Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  And he would think some more and there would be Rani. Only Rani.

  The old woman’s body had started to smell. It had gone through being stiff and impossible to move, like bodies did. And now it was starting to loosen up. Soon it would be nothing more than an old sack of fluid, fat and bones.

  The Creeper didn’t care. It was nothing to him.

  He was still watching. Waiting. Practising being patient. Willing Rani to appear again.

  Rose Martin. That was the name she was going by. But it wasn’t important. He would call her by her real one. Make her answer to it.

  He didn’t like that man being around, though. Felt a shaft of something hard and icy hot lance through him when he thought of that man with her, touching her, talking to her . . . He wished he were nearer to her than across the road. In the house with her where he should be. Living together as lovers.

  Soon, though. Once he’d worked out how to go about it. Soon.

  He closed his eyes. He could feel her, trying to get through, trying to talk to her.

  And there she was.

  ‘Hello, Rani.’

  Hello, my love.

  ‘I . . . I’m watching you. Can you see me?’

  Yes, I can see you. I always know when you’re there.

  He grinned, let out a little giggle. ‘Good.’

  Listen, she said, d’you want to come and meet me?

  He was too shocked to talk for a few seconds. That wasn’t what he had been expecting to hear her say. ‘Wha-- . . . when? Where?’

  She gave him directions.

  As for when . . . Why not right now?

  ‘Really? You mean that? I don’t need to watch the house any more, I can come and meet you?’

  I’d love you to.

  He heard the yearning in her voice. No mistaking it. Yearning for him. He giggled again.

  But there is one thing. I have to tell you this and you’ve got to know. It’s very important.

  ‘What, Rani? Anything. You can tell me anything . . .’

  Well, there’s this man. He’s been bothering me. Wanting me to . . . well, I couldn’t say. But I’m sure you can guess.

  And there it was, that hard, icily hot shaft spearing him once more. Making him angry. ‘Is it the one from the car last night?’

  She was silent for a few seconds. Yes. That would be him. I want you to deal with him for me. Get rid of him. Would you do that?

  ‘Of course I would. You know that. I’d do anything for you. Anything.’

  She laughed. I know. He’ll be with me. Get rid of him and then . . .

  He waited. ‘Yes?’

  You can have me. I’m all yours.

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  Me neither. Isn’t this great? We can be together again . . .

  72

  ‘You got a minute?’ Milhouse grabbed Phil as soon as he entered the bar. He was trying to be secretive about it, but since he was standing by the door looking shifty and suspicious, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d been wearing a trench coat and a trilby with the word ‘spy’ written across the hatband.

  Seeing Milhouse, he realised that he hadn’t thought about Marina for hours. With the case moving the way it was, and at the speed it was, that was understandable but he still felt guilty over it.

  Milhouse led him over to his desk. ‘Those cards,’ he said quietly, ‘the ones you asked me to trace . . .’ His voice dropped to a stage whisper. He sat down at his computer.

  Phil stood over him, waiting. Anxious once again. ‘Yeah?’

  Milhouse waved his hands over the keys. ‘Bury St Edmunds,’ he said. ‘Hotel, restaurant, supermarket.’ He looked up, compassion in his eyes. ‘That’s where she is.’

  Phil managed a smile. ‘Thanks, Milhouse, I owe you one.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Could I ask you another favour, though?’ Phil gave a quick look round to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘Could you keep this quiet?’

  Milhouse gave what he supposed was an enigmatic smile. ‘I am a keeper of many secrets.’

  ‘I’ll bet you are,’ said Phil, and crossed the room.

  Bury St Edmunds. That made sense. So obvious when he thought about it. Where he should have looked first. It was almost like she wanted him to come, to find her. Suddenly his mobile felt hot in his pocket.

  He took it out, ready to call, when he saw Fiona Welch enter. He quickly put it back, crossed to her.

  ‘Fiona,’ he said.

  She stopped walking, looked at him. Her lips had been moving, deep in conversation with herself. She looked up, surprised to see him, startled, as if she had just woken from a dream.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The geographical profile,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes flickered like she was running through her mental Rolodex, working her way round to what he was talking about. ‘Right. Been working on it all morning. Nearly done.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  Fire flashed in her eyes. ‘What? What d’you mean?’

  ‘We have a suspect under surveillance that we favour very strongly.’ He smiled, trying to play the diplomat. ‘So we won’t be needing it after all. But thanks.’

  Her eyes began moving quickly from side to side, like she was scanning something, reading it quickly. ‘What? Who? Who is he?’

  ‘An ex-squaddie. Burns victim, apparently. Was being treated by both Suzanne Perry and Julie Miller.’

  Her features became unreadable. ‘How did you . . . how did you find him?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘Police work. It’s what we do. So, anyway. Send in your invoice and we’ll get it sorted.’

  She stepped closer to him, got right in his face. ‘No.’

  Phil stepped back, looked at her, frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said no. I’m not going. I won’t go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you need me. I’m an integral part of this investigation and you need me. So no. I won’t be got rid off so easily.’

  Phil felt anger rise inside him. He had never liked Fiona Welch, never rated her, never even wanted her on the team in the first place. And he was tired of being polite to her.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, letting his voice be as angry as he could considering where he was, ‘your contribution so far has been to give us a profile that was so inaccurate, so inept, that an innocent man is now on life support because of it.’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘Well, it’s looking that way, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s not my fault.’ Her voice was low, hissing. ‘I provided you with the best profile I could on the information provided. Anyone else would have done the same.’

  ‘No they wouldn’t. Not anyone. Certainly not anyone competent.’

  Her eyes were dancing with anger. It seemed it was all she could do not to physically assault him. ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that about me . . .’

  Phil was matching her. ‘Good job we didn’t get your geographic profile. Might have sent us looking for someone in Cardiff.’

  She stared at him. ‘How dare you.’ Her voice low, ominous. ‘You. A copper. An uneducated copper talking to me like that. How dare you.’ She spat the word ‘uneducated’ at him.

  Phil stared at her, struggling to control his temper. ‘Send us an invoice,’ he said and walked away.

  Phil walked outside into the car park. He sat on a wall. Sighed.

  That went as well as expected, he thought and shook his head, tried to calm himself, clear Fiona Welch out of it. He was shaking, wanting to do something physical to take her memory away. A heavy workout in the gym or a five-mile run.

  He didn’t remember getting his phone out, but there it was, sitting in his hand. Then he found himself dialling the number. And waiting.

  And waiting.

  Answerphone.

  He sighed. ‘Hi, Marina, it’s me. Listen, I know where you are. Bury St Edmunds. It wasn’t hard to work out, I am a detective. And I should
have known. Somewhere special. Special for us.’

  Another sigh. He kept going.

  ‘I don’t know what else to say. I’m here. For you. Whatever. I . . . Whatever. Just . . . just call me.’

  He hung up. Sat back. Looked at the sky. That beautiful, robin’s egg blue again.

  Thought of what to do next. How to move the case along.

  He stood up, making his way back inside. Stopped. His phone was ringing. He checked the display.

  Marina.

  He answered.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  73

  ‘Is this the one? Are you sure of that?’

  Rose Martin sighed. ‘Yes, Ben. Stop being such an . . .’

  He summoned a smiled. ‘Old woman?’

  ‘I was going to say arse, but that’ll do.’

  They were standing before Mark Turner’s house on Greenstead Road, Rose knocking once more. They waited.

  ‘I don’t think he’s in,’ said Fenwick, clearly uncomfortable with what was happening and wanting to walk away.

  ‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m counting on it.’

  Fenwick’s heart skipped at the words. ‘What d’you mean?’

  Rose smiled. ‘I’ve spoken to Mark Turner before. A couple of times. If I speak to him again he’s going to get lawyered up. He threatened to do it last time and then we’ll get nowhere. So we need leverage.’

  She dug into her jacket pocket, brought out a memory stick. ‘Let’s make sure he’s got the same photos on his computer. ’ She then brought out a lock pick. Held it up to show to him. Smiled.

  Fenwick physically recoiled, frantically looked round to see if anyone was watching. ‘Oh no . . . oh no . . .’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘But this is . . . this is wrong. If we do this then any evidence we find, any confession we make on the basis of that evidence, is inadmissible in court. It’s tainted. We have to follow compliance . . .’

  She turned to him, no longer smiling. ‘D’you want this collar, Ben? Really want this collar?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Or do you want Phil Brennan to get all the glory? Again?’

  Fenwick shook his head. ‘No . . . no . . .’

  ‘You sure? Maybe I chose the wrong man.’

  ‘No, no you didn’t. You didn’t . . .’ Fenwick swallowed hard, eyes never leaving the lock pick. ‘No, I want it . . . I want . . .’

  She smiled, nodded. Clearly in control. She knew what he wanted.

  ‘Good,’ she said, and began to pick the lock.

  It didn’t take long. She pushed. The door opened.

  Fenwick was still nervously looking round.

  Rose smiled at him. Reassuringly this time. ‘If anyone asks, we heard a cry and had to break in. Got that?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ He took a deep breath, swallowed hard. ‘We heard a cry. Right. I’m sure.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s go in.’

  Rose stepped inside first. The house was as dark as she remembered it, the curtains still drawn, the light hardly penetrating. Fenwick followed, closing the door quietly behind them. He looked round. Stepped into the centre of the room, head going from side to side. ‘Should I—’

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. A dark shape emerged from behind the sofa and, before Fenwick could react, was on him.

  Rose turned. Gasped. The figure was all in black, looking like a moving, angry shadow in the darkness. She watched as the figure pulled back its arm and thrust towards Fenwick’s stomach. Fenwick crumpled. And again.

  ‘Oh God, oh God, I’m bleeding, oh God . . .’ Fenwick staggered, holding his stomach.

  ‘Ben . . .’ Rose cried out, moved towards him, but the figure turned. She stopped moving, frozen, saw the blade in its hand. She looked at Fenwick who was swaying, now falling to his knees. Heart hammering, she turned and ran for the door.

  The figure was on her. Arms holding her tight, pressing round her like the grip of a huge anaconda.

  She tried to get her hand inside her pocket, reach for her pepper spray. Her fingers touched but didn’t connect. The figure saw what she was doing, loosened his grip with one arm, knocked her hand away, leaving it stinging from the blow.

  Taking advantage of the loosened grip, Rose twisted her body round, trying to pull away.

  That was when she saw his face.

  ‘Oh God . . . oh God . . .’

  His mouth opened. Some kind of awful sound emerged.

  ‘Hahhneee . . . Hahhneee . . .’

  He seemed to be saying the same word over and over. She didn’t know what it meant, didn’t want to think about it. Just wanted to escape.

  ‘Hahhneee . . . Hahhneee . . .’

  But it was too late for that. She saw him bring his arm up.

  But didn’t feel it come down.

  74

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ said Phil. He knew he was grinning like an idiot. Didn’t even try to stop it. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Been better.’

  Silence.

  ‘Bury St Edmunds,’ he said. ‘Should have guessed.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Right.’ He looked round the carp park. Saw Fiona Welch walking out of the building. She glared at him. He looked away.

  ‘I’m . . . sorry.’

  He nodded. Then, realising she couldn’t see it, said, ‘That’s OK. How’s Josephina?’

  ‘She’s fine. We’re . . . we’re both fine.’

  ‘Good.’

  Silence.

  ‘Look . . . d’you want me to come and get you?’

  Silence. Phil could hear the world turning through the phone but not Marina.

  ‘OK,’ she said eventually.

  He exhaled, not realising he had been holding his breath waiting for her answer. ‘Good.’ He looked at his watch. Weighed things in his head. ‘I’ll be right up.’

  He heard her gasp. ‘Aren’t you in the middle of a murder inquiry? You can’t just . . . just leave everything and run off.’

  ‘You did.’

  Silence. Phil thought he had lost her again.

  ‘OK. But we need to talk.’

  ‘I’ll be right up.’

  He hung up, got in the Audi.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘They can do without me here for a couple of hours.’

  Still smiling, Doves coming out of the stereo, he headed off to Bury St Edmunds.

  75

  Suzanne heard more tearing, more creaking.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Just . . . a bit . . . more . . .’

  Julie had been working away. Suzanne didn’t know exactly what at, just that she said there was a way out and she was trying to do it. The tearing noise was the same as the one she had heard when she was let out of the box earlier. Suzanne was terrified. If their captors came back when she was trying to escape, she didn’t know what they would do to her. Didn’t even want to think about it. Didn’t dare.

  ‘I can see . . . daylight. It’s day outside.’

  Suzanne felt her heart beating faster. That forbidden emotion, hope, welling up inside her. Daylight. And Julie nearly out. And once Julie was out, she could help Suzanne out and then they would both be free. She found herself smiling uncontrollably at the thought.

  The noise stopped. Suzanne could hear her own breathing once more, feel her heart beating so fast it threatened to leave her body. She almost didn’t dare speak. Almost.

  ‘What’s . . . what are you doing now?’

  Silence.

  ‘Julie? You there?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Relief flooded through Suzanne.

  ‘I’ve got the bottom of the box open. I don’t think they closed it properly when they let us out. It’s a bit . . . bit tight, but . . . if I can just, just . . . wriggle down . . .’

  Suzanne listened, heart in her mouth. ‘Kee
p talking, Julie. Keep telling me what’s happening . . .’

  More tearing and creaking.

  Then silence.

  ‘Julie . . .’

  Suzanne heard a sigh.

  ‘I’ve done it.’ She laughed, disbelieving. ‘Suzanne, I’ve done it . . .’

  ‘Brilliant! Yes!’

  ‘Yeah, now all I’ve got to do is . . .’

  And then she screamed. Julie screamed, loud and long and hard.

  Suzanne’s eyes were wide, staring. ‘Julie . . .’ She tried to block the noise, cover her ears with her hands but couldn’t manage it. So she had no choice but to listen.

  ‘No, Julie . . .’

  The screaming died away.

  Silence.

  ‘Julie . . . Julie . . .’

  Nothing.

  ‘Julie . . .’

  No response.

  ‘Oh God, oh God . . .’

  Suzanne started sobbing. Hope. That bastard emotion hope. Suzanne kept sobbing.

  Feared she would never stop.

  PART FOUR

  76

  Brasserie Gerard was a French restaurant on the corner of Lower Baxter Street and Abbeygate Street in the old English town of Bury St Edmunds. Sunny, airy and light inside, it had a courtyard-like quality where a spring or summer’s lunchtime meal could easily slip into a leisurely afternoon of French hors d’oeuvres, good company and plenty of wine. How Phil wished he could be doing that right now. He imagined Marina felt the same.

  They sat opposite each other, more distance between them than just the restaurant table. Both eyeing each other nervously, trying to smile, not sure whether to touch or not touch. Two tightrope walkers trying to keep their balance.

  This is ridiculous, thought Phil. I should be at work, on the case. I shouldn’t be here, pulling a domestic. Then he looked at Marina, her perfect, dark features, her beautiful face, and their daughter lying asleep in her buggy at the side of the table, arms up, perfectly contented. And he knew why he had come.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ he said.

  ‘I look about as good as you do.’ Marina managed a smile, concern in her eyes. ‘But it’s nice of you to say so.’