Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  But still the questions were rolling around inside him. Not going away, stuck there in his head. Was this Rani? After all that, was this actually Rani? And if it wasn’t, then where was Rani?

  These thoughts were going through his head while he was standing on the walkway watching the psychologist talk to the man on the floor. She had sat on him, tried to turn him on, then, when that didn’t work, hurt him.

  The Creeper had enjoyed watching her do that.

  Maybe this was Rani after all.

  He looked at the body lying next to the man on the walkway. He remembered that one. She had been Rani for a while until the spirit left her, until she became a husk. So what was she doing here now?

  So many questions . . .

  It hurt him to think. And that made him angry. He could feel it, building up inside him. That snake uncoiling, spitting out its venom. And when he got angry, when that snake got going, he wanted to get it out of him . . .

  But not yet. He would wait. Be patient. See what happened.

  And then do something . . .

  103

  Phil looked at the prone figure of the woman lying next to him, then back to Fiona Welch. He had no idea how things were going to work out, just had to hope his team would be on the way soon.

  Because if not . . .

  He put the thought out of his mind. Concentrated on Fiona Welch. Keep her talking. Stop her getting any other ideas.

  ‘So how did you get to be profiler on the investigation, Fiona? How did you manage that one?’

  She smiled again, that smug, unbalanced smile. ‘Simple. Because Ben Fenwick is easily impressed.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Credentials. He didn’t have a clue what to ask for. So I just . . . guided his hand when he phoned up. All he knew was that he should have a profiler. And I knew the police would investigate. So I made sure I was in the right place at the right time. That he would choose no one else but me.’

  ‘And you lied to him, of course.’

  ‘Naturally.’ She laughed. ‘And I’m a much better profiler than you thought I was. Because I read him straight away. Manipulated him from the off. Easy.’ She moved closer to Phil once more. ‘And a much better psychologist, too. Because I read you all. Played you all. Brilliantly. Which wasn’t hard. Because you were all so stupid. You allowed me into the centre of your investigation, let me control things, keep . . . I don’t know, I was going to say one step ahead of you but, let’s be honest, I was streets ahead. I could have kept going for months.’

  ‘If I hadn’t wised up to you and shipped you out. Not that stupid.’

  A flash of anger in her eyes, her hands became claws once more, moved towards Phil’s face. She stopped herself. Forced a smile. She nodded, as if to a joke only she could hear, or at a decision she had made. One whose outcome she was going to enjoy.

  Phil looked down at Suzanne Perry, then back to Fiona Welch. ‘So why her, Fiona? Why Suzanne?’

  Fiona Welch shrugged. ‘Why any of them?’

  ‘I don’t know. Julie Miller. Adele Harrison. What makes them so special? You tell me.’

  Her eyes slipped away from him. Down to the right. ‘Because I could. Because they were there.’

  Liar, he thought. ‘Nothing to do with Mark Turner?’

  She flinched, like a chink in her armour had been exposed and he had pierced it.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘No?’ He had to keep pressing, work that sword into her.

  ‘You sure about that? The fact that they’re all ex-girlfriends of his is just a coincidence, is it?’

  ‘Shut up.’ She slapped him. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Phil didn’t shut up. He ignored the pain in his face, kept going. ‘What’s the matter, Fiona? Didn’t you like the competition? Was that it?’

  ‘Shut up . . .’ screamed at him.

  ‘What, his exes made you jealous? Not very master race that, is it? Jealous of a barmaid?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Another slap.

  Phil recovered quickly, looked at her face. Saw something there, something she hadn’t shown before. Fear. Insecurity. He smiled inwardly. He had hit a nerve. Found her weakness.

  He pushed that sword further in.

  ‘That why you killed her, is it? Because you were jealous? What was it, did he still think of her? Talk about her? Call out her name at the wrong time?’

  ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up . . .’ More slaps, out of control. Her voice strident, pleading.

  ‘Or was it more than that? Did he have second thoughts, not like what you were doing to her, try to let her go?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Maybe he still liked her?’

  ‘Stop it . . .’

  Phil picked up the undertone of her words. He knew what had happened. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He had sex with her. And you didn’t like it, did you?’

  She put her hands over her ears.

  ‘Maybe he liked the power he had over her and forced her, maybe she wanted it too. Doesn’t matter. They did it. And it hurt you. How am I doing?’

  Phil laughed. His bitterness almost matched hers. ‘Fiona Welch, homo superior. Jealous of a student and a barmaid . . .’

  Her hands flailed, face contorted. She didn’t know what to do, how to respond. She screamed.

  ‘And you killed her.’

  She looked round, eyes wide, staring, like a trapped animal.

  ‘No,’ said Phil, putting it together, ‘you didn’t kill her. Or you didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Something done in anger. Nothing to do with proving a point, showing how superior you are. That’s all just justification after the fact, isn’t it? You accidentally killed her then panicked. Messed up her body so we would think there was a sexual sadist on the loose.’

  Her hands were back over her ears, eyes screwed tight shut. Tears were running down her face.

  ‘Isn’t that right?’

  She took her hands away. ‘Shut up! Shut up . . .’

  Phil knew he had broken her so, not waiting to see how she would respond, he turned his attention to the figure standing behind Fiona Welch.

  ‘That you over there, Ian? Or should I call you Wayne?’

  A ragged intake of breath that Phil took for surprise.

  ‘Did she make you do it? Fiona here. Did she make you kill all the women?’

  He stepped forward. Phil saw his face in the light for the first time.

  And gasped.

  It was ruined. Burnt beyond any kind of reconstructive surgery, red and angry, white and dead. His teeth bared like an angry, vengeful skeleton.

  Phil focused, kept going. ‘What did she tell you, Ian? How did she get you to do it? Did you know you’d killed your own sister? Did you not recognise her?’

  The hulking figure looked between Fiona Welch and Phil. Phil didn’t know what he was thinking because there was so little of face left and what there was couldn’t express emotions. He opened his mouth. And a sound came out that Phil never wanted to hear again. Like the dying of a wounded animal.

  He came forward, screaming.

  And that was when Suzanne Perry made her move.

  104

  ‘It was my job to . . .’ Mark Turner sighed. ‘To . . . look after her. I used to come in every day to see that she was all right. That she had something to eat and drink and, and went to the toilet.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In . . .’ He hesitated, corrected himself. ‘Where she, where we kept them.’

  ‘So there was just Adele there at this time?’

  He shook his head. ‘Julie came to join her soon after.’ ‘Keep going.’

  ‘And Adele and I . . . I just saw her there and I . . . I wanted to . . .’

  ‘Help her?’

  His voice was tiny, fragile. ‘Love her . . .’

  Mickey struggled to keep his face as straight as possible.

  ‘And I . . . I . . . it built up over a few days. I wanted to say
something, let her know it was me, but I . . .’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Frightened of what Fiona would say,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

  ‘One day I built up courage. I knew I was taking a risk but I . . . I couldn’t help it. When I was getting them out of their, of their . . . and I was helping her to the toilet I stopped her, spoke to her. Showed her it was me.’

  ‘And what did she do?’

  ‘Well, she was . . . it was . . . she cried.’

  He fell silent for a while. Then continued.

  ‘And then I . . . I told her how I felt.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘That she felt the same as me.’

  I’ll just bet she did, thought Mickey. Anything to get out. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘We . . . started having sex. And . . . and plotted.’

  ‘Her escape?’

  He sighed. Nodded.

  ‘Or both of your escapes?’

  Another sigh, heavier this time.

  ‘And Fiona found you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tears welled again in Turner’s eyes. ‘And she . . . stopped it.’ He looked away. Looked at anything but Mickey.

  But Mickey wasn’t letting it go. ‘Stopped it? How did she stop it, Mark?’

  ‘She, she . . .’ The tears fell. ‘Told me that if I didn’t . . . if I didn’t . . .’

  He couldn’t say the word. Mickey wanted to hear it. Mickey wouldn’t say it for him.

  ‘If you didn’t what, Mark?’

  ‘If I didn’t kill her . . .’ The words blurted out, sprayed like projectile vomit all over the table. ‘Kill her . . . then Fiona would, would kill me . . .’

  ‘So you killed her.’

  He nodded, shoulders heaving with his tears.

  ‘And all the . . . mutilation?’

  Turner grimaced. ‘She did that. Fiona did that. I wouldn’t, couldn’t . . .’

  Mickey waited.

  ‘She got the Creeper and me to drop off the body, told us where to leave it, how to position it. Said you’d think there was a sex killer on the loose. Then she said . . .’ Another heavy sigh. ‘Said that I was hers now. Forever.’

  Turner said nothing more. Just sat slumped.

  Mickey sighed. Mopping up time. ‘She used you, Mark.’

  ‘No . . .’ He shook his head.

  ‘Yes, she did. Just like she used Ian Buchan.’

  Turner frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Creeper. Used you. Kept you under her control. She made the Creeper kidnap his own sister. She used him like she used you.’

  ‘But we were a partnership . . .’

  ‘No you weren’t. You were just like the Creeper to her. Someone to be controlled. Another experiment.’

  Turner sighed. And the tears came again.

  ‘So where are they, Mark? The girls?’

  He kept his head down, stared at the table.

  ‘You may as well tell me, Mark, I know everything else.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Everything. Even the fact that the two quotes you threw at me when I came in here were from Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.’

  Turner looked up, shock and surprise in his eyes.

  ‘Anyone can read a book, Mark. So tell me, where are they?’

  Turner sighed, saw that he had nothing else left to hang on to.

  ‘At the Quay. The old Dock Transit Company building . . .’

  Mickey was straight out of the door.

  105

  Suzanne screamed.

  It was enough to startle the Creeper, divert his attention away from Phil.

  Phil could only watch as Suzanne kept the momentum going. While the others were still staring, she got to her feet, grabbed one of the huge, chained hooks hanging from the runner along the ceiling and swung it towards the other three.

  Phil, being on the ground already, didn’t have to duck. The other two did. Fiona Welch ducked to the side but she wasn’t quick enough and the hook swung at her, catching her on the side of the head. She fell, crumpling in a heap.

  The Creeper was faster to react. The hook, which, having hit Fiona Welch, slowed its momentum, was much less of a threat by the time it reached him. He put up a great, solid hand, all muscle and gristle, and stopped it, the impact forcing him backwards, air huffing from him.

  Phil knew what was coming next, shouted a warning.

  ‘Get out of the way, Suzanne . . .’

  The Creeper pulled back the hook and, giving a roar of effort as he did so, let it fly towards her.

  Phil pushed himself even further into the rusted metal of the walkway as it rattled along the track, gaining speed from the traction as it passed him. Suzanne however, couldn’t move. She just stood there, watching it come towards her.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Phil.

  It broke the spell. Suzanne turned and ran.

  Along the walkway and into the shadows. Phil lost her then. He turned back to the scene before him. Welch was still on the floor, eyes screwed up in pain, hand to the side of her head, blood seeping between fingers. The Creeper’s face had, if anything, turned even redder. Phil didn’t know much about burns and scarring but he was sure this wasn’t a positive development.

  He was right. With an angry roar, he set off after Suzanne, his limping, shambling frame surprisingly fast, and was soon lost to sight in the shadows, the only sounds the heavy clang and clatter as his boots came down heavily on the metal floor.

  Phil pulled himself to his feet, looked down at Fiona Welch. There was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He pulled at his wrists behind his back. But it was no good. The cuffs were tight. He needed something sharp, an edge to cut them with. He looked round. Couldn’t see one.

  The Creeper had reached the ground and was bellowing once more.

  Wrists tied or not, thought Phil, I’ve got to stop him.

  Treading as carefully as he could and trying desperately to keep his balance and remain upright, Phil ran along the gantry into the same shadows that had claimed the other two.

  Suzanne was getting out of breath. The sudden exertion after so much enforced stillness was beginning to take its toll. Her lungs were starting to burn, her legs shake. Her breathing was coming hard and fast and she was sure he would be able to track her just from that alone.

  She had no idea where she was going. She was trying to find a way out but there didn’t seem to be one. The light from above cast faint rays on the ground, more than she had expected. Perhaps too much if he was following her.

  And he was. She could hear him.

  She ran.

  The Creeper was angry. Very angry.

  He didn’t know what was going on but he knew he didn’t like it. The husk had tried to hurt him. It was time for the husk to stop.

  He reached the bottom of the steps, looked round. Listened. Heard movement to his left, breathing and fast footsteps. Bare feet slapping on the concrete floor.

  He smiled.

  Easy.

  But just in case, he had something that would give him an advantage.

  The night-vision goggles were still in his pocket. He had used them earlier when he came to meet Rani - or thought he was coming to meet Rani - to get into the building and dodge the police. He always used them at night. Something else he loved that gave him power.

  He put them on, activated them. The world turned ghost-green and he could see.

  And there she was. Almost to the far wall, by the boxes and beyond them, the water.

  The electric water.

  She disappeared from view. Hiding. Or so she thought.

  He smiled.

  Too easy.

  106

  By the time Mickey had emerged from the interview room, the whole station was in action. He found Anni.

  ‘Did you hear?’ he said. ‘The old Dock—’

  She cut him off. ‘The circus is ready to go. We had an idea it might be there. The last call from the boss came from there. We haven’t been able to reach him si
nce so there was a squad already being put together.’

  ‘Right,’ he said, disappointed that his thunder had been stolen.

  Anni sensed that. She managed a smile. ‘You were good in there. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Was he blushing?

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

  He didn’t need to be told twice.

  The team left the building. Marina was still in the observation room, watching Mark Turner.

  She had seen the same patterns of behaviour before. When a suspect had given a full confession, got all their crimes out of their own souls and into a police report, they often slept. Turner, with his drooping eyes and lolling head, looked to be no exception.

  Marina was curious. She left the observation room, crossed to the interview room. Stood outside, poised. Should she go in? Would that violate his confession in any way? Speak of harassment, coercion? She didn’t know. But it was a good opportunity to talk to him before he was taken away.

  ‘D’you mind?’ she said to the uniform on the door.

  He stood aside, let her enter.

  The room smelled of sweat. Hardly surprising, considering the way the two men had being going at it. Turner sat, barely registering her as she sat down opposite him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m . . . the new profiler on this investigation. Can we talk?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘that this is such an unusual case, I feel someone should be writing it up. Would you let me do that, interview you with that in mind?’

  He looked up, seeing her for the first time, she thought.

  He smiled.

  ‘They’re too late, you know.’

  She frowned. Not what she had been expecting. ‘What d’you mean? Who’s too late?’

  ‘They are. The police.’ He said the word like he was describing a virulent, hateful illness.

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘To save them, of course.’

  Her heart flipped. ‘What d’you mean? Has he killed them? Is that it? Are they dead already?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet . . .’