The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  She closed the laptop, sat back, smiled.

  Time to go home. Deal with it tomorrow.

  But she knew she was too wired for sleep.

  Wonder what time Ben was planning on leaving?

  Anni Hepburn flopped backwards on to the sofa, bottle of beer in hand, sighed. Exhausted.

  She had spent most of the afternoon going through patient files at the hospital, looking for possible matches with Fiona Welch’s profile. So far she hadn’t found any. But there was always tomorrow.

  If Anthony Howe didn’t confess, that is.

  She flicked the remote at the TV, stared at it for a few seconds, thinking about maybe running a bath, lying in there for an hour or so with another beer and this week’s heat magazine. Then her mobile rang.

  She answered it.

  ‘Hi, it’s, er, it’s Mickey. From work, you know?’

  She was surprised but managed to hide it well. ‘Yeah, I know. Hi, Mickey, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering…’

  She smiled, waited.

  ‘There’s a couple of things about the case I was… I just wanted to talk through. And, well, to be honest, you were the only one that I thought would listen.’

  She almost laughed out loud. That was the lamest chat-up line she had heard in a long time. Or at least from one of her colleagues.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m exhausted.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I just need an early night. Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow, yeah?’

  She heard the disappointment in his voice. ‘OK. Tomorrow. See you then. Sorry to, you know, bother you.’

  She smiled. He might look and sound like some alpha male wannabe at work but on his own he was quite sweet. And cute, too, now that she thought of it.

  She said goodnight, hung up the phone, smiled.

  ‘Yep, girl,’ she said out loud, ‘you still got it.’

  Then went to run herself a bath.

  Mickey Philips put the phone down, sighed. Snow Patrol playing in the background, singing about her being the only thing right in all he’d done.

  He hadn’t done anything right at all. In fact, he’d done that all wrong. Now she would think he fancied her. Well, yeah, he might, but that wasn’t the point. He had suspicions about this case. Suspicions he wanted to share with someone. Talk through, see if he was just imagining things. Or not.

  Hopefully the former.

  But now it would have to wait. He doubted he would have the time or the opportunity to talk to Anni alone tomorrow. Not without her thinking he was after her. He would just have to keep his suspicions to himself for now.

  And having an early night? Yeah, right. How lame was that excuse?

  He sighed. Sat back on the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo, silencing it. No longer in the mood.

  On the one hand, he thought, things used to be much more complicated when he was in the Drugs Squad. But in a way, much simpler.

  He got up, not wanting to stay in the flat any longer.

  He would find a bar, have a couple of drinks.

  Drown his suspicions at least.

  And hopefully not bump into Anni, not having an early night.

  He closed the door behind him.

  54

  ‘Now, where were we?’

  Phil sat down opposite Anthony Howe once more. The professor looked like he was in pieces. He had dried his tears but his face looked like it had aged ten years in the time Phil had been out of the room.

  The crime scene photos were still in front of Howe, exactly where Phil had left them. He hadn’t even touched them.

  ‘Had a good look?’ said Phil. ‘Pleased with your handiwork? Because no one ever is, really, are they? There’s always something they could have done better. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time but just doesn’t look right once it’s finished.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Is that how it is with you, Anthony? Was there something here’ – he pointed at the photo of the woman on the lightship – ‘that maybe you could have done better? Hmm?’ He sat back, arms out, hands on the table. ‘What would that be, then? You tell me.’

  Howe’s voice was tremulous, small. ‘I… I’ve never seen her before. I didn’t do it… I didn’t do it…’

  During the break in the interview he had gone into the observation room. Fenwick and Fiona Welch had been watching. They both turned to him as he entered.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Fiona. ‘Keep at him. He’s going to crack, I know it. Just keep at him.’

  Fenwick looked slightly concerned. ‘Can I talk to you outside a moment?’

  Phil followed his boss into the hallway. It had the same institutional smell that every police station had. Phil had often thought there must be a spray somewhere, sitting in boxes in some store cupboard in the Home Office. Eau de Nick.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Fenwick.

  ‘Fine.’ Phil’s eyes, face, gave nothing away.

  ‘Really? Because I saw you in there with that suspect and I’m not so sure.’

  Phil said nothing. Fenwick continued.

  ‘You’re the best interviewer in the station, Phil. You know that. I’ve seen you get inside that room, get to work on someone and get them to confess while they still think you’re their best mate. I’ve seen you demolish villains that no one else could crack. But in there…’

  Phil’s defences were up. ‘What about in there?’

  ‘You’re off your game. You’re going for him hard, why? Because she says so?’

  ‘No. Because… because… because it’s my job…’

  Fenwick shook his head. ‘Phil…’

  ‘Look, Ben. If he’s guilty, he’ll crack. If he’s not he won’t. Simple as that.’

  From the look on Fenwick’s face, he had realised he would get no further with Phil. ‘Fine. Do it your own way.’

  ‘I will.’

  And Phil went back in the room.

  ‘So you didn’t do it,’ said Phil, looking at the top of Howe’s head, resting on the table.

  The head moved slowly, side to side.

  ‘But you admit to stalking Suzanne.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. That’s progress. We’re getting somewhere.’

  Howe looked up. ‘We were in a relationship… She ended it and… and… I couldn’t bear it… I wanted to see her, talk to her… that’s all, just to talk to her, tell her I… I…’ His voice trailed off once more. He sighed. ‘She phoned me yesterday, yes. And I didn’t call her back.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she would have… shouted at me…’

  ‘And you don’t like being shouted at?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘What about Julie Miller?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Adele Harrison?’

  Another shake of the head, eyes tightly closed.

  Phil’s voice was rising. ‘Zoe Herriot. Why’d you kill her? Was she in the way? Was she a barrier to you being with Suzanne again? Is that it? Would she have shouted at you?’

  No response.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Howe started to cry again.

  Phil sat back, stared at him. And a moment of self-doubt crept into his heart. A thought took shape: Fenwick’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Was Howe guilty? Phil realised he didn’t know. And he didn’t know why he didn’t know. He should have been on top of it, looking for the signs, interpreting them, basing his next set of questions on those interpretations. Instead he had gone in shouting, breaking the man before him and still not knowing whether he was guilty or innocent.

  He thought once again of Marina. Wished she was with him.

  And that was it. He knew it. The reason he couldn’t operate.

  He stood up. ‘Interview terminated.’

  Howe looked up, hope daring to dance at the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s it? I can go home?’

  Phil looked down at the broken man sprawled across the
table and didn’t know the answer.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to charge you with the abduction of Suzanne Perry and we’re going to keep you here overnight. We’ll talk again in the morning.’

  Howe recoiled as if he’d been hit. ‘No… no, you can’t… please…’

  Phil gestured to the uniform by the door to take over, turned away from him.

  ‘Please, you can’t… I can’t go in a cell, please…’

  Phil said nothing.

  ‘I’m… I’m claustrophobic, please… please…’ And then shouting. ‘I’m scared…’

  Phil left the room. Hands shaking, unfocused.

  He had a phone call to make.

  55

  Phil sat on Marina’s side of the bed for the second night in a row. Staring ahead, seeing nothing, eyes focused inwards not outwards.

  Thoughts focused once more on his partner and daughter.

  He shook his head, lifted the beer bottle to his mouth. Empty. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He sighed. His head wasn’t where it should be. He should have been in the case, right in the thick of it, on top of it, surfing it like a wave, but he wasn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on it. And that both worried and scared him.

  Anthony Howe. Innocent or guilty?

  Julie Miller/Adele Harrison.

  Suzanne Perry/Zoe Herriot.

  And Fiona Welch. Why did he dislike her so? Why was he listening to what she said? Why were any of them?

  There was something he was missing. Something he couldn’t see. Like there was fog all around, inside and out. Something…

  The phone was in his hands. He didn’t remember putting it there. He looked at the floor. Must have let the empty beer bottle slip to the floor.

  He dialled a number he knew off by heart.

  Waited. Not breathing.

  Marina saw the phone light up, vibrate. It was on the bed next to her. She had carried it with her all day, in her hands all night. She just looked at it. Let it ring.

  Josephina was asleep in the travel cot at the side of the bed. The TV was playing softly in the corner of the hotel room. From the window in her bedroom she could see the night. It seemed barely dark, the lights of Bury St Edmunds twinkling and shining. Safe and enticing.

  She sighed.

  The phone kept flashing, vibrating.

  Josephina stirred.

  She had told herself she would answer it when he rang. Talk to him. Explain.

  Because she would have made up her mind by then. She would know what she was going to do.

  But she didn’t. She hadn’t made up her mind. In fact she was no further forward. So she couldn’t talk to him. Didn’t trust herself.

  The phone kept flashing, vibrating.

  Her fingers were right next to it. Reaching…

  It would be so easy, just pick it up, talk to him…

  So easy…

  It stopped.

  She sighed. Sat back. Looked at it.

  She felt empty once more, alone.

  She could pick it up, call him.

  She could.

  But she wouldn’t. Because she didn’t know what to say.

  So she sat there looking at it.

  Her heart breaking.

  Phil put the phone down. He didn’t leave a message. He lay down on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

  He tried to sleep.

  Couldn’t.

  Added it to the list of things he couldn’t do.

  56

  The Creeper stood outside the house. Smiled.

  It was a large house but, crammed into a small street with other large houses, it just looked small. Old, with grey and red brick and big bay sash windows with stained glass in them. Nice. The sort of place that looked welcoming. The sort of place you could call home.

  Rani had done well for herself this time.

  The Creeper would never have dreamt of calling a place like this home. It was a different world. But he might. Soon.

  He had watched it for a long time. A man had driven up, parked down the road in the first available space and let himself in. Suited and carrying a briefcase, he was young, confident looking. Like he knew what he was worth. Or thought he knew.

  The Creeper had smiled. The man would soon find out.

  He had waited longer. Eventually another car had pulled up, parked in the road. There were two people in it, a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. His heart skipped a beat. There she was. He knew it as soon as he saw her.

  Rani.

  He couldn’t stop smiling. It was all he could to stop himself running out to meet her. But he did. He would be patient. He would wait. Bide his time.

  He watched them talk. The driver looked like an older version of the man who had entered the house. He saw them hold hands before she left the car. Felt a sharp pang of anger when that happened. The car drove away. He watched it go, saw Rani enter the house.

  Went back to waiting.

  It wasn’t perfect where he was but it was good. It would do. It wasn’t as good as the last place, where he lived with Rani, was together with her all the time, but it would do. He wouldn’t be disturbed. The owner of the house he was in would be no more trouble. He could see her leg sticking out from the spare room where he had left her body.

  All he had to do was wait.

  And he was good at that. He could be a patient man. Because he had something to wait for. Someone.

  Rani.

  PART THREE

  57

  Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care.

  He had made an effort to smarten himself up, sort himself out. Clean shirt and a shave. Wash and brush up. But his eyes were black-rimmed, broken capillary fractals, gazing away when they should be staying focused, clouding over when they should have been clear.

  He sat at his desk in the bar, waiting for the briefing to start. Caffeine-alert, telling himself to pull it together, compartmentalise. Shut off his home life, live only in his work life. But whether he was actually listening was another matter.

  He had tried Marina again last night. And again and again. A different message every time. Inquiring about her safety and wellbeing, their daughter’s too. Then telling her how much she was missed, just to talk to him if something was wrong. She didn’t need to come back home. Even asking for her opinion on his case. Different every time, something he hoped would attract her to pick up, make it impossible not to. She didn’t. Eventually he stopped leaving messages. Eventually he stopped calling.

  He must have slept at some point. But he couldn’t remember when. Woke up on Marina’s side of the bed once more. Several more bottles at his feet. He couldn’t remember those getting there either.

  He had formulated a plan for contacting Marina. Really simple, wondered how he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He would do it later. First he had the briefing to get through.

  He pulled his eyes on to the whiteboard, took another hit of pitch-black coffee, forced himself to concentrate on the case.

  The team were assembled. The same faces as the day before looking marginally refreshed and rested. Anni would catch Mickey’s eye then turn away with a private smile while Mickey would look anywhere but at her. He didn’t know what was going on there, didn’t want to know either unless it affected their work. Rose Martin seemed to be humming with some kind of energy, ready to go. Either that, thought Phil, or she’d just had another fight. Fenwick was at the end of the room, trying not to look at her. Fiona Welch sat at her desk, straight-backed, pen poised. Face unreadable. She still unnerved Phil. Nick Lines had come over, armed with more findings from the post-mortems.

  Fenwick moved to the centre of the room, ready to go.

  ‘Thanks for coming in early, people. Appreciate it. Let’s get started. Phil?’

  Phil stood up, took centre stage. ‘As you know, we’ve got Anthony Howe downstairs in the cells. He’s been charged with Suzanne Perry’s abduction. Progress report, Adrian?’
<
br />   Adrian Wren stood up. ‘He’s got no alibi for the night of the abduction and murder. Says he was out on his own, walking. Stopped in a pub for a drink. Can’t remember which one.’ He checked a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Took a call from Suzanne Perry in the afternoon, tried calling her a few times that night. No reply.’

  ‘Left a message?’ said Phil.

  Adrian shook his head. ‘No. But called her three times up until ten o’clock. After that, nothing. Says he went home. Wife’s left him so there’s no one who can say yes or no to that one. Got the CSIs going through his house now, though.’

  ‘Thanks, Adrian.’ Phil turned to the rest of the team. ‘So that’s where we are with him.’

  ‘Gut feeling, Phil?’ said Fenwick, his usual question.

  Phil thought. He was the one who had interviewed him and charged him but he honestly didn’t know if he was guilty. Usually he got a feeling, a copper’s instinct. It wasn’t infallible but was accurate about 90 per cent of the time. But this time, no yes or no, nothing.

  But before he could answer, Fiona Welch jumped in.

  ‘He fits the profile perfectly,’ she said. ‘Textbook. Just a matter of breaking him down, I would say.’

  Fenwick stared at her. Phil knew he didn’t like profilers, only paid lip service to the idea of them for the sake of workplace politics and personal advancement. A win/win situation for him – able to take the credit if they got it right, providing someone to blame if they got it wrong. But he certainly didn’t like them interrupting when it wasn’t their turn. Fenwick blanked her.

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Yeah, he fits the profile, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You mean whether he’s guilty or innocent?’

  ‘Yeah. I just… don’t know.’

  Fenwick waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. Instead, Phil turned to Nick Lines.