Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  Mickey Philips looked around. ‘Over there?’

  ‘Start with the businesses here. Someone might have been in early, seen something. Then after that . . .’ He looked across the river. ‘The flats over there. Coordinate with uniforms. Rose, you handle that. You’ve done it before, see what Julie Miller’s neighbours have to say.’

  Rose nodded. Phil looked saw the eagerness in her eyes. Ready, burning to go. He hoped that energy wasn’t misplaced. He didn’t want her making mistakes. Either of them, for that matter.

  ‘I’ll get Milhouse to set up the incident room back at Southway, get a mobile one put here, couple of uniforms manning it. Bit of presence, you never know.’ He looked between the two of them.

  ‘What about where she was killed, boss?’ said Mickey. ‘Should we be looking for that?’

  ‘Initiative is good,’ said Phil, ‘and I approve, but, as our esteemed leader DCI Fenwick would say, that would be creating a needle/haystack interface.’

  Mickey, surprised at Phil criticising his superior, smiled. Phil also noticed that Rose’s attention sharpened at the mention of Fenwick’s name. He caught the look, filed it away with the other stuff.

  Phil continued. ‘We think we know who she is. Once that’s confirmed, hopefully the where and the why will follow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anni should be joining us soon, so that’s one more body.’ He looked between the pair of them. ‘Any questions?’

  If they had, they were keeping them to themselves.

  Phil breathed in, out. No pain. His ribs felt fine.

  ‘Good. Right. Let’s—’

  ‘What the hell’s going on with my boat?’

  The three of them turned. A middle-aged man, red-faced and sweating, was running towards them, a uniform in pursuit.

  ‘Ah,’ said Phil, smiling. ‘I think this may be the boat’s owner.’ He turned to the other two. ‘I’ll deal with him. You go catch a killer.’

  8

  Anni’s questions had kept Suzanne’s tears at bay. She pressed on.

  ‘Suzanne, your flat. The CSIs are checking everything now. They say the lock on the door hasn’t been forced. Same with the window. Is there any other way someone could have got in?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Anyone else have a key?’

  Something flitted across her face. Dark and swift, an evil fairy-tale sprite. ‘No.’

  Anni leaned forward, surprised by the response. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Just . . .’ Suzanne kept her eyes averted from Anni. ‘Zoe. My friend Zoe.’

  The look hadn’t been for her friend Zoe. ‘No one else?’

  Suzanne looked away, shook her head.

  ‘Suzanne, I’m trying to help you here. If there’s someone who could have had a key then please tell me. It could be important.’

  Another sigh from Suzanne. ‘I think Mark might still have one.’

  ‘Who’s Mark?’

  ‘Mark Turner. My old boyfriend. But he’s . . . It’s not important. We’re not seeing each other any more.’

  ‘Could he have done this?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . . because we’re not . . . he’s just not that into me any more.’ The American accent was an attempted joke but the bitterness of the words cancelled it out.

  ‘Oh,’ said Anni. ‘Right.’

  Suzanne looked at her once more. ‘These things happen.’ Her voice reedy, unconvincing.

  ‘But he still has a key.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Suzanne frowned, as if the thought had just entered her head. ‘Not because he still wanted to see me. Just . . .’ She shrugged. ‘. . . because . . .’

  ‘Never gave it back.’ Anni took his details. ‘So you got a new boyfriend?’

  Suzanne shook her head. Picked up the mug once more, toying with it, swirling the dregs round and round, staring.

  Anni sensed there was something more. ‘Have you had trouble like this before, Suzanne? With men?’

  She answered without taking her eyes off the mug. ‘I . . . no. Never. Nothing like this.’

  ‘Nothing at all? No intruders? Stalkers?’

  The last word hit a nerve. Suzanne said nothing.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head with a finality that told Anni she wouldn’t be getting anything further from that line of questioning.

  ‘This photo . . .’ Anni gestured to it, sitting alongside her in a clear plastic evidence bag.

  Suzanne braced herself once more, as if she was expecting a physical assault.

  ‘Are you sure it was taken last night?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s no chance it might have been older?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Suzanne began turning the coffee mug once more. Cold, brown liquid spilled over the sides, splashed out on to the floor. She didn’t notice.

  ‘Suzanne?’ Anni reached out a hand. She placed it over Suzanne’s, stopping her agitated movements. Suzanne looked up at her. Anni held the eye contact. ‘Why are you so sure it was taken last night?’

  ‘I . . . it was. I had . . . in the bathroom last night, I . . . did my . . . my bikini line.’ She swallowed the words in embarrassment. ‘With a razor. I . . . cut myself. It’s . . . on the photo. You can, you can see the, the cut . . .’

  Anni looked at the photo. It clearly showed Suzanne asleep with her T-shirt pulled up to her breasts, exposing her body. Her legs were open. She leaned in closer, squinting. The cut was clearly visible.

  She looked back to Suzanne. The mug fell to the floor, the remaining liquid spilling out. Suzanne looked at it as if not understanding what it was. Then her head dropped, her shoulders moved rhythmically back and forwards.

  Anni had no option but to let her cry.

  Eventually, Suzanne found her voice. ‘I’m not - not lying . . .’

  ‘I didn’t -’

  ‘I’m not making it up.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  Suzanne looked up, an angry fire fighting through the tears. ‘I wasn’t then and I’m not now. Right?’

  ‘You weren’t doing what then?’

  Suzanne looked away, regained composure. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did you mean, Suzanne? Was it something to do with your ex-boyfriend Mark?’

  She wiped her face with the sleeve of her dressing gown. Sat back, exhausted. ‘I can’t talk any more . . .’

  Anni knew that was all she would be getting. For now. She leaned forward once more. ‘Suzanne, I’d like you to come with me.’

  Suzanne sat back, fear and distrust on her face. ‘Where? Why?’

  ‘To the station.’ Anni’s voice was all calmness and reason once more. ‘I’d like you to be seen by a doctor.’

  Anni nodded. ‘It’ll be sensitively handled. It won’t hurt. And I’d also like your consent to a blood test on top of that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if you’ve got anything in your system that could have made you feel bad this morning. Other than a glass of red wine and chocolate, of course.’ She smiled. Suzanne didn’t return it.

  ‘OK?’

  Suzanne nodded, her face slack, empty, like she was still in a dream. She stood up, her body moving like a somnambulist’s.

  Anni told her to come as she was and bring a change of clothing to go home in. Suzanne numbly walked to the bedroom to do so. Anni watched her go. As Suzanne reached the doorway, she turned.

  ‘Do you . . . The door, I’ll, I’ll . . . keep it open.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  Suzanne took a bag from the wardrobe, began to throw clothes into it. She was clearly traumatised, thought Anni, but something was off. Suzanne Perry was holding something back, hiding something. Never mind. While Suzanne was in the rape suite Anni would be at her computer running background checks.
r />   Whatever it was, it wouldn’t stay hidden for long.

  9

  The Creeper was missing Rani.

  She had gone out. Left the flat with that black girl, the police officer. Left him alone. He didn’t mind. As long as she wasn’t too long. He would get lonely if she was away too long. Miss her. That wouldn’t do. And if she was away too long he would be angry with her.

  And she really didn’t want that.

  But he knew what to do. How to fill in the time until she returned, make it feel as if she was there with him.

  The door clicked shut. He waited, counted to a thousand, then came out. Looked round. Felt anger rise within him. The police had left the place in a real mess. That wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair at all. Maybe he should tidy up. A treat for Rani coming home. Or maybe not. Might make her cry again.

  He smiled. He liked it when she cried. Made him feel like his love was working, like she wanted him.

  He went into the kitchen. Thought about making himself a cup of tea. Decided not to. He wasn’t in the mood. He looked across the hall to the bedroom. Smiled.

  He knew what he was in the mood for.

  He went into the bedroom. It was only a few hours since he had been in here with her, his beautiful Rani, but it felt longer. So much longer. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Held it as long as he could. Let it go. Smiled. He could smell her. Her perfume, her skin, her clothes . . . everything. He opened the wardrobe door, looked at her clothes hanging there. Traced his fingers along, felt the fabric of her skirts, her jeans, her dresses. Slowly caressing, imagining being next to her skin . . .

  Then away from the wardrobe. He knew what was coming next. Could feel it. He went to the sideboard, opened the second drawer down on the right. Rani’s underwear drawer. He smiled. Put his hands in.

  He ignored the everyday stuff. The boring cotton drip catchers. Went straight for the flimsy, filmy gossamers. Rubbed the sheer fabric between his fingers. Imagined her in them . . .

  The Creeper was getting hard. He knew what was coming next.

  He chose the pair of knickers he wanted. Black and dirty-pink, all sheer and see-through, lace and bows. Then lay down on the bed, undid his flies. Got comfortable, in the right position. And with her knickers in his hand, he closed his eyes, summoned her.

  And there she was before him. Vividly alive, realer than real, better than life. His fingers moved slowly. He felt the fabric against his skin, whispered her name.

  ‘Rani . . .’ Sighed again. Smiled again. His heart pumping, butterflies fluttering in his stomach from just hearing it said aloud. ‘Rani . . .’

  And she answered him. As she always did. I’m here . . . for you . . .

  Rani was her real name. Her secret name. He didn’t care what name she went by, what she called herself day to day. Because he knew what she really looked like, who she really was. She had told him. Revealed herself to him.

  He sighed. His fingers moved faster, heart picking up speed.

  ‘Rani . . .’

  Yes, my love?

  ‘I’ve been with you all day . . . did you see me?’

  I did . . .

  ‘I was with you this morning, there when you opened your eyes.’ He paused, gave a small laugh. ‘You looked funny. When you got up you could hardly walk.’

  She laughed also. I’m glad I make you laugh.

  He felt a thrill course through him at her words. Quickened his pace. ‘Last night . . . I felt so close to you . . .’

  And I you . . .

  ‘Did you like my present?’

  Loved it . . .

  His little valentine. His declaration of love and intent.

  I’M WATCHING OVER YOU

  He’d spent a long time working on that sentence, trying to find words that expressed not only his love for her, but also his devotion. Her own personal guardian angel. And he thought he had achieved it. Proud of it.

  ‘You cried when you saw it . . .’

  I did . . .

  His fingers moved faster at the thought, no longer butterflies in his stomach, more like finches trapped in a barn.

  But then . . .

  That thing caught inside him. That niggle, that thought, working away at him like a worm in an apple . . .

  ‘Oh Rani . . .’

  Sadness overwhelmed him. Like he hadn’t felt for ages, not since . . . before. He tried not to think of it, let his mind go back there. Concentrate on the present. On Rani. On his love. But it was difficult.

  Other memories, other voices, would fill his head and the butterflies, the swallows, would leave his stomach, and something else, something more dangerous, would take their place. A serpent, hard, cold and coiled in the depths of his guts, hissing acid inside him, poisoning him with fear and hate.

  And its voice . . . all that anger, that hate . . . All women are whores . . . every one . . . use them like whores . . . that’s all they’re good for . . .

  ‘No . . . no . . .’

  Cut them, slice them . . .

  It wasn’t him. Not now. Not any more. He had to do something, drive the voice out, repeat his mantra, defeat the snake. ‘Out of the cleansing fire I was born and he was lost . . .’ Keep going . . . ‘Out of the cleansing fire her soul was freed when her body was lost . . .’ Keep going . . . ‘Out of the cleansing fire was born my search and love to be found . . .’

  The snake slithered away, back to the darkness. He heard Rani’s voice once more.

  I’m still here . . .

  Joy flooded his heart. He was hard again. His fingers moved faster, a smile spreading across his face.

  His fingers increased speed, his breathing became heavier. His love’s voice was in his head once more, her face before him.

  Then, gasping and whispering her name, it was all over. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you . . .’ Over and over, gasping and whispering. Sighing and smiling.

  ‘Rani . . . Rani . . .’

  And I love you . . . He voice faded as it always did in these moments. But she would be back. He had no doubt.

  He opened his eyes. Wiped himself off on her knickers, pocketed them for later. He had an idea what to do with them.

  Rani needed another present, another token of his love for her . . .

  He looked round the room, getting dreamy. He could lie here all day. But he had things to do. So he got up, left the bedroom.

  He stood in the hall, looked up at the hatch to the loft. Time to go back. Assume his position watching over Rani, her own guardian angel. But not just yet.

  Down the hall and into the bathroom. Just time for a quick shower.

  Then leave his present where she would find it.

  The Creeper couldn’t wait until Rani came home.

  He had such plans for her . . .

  10

  Mickey Philips flipped his notebook shut, put it in his jacket pocket and crossed the road, walking away from the river.

  The businesses along the quay hadn’t yielded up anything of value. Mickey hadn’t been made welcome. When he approached with the uniforms, orders were shouted in languages other than English and bodies dissolved into shadows. Rags were thrown over number plates in workshops, objects were put hastily into desk drawers or beneath counters. He was met with too-wide smiles and helpless shrugs, and eyes that looked anywhere but at him. Even when he told them it was a murder inquiry and that he didn’t care what else they had going on, the smiles dropped but the shrugs continued. No one had seen anything, no one knew anything. He heard it so many times that eventually he thought it might even be the truth. Eventually he left the uniforms to it, instructing them to take extra notice of anyone giving them a particularly hard time, and walked off down the road.

  He preferred working alone, in spite of what DI Brennan had said about mavericking. It was when he could drop the persona and be himself, not have to be one of the lads, play the game. Remember he was a university graduate and not just a Nuts mag cookie-cutter copper. He’d been there, done that. And seen what
it had almost cost him.

  The job wasn’t for the weak-willed, he knew that when he signed up, but the Drugs Squad was one of the most full-on outfits in the force. He had gone into it looking for glory, for collars, for headlines. Knowing the rewards could be big, ignoring the fact that the failures could be bigger.

  As a DC he had thrown himself into the life. One of the gang, never missed a night out whether it was playing pool or poker, off for a curry or out to a strip club. Bonding, he told himself. Helping to make them a team, a unit.

  And what a unit they had been. What a force on the street. Cocks of the walk, the Met’s finest, like The Sweeney reborn, with Danny Dyer playing him in the film version. And with a clean-up rate second to none. And if some of their haul never made it to evidence, so what? Bit of charlie never hurt anyone. Perks of the job. And if one drug dealer was allowed to flourish at the expense of another because he kept the boys supplied with both information and product, how was that wrong? And if they made a little cash looking the other way occasionally, so what? No harm done in the great scheme of things.

  Except there was. As his girlfriend pointed out one day when, blood running down his nose and the backs of his eyes feeling like they were pincushions for burning needles, he pulled his fist back and screamed that she didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. And not for the first time. She made him see his life ahead of him. The ghost of Christmas yet to come. And it wasn’t pretty.

  So that was it. Fix-up time. Get straight, ship out.

  And he had. Narcotics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous, too, just to be on the safe side. Even thought about church. But not very seriously. Took the sergeant’s exam, filled an opening up in Colchester, Essex. Played up the arrests, played down the rest. His girlfriend didn’t hang around, though, she’d had enough. But that was OK. He deserved it.

  So, Colchester. Clean slate, new start.

  He made a mental note not to keep trying too hard with his new squad members and checked his watch. Gone eleven. And he hadn’t eaten since God knows when. Well before he’d thrown up. Not even a cup of tea. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled.