Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  Not for her . . . not for her . . .

  But there was nothing he could do, just watch.

  Zoe went into Suzanne’s kitchen, filled the kettle. Tea. That was what was needed now. Not coffee, tea. It was warming, soothing. It destressed you, brought back happy associations from when you were younger, made you feel like you were curled in a chair, safe and warm. And if you had chocolate HobNobs to go with it, so much the better.

  Zoe took the biscuits from the canvas carrier she had brought with her. When she had gone home to grab some clothes, she had popped into Sainsbury’s on the way, put a few essentials together, the makings of a meal for the pair of them, something for them to share in the hope it would take Suzanne’s mind off what had happened.

  She arrayed the food on the counter. Looked at the biscuits and felt immediately hungry. She wanted to open the packet, start in on them right now. But she wouldn’t. She would take them in to Suzanne, open them in front of her and allow herself only one. Or perhaps even a half. And make sure Suzanne took them and put them away. Somewhere Zoe couldn’t find them.

  Her stomach felt like a ravenous, cavernous space. But then it always did.

  She loved food. Loved the sheer sensuality of eating, the feel of it in her mouth, the smells, the tastes, the textures. The way it slipped down her throat and into her stomach. The act of putting something inside her body, satisfying herself, her hungers and cravings, feeling it gradually fill her out. Wonderful. Nothing to touch it in the world. For Zoe, food was her sex.

  But like so many of Zoe’s early sexual encounters, she ended up feeling bad about it afterwards. Guilt-ridden, hating herself and what her hungers had led her to do.

  And that’s when her problems had started.

  She’d never been anorexic, never been one to starve herself. That was something, she supposed. But sticking her fingers down her throat to bring it all back up again . . . to let her body feel cleansed, guilt-free and empty . . . that made perfect sense to her.

  University for her had been about secrets and lies and double lives. The happy, extrovert - even exhibitionist at times - Zoe who was never short on friends or boyfriends. And the self-loathing, toilet bowl-hugging wreck that she really saw herself as.

  Thank God she wasn’t like that any more. Thank God for her friends - or rather Suzanne. She had been there for her, helped her out, shown strength when Zoe didn’t have any of her own. She had picked her up, made her feel worthwhile, turned her life around. Been there for her when she needed her.

  And thank God for therapy. It had been Suzanne’s idea and she couldn’t thank her enough for it. She hadn’t wanted to go at first but had to admit it was the best thing she had ever done. It gave her a new life, new confidence.

  And a new boyfriend. Not as good-looking as the others but he loved her. She had felt he was different and she was right. She thought she could trust him with the truth so she told him all about her trouble. It was the best thing she had ever done. He said he didn’t care, would love her whatever size she was. And that filled her with something else, so rich and full and nourishing that her hungry heart no longer needed to binge any more.

  But those HobNobs still looked good, though.

  The kettle boiled and Zoe went about making tea in two of Suzanne’s fanciest mugs. A little thing, but hopefully it might help to cheer her up.

  She opened the fridge door, looking for milk.

  And stopped dead, her heart skipping a beat.

  ‘Suzanne . . .’ Her voice was small, wavering. Her heart skipped, a shiver of real dread passed through her. ‘I think . . . can you come here . . .’

  Bitch.

  Fucking Bitch. Why did she have to find it first? It wasn’t for her. It was for Rani. It was all for Rani. The blonde bitch was unworthy of it. Like she was unworthy of everything to do with Rani.

  The snake was writhing and hissing inside him, coiling and uncoiling, baring its fangs, spitting poison. The voice had returned. Whores . . . the whole fucking lot of them . . . whores . . . that’s all they’re good for . . . don’t trust them . . . any of them . . .

  He hated the blonde bitch. Wanted her gone. She’d come between them, she had no future.

  Rani entered the kitchen. The snake calmed itself.

  He watched.

  Listened.

  Hung on her every word, her every action and gesture.

  Spotting the secret ones she made just for him.

  Breathing fast. Excited, because even if the blonde bitch was there, Rani was going to see his present.

  His valentine.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’

  ‘Is . . . is that what . . . what I think it is . . .?’

  Suzanne had taken one look inside the fridge and stumbled backwards. Her legs were shaking, about to collapse beneath her, her heart hammering, thudding against her ribcage. Zoe was still looking, fascinated yet repelled.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ Suzanne’s eyes were screwed tight shut, willing it all to be a dream, herself to be somewhere else, somewhere safe.

  Zoe reached out a hand. Suzanne opened her eyes.

  ‘Don’t touch . . .’

  Zoe turned, stared eyes wide at her friend.

  ‘Please, don’t . . . don’t touch . . .’

  ‘Leave it for the police, you mean?’

  ‘Just, just leave it. Leave it . . .’ Suzanne wanted just to slump down on to a kitchen chair, her head in her hands. Give in. Not hold back any longer. Let those huge, great, wracking sobs out of her body. And tell him: you win. Whoever you are, you win.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead she stood there, felt that heat rise once more, that anger. Clenched her fists. ‘I’m not giving in, you bastard. You hear me? I’m not . . .’

  ‘Suzanne?’ Zoe crossed to her, put her arms round her.

  ‘He’s been here again, Zoe, here . . .’

  ‘Or the police missed it. Bloody useless.’

  Zoe looked at the open fridge door. On the top shelf was a pair of her knickers. With something unmistakeable on them.

  Semen.

  ‘Oh God . . . what a fucking nightmare . . .’

  Zoe held her, said nothing. There was nothing she could find to say.

  The Creeper smiled. Watched. Rani was sitting down, overcome with emotion. Weeping with joy at his present.

  ‘Oh, Rani . . .’

  He felt himself hardening as he stared at her.

  Touching himself.

  Smiling.

  Blonde bitch or not, it couldn’t have gone any better.

  ‘What d’you want to do?’

  ‘I want to find him.’ Suzanne didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘I want to find him, Zoe, and I want to take the biggest knife I can find and stick it in him. Right in him. And watch him suffer. Like he’s made me suffer. And watch him die. That’s what I want to do, Zoe.’

  Zoe was sitting next to her. Her arm tightened round her. ‘I know you do. I know. What about the police? D’you want me to phone them? D’you want to go somewhere else?’ No reply. Suzanne stared at the wall. ‘Just tell me and we can do it.’

  She spoke eventually. ‘I want . . .’

  Zoe waited.

  ‘I want . . .’ She sighed. ‘I want my life back . . .’

  Zoe kept holding her.

  Suzanne started sobbing. She didn’t know if they were tears of anger or pain or pity or what.

  She just sobbed her heart out.

  The Creeper kept watching.

  Smiling.

  Waiting.

  23

  ‘She still down there, then? Heard she was in, poor cow. Don’t know what I can do, though. Part from slap an ASBO on her, restraining order, or something.’ He snorted. ‘Probably not the first.’

  Detective Sergeant John Farrell leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, hands behind his head. He was a small man, round and bald. His suit looked like he had been wrestled into it, collar open, tie askew. Tired shoes on his feet. His words contained
the usual amount of copper’s front and bluster, but his eyes showed a genuine care. Or at least Phil hoped that was what he saw there.

  ‘She says you’re not updating her on the investigation.’ Farrell looked at Phil, eyes narrowed. ‘FLO not good enough for her?’

  Phil held up his hands. ‘I’m only repeating what she said. She’s concerned. Wants to know what’s happening.’

  Farrell sighed. ‘Nothing. That’s what. Her daughter ran off a couple of weeks ago, we’ve been trying to find her. Exhausted all the avenues, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, work colleagues, family, the lot.’ He reeled off his achievements - or lack of them - on his fingers. ‘Tried all the usual stuff, TV, the papers, internet, radio, National Missing Persons Helpline. Nada. Blank.’

  ‘No sign of abduction? Nothing like that?’

  ‘If it was it must have been Derren bloody Brown.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But between you an’ me . . .’ Farrell removed his hands from behind his head, leaned forward. ‘Typical mispers case, I reckon. Done a bunk. She’s got previous.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Runnin’ away. Works as a barmaid, pub in New Town. Part-time. Got history of bein’ a bit loose, if you catch my drift.’

  Phil frowned. ‘You mean, what? She’s a prostitute?’

  Farrell shrugged. ‘Part-time, like I said. Used to go off with blokes, not come back for days. Mother says she’s changed, havin’ a kid an’ that, but . . . dunno. Leopards an’ spots, you know.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is,’ said Phil, ‘she’s not a priority.’

  Another shrug. ‘You know what it’s like. When they don’t want to be found they don’t want to be found. They’ll come home when they want to.’ He sat back once more, replacing his hands behind his head. ‘When the bloke’s money runs out.’

  Phil was more than a little annoyed at his colleague’s attitude but he had to admit he did know what that was like. He’d been on enough cases that didn’t come to a conclusion but just petered out, faded away. But that still didn’t excuse his attitude.

  ‘And you don’t think there’s any connection between Adele Harrison going missing and the body we found this morning by the Hythe?’

  Farrell sat forward again. ‘It’s not her, is it?’

  ‘We think it might be Julie Miller, the girl who disappeared last week.’

  Farrell sat back again, satisfied. ‘There you go, then. Different case entirely.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a connection? Two young women disappear within days of each other?’

  ‘What, that posh bird that’s all over the news and my case? Doubt it.’

  Phil sighed. ‘Her mother’s downstairs. Go and see her.’ Farrell looked to Phil as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he said, ‘You’ve just had a kid, haven’t you?’

  Phil nodded. ‘Daughter.’

  Farrell nodded as if that explained everything. ‘Right.’ He unclasped his hands from behind his head. ‘All right, then. I’ll go down and see her. Tell her again her part-time prossie daughter’s off with some bloke an’ that she’ll come home when he gets bored of her.’ He looked at Phil, saw the look he was giving. ‘In the nicest possible terms, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Welcome.’ Farrell didn’t move. ‘Then maybe she’ll go home, give us all a bit of peace.’

  Phil walked away from him, glad Farrell wasn’t on his team.

  And peace was the last thing he wished on him.

  Phil tried to use the time spent walking down the corridor productively. He called Nick Lines to see if there was any news from the autopsy. Nothing new as yet, was the reply. Adrian would present the full findings in the morning. No DNA results yet, so no positive match could be made. But he was fairly sure it was Julie Miller. Unless there was another missing girl he didn’t know about. Phil said nothing and rang off. Thinking.

  His mobile went before he could put it in his pocket.

  ‘Boss? Mickey.’

  Phil could tell by the tone of his DS’s voice that it was important. ‘What you got?’

  ‘Sighting of a van.’ There was the sound of scrabbling on the line. Mickey getting his notepad ready. ‘Early this morning. Black, small. Not a Transit, he said, something with back doors. Came down to the quay at about five this morning. ’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘Guy in the food van. Gets down there early.’

  Excitement rose within Phil’s chest. ‘Number plate?’

  ‘Nah, sorry. He didn’t see. Didn’t think it would be important. Says he only remembered when he saw us all down there.’

  ‘What made him remember?’

  ‘The speed it was doing. Came off the quay like Jensen Button, he said.’

  ‘Driver’s description?’

  ‘Two of them, he thinks. That’s all he can remember. Came out, turned left. Sped off.’

  ‘Thanks, Mickey. The first solid lead. We’ve got something to go on.’

  He broke the connection, after telling Mickey there wasn’t much more he could do for the day but to start looking into it first thing in the morning.

  Thought of Marina. Of Josephina. Felt something tugging at him from deep inside.

  He wanted to go home. Needed to go home.

  But there was business to attend to first.

  24

  Marina signed, sat down in the armchair, took a sip from the Californian Shiraz at her side, sighed, closed her eyes.

  Josephina had gone down peacefully. Her regular feed, already snuggled up in her Babygro, eyes fluttering as she drank. Now she was asleep in her cot at the side of their bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, fingers curled in like tiny woodlice.

  Marina had set up the baby intercom, crept downstairs, sank into an armchair with a book and a large glass of wine. Tried to tune everything out, relax while Midlake played on low volume in the background, singing about heading home.

  Home.

  The new house she had bought with Phil. It was part of a new waterfront development in the west side of Wivenhoe, not far from where she used to live. Wivenhoe was an old fishing village full of old, character-filled houses, independent shops, good pubs and interesting people. The university where Marina had worked was just down the road and consequently the town had a distinctly liberal, corduroy feel to the place. It was comfortable, homely, vaguely bohemian and a little self-consciously arty. Martina used to feel very at home there.

  But not any more.

  The new house was at the opposite side to the cottage she used to live in. Designed to fit in and complement the ambience of the old waterfront, the development consisted of tall, red-brick houses in a small development with an aged, nautical feel, arranged round a lock gate that flowed out to the River Colne. It was a compromise. Phil, she knew, might not have felt comfortable in such an old house, but there was no way Marina could stay where she had been living.

  Her first instinct had been to move as far away as possible, not be anywhere that would remind her of what had happened in her old house; the nightmares were getting less frequent, but were still bad enough. Phil, knowing her state of mind and understanding entirely, had left the decision up to her and they had looked at property all over Colchester. But when it came to it, she couldn’t move. It was like something was still holding her there, drawing her back. So she’d relented. And they’d bought the new house.

  And now she wasn’t so sure.

  Another mouthful of wine. She looked round. The room, like the rest of the house, wasn’t fully hers yet, or Phil’s. They had put out what they needed - furniture, TV, hi-fi - but the bookshelves were still empty, the walls still bare and there were boxes everywhere. It wasn’t a home. Not yet. But hopefully it would be.

  Hopefully.

  She checked her watch, wondered what time Phil would be back. She had eaten and was planning on an early night since she knew she’d be up with Josephina at some point
. She might not get to see him. She didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

  Phil was her soulmate. She knew that. When she and him met, she had never felt a connection like it. They understood each other perfectly, seeing the damage and sense of loss in each of them reflected in the other, knowing that apart they would be incomplete individuals but together they would make a complete whole.

  His childhood spent in brutal institutions and uncaring foster homes mirrored hers spent with a violent, abusive father, an emotionally absent mother and brothers she never wanted to see again. Phil’s adoptive parents had saved him. Marina’s mind had saved her. University, leading to a job as a practising psychologist, meant she never had to go home again.

  Marina hated using pop psychology greetings card analogies but in this case it was true. Phil completed her. And she him.

  If only it was that simple. If only it was just the pair of them.

  It wasn’t even Josephina. They were both thrilled about their daughter. Thrilled and terrified. She should have been a proud, public acknowledgement of their love for one another, their sense of commitment to each other, their contentment.

  She should have been. And if it was just the three of them, even that would be fine.

  But . . .

  She picked the book up from the arm of the chair, tried to tune everything out of her head, just get into it, slip away. James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity. She had found it in one of the boxes, not picked it up since she’d studied it as part of her MA at university and had now decided to reread it.

  The story of a couple who recognise something damaged and kindred in each other and fall madly, passionately, in love. The only obstacle is the woman’s husband so they murder him in order to be together. But once they do that they find their guilt has bound them together in a fearful, destructive state and killed any future happiness between them. At least that was the way Marina was reading it.

  She put the book down, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes.