Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (25 page)

P
hil sat on Marina’s side of the bed for the second night in a row. Staring ahead, seeing nothing, eyes focused inwards not outwards.

Thoughts focused once more on his partner and daughter.

He shook his head, lifted the beer bottle to his mouth. Empty. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He sighed. His head wasn’t where it should be. He should have been in the case, right in the thick of it, on top of it, surfing it like a wave, but he wasn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on it. And that both worried and scared him.

Anthony Howe. Innocent or guilty?

Julie Miller/Adele Harrison.

Suzanne Perry/Zoe Herriot.

And Fiona Welch. Why did he dislike her so? Why was he listening to what she said? Why were any of them?

There was something he was missing. Something he couldn’t see. Like there was fog all around, inside and out. Something . . .

The phone was in his hands. He didn’t remember putting it there. He looked at the floor. Must have let the empty beer bottle slip to the floor.

He dialled a number he knew off by heart.

Waited. Not breathing.

Marina saw the phone light up, vibrate. It was on the bed next to her. She had carried it with her all day, in her hands all night. She just looked at it. Let it ring.

Josephina was asleep in the travel cot at the side of the bed. The TV was playing softly in the corner of the hotel room. From the window in her bedroom she could see the night. It seemed barely dark, the lights of Bury St Edmunds twinkling and shining. Safe and enticing.

She sighed.

The phone kept flashing, vibrating.

Josephina stirred.

She had told herself she would answer it when he rang. Talk to him. Explain.

Because she would have made up her mind by then. She would know what she was going to do.

But she didn’t. She hadn’t made up her mind. In fact she was no further forward. So she couldn’t talk to him. Didn’t trust herself.

The phone kept flashing, vibrating.

Her fingers were right next to it. Reaching . . .

It would be so easy, just pick it up, talk to him . . .

So easy . . .

It stopped.

She sighed. Sat back. Looked at it.

She felt empty once more, alone.

She could pick it up, call him.

She could.

But she wouldn’t. Because she didn’t know what to say.

So she sat there looking at it.

Her heart breaking.

Phil put the phone down. He didn’t leave a message. He lay down on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

He tried to sleep.

Couldn’t.

Added it to the list of things he couldn’t do.

56

T
he Creeper stood outside the house. Smiled.

It was a large house but, crammed into a small street with other large houses, it just looked small. Old, with grey and red brick and big bay sash windows with stained glass in them. Nice. The sort of place that looked welcoming. The sort of place you could call home.

Rani had done well for herself this time.

The Creeper would never have dreamt of calling a place like this home. It was a different world. But he might. Soon.

He had watched it for a long time. A man had driven up, parked down the road in the first available space and let himself in. Suited and carrying a briefcase, he was young, confident looking. Like he knew what he was worth. Or thought he knew.

The Creeper had smiled. The man would soon find out.

He had waited longer. Eventually another car had pulled up, parked in the road. There were two people in it, a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. His heart skipped a beat. There she was. He knew it as soon as he saw her.

Rani.

He couldn’t stop smiling. It was all he could to stop himself running out to meet her. But he did. He would be patient. He would wait. Bide his time.

He watched them talk. The driver looked like an older version of the man who had entered the house. He saw them hold hands before she left the car. Felt a sharp pang of anger when that happened. The car drove away. He watched it go, saw Rani enter the house.

Went back to waiting.

It wasn’t perfect where he was but it was good. It would do. It wasn’t as good as the last place, where he lived with Rani, was together with her all the time, but it would do. He wouldn’t be disturbed. The owner of the house he was in would be no more trouble. He could see her leg sticking out from the spare room where he had left her body.

All he had to do was wait.

And he was good at that. He could be a patient man. Because he had something to wait for. Someone.

Rani.

PART THREE

57

P
hil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care.

He had made an effort to smarten himself up, sort himself out. Clean shirt and a shave. Wash and brush up. But his eyes were black-rimmed, broken capillary fractals, gazing away when they should be staying focused, clouding over when they should have been clear.

He sat at his desk in the bar, waiting for the briefing to start. Caffeine-alert, telling himself to pull it together, compartmentalise. Shut off his home life, live only in his work life. But whether he was actually listening was another matter.

He had tried Marina again last night. And again and again. A different message every time. Inquiring about her safety and wellbeing, their daughter’s too. Then telling her how much she was missed, just to talk to him if something was wrong. She didn’t need to come back home. Even asking for her opinion on his case. Different every time, something he hoped would attract her to pick up, make it impossible not to. She didn’t. Eventually he stopped leaving messages. Eventually he stopped calling.

He must have slept at some point. But he couldn’t remember when. Woke up on Marina’s side of the bed once more. Several more bottles at his feet. He couldn’t remember those getting there either.

He had formulated a plan for contacting Marina. Really simple, wondered how he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He would do it later. First he had the briefing to get through.

He pulled his eyes on to the whiteboard, took another hit of pitch-black coffee, forced himself to concentrate on the case.

The team were assembled. The same faces as the day before looking marginally refreshed and rested. Anni would catch Mickey’s eye then turn away with a private smile while Mickey would look anywhere but at her. He didn’t know what was going on there, didn’t want to know either unless it affected their work. Rose Martin seemed to be humming with some kind of energy, ready to go. Either that, thought Phil, or she’d just had another fight. Fenwick was at the end of the room, trying not to look at her. Fiona Welch sat at her desk, straight-backed, pen poised. Face unreadable. She still unnerved Phil. Nick Lines had come over, armed with more findings from the post-mortems.

Fenwick moved to the centre of the room, ready to go.

‘Thanks for coming in early, people. Appreciate it. Let’s get started. Phil?’

Phil stood up, took centre stage. ‘As you know, we’ve got Anthony Howe downstairs in the cells. He’s been charged with Suzanne Perry’s abduction. Progress report, Adrian?’

Adrian Wren stood up. ‘He’s got no alibi for the night of the abduction and murder. Says he was out on his own, walking. Stopped in a pub for a drink. Can’t remember which one.’ He checked a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Took a call from Suzanne Perry in the afternoon, tried calling her a few times that night. No reply.’

‘Left a message?’ said Phil.

Adrian shook his head. ‘No. But called her three times up until ten o’clock. After that, nothing. Says he went home. Wife’s left him so there’s no one who can say yes or no to that one. Got the CSIs going through his house now, though.’

‘Thanks, Adrian.’ Phil turned to the rest of the team. ‘So that’s where we are with him.’

‘Gut feeling, Phil?’ said Fenwick, his usual question.

Phil thought. He was the one who had interviewed him and charged him but he honestly didn’t know if he was guilty. Usually he got a feeling, a copper’s instinct. It wasn’t infallible but was accurate about 90 per cent of the time. But this time, no yes or no, nothing.

But before he could answer, Fiona Welch jumped in.

‘He fits the profile perfectly,’ she said. ‘Textbook. Just a matter of breaking him down, I would say.’

Fenwick stared at her. Phil knew he didn’t like profilers, only paid lip service to the idea of them for the sake of workplace politics and personal advancement. A win/win situation for him - able to take the credit if they got it right, providing someone to blame if they got it wrong. But he certainly didn’t like them interrupting when it wasn’t their turn. Fenwick blanked her.

‘Phil?’

‘Yeah, he fits the profile, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean whether he’s guilty or innocent?’

‘Yeah. I just . . . don’t know.’

Fenwick waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. Instead, Phil turned to Nick Lines.

‘Nick. Good to see you again. What you got for us?’

Nick Lines got slowly to his feet. ‘Quite a bit since yesterday, actually. Nothing more on the DNA front yet, unfortunately, and there won’t be for a while, I don’t think. So I took a journey down some other avenues. I checked the physical description we had of Adele Harrison against the body we’ve got. Looked for any distinguishing features.’

‘And?’ said Phil.

‘Well, we didn’t find anything at first. So I persevered. Adele Harrison had a tattoo on the base of her spine. You know what I mean. Popular among a certain type. Some kind of curlicue. Arse antlers, I believe they’re called.’

Despite or perhaps because of the tension in the room, everyone laughed.

‘Tart tats, you mean,’ said Mickey.

‘If we were less politically correct,’ said Fenwick, glancing quickly at Rose Martin to gauge her reaction.

‘Please,’ said Phil, ‘can we?’

The laughter died away. Nick Lines continued.

‘It wasn’t an easy match. There wasn’t much of her lower back left.’

Silence, tinged with guilt for the earlier laughter.

‘The skin’s been flayed off. Whether that was deliberate to stop us identifying her or whether it was just frenzy, I don’t know.’

‘Maybe both,’ said Phil.

‘Perhaps,’ said Nick, continuing. ‘But they hadn’t done a complete job. There were still traces of the tattoo left. I was able to reconstruct a partial impression from that.’

‘Julie Miller doesn’t have any tattoos,’ said Rose.

Nick nodded.

‘So you think that confirms it?’ said Phil.

‘As I said, we won’t have the DNA back for a while, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should think about bringing her next of kin in for an identification.’

A depression settled over the room. He had all but confirmed what they suspected. But there was no sense of triumph or even achievement at it.

‘I found something else, too,’ said Nick. ‘Stomach contents analysis. Her last meal. As far as I can tell, dog food.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Phil, vocalising what the room must have been thinking. ‘It gets worse.’

‘Can we get a match on that?’ said Fenwick. ‘Find the brand, the make, maybe even the batch?’

Nick Lines nodded. ‘We’re already ahead of you. We’ve contacted all the major pet food manufacturers. Shot in the dark and may take a while, but stranger things have happened. Also. Suzanne Perry’s blood sample. They phoned me with results. Traces of pancuronium.’

‘That’s not good, right?’ said Phil.

‘Not good at all. It’s a muscle relaxant. Taken in large doses it paralyses the body. They can still feel but not move. It’s given to death-row inmates in lethal injections in the States.’

‘Charming,’ said Phil. ‘Well, let’s follow that up. See where a supply could be found. Check—’

The door burst open. A uniform rushed in.

Fenwick was first to react. ‘This is a—’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the uniform, out of breath, ‘but this is urgent.’

‘What?’ said Phil.

‘The prisoner, sir, Anthony Howe . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Phil.

‘Tried to kill himself.’

58

A
nthony Howe had managed to rip his sheets up to make a rope. Then, knots tested, pulled strong and tight, he had looped it round the light fitting. Lassoed in place it hung there, a hangman’s noose. He had placed it round his neck, pulled the slipknot tight. Stepping off the bed, the sudden jerk expelled what air there was from his body, forcibly denied access to any more. The jolt and drop weren’t sufficient to break his neck so he had hung from the ceiling, legs thrashing and air-cycling, hands grabbing at his throat, dangling and strangling. His face had turned purple and his bladder and bowels evacuated.

The makeshift gallows hadn’t held for long, his weight being too much for the electric cord, and it had given way, the noise of his body hitting the floor and alerting an on-duty uniform.

‘Get the paramedics in here!’

Phil ran into the cell. A uniform had removed the noose from Howe’s neck and was attempting CPR on him. His body was in a state and there was no trace of the cultured, arrogant university lecturer.

‘What’s happening?’ said Phil.

The uniform looked up, fingers locked together, hands pressing down hard, rhythmically, on Howe’s chest. ‘Still breathing, sir . . .’ Breaking off to count the presses. ‘. . . just trying . . . to revive him . . .’

And back down to breathe more air into his lungs.

Phil stood up, looked around, felt impotent rage inside him. The light fitting was on the floor in pieces, bulb and casing shattered. The noose was lying in a corner where the uniform had thrown it, a venomous snake, once dangerous, now dead.

The doorway was full: the whole team from the briefing room having followed him down, now crowding round, trying to get in, winning the world record for most number of people crammed into a door frame at one time.

‘Who was looking in on him?’ Phil said. ‘Who was checking him?’