Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  A burns victim.

  He watched as the two men opened the back of the van, leaned in, brought something out. They struggled with the object, a heavy bundle wrapped in a rug. He looked closer. The rug was discoloured, darkened in places. Mickey’s heart flipped. He knew what that was.

  Blood.

  And he knew what was in the rug. It didn’t take a genius to realise it was a body.

  He sat back, as far down in his seat as he could, trying desperately not to be noticed. Heart hammering out Motörhead drum riffs, breath in short supply. The two men carried the bundle on to the boat, went below deck. Mickey let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

  He watched, waited. Nothing happened.

  He picked up the radio, ready to call for back-up, for the armed response team Phil had promised would be there when he wanted it, when there was movement on the boat.

  Mickey put the radio down. Watched again.

  One of the figures, the driver without the limp, came back up on deck, walked across the gangplank and left the boat. He walked over to the Nero, got behind the wheel, turned over the engine.

  Mickey looked between the van and the boat, torn.

  The driver revved up the engine.

  Another look between the two. Mickey weighed it up. The scarred man had a body inside the boat. But no transport. And whatever he was doing down there, not going anywhere would be top of his list. Whereas the driver of the van was clearly leaving and there might not be another chance to get him.

  Mickey’s mind was made up. He waited until the van turned round and headed up the road, counted a few seconds, set off after it.

  Once on the road he picked up the radio, gave the call sign.

  ‘Am in pursuit of a suspect. He’s driving a black Citroën Nemo, registration number . . .’

  He would tell them what was happening in the boat. Get Phil’s armed response team on to it. Whoever this was in the van was his.

  He smiled, switched back over to Radio One.

  Thrilled to be giving his adrenalin a workout.

  79

  ‘Ah . . .’ the Creeper sighed. ‘Alone at last . . .’ He was, for the first time in a long while, almost happy.

  He looked at the bundle in front of him. The rug had been unrolled, its cargo disgorged on to the floor of the boat. Rani. She lay there, unmoving but awake, looking round, her eyes wide.

  He crossed to her, knelt down beside her. ‘You awake, beautiful?’

  He was giddy with excitement. Here she was. After all this time. Alone together. At last. His heart was hammering with excitement, stomach flipping with expectation. He wanted all his senses to take her in. He looked her over first, his eyes devouring her whole body. Then he closed his eyes, leaned in close, smelled her, fragrance, sweat, everything. Nothing was bad, all was good. All was Rani. He wanted to taste her, too, put his lips on her, his tongue, kiss her, lick her, all over . . .

  There would be time enough for that later. For now he would be content to just start slowly. He reached out his hand, began to stroke her hair. She didn’t pull away or recoil, just lay still, eyes wide, breathing heavily.

  He laughed. ‘Nearly awake. Good.’ Another sigh, his breath ragged. ‘Well. Face to face. After all this time, all these years . . .’ He knelt in closer, his hand stroking her face now, down her cheek. ‘We’ve got . . . we’ve got . . . a lot of catching up to do, my darling . . .’

  His hand stopped stroking. He studied her face closely, eyes falling on every feature, memorising it as if he would never see it again, taking her all in once more. Seeing not Rani as she used to be but Rani as she was now. She looked different. That was to be expected, of course; there was no way she would be able to find a perfect match. She would in time, though, once her spirit settled in and began to change things. But even now he could see the similarities, make out what was to come. He touched the features he recognised. Her eyes, yes, he thought, fingers playing over them, and the curve of her cheekbone . . . and her mouth, her lips . . . so soft . . . oh, so soft . . .

  He felt himself beginning to harden. Stopped stroking her. Not now. That was for later. Now they would just talk, get to know each other once more. Cuddle, even, like lovers were supposed to do.

  He looked at her face again. Laughed, shook his head once more.

  ‘All the things I’d planned to say . . . years, you know, years . . . Years of stuff just built up, all those conversations I’d had with you in my head, when you couldn’t answer and I had to make it up . . . and then when I saw you again and we did talk for a bit, all those secret words when no one else was listening, but not proper conversations. Not like now.’ He laughed again. ‘It’s funny, but I’ve got all those things to say, all those things I’ve stored up and . . .’ He shrugged, almost apologetically. ‘. . . they’ve all gone out of my head. Isn’t that funny?’

  She said nothing, just lay there, breathing heavily, eyes wide open.

  ‘So much to say . . .’ He shook his head once more, like he could barely believe his luck. ‘I suppose . . . we should go back to the beginning, shouldn’t we? Start with the fire. And I should say sorry for that. Because that was the start, wasn’t it? The cause of everything.’ He sighed. Stroked her face once more. ‘Sorry. For what happened.’ He leaned in even closer. ‘But it was all your fault. You did it. You’ve got to take the blame. If you hadn’t come on to me in the first place, pushed yourself against me, flirted . . .’ The last word was almost spat out.

  He sat back, eyes never leaving her, his gaze hardened, his breathing quickening. Eventually his features softened. He smiled once more, laughed. Giggling like he was on a first date. Because that was how it felt. How it was. They had been apart so long it was like meeting for the first time.

  ‘You see, I knew you fancied me. All that time, you tried to hide it. Leaving the room when I came in, trying not to talk to me, all of that . . . But I knew. I wasn’t stupid, I could tell. And I know you knew I liked you.’ He leaned forward again, hand back on her face. ‘But you were shy, weren’t you? Just needed a bit of a push, that’s all. Get you to like me.’ He wagged his finger in her face. ‘Playing hard to get, you were. I know.’ He cocked his head on one side, stopped wagging his finger. Smiled again, moved in closer. ‘All I had to do,’ he said, voice dropping low, ‘was tell you how I felt. In my heart. How deep my love for you was. Then I knew you’d fall in love with me too.’

  He dropped his hand from her face, sighed, his memories taking him down a dark, sad street. ‘And everything would have worked out just fine, if there hadn’t been that fire . . .’ He sat completely still, memories overtaking him.

  No longer in the boat, no longer in the present. He felt heat on his face once more, panic in his heart . . . Then pain, all over, starting at his skin then lancing through him, trapped in a cabinet of flaming swords all slicing through him at once, pushing nerve-deep inside him . . . no way out . . .

  And the smell . . . roasting pork . . .

  ‘I still hear the screams . . . they’re in my head. Always.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Trapped there, no way out . . . I close my eyes and hear you screaming, Rani, screaming . . . and the flames are, are . . .’ He sighed. ‘Fire is power, Rani, fire is power . . . it scares people . . . and the screams . . . you and . . . and me . . . there’s always this screaming in my head . . .’

  He screwed his eyes up tight, curled his hands into fists, began to punch himself in the temples.

  ‘Screams . . . make the screaming . . . stop . . . No . . . no . . . Out of the cleansing fire . . . I was born . . .’

  Black.

  He opened his eyes. Blinked. He was lying on the floor of the boat. He looked round quickly, sat up. Rani—

  She was still there. Lying exactly as he had left her. He breathed a sigh of relief. Allowed himself a small smile. ‘Thought I’d lost you again . . .’

  He shook his head, clearing it of the screams, or at least quietening them down. For now. He didn’t know how lo
ng he had been out but it couldn’t have been long. Sunlight still streamed through the slats of the boat, the air was tipped with warmth.

  ‘You’re still there. Good. I’m not going to lose you again.’ He sighed. ‘Because I did, you know. Well, of course you know. That’s how I found you again, isn’t it? Because you led me to you . . .’ He giggled again stroked her chin. ‘But you led me a merry old dance, didn’t you? Popping up here and there, different bodies, hopping from girl to girl, teasing me, hoping I’d find you . . .’ He smiled, kept his hand cupping her face. ‘But still. All worth it. Because now you’re here. And here to stay, aren’t you?’

  He looked round the boat, seeing where he lived through her eyes. He felt a sudden stab of shame. It wasn’t much. And he hadn’t kept it good. The place was a tip. She deserved better.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘This place. Not much, is it? Well, not at the moment. But you know what it’s like. Needs a woman’s touch, doesn’t it? You know what us men are like, living on our own . . .

  ‘I know you should have better. And we’ll make it better.’ He moved in closer, lay down next to her, slid one arm round her shoulder. She didn’t resist. ‘I know I’ve got to be patient because you told me I’ve got to be patient, but still, you don’t have to do it all today, do you? Haven’t seen each other for a long time. Not properly, anyway . . .’ His other hand began touching the front of her top, stroking her stomach, his grip tightening, his breath quickening.

  ‘Got a lot of catching up to do . . . haven’t we?’

  80

  Another incident room, thought Phil, another bar.

  They had moved over to the Rose and Crown hotel on East Street at the other side of the level crossing. It was an old restored pub with black and white Tudor outer work, uneven floors, roof and ceilings, wooden beams and small leaded glass windows. The façade of authenticity stopped at the contemporary dining-room furniture and the modern hotel block at the rear. But first impressions were good.

  Phil wasn’t there for that, though. He had commandeered the restaurant as a temporary incident room, flashing his warrant card and claiming that a murder inquiry took precedence over dinner preparations. The chairs and tables had been arranged in a semi-circle, and those with laptops had them open. Phil’s was open in front of him, a video link to Milhouse back at the station.

  Phil hadn’t wanted to stop the team working, finding Fenwick’s attacker and Rose Martin’s abductor. But he felt it was important that they all got together before they set off. All singing from the same hymn book, he thought, echoing Ben Fenwick in the cliché stakes.

  He also needed to find something inspirational to say, something to rouse them, drive them on. Saw Marina sitting at the back. Knew he’d manage somehow.

  ‘This is what we’ve got so far,’ Phil said, standing up to address the room. ‘Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot. Both SALTS. Both worked at the Gainsborough Wing at the General Hospital. One missing, one dead. Julie Miller. Occupational therapist. Again, working in the same hospital wing as part of the same team. Missing. Hopefully alive. Adele Harrison. Barmaid. Deceased. No connection to the others that we can find. Yet.’ He paused, letting the toll of the dead and the missing hit home.

  ‘Christopher and Charlotte Palmer. Julie Miller’s upstairs neighbours. Both deceased. Killed, we imagine, because they were in the way. Because our killer wanted somewhere to watch his victim from.’

  Phil sighed. ‘And now a couple of our own. DCI Ben Fenwick, the DCI of this unit, severely wounded, in hospital now. DS Rose Martin, missing.’

  ‘And Anthony Howe,’ said Anni, ‘don’t forget him.’

  Phil nodded. ‘Any news on him?’

  ‘Stable, apparently,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Hospital talk for not alive but not dead yet.’

  ‘Right.’ Phil suppressed the urge to sigh again. ‘Any ideas so far? Any theories about links? Leads?’

  ‘Adele Harrison, Julie Miller and Suzanne Perry all look alike,’ said Anni. ‘Or, rather, all share similarities. Tall, white, dark-haired. Same bone structure and features. Same ages, just about.’

  Phil nodded. ‘And Rose Martin too. On that basis you can add her to that list. It looks like that’s his type, his trigger. ’

  Nick Lines put his hand up. ‘I think you’re right.’ He said. ‘Compare the way Adele Harrison’s body was attacked and mutilated as well as killed with the way Zoe Herriot was murdered. Like she’s been dispatched. She doesn’t fit the profile so she’s cut and dumped as quickly as possible.’

  Several of the team flinched at his words. Nick didn’t elaborate or apologise.

  ‘We have to make Mark Turner and Fiona Welch our top suspects at the moment.’

  ‘What about the boat, boss? The soldier?’ said Anni.

  ‘There’s a lot of pieces that aren’t in place yet. We keep our options open at the moment. But since Ben was knifed in Turner and Welch’s house, we have to assume they’re a big part of it. The university are looking out for them. They’ve been told to call us the second they set foot there. Although I doubt they will. Nick, anything you can tell us from the house?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Nick Lines. ‘From the stains and the blood spray patterns, it looks like everything happened in the living room. It also looks like a rug’s been removed recently.’

  ‘How recently?’

  ‘Since Ben Fenwick was stabbed.’

  ‘Wrapping Rose Martin up in it?’ said Phil.

  ‘An educated guess,’ said Nick.

  ‘Adrian, any neighbours have anything to say?’

  Adrian Wren stood up. ‘A woman opposite does say she saw two men loading a carpet into the back of a van in The Beijing car park.’ The house was next to a Chinese takeaway with a piece of waste ground between that the fast food outlet liked to call a car park.

  ‘That sounds like our team. Make? Model?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just something dark. Quite small. Not a big one. No descriptions either. Both in some kind of work clothes, apparently. Woolly hats and sunglasses.’

  ‘Comedy Blues Brothers,’ said Phil, no humour in his voice. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘The van fits with what Mickey’s been following up, boss,’ said Anni. ‘Black Citroën Nemo.’

  ‘Get some photos, Adrian. Ask her again.’

  He nodded, made a note.

  ‘Fiona Welch,’ said Phil. ‘One of Ben Fenwick’s innovations, I’m afraid. I never rated her, never liked her, never wanted her here. And after that profile, never trusted her.’ He looked round the room. ‘Please feel free to join in with her character assassination.’

  ‘Mickey felt the same way, boss,’ said Anni. ‘Spoke to me about her earlier. Said there was something about her he didn’t like.’

  ‘Why didn’t he mention it to me?’

  ‘Because you’d said you were going to get rid of her. So that, he probably thought, was that. But he did say something else interesting about her, though.’

  Phil listened.

  ‘He said she went to see Anthony Howe last night. After you’d finished questioning him. In his cell.’

  Phil frowned. ‘What about?’

  ‘Don’t know. No record of that. Only of her visit.’

  Phil thought for a moment, glancing round the restaurant. It looked comfortable, the kind of place you’d be happy to spend a few hours in if you were away from home. The bar looked the same. It was yet another glimpse into that other world, the safe, comfortable one, the one he could never inhabit.

  ‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘we’re jumping to conclusions to say that whatever she said to him contributed to his suicide attempt.’

  Anni frowned. ‘Why, boss?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe he taught her at university. Maybe he made a pass at her. Some grudge or other.’ He sighed. ‘Why wasn’t her background checked into? Why wasn’t she properly vetted?’

  No one answered. The only person who could was fighting for his life in hospital.
>
  ‘OK,’ said Phil. ‘In the meantime we keep an eye on the Greenstead Road house. It’s a long shot, but they may return. We’re also still going through it looking for any clue as to where they might be now.’

  ‘Don’t forget the boat, boss,’ said Anni.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Anni’s phone rang. Phil stared at her, clearly unhappy with the interruption. She checked the display. ‘Mickey,’ she said. ‘I’d better take it.’

  She got up from her seat, crossed into the bar.

  Phil wanted to keep talking but knew as well as Anni that Mickey wouldn’t be phoning unless it was something important. ‘We’ll just wait a moment,’ he said. ‘This might be urgent.’

  Anni returned, pocketing her phone. She sat down. Phil could sense the energy, the adrenalin, coming off her.

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘That was Mickey,’ she said, ‘he’s at the boat. There’s been developments.’ She told the team what he had seen, relaying it in almost as breathless a fashion as he clearly had to her.

  ‘Oh, lucky,’ said Phil, feeling that familiar tingle pass through him. He knew the others would be feeling it too. ‘A breakthrough. Anni, phone him back and tell him to keep tailing and we’ll get back up to him as quickly as possible. I’m guessing that’s Rose Martin on the boat. We’ll get an armed response unit down there as quickly as possible. Even if it’s not Rose, whoever it is we need to get them out safely. I’ll get down there right now.’ He looked round the room. ‘The rest of you get back to your jobs.’ He sighed. ‘Most of you, if not all of you, know that Ben Fenwick and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Or hardly ever, if I’m being honest.’

  A small amount of laughter could be heard, breaking the tension.

  Phil continued. ‘But that doesn’t mean I wanted this to happen to him. Or anything like it. It’s awful. What’s happened is absolutely, bloody awful. So let’s get out there and avenge him. Let’s do this for him.’