Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  The room matched its inhabitant. Office surplus chairs and table. Grey scratched metal and worn, pitted and scarred wood. Depressing overhead strip lighting made Turner’s eyes look hooded, his face gaunt. A still, empty vessel waiting to be filled. A doll waiting to be wound up.

  And that was just what Mickey Philips intended to do.

  ‘Look at him.’ Marina stood in front of the two-way mirror in the observation room, watching him sit there. Unmoving. Barely breathing. ‘Was it Flaubert or Balzac, which one?’

  Mickey, standing next to her, gave her a blank, confused look.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘That quote. I will live like a bourgeois so my art will be revolutionary? Something like that. Do you think that’s an accurate description of our friend Mr Turner?’

  Mickey frowned, genuinely puzzled. ‘What? You think what he’s been doing is art?’

  Marina shook her head, her eyes compassionate, like she was explaining something complex to someone who spoke a separate language. Not patronising, just different.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t. I just mean that he’s been giving the impression of a normal, boring life, you know, studying, his film club, all that . . . while really he’s been saving all his energy to live out this depraved fantasy life of his. You agree?’

  ‘You mean he’s been showing the world one face and living another?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mickey said. ‘Definitely.’ Put like that, he agreed. Marina, learning Mickey was to be conducting the interview, had pulled him into the observation suite to prep him. Explaining that was usually how she worked with Phil, she had asked him if he wanted two-way communication with her in his ear. He had never done that before and was unsure whether to do it this time. He’d done interviews before and knew how to go about things. Even had his first questions in mind for this one.

  Where’s Suzanne?

  Where’s Julie?

  What have you done with them?

  Where are they?

  Take it from there. But he hadn’t made his mind up yet. He would see how this conversation went before making a decision.

  Marina looked at the file in front of her. ‘There’s one question that’s never been asked in this case. At least, not that I know of. And I think it’s the most important one. The one that the investigation should have hinged on. Why do men hate women so much?’

  ‘What?’ Mickey felt himself getting angry. Was she talking about him? ‘You mean me?’

  ‘I mean all men. Or at least all men who act on it.’

  ‘I hope you don’t include me in that,’ he said. ‘I don’t hate women.’

  ‘You never wanted to hit a woman? Punish her?’

  ‘I’ve wanted to hit lots of people. And I have done. But they deserved it. I’ve never hit a woman, though.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled, nodded to the glass once more. ‘I’ll bet Mr Turner has. In fact, I think he’s done more than that.’ A quick glance down at her notes, then back up to Mickey. ‘Stalkers fall into two categories. Psychotic and non-psychotic. They’re usually sexual obsessives. The worst kind of women haters. And while our Mr Turner is not the best example of the male species, he doesn’t fit into that category. I’m not getting him as our stalker. That, we think, is the other one. On the boat.’ She pointed at the glass. ‘So what does he get out of it? Where does he fit in? Turner . . .’

  Marina turned away, head back, eyes closed. Thinking, Mickey presumed. He watched her. She was completely different from Fiona Welch. That was a given. Older, certainly and better looking, although knowing she was the boss’s partner he pushed any such thoughts from his head. But there was something else. A conviction. Like she knew what she was talking about and said it in such a way that you could see what she meant. That, he knew from past experience, was rare in profilers.

  ‘I think . . . yes, I think our Mr Turner has a different motivation,’ she said. ‘Yes . . . It’s connected to Fiona Welch.’ She nodded as if confirming the thought to herself. ‘All bound up with her.’ She opened her eyes, turned back to the glass. Watched him intently. Turner was sitting there, looking like he was almost asleep.

  A sure sign, Mickey knew, of guilt.

  ‘They’re Brady and Hindley, Bonnie and Clyde,’ said Marina. ‘Leopold and Loeb.’ She smiled, eyes alight with electricity. Turned to Mickey, gestured with her hand as if addressing a seminar. ‘Yes. Yes. That’s why they’ve . . . yes. That’s how they think of themselves. Nietzschean supermen. Yes . . .’

  She paced the small room, gesturing to herself, alive with her theorising. Mickey watched her, wondering if she was like this at home.

  She turned to him. ‘That’s the approach to take. Go for his vanity. His ego. Remember, this is someone who lives a rich inner life and a poor external one. Everything’s in his head.’

  ‘So why’s he acted it out?’

  ‘Because he met Fiona Welch. Classic pair. One leader, one follower. An enabler, allowing the other to become the person they imagine themselves to be.’ She turned to him. ‘Is that the approach you were going to take?’

  Mickey just stared at her. Thought of his opening questions.

  ‘Er, yeah . . .’

  He thought for a few seconds. Marina said nothing.

  ‘That link up, in my ear and that.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I’ll take you up on that, thanks.’

  Marina smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

  89

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’

  Phil stood in the doorway of Paula Hamilton’s terraced house. She held on to the door frame, swaying, fingers trembling. She looked terrible. Clothes askew, like she’d just won first place in a dressing in the dark contest. Hair greasy and unkempt, sticking out at odd angles, as if she’d just woken up and the sleep and the dreams were still stuck in it. Her eyes roved, not settling until she realised who he was. Then he wished they hadn’t. They looked like two open, ragged wounds.

  She moved slowly aside, swaying insubstantially, a ghost, and allowed him to enter.

  The living room matched its owner. A mess that wouldn’t be straightened out for quite some time. Phil saw empty rectangles on the wall where some of the photos had been removed. He could guess which ones. They must have been taken down after his last visit.

  After he’d looked at them.

  He moved debris from an armchair, sat down.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’ he said again. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

  Paula slumped rather than sat on the sofa, crumpling. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘What?’

  He sighed. Same question again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Her turn to sigh. Phil saw the vodka bottle lying on its side on the floor. Knew that whatever answers he received - if any - would be filtered through it.

  ‘I . . . I just . . .’ Another sigh.

  ‘He didn’t die in a roadside bomb, did he, your son?’

  She shook her head. Looked at the carpet.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He . . . he was, was injured.’ She kept her eyes on the floor. ‘Badly injured. They . . .’ She trailed off.

  ‘They what, Paula? Tell me.’

  She said nothing, just sat there deflated as if all the air, the fight, had left her body.

  Phil leaned forward. ‘Paula, your daughter is dead. And it looks like your son is responsible. And that’s terrible. Horrible. One of the worst things that could ever happen to you. But there are two other women out there. Missing. That your son has taken. And if you can help me find them, if there’s anything you know that can help me find them, that can stop another mother going through what you’re going through, then do it. Please.’

  She sat silently for a while, then she began to shake. ‘There’s no one . . . no one knows what I’ve been through, no one . . .’

  ‘Then tell me,’ said Phil. ‘Make me understand. Tell
me about your son. Tell me about Wayne.’

  She sighed, picked up a glass from the side of the sofa, put it to her lips, realised it was empty. She sighed again, as if even that was conspiring against her, replaced it. Looked at Phil, resignation in her eyes. She began to talk. ‘He was trouble, Wayne. Ever since he was little. Trouble. At first we thought . . . you know. Just bein’ a boy. But no. There was something in there.’ She pointed to her temple. ‘Something not right.’

  Phil waited. Knew there would be more.

  ‘His dad didn’t help, neither. Ask me, his dad was the problem. Always wantin’ him to grow up. To be a man. Do the things Ian wanted him to do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Fightin’. Taught him how to box when he was tiny. Was always throwin’ punches at him. Wanted him to harden up, he said. Stand up for himself. Made him play rugby because he said football was for poofs. Took him into the woods. Said he was gettin’ him to hunt for things.’ A shadow passed over those dark, ravaged eyes. ‘That’s what he said. But there must have been somethin’ else going’ on.’

  ‘You mean he was abusing him?’

  Paula nodded her head slowly. A ghost image wavering on a badly tuned TV.

  ‘Yes. For years he was . . . he was doin’ that. Years . . .’

  ‘Is that why you left him?’

  ‘He left us, I told you.’ Sharp, a weary kind of fire in the words.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  She didn’t answer. Just returned her head to the floor. Not soon enough. Phil saw what flitted across her face.

  She’s said too much, he thought. And knew just what had happened to Ian Harrison.

  ‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ Phil’s voice was quiet, nonjudgemental. Encouraging her to continue.

  She sat completely still for a while until she eventually nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’

  90

  Mark Turner looked up when Mickey entered the interview room. File under his arm, walk purposeful, expression confident. He just hoped he could be as efficient as he looked.

  He sat down, opened the file. Studied it for a few moments. Turner sat opposite him, slumped in his chair, resolutely resisting the urge to sit up, lean forward or even acknowledge Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept his head down, apparently reading.

  The curiosity became too great for Turner. He just had to see what Mickey was reading. Slowly he leaned forward, surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of what was in the file. Mickey snapped the file shut, looked up.

  ‘So who’d win in a fight, then?’ he asked.

  Turner looked puzzled.

  ‘Dracula or Frankenstein, who d’you reckon?’

  Turner’s eyes widened, mouth gaped. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

  ‘Er . . .’ Turner began to speak, give an honest answer. Then a smug smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s not Frankenstein. It’s the Frankenstein monster. Frankenstein was the name of the man who created him.’ He sat back, triumph in his eyes. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Mickey, not missing a beat. ‘Who would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein? Not the monster. The Baron. The Peter Cushing Baron. And the Christopher Lee Dracula.’

  He waited. Turner’s eyes widened again.

  ‘Oh. Right. Dracula. Obviously.’

  ‘You sure? I mean, yeah,’ said Mickey, leaning forward, arms on the table as if it was just two mates in a pub having a chat, ‘physically, yeah. Dracula. No contest. But the Baron . . .’ Mickey shook his head. ‘Tricky. He wouldn’t play fair. He’d have traps and things waiting. Devices. Gizmos. I reckon it’s him.’

  Turner leaned forward too. ‘I still reckon Dracula. He doesn’t get to live that long without learning a thing or two.’

  ‘Yeah, but a bit of garlic, sunlight, crucifix . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You think the Baron won’t take all that into account? Lay some traps for him to fall into?’

  Turner nodded, giving the matter serious thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘just thought I’d ask because I heard you’re a real horror film fan. The old stuff. The good stuff, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Turner looked incredulous. ‘Why? Are you too?’

  ‘The old stuff. Seventies, all that. British stuff. Love it. Could sit here all night talking about it. But . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better crack on. Right.’ He opened the folder again. Looked at it. Closed it. Looked back at Turner. ‘Why did you run away from me, Mark?’ Asking the question in the same tone of voice he had used for the pub discussion.

  Turner looked at him, seemingly trying to find an honest answer for him. ‘I, I . . .’

  Mickey waited, watched. Checked the way Turner’s eyes went. Marina had briefed him, told him how to start the interview, get him onside, ask him questions, see which way his eyes went when he answered them. Up to the left for thinking and truth, down to the right for lying. Or was it the other way round? What had she said?

  He scratched the back of left hand with the middle finger of his right.

  ‘Up to the left for the truth, down to the right for lying.’

  He gave a small nod. Marina had spotted the signal, spoken to him.

  Turner tried to stonewall, shrugged. ‘Just running,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know who you were. What you wanted. You’d have ran. If it had been you. Someone chasing you.’

  Mickey nodded. ‘So where’s your girlfriend, then, Mark? She done a runner too?’

  Turner shrugged.

  ‘Didn’t share your taste in films? Her idea of an evening in wasn’t sitting down to watch Killer’s Moon?’

  Turner’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You’ve seen Killer’s Moon?’

  ‘Great film,’ said Mickey. ‘Not what you’d call a horror film, though. Comedy classic, more like.’

  He heard Marina give a small chuckle in his ear. ‘Good old Milhouse, knew we could rely on him . . .’

  Mickey leaned across the table. Speaking again like they were two mates in a pub, about something more important this time. ‘She’s left you, Mark. Gone.’

  Turner shook his head. ‘No . . .’

  ‘Yeah.’ Mickey nodded his head in sympathy. ‘She has, mate. Gone. Sorry, but she’s abandoned you. Left you here to take the full brunt of it.’

  He kept shaking his head, more vehemently now. ‘No, no, she wouldn’t, never, no . . .’

  ‘She has. So you may as well tell us what happened.’

  Nothing. Just Turner shaking his head.

  ‘You see, with her gone, there’s just you. And everything gets pinned on you. The murders, the abductions, the misleading of a police investigation, everything. All down to you.’

  No response.

  ‘But if you start talking, tell me things . . .’ Mickey shrugged. ‘It’ll make things a lot easier for you. Help you in the long run.’

  Turner stopped shaking his head. Sat completely still, staring at the desk. Mickey waited.

  Eventually Turner looked up. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

  ‘You nearly had me there. Copper.’

  Mickey frowned. ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘The films, all that. Dracula, Frankenstein, God, Killer’s Moon, you’ve done your homework . . .’ He laughed. It held as much humour as the smile did. ‘And all for this. All to be my mate’ - he spat the word out - ‘all to get me to talk. No.’

  Mickey said nothing.

  ‘She said this is what you’d say to me. What you’d try to get me to do if I ended up here. She knew that, course she did. She’s a psychologist, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Not a very good one,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

  Mickey scowled. He didn’t need that. Marina apologised.

  Turner sat back, folded his arms. ‘Anyway. It’s done.’

  ‘What’s done, Mark?’

  ‘It. Everything. What we set out to achieve. It’s all complete. Really, it doesn’t matter what happens to me now because
it’s over. Finished. We’ve done it.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Proved our point.’

  ‘Which was?’

  Again, that smile. ‘That we are superior to you.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘All of you.’ Turner stretched out his arms, put his hands behind his head, relaxed. ‘And that’s all I’m going to say.’

  Mickey stared at him.

  Lost.

  91

  Phil exhaled. Felt no sense of triumph at guessing correctly. ‘What happened?’

  Paula sighed once more. ‘It was . . . Adele. Adele and me. We just couldn’t bear it any more. He was . . . hurtin’ me. And starting to look at Adele in a way I didn’t like. I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t have that.’

  She stopped talking, reached for the empty glass once more. Sighed. Continued.

  ‘So one day I . . . hit him. With a shovel. From the back garden. And he fell. And that was that.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘We—’ She corrected herself. ‘I buried him. In the back garden.’

  ‘And you weren’t worried about getting caught?’

  ‘I did it at night.’

  ‘I mean about the murder. You weren’t worried about people finding out?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I went over that in my mind. Over and over. For ages afterwards. Ages. No. Because I’d done the right thing. He was a monster. I hadn’t killed a man. I’d killed a monster.’

  Phil looked at her, the sad, defeated woman before him. He didn’t know what she had gone through, could only guess at that. But he did know one thing. Police officer or not, there were times when the law just wasn’t enough.

  ‘I got my story straight, stuck to it. People asked. But not much. They knew what he was like. Most people round here were relieved for me when he’d gone.’

  ‘Did you do this all yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’ A fast answer.

  Too fast, thought Phil.