Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (16 page)

Tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. She screamed. Nothing. No response. Just her muffled cries dying away.

She lay still, breathing hard, breathing heavy. Trying to work out where she was, what had happened to her. She closed her eyes, cast her mind back to how she got there, what had happened.

There was that figure. The one from her dream. Back in her bedroom again, looming over her, lights at the side of its head, sharp, white demon eyes staring right down at her. Had she screamed? She thought she had but it had happened so quickly. One second it was at the end of the bed, the next on her. Hand clamped over her mouth, tight and hard, cutting off her words, her breath.

She remembered being lifted up, carried. Trying to kick and scream and making no impact, her hands and feet held firmly. And then . . .

Oh God.

Zoe. Lying there, on the kitchen floor. Blood all over the place. So much blood, it seemed more than one body could hold . . .

And the gash across her best friend’s throat. The way her legs lay, her arms, her face.

Oh God, her face . . .

She screamed again, kicked again. Kept screaming and kicking until her body rode out the wave of fear and anger, leaving her still, panting. She looked round, willed her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, make something out of her surroundings.

She was in a box of some kind. She breathed in, deeply. Smelled wood. A wooden box. Big, big enough for her.

Oh God, she thought. A coffin.

She held her hysteria down, tried to think.

The box was sealed. Tight. But she was breathing so there must be some air holes somewhere, some kind of contact with outside. She looked around. Blinked. Looked away, tried to see out of the corners of her eyes, like looking for stars on a dark, cloudless night.

There were some holes, just above her head. Round, like they’d been drilled. Still dark, but different. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

And her hands were tied together in front of her body. She tried pulling them apart, felt nothing but pain around her wrists. Either sharp plastic or wire. Something that would only make things worse for her the more she pulled. The same for her ankles. Her feet were bare and she was cold. There was a blanket wrapped round her, old and itchy. But she still felt cold. Not uncomfortably so, just not warm.

Suzanne lay still, listened. Tried to take in sounds beyond the box, make out where she was. Nothing. Silence.

She sighed. Tried not to let her fear overwhelm her once more. Because she had always been claustrophobic, that was bad enough. But there was something else.

There had been a film out years ago,
Boxing Helena
. About an obsessed doctor who keeps a young woman captive and gradually removes her arms and legs, ending up with just her torso and head, alive and in a box. Her friends and her had watched it late one drunken night at uni. And they had laughed at it, said what rubbish it was. But Suzanne hadn’t laughed. Because for Suzanne it was, quite literally, her worst nightmare.

Ever since she was a child she had had a recurring dream. Her arms and legs would stop moving, stop responding. Her dreaming mind would tell her that she had to run, escape. And she would try. But she could never move. Not an arm, not a leg. Nothing, until she woke up.

And when she did the dream was always so vivid and terrifying, she would spend the next day trying to shake it away. But it was harder to get rid of than tattoos.

And now the dream was back again.

Except this time it was real.

The fear, the panic, welled up inside Suzanne once more and she screamed. As loud and as hard as she could. And when the scream subsided she started it up again. Accompanied by kicks from her tied feet, punches from her tied wrists. She hit the wood, felt the blows bounce harmlessly off. She may as well have been trying to break into Fort Knox with a toffee hammer.

She lay back panting for breath, sweat on her face, trickling down her body. Let her pulse rate fall back, gather her strength.

Try to keep the panic down.

Soon, all she heard was her own breathing, all she could see was the different coloured blackness of the air holes.

She lay as still as she could, waiting to see what would happen next.

‘Be quiet . . . just be quiet . . .’

Suzanne’s heart skipped a beat. Then another. Was that her voice? Was she speaking aloud or imagining she was speaking aloud?

‘Hello?’

‘Please, be quiet . . .’

No. It was definitely a voice. Coming from outside her box. Not her own.

Suzanne looked round but of course she couldn’t see anything or anyone. Hope rose within her. There was someone there, someone else besides herself. They could help her, get her out. She should talk, communicate. Let them know she was here.

Then another thought struck her. Maybe this was her captor. What had the voice said? Be quiet. Maybe if she made more noise the voice would open the box. Do to her what it had done to Zoe.

She lay in the darkness, heart thudding, terrified. Waiting.

The voice spoke again. ‘There’s no point in shouting . . . or trying to get out. There’s no one here to hear you. But me.’

‘What . . . what . . . who are you?’

Nothing. Suzanne waited. Nothing.

‘Just, please . . . who are you? How do you know you can’t get out?’

The voice sighed. ‘Because I tried . . .’

34

‘S
o,’ said Phil, pulling the hood of his blue paper suit round his face, ‘Suzanne Perry had been stalked before?’

Anni nodded. ‘Anthony Howe, one of her lecturers at university. Apparently they had an affair and he couldn’t let go. Apparently. There was some doubt.’

Phil looked round the flat. The CSIs were moving through, sifting, numbering, examining, analysing. ‘Someone couldn’t let go . . .’

Anni had brought him up to speed about Suzanne Perry. The intruder of the night before, the rape examination. Also the lack of physical evidence for a break-in and the previous trouble with Anthony Howe, including the unsubstantiated allegations Suzanne made against him. Plus her subsequent scepticism about Suzanne’s claims.

Phil saw the look on her face, the guilt-ridden, haunted look in her eyes. She wasn’t sceptical now.

‘What about the ex-boyfriend?’ said Phil.

‘I don’t know till I talk to Rose Martin. She spoke to him last night.’

Phil nodded. Perhaps punishing the errant DS by giving her unpaid overtime on a case that wasn’t hers hadn’t been, in retrospect, such a good idea.

Mickey had suited up, come to join them. ‘So where do we go from here, boss?’

‘Out, I think,’ said Phil. It was another hot day and the small flat couldn’t take the press of extra bodies. Plus they were getting in the way of the CSIs.

They moved out to the landing, which wasn’t much bigger but was slightly cooler. Outside, the whole of the old Edwardian house had been cordoned off, the street outside swathed in yellow and black tape as if it had been gift wrapped by a wasp.

‘So what do we think?’ said Phil.

‘You mean is this connected with Julie Miller?’ said Mickey.

Anni joined Mickey in looking at Phil, waiting expectantly for him to answer.

‘Well, in a way I hope so. Two dead bodies in two days. Both young women . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Big coincidence.’

‘You’re right. Anni, what does Suzanne Perry look like?’

‘Tall, long dark hair, pretty.’ She looked between the two men. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s a description of Julie Miller,’ said Mickey.

‘And Adele Harrison,’ said Phil. The other two looked at him. ‘She went missing last week, hasn’t been found. There may be a connection.’ Phil sighed. Tall, long dark hair, pretty.
Marina
. His mind slipped, jumped its professional groove to a personal one. He felt a constricting band round his chest . . .

‘You OK, boss?’

Anni was looking at him, concern in her eyes.

‘Fine, yeah,’ he said, regaining control. ‘Come on, let’s think. If there’s a connection, what is it? Why is it there?’

‘Maybe we need a profiler, boss,’ said Mickey.

Phil nodded, trying not to think of Marina. ‘Maybe. Let’s see what Fenwick can come up with.’

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Anni.

She was looking down the stairs. The two men followed her eyes. Fenwick was making his way up towards them, suit and hair immaculate. Rose Martin was behind him with another woman next to her.

‘Charlie and his Angels,’ said Anni quietly, but loudly enough for the other two to catch and smile at.

Fenwick arrived on the landing. ‘Phil. You and the team here already. Good man.’

‘Sir,’ said Phil. He was aware of Rose Martin looking at him. A strange look on her face: a mix of sly smile and barely disguised loathing. He smiled at her. ‘Rose. How you doing?’

She didn’t reply.

Neither did Fenwick. Instead he turned and ushered forward the woman standing behind him. ‘Allow me to introduce the answer to your prayers,’ he said with what Phil would call his typical modesty. ‘Fiona Welch.’

The woman was small, compact. She stood with her clasped hands before her body, handbag hanging from them. Her mousey hair was cut into a short bob and she wore glasses and little make-up and she was wearing a flowery summer frock in the manner of someone who didn’t get the opportunity to dress up much.

‘Hello,’ she said, giving a little wave of her hand, nearly dropping her oversized handbag in the process.

Phil returned the greeting then looked quizzically at Fenwick.

‘Remember we discussed getting a profiler in?’ he said by way of explanation, then gestured to her with a flourish. ‘This is her.’

‘Welcome aboard,’ said Phil, then turned to Anni and Mickey.

‘She’s got both a B.Sc. and an M.Sc. in Forensic Psychology,’ said Fenwick as if reciting. ‘She’s working at the hospital and teaches at Essex University.’

‘I’m studying there for my Ph.D. in Victimology,’ she said in voice that looked surprisingly stronger than her frame. ‘Part-time.’

Fenwick beamed as if she was his puppet and he was operating her from behind.

‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Good.’ He introduced her to Anni and Mickey. She smiled shyly at both of them, her eyes perhaps staying on Mickey for a beat longer than was professional, Phil thought. Mickey didn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Right. I think we have to assume,’ said Fenwick, looking round to see if they were alone, ‘that these two murders are connected.’

‘We don’t have to assume anything,’ said Phil, looking round also. ‘There’s a strong possibility but given a lack of similarities so far it’s not a certainty.’

‘Can I . . . Can I say something?’ said Fiona Welch.

The two men stopped talking, looked at her.

‘Thank you.’ She reddened slightly. Cleared her throat. ‘I’ve, erm . . . I’ve examined the case notes from yesterday’s murder and of course been briefed by Ben on today’s,’ she said, giving a shy smile and a nod towards Fenwick who beamed in response. ‘And I have to say, it looks very definitely like the same man. And it is a man.’

Phil raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice becoming stronger, more enthusiastic as she warmed to her theme. ‘I believe, in this instance, we’re looking for a spree killer.’ She began gesturing, her handbag swinging from her wrist. ‘Someone who it’s clear has killed once, liked it and wants to do it again.’

‘Right,’ said Phil.

‘And he will do it again. There’s no doubt about that.’

Fiona Welch’s voice trilled, like the song of an insistent bird. Phil closed his eyes. Felt a thumping behind them, in his head. Wished Marina was with him. She would tell him what to do, who they were looking for . . .

‘Anything else?’ he said.

Another shy smile. ‘I think I should look at the crime scene first. It should help to confirm my suspicions.’

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Phil, his headache starting to intensify. ‘Where did you say you were from? The Department of Wild Guesses?’

Fenwick turned to him, anger flaring in his eyes. ‘Phil.’

Fiona Welch’s mouth fell open. She stood, stunned, like she had just been slapped in the face.

‘Sorry,’ said Phil. ‘But you seem very sure of your theories and you haven’t even seen the crime scene yet, or the reports.’

Before she could reply, Fenwick took her arm, hurried her wide-eyed inside the apartment. ‘Well, let’s get a move on, then.’

Phil watched them go. And wished, not for the first time and, he felt, not for the last, that Marina was with him.

35

The latest husk had been stored away.

It would be screaming and shouting and sobbing by now. The carrier shells always did because that’s what happened when the spirit left them. But the Creeper never listened. Just walked away, wondering where Rani would appear next.

He lay back, eyes closed. The slight swaying from side to side lulled him, gave him peace, allowed him to conjure up her face once more. How she had looked when he first met her. How she would look one day when he saw her again.

Her smile. That’s what he had first noticed about her. The way the skin round those dark eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips turned up, her even, white teeth exposed. His heart would sing with joy when she did that. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping up and grabbing her, whisking her round and round, off her feet, taking her in his arms, hearing her laughter in his ears and seeing that smile light up her face.

And knowing he was responsible for that smile. He couldn’t describe how good that made him feel.

‘I’m thinking of you again.’ He told her his thoughts, of picking her up and whirling her round.

I wish you had
, she said.
I wish you’d said something at the time
.

‘So do I,’ he replied.

Not kept it till later, when
. . .

He could no longer see Rani’s eyes. Like a cloud obscuring the sun, the rest of her smiling face disappeared.

‘No . . .’ He stood up quickly, shaking his head, his eyes still closed. ‘No, no . . .’