, had only a cursory wash and teeth brush, tried to pull himself together, compartmentalise and made his way straight there. He knew what he must look like. He didn’t care.

‘The boyfriend’s called Adrian Murphy. Apparently’ - he gave a quick glance at the body on the floor, not too long, remembering what had happened with the last one - ‘Zoe said her friend was having a bit of trouble. Ex-boyfriend, or something. Zoe phoned him last night, said she couldn’t sleep. He said he’d come over but she didn’t think that was such a good idea. Said to phone her first thing and if she didn’t answer, then come over. That’s what he did.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Down the station. Giving a statement. Didn’t think it was too healthy to keep him here.’

‘Right.’

Mickey kept looking at him. ‘We better get suited up, boss. CSI’ll be here soon.’

Phil nodded, looked up. Saw Anni making her way down the narrow hall towards him. Her eyes were almost as wide as the blonde corpse’s on the floor.

‘You all right?’

She nodded absently. ‘This was my case, boss. The one I told you about yesterday.’

Phil looked once more at the body then at his DC. ‘This is her? Your stalking victim?’

Anni shook her head. ‘This is the friend that was staying with her.’

Phil looked about. ‘So where is she, then? Your girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anni. ‘Gone . . .’

33

S
uzanne opened her eyes. And it was still dark. She tried to move. Couldn’t.

Panic welled within her and she started to kick. She didn’t get very far.