Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  She did look well, he thought. Yes, there was fear and worry etched in all her features but she still looked good. She always looked good to Phil.

  Marina looked away, down at her menu. Wavering, her balance going. She sighed. ‘This is a bad idea. Maybe we should do this later.’

  Phil kept his eyes on her. ‘Marina, if we don’t do this now, there may not be a later.’

  She sighed once more, looked down at the table. The waitress chose that moment to arrive. Phil was about to wave her away but Marina was already ordering herself sea bass with a spinach and tomato salad. He quickly scanned the menu, ordered the first thing his eye rested on, the duck. And a large bottle of water. The waitress disappeared once more, leaving them alone with their silence.

  Phil waited.

  ‘There’s . . . something between us,’ Marina said eventually. ‘Or, rather, someone.’

  Phil forced an intake of breath to his body, steeled himself. He had imagined everything he could think of on the drive up, everything awful that Marina could possibly want to say to him, in the hope that whatever it was he would be prepared for and it wouldn’t feel so bad. Her finding someone else was the worst thing he came up with. And no amount of preparation made hearing those words any easier.

  Phil just nodded, waited. Kept nodding.

  The waitress brought the water. The bottle stood there on the table, untouched.

  Marina looked away from Phil, down at the table. ‘It’s Tony.’

  Tony. Marina’s ex-partner. Bludgeoned nearly to death by a killer Phil and Marina had been hunting. Just before Marina had a chance to tell him she was leaving him. So that was it, he thought.

  Phil blinked, startled. ‘Tony?’

  ‘Tony. I . . .’ Another sigh. ‘I . . . he’s just lying there. And I keep . . .’ Her fingers began working on the napkin. ‘I just . . . I have to make a decision, Phil. He’s lying there on that life-support system and they want me to make a decision. They want me to turn it off.’

  Phil’s voice was quiet, calm. ‘Is this why you ran away from me?’

  She nodded, fingers now shredding the napkin.

  ‘But . . . surely we could have worked this out together . . .’

  Marina looked up, directly at him, eye to eye. Hers were red-rimmed, wet, only the public place holding back full on tears. ‘No. I have to do it. It’s my decision. D’you understand? ’

  ‘You tell me,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘I just can’t bring myself to switch off that life-support system, to, to . . . acknowledge he’s dead, really, finally dead, once and for all.’

  Phil leaned forward. ‘D’you think there’s a chance he could come back? Is that it?’

  She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, determined not to let any tears fall. She shook her head. ‘No. No, that’s not it. At least I don’t think so, no . . .’ She shook her head once more. ‘It’s the guilt. It’s . . . it’s . . .’ Her voice dropped. ‘Crippling me.’

  And that was just how her voice sounded, he thought. Twisted, crippled. ‘The decision?’

  She shook her head once more. ‘Not just . . . no. It’s . . . eating me away, gnawing inside me . . . the guilt. I can’t . . . can’t move forward, can’t . . . enjoy . . . myself, my life, or allow myself to enjoy life, until I make that decision. Until I let him go.’ Her head dropped once more, shoulders heaved, like she was bearing a huge weight. She kept her gaze on the table. ‘And I can’t let him go . . .’

  Phil said nothing, taking in her words. He picked up the bottle of water, unscrewed it, poured it into the two glasses.

  Neither drank.

  Phil kept looking at her. When he spoke his voice was still calm and controlled, the opposite of the emotions raging inside him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What about this. If Tony hadn’t . . . if he wasn’t where he is now, if he had never been attacked, if he was still . . . I don’t know, with us . . . what would you do?’

  She frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just that. What would you do? What would you be doing?’

  ‘I’d . . .’ She sighed, shook her head, looked away once more.

  ‘You were going to leave him, Marina. Tell him you didn’t love him any more and leave him. Weren’t you?’

  She nodded, head still bowed.

  ‘For me?’ He made it a question.

  She nodded once more.

  ‘Why?’ His voice was even quieter, calmer. The kind he used in interviews, the one that made people open up to him, trust him.

  ‘Because . . . I love you . . .’

  He risked a small smile. ‘That it? That’s all?’

  She shook her head once more, looked up. ‘No. Because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you. Because I’d never met anyone like you.’

  ‘Who was so like you, you mean.’

  She nodded. ‘And because I was pregnant with your child.’

  ‘Our child.’

  ‘Our child. And you’re the love of my life.’ She turned away, words choked off by sobs.

  Phil waited until she had composed herself. ‘Tony knew you’d leave him, Marina. He was older than you. He was your teacher, what you needed at that stage in your life. He knew you weren’t going to stay with him forever. That you’d go eventually. He expected it. Might not have welcomed it or been looking forward to it, but he expected it.’

  Marina wiped her eyes, her nose, with the crumpled and torn paper napkin, her head still bowed. Phil reached across the table, took her hands in his.

  ‘Isn’t that the problem?’ he said. ‘The fact that you never got to say that to him? That you never gave that relationship closure?’

  She pulled her hands away. ‘It’s not just that,’ she said, sniffing. ‘He’s in a coma because of me.’ She looked up, directly at him. Her eyes raw with emotion. ‘And you too, Phil.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because if we had never met, if I’d never come to work with you, if none of that had happened, Tony would still be alive.’

  ‘And you’d still be unhappy.’ He leaned forward again. Reached out for her hands once more. Held them tight. ‘I understand you, Marina. That’s not arrogance on my part. I understand you because you understand me. More than anyone I’ve ever met. I know your mind because it’s like my mind. I know what’s in it. I know the damage in there.’

  She flinched at his words, but didn’t interrupt.

  ‘That damage stops you from thinking you’re worth anything. Worthy of happiness. Well, you are.’ He held her hands tighter. She didn’t pull away. ‘And this might be the only chance we get. And we have to take it.’

  She looked straight at him, no tears, listening to everything he said.

  ‘What was that you once said to me?’ he said. ‘All psychologists are just looking for a way home? I’m offering you that way home, Marina. It might not be easy, we’ve got tough decisions to make, but it’s real. It’s there.’ He sat back, still holding her hands. ‘D’you want to take it?’

  Marina said nothing. Just looked at him.

  ‘Say no and I walk away,’ he said. ‘Forever. From you and our daughter. Forever. It’ll hurt like hell but if that’s what you want, that’s what I’m prepared to do. But say yes and we go home. Today. And face whatever we have to face together. Up to you.’

  He let her hands slip from his. Waited.

  He hadn’t intended to say all of that. Or even half of that. And he wasn’t the kind of person who would come out with something like that normally. But he had never met anyone like Marina before. She was special. She was worth fighting for.

  She said nothing. He wondered if he had gone too far.

  He sighed. Waited.

  The food arrived. The plates were placed before them. Neither took any notice, not even looking at the waitress.

  Phil waited. Could feel his heart breaking.

  Eventually Marina spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice
small but strong. ‘Yes. I’m coming home with you.’

  Phil reached across the table, grinning, grabbed her hands and squeezed. He hadn’t felt so happy in ages.

  He inhaled. The food smelled delicious.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said. And smiled.

  Marina smiled back. Looking as happy as he did.

  77

  Outside the restaurant, Phil switched his phone back on. And the happiness he had been feeling dissipated.

  Message after message piled up in his phone. He played them. Marina stopped fussing with Josephina and looked up, becoming aware of the hardening in his features, concern spreading over her face in response to the changes to his. Eventually he took the phone away from his ear. Marina waited.

  He looked at her. ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got to go. Now.’

  ‘Need me to come with you?’

  Phil looked between the baby and Marina. ‘Can you?’

  She nodded. Phil caught the look in her eye, fleeting and sharp, but unmistakeable. She was as hooked as he was.

  ‘I’ll fill you in on the way.’

  They went to find the car.

  Greenstead Road was a crime scene.

  The road was entirely closed off, from the supermarket at the far end to the roundabout at the top of Harwich Road to the level crossing at East Street. Yellow and black tape fluttered in the slight, warm breeze, making a gentle, lapping sound that would have been calming and summery in any other situation.

  Phil showed his warrant card as he stepped under the tape, uniforms closing in to block the cameras that tried to follow him. He kept a protective arm round Marina’s shoulders as he walked from the level crossing and round the corner to the house itself.

  They had phoned ahead to Don and Eileen, asked if they fancied spending a bit of time with their granddaughter. They jumped at the chance. Although Phil kept the tone light, they sensed something was wrong but, from years of experience, knew better than to ask what.

  Phil saw Nick Lines enter the house, his pale blue suit clashing with the colours on the tape. Anni was standing on the opposite pavement, waiting for the signal to enter the house. She saw Marina and him approach, crossed over to them.

  ‘Where’ve you been, boss?’ Conflicting emotions were running behind her eyes.

  ‘I . . . went to get a better profiler.’ He turned to Marina who said hello to Anni.

  Anni returned the greeting.

  ‘So what we got?’ Phil tried to appear professional, speaking as if this was any other crime scene. But he didn’t pull it off.

  ‘Well . . .’ Anni looked round, herself struggling to keep it together.

  ‘From the beginning, Anni. I got your calls but catch me up.’

  ‘Call came in over an hour ago. Someone staggering about on the pavement, blood all over the place. Called for an ambulance.’ Her eyes involuntarily went to the pavement in front of the house, now dried brown against the grey. A mundane stain barely reflecting the enormity of what had actually happened.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘The General. Thought we’d lost him at first. But he’s hanging on in there, apparently.’

  ‘That the latest?’

  She nodded. ‘They’re operating now. Lost a lot of blood.’ Her eyes back to the pavement. ‘Hell of a mess.’

  Phil nodded, looked around. The Birdies were there, notebooks out, coordinating uniforms. ‘Where’s Mickey?’

  ‘Keeping watch on the boat. Didn’t want to leave that lead in the wind. Thought he might be the best one for that.’

  ‘And Rose Martin?’

  Anni shrugged. ‘Dunno, boss. Not answering her phone.’

  Phil’s pulse quickened. ‘When was she last seen?’

  ‘At the station. Talking to Ben Fenwick.’

  ‘Fuck . . .’

  Anni said nothing. She knew what he was thinking.

  He rubbed his face, his eyes. Trying to think, concentrate. He glanced at Marina. It felt good to have her back on the team. To have her back beside him.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’m acting DCI now for this case. Let’s get on. Any witnesses? Anyone know what happened? ’

  ‘Person who called it in, neighbour opposite. Saw the DCI come out of the house and stagger into the street clutching his stomach, waving something round. Turned out to be his warrant card.’

  ‘Clever man,’ said Phil, a sadness in his voice. ‘Identifying himself.’

  ‘It worked. Someone called an ambulance straight away. Saved his life.’

  ‘What about the people who live in the house? Any sign of them?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Who lives there, do we know? Looks like a student’s place.’

  ‘It is,’ said Anni. ‘I had a little root around before. Mark Turner, Suzanne Perry’s ex, lives there. Renting.’

  ‘The guy Rose Martin questioned the other night.’

  ‘That’s the one. And said she thought he was harmless.’

  Phil sighed. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ Not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Does Mark Turner live alone?’

  Anni shook her head. ‘With his girlfriend.’

  ‘And neither of them are there.’ It wasn’t a question.

  She shook her head again. ‘But we’re on the lookout for them. Got their descriptions out straight away.’ Anni looked uneasy. ‘And you’re not going to like this, boss.’

  Phil waited. Eyes hard.

  ‘The girlfriend. Like I said, I rooted round in the house before. Found some photos, paperwork . . .’

  ‘You’re stalling. Tell me.’

  Anni sighed. ‘It’s Fiona Welch.’

  78

  Mickey was keeping watch. And he wasn’t happy. Just over the river from where the action was, stuck watching a boat just in case its occupant returned at any time soon. When he and Anni had received the call telling them of Ben Fenwick’s attack he had experienced that old Drugs Squad adrenalin rush straight up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was ready. Two-fisted, lip curled and ready. And he and Anni had discussed and it and, yes, in his head he understood that him staying behind and Anni going to the crime scene was the right decision but his heart was telling him something different. He was a copper. A detective. And he should have been down there, getting stuck in, finding the villain, hauling him in, making him sorry.

  But he wasn’t. And that adrenalin was still there, charged up, pawing around inside him like a caged beast, just waiting for an outlet.

  It wasn’t long in coming. And, when it did, he could barely believe it.

  He was sitting in the car, fidgeting and uncomfortable. At least when Anni was there he had someone to talk to. All he had now was the radio and that was tuned to Radio One, spewing afternoon inanities and songs he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t recognise. He was contemplating turning over to Radio Two but something within himself wouldn’t allow it. It was comfortable. It was set in the past. It had DJs he had grown up with playing songs he had grown up with. To listen willingly would be like acknowledging he would never again embark on a four-day coke and alcohol bender, go straight from clubbing on a Friday night to the football on a Saturday afternoon, pick up a girl in a bar and stay with her for the whole weekend, coming in to boast about his stamina and prowess on a Monday morning.

  He sighed. The truth was that part of him, an increasingly large part, didn’t want to do that any more. There was more to him than that. Use his brain again, remind himself why he had gone to university in the first place. That was why he had transferred out of the DS. He was concerned about himself, his future. But another part of him wanted to keep on living like that and damn the consequences. He had successfully managed to keep it controlled for now but he wasn’t sure he could do that indefinitely.

  Maybe Radio Two would help, he thought, reaching out to change the channel, hating himself for it at the same time. Some anonymous
eighties hit came on. He settled back in his seat.

  He was glad he had confided in Anni. He felt he could trust her. And that was something, because for all the hard as nails fun he had had in the DS, there were none of them that he considered his lifelong friends. That all seemed to go when he went. But Anni . . . yeah. She was a good one.

  His thoughts were stopped from wandering any further down that particular avenue because something had caught his eye. And he couldn’t believe it.

  A van had pulled up in front of the boat. And not just any old van.

  A black Citroën Nemo.

  Mickey couldn’t believe his luck. The dormant adrenalin powered up inside him once more. He wanted to open the car door, run over and collar whoever was driving, pull them out, slam them against the bonnet old-school, making sure their head bounced off a couple of times as he did so, then loudly proclaim, ‘You’re nicked, my son.’ See what Anni made of that.

  But he didn’t. Instinct kicked in, reluctantly overrode the adrenalin. Watch, he told himself, learn.

  He did so. And saw the driver side door open, someone get out. Any hopes of a clean identification were dashed because the driver was wearing green army camo gear, buttoned up to the neck, a black wool watch cap pulled down tight on their head and a pair of big, face-obscuring aviator shades.

  ‘Bastard.’

  The driver came round the side of the van, went to the back doors. Mickey tried to take in what he could. Medium height, male. That was it. Didn’t walk with a limp, have any particular distinguishing features. Nothing.

  Then the passenger emerged. Walked round to the back. The van was parked so that the passenger was further away and Mickey’s vision was obscured. And this one was dressed identically to the driver. Army fatigues, boots, wool hat and sunglasses. But that was where the similarity ended.

  The passenger was taller, walked more slowly than the driver. And there was something not quite right about the gait. Throwing his left leg out as he walked, a definite limp.

  Mickey smiled.

  He focused on what he could see of the passenger’s face. His smile widened. The man’s face wasn’t as he had expected it to be. What Mickey could see of it was red and blotchy, smooth - nearly flat - in parts, pitted and cratered in others.