Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  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

  Phil 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

  Anthony 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?’

  Another uniform, standing by the door, keeping the press of bodies back, glanced nervously at him. ‘We did, sir, we checked in on him regularly. Looked like he was sleeping.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t, was he?’

  The uniform recoiled. ‘No . . . but we weren’t given any special orders. No suicide watch or nothing . . .’

  Suicide watch. Phil looked down at the body, thought of Howe’s words in the interview room the previous night:

  I can’t go in a cell, please . . . I’m claustrophobic . . . please . . . please . . . I’m scared . . .

  Phil hadn’t listened to him. Ignored him, in fact. He heard stuff like that all the time, thought nothing of it. Looked again at the mess on the floor.

  I’m losing it . . .

  At that moment the paramedics arrived, ushering everyone out of the way, taking over. Phil allowed himself to be led from the cell along with everyone else. Now the corridor was full of bodies.

  Fenwick pushed his way over to Phil, placed an arm round his shoulder. ‘A word.’ He separated him from the rest of the group, walked him away to a quiet spot round a corner.

  As Phil went he turned, saw Fiona Welch’s face. She was staring into the cell, her eyes lit up, a smile on her face. Fascination? He didn’t know. Didn’t have time to think about her now. He turned to Fenwick.

  ‘What the fuck just happened here?’ Fenwick’s voice low, angry.

  Phil shook his head.

  ‘Where was the risk assessment? Why wasn’t this flagged up? Why didn’t you do that?’

  Anger was still swirling around inside Phil, looking for an outlet. It had just found it. ‘Me? This is all my fault, is it?’

  ‘You interviewed him.’

  ‘You observed.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fenwick, finger jabbing in Phil’s face. ‘And I said you didn’t look up to it. You were off your game in there, not thinking for yourself, doing whatever she told you too.’

  Phil’s anger jumped up a gear. ‘Don’t make out this is my fault. Don’t you try and make me take the blame for this.’

  ‘Whose fault is it, then? That profiler’s?’ Fenwick sneered. ‘We all know you do whatever a profiler tells you, don’t we? She the next in line?’

  Phil couldn’t stop himself. His fist was coming towards Fenwick’s face before his brain had a chance to stop it.

  It connected. Fenwick’s head snapped back and round, taking his body with it. His legs went too, tangling and tripping over each other, taking Fenwick to the floor.

  He lay there, looking up at Phil who just stared down at his superior officer. Shocked, stunned and amazed at what he had just done. His mouth was open, flapping with words that wouldn’t emerge.

  Fenwick’s hand went to his mouth where Phil’s fist had broken the skin, blood pooling there. He stared upwards, as shocked as Phil was.

  Anni appeared in the hall behind Phil. ‘Boss—’ She stopped dead at the scene before her.

  Phil, aware that she was there, put his arm out to help Fenwick to his feet. Fenwick accepted.

  ‘It’s all right, Anni,’ said Phil. ‘Everything’s OK.’

  Fenwick made it to his feet, staggering slightly. Phil couldn’t meet his gaze, turned to Anni.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I, uh, just wanted to tell you that the Super’s on his way. From Chelmsford. Said he wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Anni.’

  She looked between the two men, wide-eyed, then turned and rejoined the rest of the team in front of the cell door.

  Phil looked at Fenwick. ‘Sorry,’ he said, eyes hitting the floor.

  Fenwick nodded.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Phil turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait.’

  Phil turned. Fenwick was still rubbing his jaw. Mouth working, trying to find words that wouldn’t come easily.

  ‘Go and lead your team. We’ll deal with this later.’

  Phil nodded, turned, walked away.

  He rounded the corner, back to where everyone else was. The paramedics were taking Anthony Howe out on a stretcher. Fiona Welch was still staring, fascinated, as his body went past her.

  ‘Fiona,’ said Phil, ‘geographic victim profile. Can you do that?’

  She looked up at him. ‘Of course I can.’

  ‘Then do it, please.’ He looked at the rest of the team. ‘Right, upstairs. Back to work. It’s our job to make sure there aren’t any more deaths. Come on, excitement over.’

  He turned, walked away. Thinking about what Fenwick had said, that this mess was all his fault.

  Thinking that he might be right.

  59

  Excitement over.

  Phil was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Mickey walked back up the stairs to the bar along with the rest of the team. With a day of looking through vehicle registrations to come, that phrase went doubly for him.

  He bumped into Anni. She looked up, startled.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘miles away.’

  ‘Don’t blame you,’ said Mickey. ‘What just happened . . .’

  She looked sharply at him. ‘You saw—’ Her features changed. ‘Oh. Right. Yeah.’

  They walked together in silence.

  ‘Look,’ said Mickey.

  A ghost of a smile played round Anni’s lips. ‘Is this going to be an “about last night” thing? Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Even as he spoke he felt himself reddening. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

  She gave him a quick look, eyes mischievous. ‘What way did you mean it, then?’

  He glanced round, seeing who was listening. Jane Gosling was right behind him, behind her Rose Martin and Ben Fenwick, deep in conversation, Rose’s face angry.

  ‘Not here,’ he said.

  ‘Man of mystery,’ she said, smiling ag
ain. ‘Giving me a key to your house of secrets then, are you?’

  Mickey sighed, shook his head. He thought he could trust Anni. Out of all of the team she seemed the most approachable, the one with less of an agenda, the most honest.

  They reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner. Anni put a hand on his arm. He stopped, turned.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just winding you up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go out, follow up those client list leads of Suzanne and Zoe’s from the hospital. But I’ll be around later.’ She smiled again. ‘Or you could phone me.’

  Fiona Welch came past, walking double time, self-importantly, like she was in an episode of The West Wing.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said and turned, went back to the bar.

  Hoping he wasn’t blushing too much.

  He reached his desk, sat down. Sighed. Looked round. Fiona Welch was at her desk on the other side of the room, looking at her screen, energised, lips moving in a dialogue only she could hear.

  He just might give Anni a ring.

  He looked at his own screen, at the scrolling numbers, the lists. Knowing in theory why his work was so important but wishing there was a more exciting way to do it.

  Fiona Welch laughed to herself, went on staring at the screen.

  He hoped the thing he wanted to talk to Anni about would keep, hoped he was right.

  But hoped more that he wasn’t.

  60

  Anni stood on the doorstep and rang the bell.

  The house was way out in Coggeshall, one of the most photogenic villages on Essex. Anni had always had a problem with the place and others like it, though. Because its main street and offshoots consisted of the kind of old, beamed, uneven houses, thatched roofs, Regency-windowed pubs and quaint, red-brick cottages that spoke of a certain kind of intractable tradition and held a natural attraction to a certain kind of reactionary mindset, being black, female and a non-Daily Mail reader made her feel uncomfortable there.