Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (19 page)

She closed her eyes, could still hear the sounds of children playing enthusiastically. Swings, slides, roundabouts. Children never tired of them. Backwards and forwards, in and out, up and down. Dizzy and out of breath, seconds to pause, then back in again. Shouting and laughing. The moment, everything.

Life in miniature. Or life how it should be.

And hers anything but.

She shouldn’t have come here.

Bury St Edmunds, a small, market town in Suffolk. A heritage town of old shop fronts, buildings and churches. Ruined abbeys and castles. And, more recently, an ultramodern steel and glass shopping centre that the locals, predictably, hated.

It should have been the perfect place to escape to, to think, decide. But everywhere Marina went she saw Phil. His ghost, following her around. Here, in the park, he walked between the geometrically laid out flowerbeds. Sat on a ruined abbey wall. Walked over the wooden footbridge and watched the beautifully coloured caged birds trying to escape in the aviary.

Everywhere.

In the hotel room, at the foot of the bed as she slept, when she woke up. In the French restaurant where she had eaten dinner the previous night.

Everywhere.

She had walked past the Georgian theatre but it just reminded her of him again.

It was where they had spent Christmas. Their first together as a couple. She had said to Phil at the time that if she was ever called on to do the
Guardian
questionnaire and had to answer ‘When and where were you most happy?’ she would have said there and then. There were things between them they couldn’t talk about, shadows cast around them, but they both tried not to let them interfere with their happiness. Thinking, they would deal with that eventually.

But they never had. And because of that she was here now, without him.

But he was with her too.

And he wasn’t the only one.

She sighed, louder than she had intended, as it attracted the attention of some of the nearby mothers. She didn’t look at them, thankful that her sunglasses hid her eyes and the wet sadness in them.

And for all that, she was no nearer making her mind up.

She stood up. The children’s voices were beginning to irritate her, stop her from thinking. From deciding, she told herself. She needed to move, to get away. Find somewhere peaceful, silent. Calm.

Marina turned, walked towards the cathedral. It would be silent in there.

He’s behind you
. . .

Oh no he isn’t
. . .

Oh yes he is. He’s always behind her. Waiting to jump out. Or to creep up, surprise her. And Phil couldn’t help. She was convinced Phil couldn’t help.

They had gone to the pantomime at the Georgian theatre at Christmas, her and Phil. Held hands, laughed and even sang along. Phil had looked around at the other families, placed his hand on her growing stomach, smiling the whole time. They had felt so hopeful, so confident. So filled with the future.

It seemed a long time ago. A world away.

Then at the hotel eating Christmas dinner. Being told by a waiter that was the hotel Angelina Jolie had stayed in when she was filming in the area. Ate nothing but lettuce and boiled chicken, he had said. They had laughed, looked at Marina’s stomach. Said there was no chance of anything like that happening to her.

She walked towards the cathedral gates. Thinking all the time.

Putting off her decision.

Feeling Phil with her the whole time.

Knowing someone else was, too.

42

R
ose Martin hated the library lifts.

They were completely open, continuously in motion and with a gap between the floor of the building and the and with a gap between the floor of the building and the floor of the lift wide enough to see straight down. To get a foot caught in, even.

She took a deep breath and, cursing whoever had invented them and allowed them to be installed, stepped into one.

She had gone looking for Mark Turner. Had tried his department first, flashing her warrant card to a shocked administrator, calming her down by telling her she only wanted to ask Mark Turner a few questions about an old girlfriend of his, nothing to do with the university whatsoever. Then, once he had been located, asking her to keep this visit very hush-hush.

Mark Turner was in the library. It was a huge, square building constructed of concrete slabs and glass panels and had probably looked like the future when it was built. Now it just looked stained and grim, even more so sat opposite a brand new, award-winning lecture hall that currently looked like the future, if the future involved buildings being circular and seemingly made of tin foil.

She eventually found him on the third floor, sitting in a cubicle with a view of the lake, books piled high around him, laptop open before him. She discreetly flashed her warrant card to the student next to him, inclined her head sharply to get the student to move. She didn’t need to be told twice and hurriedly escaped. Rose sat down in the now empty seat, leaned over towards him, tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Good book?’

He jumped, staring at her wide-eyed. She noticed he had the white buds of an iPod in his ears. She didn’t want to hazard a guess as to what he was listening to but, judging by the shabby way he was dressed and the way he had behaved the previous day, doubted it was anything fashionable.

He pulled the earpieces out, letting the tinny sound bleed out. He turned it off, looked at her. Fear and indignation fighting for dominance in his eyes.

‘What d’you want now?’

‘Ssh,’ Rose said, ‘we’re in a library.’

He looked round quickly, checked that no one was watching them, dropped his head and leaned in close. ‘Are you following me? This . . . this is, is harassment, you know.’

Rose raised an eyebrow.

‘I could have you . . . have you . . . struck off for this.’

‘That’s doctors not police officers,’ she said with a patronising smile.

‘So what d’you want?’ Resigned now. Take the pain, get it over with as quickly as possible.

‘Same thing we talked about yesterday, Mark. Suzanne. Seen the papers today? The news?’

He shook his head, unsure where this was going.

‘She’s disappeared. Her friend has been murdered and she’s disappeared.’

His mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God . . .’

Rose waited.

‘Did she . . . did she do it?’

‘What?’

‘Suzanne. Did she, did she kill her friend?’

‘State she was in? I doubt it. No. She’s missing. Someone broke in, killed her friend Zoe—’

‘Zoe . . . oh my God . . .’

‘—and took Suzanne.’ Rose sat back, looked at him, trying to gauge his reactions. So far his shock and horror seemed genuine. Her questions might change that. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘Last night?’

‘Yes. After I left you, where did you go?’

He looked around as if seeking someone to supply his answer for him. ‘I . . . I was at home.’

‘All night?’

He paused before answering, weighing his words carefully. ‘No . . .’

A small thrill ran through Rose. ‘Where were you?’

‘I . . . went to the pub.’

‘On your own?’

‘Yes.’

Another raised eyebrow from Rose.

‘Well, I mean I went on my own. But I met some people there. Some friends.’

‘How many?’

‘Four. No, five. Six, including me.’

‘And was your girlfriend there?’

A smile played over his lips. ‘No.’

‘Why’s that funny, Mark?’

‘Just . . . because. You’d think so if you knew her. If you knew my friends.’

‘And what are your friends like?’

He took a deep breath, let it out. Here it comes, thought Rose. They’re paedophiles. Or worse, gamers.

‘We’re a . . . film society.’

She sat back a little. ‘What sort of films?’

‘Horror.’

She crossed her arms. ‘Right. Video nasties, that kind of thing?’

‘All sorts. The university British Horror Film Society. We just get together upstairs in this pub—’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Freemason’s Arms. Military Road. New Town.’

Rose knew it, nodded. Motioned for him to continue.

‘Well, we . . . that’s it, basically. We sit and watch films on this huge video screen they’ve got there. Have discussions, a few drinks.’ He was becoming animated, interested in what he was saying. ‘Sometimes we get guest speakers. Kim Newman’s been.’

He said the name like Rose should have been impressed. She humoured him.

‘I’ll need their names,’ she said, taking out her notepad.

He gave her them.

‘And what did you watch last night?’

Light was shining in his eyes. ‘A double bill.
Horror Hospital
and
Killer’s Moon
.’ He laughed. ‘It’s hilarious.’

‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘murder always is. And you were there the whole night?’

He nodded. Then leaned back, relieved. The relief brought with it a cocky light in his eyes. ‘So, you see, Detective Sergeant, I have an alibi. Once again.’

‘And you also have a key.’

The light went quickly out.

‘What?’

‘A key. To Suzanne’s flat. The one you never gave back. Where is it?’

He looked speedily round once again, head darting from side to side, appealing mutely for anyone to step in and help him.

‘The key, remember?’

‘I . . . don’t know where it is. I . . . haven’t seen it in ages.’

‘Why did you keep it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just . . .’ Sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

Rose nodded.

‘I never gave it back. That’s all. She never asked for it and I never gave it back.’ He made an imploring gesture, desperate to be believed.

Rose looked at him, unblinkingly. She got the feeling that something was off with him but also knew she wouldn’t be getting any more out of him at the moment. She flipped her notepad closed, stood up.

‘That’s all for now, Mark. But stay where we can find you. We’ll want to talk to you again.’

She left him sitting there, pleased that she had managed to upset or unnerve him.

But her victory didn’t last long. She still had to negotiate the lift.

43

P
hil stood in front of the door, hand out, ready to knock. He paused, waited.

A terraced street of old houses in New Town. Front doors leading directly on to the pavement, no gardens. Windows to the left and right so passers-by could stare right in, watch other people’s lives like television.

Colchester didn’t have high-rises or sprawling estates. Instead it had New Town. Streets and streets of old red-brick houses, curling and narrowing and circling in on itself, and nothing new about it. Drugs, prostitution, gangs . . . all thrived in, and were controlled from, New Town. Phil wasn’t naïve, he didn’t think everyone who lived there was a criminal. But it was a poor area, and poverty, he knew both from studies and personal experience, created the conditions for crime to flourish. Poverty led to envy to anger to desperation. To crime. A doomed attempt at gentrification stood over the road by Aldi, a new, exclusive, gated development built right alongside the old terraces to attract a new, moneyed type of dweller, pull the area up a bit. The locals had turned and it now had the highest rates of property and car crime in the whole town.

Envy to anger to desperation.

To crime.

He looked up and down the street. Most of the houses had been quite well maintained; rotted old sash windows and wooden front doors replaced with uPVC. But some had not been touched, their doors and frames rotted away, an outward manifestation of whatever decay was housed within.

Phil stood before one of the uPVC replacements.

‘Is this the right house?’ said Fiona Welch.

Phil hadn’t wanted her with him but she had insisted. She would just sit quietly, she had promised, say nothing. Observe. It would help with her report, honestly. All perky and smiling, eyes glittering. Phil gave in. Not because he wanted her there but because he thought her report would need all the help it could get.

‘It is,’ he said.

‘Bet you’ve been round these streets a few times,’ she said.

‘Most Colchester police have at one time or another.’

‘Not surprised,’ she said, giving a small laugh. ‘All crack dens and brothels round here . . .’

‘Not all,’ he said, irritated at her tourist attitude. ‘Lot of lettings round here. Students, immigrants, some belong to elderly people. Too old to keep up the maintenance.’

‘Move them into a home, then. Stop cluttering up the street.’ Her voice suddenly frosty.

He looked at her, frowned. She smiled at him. ‘Anyway,’ she said, perkiness back in her voice, ‘I do know what it’s like round here. Shared a house in my second year at uni.’ She pointed. ‘Two streets over.’

Phil couldn’t help himself. ‘Crack den or whorehouse?’

She looked up at him, eye to eye. A smile slowly uncoiled on her face, like a librarian’s approximation of sultry. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know . . .’

He turned away from her. Knocked on the door.

He waited, glancing round, watching life continue as normal. Eyes had been averted as he approached, pavements suddenly found to be interesting. If people didn’t know who he was they knew what he was. That kind of area.

The door was eventually opened. A young girl answered, about two or three, pyjamaed and messy haired. She stood before them, eyes wide and staring, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. It was nearly lunchtime.

Phil found a smile. ‘Hello there. Is your mum in?’ He realised his mistake, corrected it before she could answer. ‘I mean your grandma?’

The girl kept looking between the two of them.

‘Please,’ said Phil. ‘It’s important.’

The girl slammed the door shut. Phil looked at Fiona. ‘Probably been told not to talk to strangers.’

Fiona laughed. ‘Or coppers.’

The door reopened. Paula Harrison stood there. She looked no better than the day before. If anything, she looked worse. She had both hands on the door, peering round it as if expecting to be attacked. She recognised Phil and the hope drained from her face.