Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (37 page)

After he’d looked at them.

He moved debris from an armchair, sat down.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’ he said again. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

Paula slumped rather than sat on the sofa, crumpling. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then . . .’

‘What?’

He sighed. Same question again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her turn to sigh. Phil saw the vodka bottle lying on its side on the floor. Knew that whatever answers he received - if any - would be filtered through it.

‘I . . . I just . . .’ Another sigh.

‘He didn’t die in a roadside bomb, did he, your son?’

She shook her head. Looked at the carpet.

‘What happened?’

‘He . . . he was, was injured.’ She kept her eyes on the floor. ‘Badly injured. They . . .’ She trailed off.

‘They what, Paula? Tell me.’

She said nothing, just sat there deflated as if all the air, the fight, had left her body.

Phil leaned forward. ‘Paula, your daughter is dead. And it looks like your son is responsible. And that’s terrible. Horrible. One of the worst things that could ever happen to you. But there are two other women out there. Missing. That your son has taken. And if you can help me find them, if there’s anything you know that can help me find them, that can stop another mother going through what you’re going through, then do it. Please.’

She sat silently for a while, then she began to shake. ‘There’s no one . . . no one knows what I’ve been through, no one . . .’

‘Then tell me,’ said Phil. ‘Make me understand. Tell me about your son. Tell me about Wayne.’

She sighed, picked up a glass from the side of the sofa, put it to her lips, realised it was empty. She sighed again, as if even that was conspiring against her, replaced it. Looked at Phil, resignation in her eyes. She began to talk. ‘He was trouble, Wayne. Ever since he was little. Trouble. At first we thought . . . you know. Just bein’ a boy. But no. There was something in there.’ She pointed to her temple. ‘Something not right.’

Phil waited. Knew there would be more.

‘His dad didn’t help, neither. Ask me, his dad was the problem. Always wantin’ him to grow up. To be a man. Do the things Ian wanted him to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Fightin’. Taught him how to box when he was tiny. Was always throwin’ punches at him. Wanted him to harden up, he said. Stand up for himself. Made him play rugby because he said football was for poofs. Took him into the woods. Said he was gettin’ him to hunt for things.’ A shadow passed over those dark, ravaged eyes. ‘That’s what he said. But there must have been somethin’ else going’ on.’

‘You mean he was abusing him?’

Paula nodded her head slowly. A ghost image wavering on a badly tuned TV.

‘Yes. For years he was . . . he was doin’ that. Years . . .’

‘Is that why you left him?’

‘He left us, I told you.’ Sharp, a weary kind of fire in the words.

‘Where did he go?’

She didn’t answer. Just returned her head to the floor. Not soon enough. Phil saw what flitted across her face.

She’s said too much, he thought. And knew just what had happened to Ian Harrison.

‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ Phil’s voice was quiet, nonjudgemental. Encouraging her to continue.

She sat completely still for a while until she eventually nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’

90

M
ark Turner looked up when Mickey entered the interview room. File under his arm, walk purposeful, expression confident. He just hoped he could be as efficient as he looked.

He sat down, opened the file. Studied it for a few moments. Turner sat opposite him, slumped in his chair, resolutely resisting the urge to sit up, lean forward or even acknowledge Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept his head down, apparently reading.

The curiosity became too great for Turner. He just had to see what Mickey was reading. Slowly he leaned forward, surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of what was in the file. Mickey snapped the file shut, looked up.

‘So who’d win in a fight, then?’ he asked.

Turner looked puzzled.

‘Dracula or Frankenstein, who d’you reckon?’

Turner’s eyes widened, mouth gaped. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

‘Er . . .’ Turner began to speak, give an honest answer. Then a smug smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s not Frankenstein. It’s the Frankenstein monster. Frankenstein was the name of the man who created him.’ He sat back, triumph in his eyes. ‘You don’t know anything.’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mickey, not missing a beat. ‘Who would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein? Not the monster. The Baron. The Peter Cushing Baron. And the Christopher Lee Dracula.’

He waited. Turner’s eyes widened again.

‘Oh. Right. Dracula. Obviously.’

‘You sure? I mean, yeah,’ said Mickey, leaning forward, arms on the table as if it was just two mates in a pub having a chat, ‘physically, yeah. Dracula. No contest. But the Baron . . .’ Mickey shook his head. ‘Tricky. He wouldn’t play fair. He’d have traps and things waiting. Devices. Gizmos. I reckon it’s him.’

Turner leaned forward too. ‘I still reckon Dracula. He doesn’t get to live that long without learning a thing or two.’

‘Yeah, but a bit of garlic, sunlight, crucifix . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You think the Baron won’t take all that into account? Lay some traps for him to fall into?’

Turner nodded, giving the matter serious thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘just thought I’d ask because I heard you’re a real horror film fan. The old stuff. The good stuff, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Turner looked incredulous. ‘Why? Are you too?’

‘The old stuff. Seventies, all that. British stuff. Love it. Could sit here all night talking about it. But . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better crack on. Right.’ He opened the folder again. Looked at it. Closed it. Looked back at Turner. ‘Why did you run away from me, Mark?’ Asking the question in the same tone of voice he had used for the pub discussion.

Turner looked at him, seemingly trying to find an honest answer for him. ‘I, I . . .’

Mickey waited, watched. Checked the way Turner’s eyes went. Marina had briefed him, told him how to start the interview, get him onside, ask him questions, see which way his eyes went when he answered them. Up to the left for thinking and truth, down to the right for lying. Or was it the other way round? What had she said?

He scratched the back of left hand with the middle finger of his right.

‘Up to the left for the truth, down to the right for lying.’

He gave a small nod. Marina had spotted the signal, spoken to him.

Turner tried to stonewall, shrugged. ‘Just running,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know who you were. What you wanted. You’d have ran. If it had been you. Someone chasing you.’

Mickey nodded. ‘So where’s your girlfriend, then, Mark? She done a runner too?’

Turner shrugged.

‘Didn’t share your taste in films? Her idea of an evening in wasn’t sitting down to watch
Killer’s Moon
?’

Turner’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You’ve seen
Killer’s Moon
?’

‘Great film,’ said Mickey. ‘Not what you’d call a horror film, though. Comedy classic, more like.’

He heard Marina give a small chuckle in his ear. ‘Good old Milhouse, knew we could rely on him . . .’

Mickey leaned across the table. Speaking again like they were two mates in a pub, about something more important this time. ‘She’s left you, Mark. Gone.’

Turner shook his head. ‘No . . .’

‘Yeah.’ Mickey nodded his head in sympathy. ‘She has, mate. Gone. Sorry, but she’s abandoned you. Left you here to take the full brunt of it.’

He kept shaking his head, more vehemently now. ‘No, no, she wouldn’t, never, no . . .’

‘She has. So you may as well tell us what happened.’

Nothing. Just Turner shaking his head.

‘You see, with her gone, there’s just you. And everything gets pinned on you. The murders, the abductions, the misleading of a police investigation, everything. All down to you.’

No response.

‘But if you start talking, tell me things . . .’ Mickey shrugged. ‘It’ll make things a lot easier for you. Help you in the long run.’

Turner stopped shaking his head. Sat completely still, staring at the desk. Mickey waited.

Eventually Turner looked up. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘You nearly had me there. Copper.’

Mickey frowned. ‘What you talking about?’

‘The films, all that. Dracula, Frankenstein, God,
Killer’s Moon
, you’ve done your homework . . .’ He laughed. It held as much humour as the smile did. ‘And all for this. All to be my mate’ - he spat the word out - ‘all to get me to talk. No.’

Mickey said nothing.

‘She said this is what you’d say to me. What you’d try to get me to do if I ended up here. She knew that, course she did. She’s a psychologist, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Not a very good one,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

Mickey scowled. He didn’t need that. Marina apologised.

Turner sat back, folded his arms. ‘Anyway. It’s done.’

‘What’s done, Mark?’

‘It. Everything. What we set out to achieve. It’s all complete. Really, it doesn’t matter what happens to me now because it’s over. Finished. We’ve done it.’

‘Done what?’

‘Proved our point.’

‘Which was?’

Again, that smile. ‘That we are superior to you.’

‘To who?’

‘All of you.’ Turner stretched out his arms, put his hands behind his head, relaxed. ‘And that’s all I’m going to say.’

Mickey stared at him.

Lost.

91

P
hil exhaled. Felt no sense of triumph at guessing correctly. ‘What happened?’

Paula sighed once more. ‘It was . . . Adele. Adele and me. We just couldn’t bear it any more. He was . . . hurtin’ me. And starting to look at Adele in a way I didn’t like. I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t have that.’

She stopped talking, reached for the empty glass once more. Sighed. Continued.

‘So one day I . . . hit him. With a shovel. From the back garden. And he fell. And that was that.’

‘So where is he?’

‘We—’ She corrected herself. ‘
I
buried him. In the back garden.’

‘And you weren’t worried about getting caught?’

‘I did it at night.’

‘I mean about the murder. You weren’t worried about people finding out?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I went over that in my mind. Over and over. For ages afterwards. Ages. No. Because I’d done the right thing. He was a monster. I hadn’t killed a man. I’d killed a monster.’

Phil looked at her, the sad, defeated woman before him. He didn’t know what she had gone through, could only guess at that. But he did know one thing. Police officer or not, there were times when the law just wasn’t enough.

‘I got my story straight, stuck to it. People asked. But not much. They knew what he was like. Most people round here were relieved for me when he’d gone.’

‘Did you do this all yourself?’

‘Yes.’ A fast answer.

Too fast, thought Phil.

‘No, you didn’t. Adele helped you, didn’t she? And you want to protect her.’

Paula looked at him, straight in the eye for the first time since he had arrived there. Then she dropped her gaze. Nodded at the floor.

‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can understand you wanting to protect her. You did it for her. You didn’t want her to suffer for it.’

She nodded again.

‘And Wayne? How did he take it?’

‘He didn’t know. I told him his dad had gone. Run away. Left us. I thought that would be it, you know? The end of it. That would be fine. I’d get my son back and we’d all be happy. A happy family.’ She sighed. ‘Wrong.’

‘What happened?’

‘He . . . he blamed me. For what had happened. For his dad running away. Said I was a, a bitch. And a cow. That it was my fault he’d gone. I’d driven him away. My fault.’ She swallowed back tears.

‘And then what?’

‘He joined the army. Wanted to get away. Said what his dad always said. The army makes a man of you. Well, it makes a certain kind of man out of you . . .’

‘And his name?’

‘Changed it. Ian was his . . . his dad’s name.’

‘Buchan?’

‘I went back to my maiden name. Adele too.’ Another sigh. ‘Ian didn’t.’

‘Did you keep in touch with him?’

‘Not really. No, in fact. And then the army got in touch. Told me he’d been burnt in a fire. Badly burnt. Well, I went to see him. You have to, don’t you? I mean, he is my son, after all. So they sent him back here, to the garrison. And I went there.’ Another sigh. ‘My God. What had happened to him . . .’

‘What had happened to him?’

‘He’d . . . he’d raped a woman. A translator. Afghan. A local, civilian, working with the army. He’d been, been pursuin’ her. Stalking her. They didn’t actually say that, not to me, but that’s what they meant. And this woman, Rani, they said her name was, she kept turning him down. Anyway, one night he followed her home, got her on her own. Tried to . . .’ Another sigh. ‘Like I said. His father’s son.’

Phil waited, impatient for Paula to continue but knowing he had to let her do it in her own time.

‘He raped her. I mean, not just, you know, had sex with her. It was bad, what he did to her. They told me.’

‘His father taught him to hate women. He was just acting out.’

She nodded. ‘But he made his own mind up to do it. He was a man. Anyway, then, I don’t know exactly what happened next. Neither did they. Did he get upset when he realised he’d gone too far with her? Had he killed her? Did he want to hide the evidence? I don’t know. But he started a fire. He was always startin’ fires when he was a kid. Loved them, he did.’

Still does, though Phil, but decided it was best not to say it.

‘Anyway, he got caught in it. Couldn’t get away. Couldn’t get out. It . . . it . . . they let me see him. There’s . . . not much of him left now.’

‘Was he invalided out of the army?’

She nodded. ‘Came back to Colchester. Didn’t want to come and live here, though. They covered it up, arranged for therapy, treatment. All sorts of stuff. Tried to put him back together again.’ Another sigh. Her voice became bitter. ‘Needn’t have bothered. There’s nothin’ left of him. His mind . . . Should have left him where he was.’