by Tania Carver
‘No, you didn’t. Adele helped you, didn’t she? And you want to protect her.’
Paula looked at him, straight in the eye for the first time since he had arrived there. Then she dropped her gaze. Nodded at the floor.
‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can understand you wanting to protect her. You did it for her. You didn’t want her to suffer for it.’
She nodded again.
‘And Wayne? How did he take it?’
‘He didn’t know. I told him his dad had gone. Run away. Left us. I thought that would be it, you know? The end of it. That would be fine. I’d get my son back and we’d all be happy. A happy family.’ She sighed. ‘Wrong.’
‘What happened?’
‘He . . . he blamed me. For what had happened. For his dad running away. Said I was a, a bitch. And a cow. That it was my fault he’d gone. I’d driven him away. My fault.’ She swallowed back tears.
‘And then what?’
‘He joined the army. Wanted to get away. Said what his dad always said. The army makes a man of you. Well, it makes a certain kind of man out of you . . .’
‘And his name?’
‘Changed it. Ian was his . . . his dad’s name.’
‘Buchan?’
‘I went back to my maiden name. Adele too.’ Another sigh. ‘Ian didn’t.’
‘Did you keep in touch with him?’
‘Not really. No, in fact. And then the army got in touch. Told me he’d been burnt in a fire. Badly burnt. Well, I went to see him. You have to, don’t you? I mean, he is my son, after all. So they sent him back here, to the garrison. And I went there.’ Another sigh. ‘My God. What had happened to him . . .’
‘What had happened to him?’
‘He’d . . . he’d raped a woman. A translator. Afghan. A local, civilian, working with the army. He’d been, been pursuin’ her. Stalking her. They didn’t actually say that, not to me, but that’s what they meant. And this woman, Rani, they said her name was, she kept turning him down. Anyway, one night he followed her home, got her on her own. Tried to . . .’ Another sigh. ‘Like I said. His father’s son.’
Phil waited, impatient for Paula to continue but knowing he had to let her do it in her own time.
‘He raped her. I mean, not just, you know, had sex with her. It was bad, what he did to her. They told me.’
‘His father taught him to hate women. He was just acting out.’
She nodded. ‘But he made his own mind up to do it. He was a man. Anyway, then, I don’t know exactly what happened next. Neither did they. Did he get upset when he realised he’d gone too far with her? Had he killed her? Did he want to hide the evidence? I don’t know. But he started a fire. He was always startin’ fires when he was a kid. Loved them, he did.’
Still does, though Phil, but decided it was best not to say it.
‘Anyway, he got caught in it. Couldn’t get away. Couldn’t get out. It . . . it . . . they let me see him. There’s . . . not much of him left now.’
‘Was he invalided out of the army?’
She nodded. ‘Came back to Colchester. Didn’t want to come and live here, though. They covered it up, arranged for therapy, treatment. All sorts of stuff. Tried to put him back together again.’ Another sigh. Her voice became bitter. ‘Needn’t have bothered. There’s nothin’ left of him. His mind . . . Should have left him where he was.’
‘So what happened with Adele?’
She sighed. Steeled herself for the pain to come. ‘He . . . tracked her down. And, and took her.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s not right, is he? He’s . . .’ She sighed.
‘Did you know it was him at the time?’
She shook her head. ‘Only afterwards. It only made sense afterwards. I didn’t know what to think at first. I knew she hadn’t run away. She wouldn’t. I mean, she’d had her wild years, but she’d come through that. And then, then I thought about it. Guessed it might be him. Comin’ for her first. Then me next.’
‘Why didn’t you come to us? Say something?’
She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Yeah, you’d really put yourselves out to find my Adele, hadn’t you? And how could I? My son’s after my daughter and me because we killed his father? Yeah. I can see that goin’ down well, can’t you?’
Phil said nothing. She had a point.
‘Did you recognise the names of the other women? When you’d heard they’d gone missing or been killed? Did you not connect them with your son?’
‘I might have . . . I don’t know. No.’ Shaking her head, closing her eyes, saying the words without conviction, as if to confirm it to herself.
So she didn’t have any more guilt to carry around, thought Phil.
‘You should have talked to me,’ said Phil. ‘To me.’
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
‘So what now?’ said Phil. ‘He’s not on the boat he’s been living on. D’you know where he would be?’
Paula shook her head.
‘Don’t protect him, Paula. Not now. If you know, tell me.’
She looked up. Fire in her eyes. And tears. ‘I’m not protectin’ him. D’you think I really would? After all he’s done? All he’s taken away from me? You think so? His mind’s gone, Mr Brennan. All he’s got left is hate. If I knew where he was I’d tell you. I’d lead you to the bastard myself . . .’
She trailed off, tears overtaking words.
From upstairs came the sound of a baby crying.
‘Our Adele’s,’ said Paula.
The baby kept crying. Paula didn’t move. There was nothing more Phil could say, no more questions to ask. He stood up.
‘I’ll have to bring you in.’
She nodded. The baby kept crying.
‘But not tonight. We’ll do it later.’
Paula didn’t nod this time. Phil walked to the door. Turned back and looked at her. Sitting alone in the wrecked room. The baby still crying upstairs. He wanted to say something, give her some encouraging words, tell her something that would make it better, help her find a way out of her pain, make the loss more bearable.
But there was nothing. Nothing at all.
He left her there.
Closed the door behind him. Stepped out into the darkness.
92
Mickey didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. There was a knock on the door. He got up to answer it, went into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. Hoped it was something or someone to help him.
Anni.
‘Here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Preliminary DNA results from Adele Harrison’s body. Like Nick said, there’s something funny about one set.’
‘What?’
‘There.’ She pointed to the relevant section.
Mickey read it. Smiled. ‘Thanks, Anni. This might be it.’
She returned the smile. ‘Good luck.’
Marina appeared. ‘Good work, Mickey.’
His smile faded. ‘You think so? I’ve lost him.’
‘You’ll get him back. I think he’s the follower. Fiona Welch is the leader. If he’d never met her, come under her influence, he wouldn’t be here. I don’t think he’s all that bad. Not really. Play on that. Use it. Appeal to his good side. Be his mate.’
‘Be blokey?’
‘Worth a try.’
He waved the sheet of paper. ‘And if that fails, there’s always this to fall back on.’
‘Absolutely.’
He went back inside. Sat down again.
‘Sorry about that.’ He smiled at Turner. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me how superior you were.’
Turner smirked, said nothing. Accepting the words as if they were due praise.
Mickey scrutinised Turner. ‘You used to go out with Suzanne Perry, didn’t you?’
‘You know I did.’
‘Nice girl. Why’d you ditch her?’
‘Found someone better.’
‘Really?’ Mickey shook his head. ‘You mean Fiona Welch? Listen, mate, you bac
ked a wrong ’un there.’
Turner just stared at him.
‘I mean, there’s Suzanne. Good-looking, intelligent, good company . . . And Julie Miller. You were with her before Suzanne, yeah? Same. Real looker. And then you go from them to Fiona Welch.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s like trading in a Rolls-Royce for a Mondeo. She must be a good shag, mate, because there’s nothing else going for her.’
Turner’s face reddened, his eyes narrowed. He struggled not to rise from his chair. ‘And what would you know? Eh? Mr Thick Policeman? Mate? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. “All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth”.’ He managed a smile. ‘Know who said that? Course you don’t. Because you’re thick. Thick thick thick thick thick.’
Mickey said nothing.
‘I’ll go and look it up.’ Marina’s voice in Mickey’s ear. He shook his head. Hoped she caught it.
Turner was still talking. ‘That’s your interpretation. Because you think you’ve got power. But it’s not. It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then tell me what it is like.’
Another humourless laugh. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not intelligent enough to understand.’
‘Then make me. Because I’m all that stands between you and a life sentence for four murders. Make me.’
Turner sat back. ‘All right then.’ Closed his eyes. ‘What Fiona and I have is so, so much more than anything I have ever felt in my life. Suzanne, Julie, even Adele were nothing. Boring little nobodies. But Fiona has shown me things, made me realise what I am, what I’m capable of . . .’ He sighed, a happy, cruel smile on his face. ‘I’ve never felt so alive. All because of her.’ He opened his eyes. Fixed Mickey with a direct gaze. ‘I pity you. Really pity you.’
‘Why, Mark?’
‘Because you’ll never feel what I’ve felt. Experience what I’ve experienced. Your life will always be boring. And you will always be stupid. “Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.” And that’s you. Bet you don’t know who said that, either.’
‘Would it matter if I did?’
Turner laughed, shook his head. ‘Course not.’
Mickey sighed, sat back, folded his arms. Fixed Turner with a direct look. ‘Mark, I’ll be honest with you. No bullshit now. You can sit here and come out with all these quotes and all these insults and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. No any more. Not to you. Because, like I said, you’re looking at a life sentence for four murders. At least. That we know of. And it looks like your girlfriend’s dumped you. Left you to take all the blame.’
Turner flinched at that.
‘Good one,’ said Marina.
Mickey leaned forward once more. The last few minutes forgotten, mates again. ‘So why don’t you tell me, Mark? Eh? Tell me everything. You’re not going anywhere.’
Turner stared at him, mouth moving, chewing the inside of his lip.
Nerves, thought, Mickey. Good. Getting there.
‘Tell me the whole thing, Mark.’
Turner sighed.
‘All right.’
Mickey managed to hide his smile.
93
The boat was almost gone. It hadn’t been much to start with, but the fire and explosion had rendered it down to a black, rusted skeleton. A charred, blurred representation of what had once been moored there. A smudged after-image.
Phil stared at it, wanting it to give him answers. He looked round.
Fire teams had handled the blaze, stopped it from spreading. But King Edward Quay had been evacuated along with the apartments on the opposite side of the river, the house-boats and businesses sealed off, no access to anyone.
TV crews had been kept at a distance and the crews working the lightship murder site and Julie Miller’s neighbours had also been stood down until the area was declared safe. Uniforms were keeping watch, stopping any trespassers, so Phil had the place to himself.
He had phoned Marina, tried to tell her what was going on, but got only her voicemail. So he had left a message telling her about his conversation with Paula and for her to phone him back as soon as possible.
He closed his eyes, listened. Tried to get a feel for the area, for the space inside Ian Buchan’s head. For where he had been, where he would go next. He turned round. The old Dock Transit building stood behind him. Huge and hulking against the orange sodium darkness, holding shadows and secrets behind its boarded-up doors and windows. The corrugated, rusted metal along its roof making it look like the crenulated top of an old, haunted castle. Phil found a uniform, showed his warrant card.
‘Has inside there been checked?’
The uniform was middle-aged, greying hair, well-built. Time-serving but sharp-eyed. Doing his job but counting up the overtime. ‘A few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get far. Place is a death trap. Doubt he’d be in there. Didn’t look like it. Could barely get it opened.’
Phil turned towards the building, back to the uniform. ‘Got a torch I could borrow? Just have a nose round for myself.’
The uniform handed it over. Phil thanked him.
Worth a try, he thought. From the way the officer had spoken, he doubted the building had been seriously searched.
He crossed the rubble-strewn, broken concrete forecourt, walked under the huge, rusting metal arm of the crane, approached the building. He could imagine it as it once was, a working building, the crane moving constantly, grabber sliding back and forth along the overhead beam, containers being emptied, filled and transferred, loading and unloading cargo from Europe, the dock alive with bustling activity. A confident place, making a serious challenge to Harwich.
And now. A rusted, wrecked shell. As much of a ghost as the burnt-out husk of a boat in front of it.
He walked up to where the door used to be. Now just several huge sheets of thick plywood decorated with ‘Danger - Keep Out’ signs, gang tags and graffiti art. He felt round the edges for some purchase, something to pull at, saw the rusting imprint of well-hammered-in heavy-duty nails.
Maybe the uniform was right, he thought. Maybe there hadn’t been anyone here.
Maybe.
Phil knelt down, felt all along the bottom of the wood.
Something gave.
Just a little bit, a slight movement accompanied by the creak of old wood against rusted nail. Not much, but enough to give him hope. He pulled, wondering which part of the building the uniforms had entered from. Or even if they had.
The wood didn’t want to give. At least not without a fight.
And Phil was in the mood for a fight.
He edged his fingers beneath, prising the wood away, catching his fingernails, feeling splinters embed themselves in his palms as he did so. He ignored everything but the need to pull the wood off.
More creaking, more straining as the wood reluctantly pulled away from its surrounding. Phil screamed with the exertion, fell backwards as the corner of wood came away. He sat up, looked at it. There was a big enough hole for him to squeeze through.
Just.
He put his arms through, managed to pull his body along.
As he did so, he was reminded of a similar crawl through a restricted space he had made several months before. He hoped this one turned out better than that.
He made it through to the other side. Lying on the floor, he looked round. Pitch-black, he saw nothing. The air was damp and cold. Fetid. He listened. Heard the wind playing through the rust-eaten walls, ghosts drifting.
He felt for the torch, took it out of his jacket pocket, switched it on. Swung it round. Saw small black shapes scurry away from the beam. The walls were mottled, discoloured, crumbling. The metal struts holding up the roof rusted and flaking. The floor pitted and broken concrete, a pile of old rags in a far corner, with a stack of old, stained cardboard next to it. Empty cans, bottles. Someone had been living there at some point. Not recently, though.<
br />
He stood up. Walked towards the centre of the building, looking all round all the time. Checking the dust on the floor as he walked. This place hadn’t been searched. Uniforms had probably decided to leave it for the morning.
Lazy bastards, thought Phil.
He swung the torch. The building had another floor towards the back, a metal staircase leading the way. He looked up to the ceiling. A metal walkway ran along the length of the building leading to the crane outside. No one up there. He walked on, towards the back of the building, ready to mount the steps to the next floor.
Stopped dead.
Something wasn’t right.
Tucked away in a shadowed corner were two large black boxes. Phil moved in closer. Wooden packing crates, rectangular. A concrete block, the kind used in roadworks, in front of each one. And before that a trough of water.
There was something in the water.
Phil moved quickly, fearing the worst.
His fears were justified. In the water was a body. Charred and burnt. Electrocuted, he guessed.
He looked round. Saw cables snaking into the water. He traced them with the torch. Saw that they connected to a generator in the corner. He crossed over, made sure the generator was switched off. Turned back to the trough of water, reached in, turned the body over.
A young woman, tall, brunette. Julie Miller or Suzanne Perry, he was guessing.
Too late. Damn.
He stood still, listening. Heard a sound. Scratching. Moving. Not the rats, too big for the rats.
Looked round. One of the crates was open, the end pushed out against the concrete block. The other block was still in place. Phil moved round the side of the water, bent down beside the end of the box.
‘Hello?’ he said.
The scratching stopped.
‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Is there anyone in there?’
Nothing.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. Essex Police. Is there someone in there?’
He waited. Eventually he heard a voice.
‘How . . . how do I know you are who you say you are?’
A woman’s voice. Phil felt a rush of adrenalin course through him. ‘Are you Suzanne Perry or Julie Miller?’