The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  Adrian nodded.

  ‘I’m off to check the other women on the list, see if he’s been there.’ He sighed.

  ‘Just what we need to be looking for. An obsessed survivalist. Brilliant…’

  64

  ‘Hello? Mr Buchan…’

  No reply.

  Anni could see the crime scene on the lightship from where she stood. King Edward Quay on the Hythe stretched away from the Colne Causeway Bridge with the upscale apartments either side of it to a series of newly installed mooring points. The walkway had been block-paved with new trees planted in specified circular areas at regular intervals. Each mooring point had a heavy metal tie for the rope to be looped round and a power-point post providing an electricity supply for each berthed vessel. The electricity substation hummed behind a spiked metal fence over the road behind her.

  The boats varied. Some were narrowboats, freshly painted and decked out in traditional livery and colours. One was a larger boat, part home, part business, with a sign on the deck offering river tours alongside plant pots and chained-up bikes. Some were old fishing vessels extended into house-boats.

  Eventually the pavement, the trees and the power-point posts ran out. On one side of the narrow road the businesses faded away leaving only piles of greening timber and full skips behind spiked metal railings and rusting ‘Keep Out’ signs. Piles of rubble formed small mountain ranges on old, cracked, weed-infested concrete forecourts. What buildings there were were single-storey, over forty years old. Like an idea of the future from a sixties Gerry Anderson puppet series and just as accurate. Next to them was a huge, old, square building, the Colchester Dock Transit Company announced on the side in faded, peeling capital letters. It was all rusted and mildewed corrugated iron cladding with an ancient crane and cabin outside. The walls were covered in graffiti bringing unexpected, surprisingly welcome bursts of colour to the drab, depressing surroundings. Boarded-up doors carried warnings that inside was unsafe and to stay out.

  The boats moored along this section mirrored their surroundings.

  No mooring posts or power points or trees here.

  Just old rusting wrecks, mostly unserviceable, superannuated fishing boats, their water-going days long behind them. Now left to rust away to nothing, float, piece by piece, out to sea on the tide.

  It was one of these that the next contact on Anni’s list had given as an address.

  ‘Hello… Mr Buchan…’ She called again. With more trepidation this time.

  Still no reply.

  There was nothing on the deck to show that the boat was lived in or even habitable, apart from a hand-painted sign hanging at an angle on a death trap of a boarding ramp: ‘Rani’.

  She looked round. No one about. Even though it was another hot, sunny day with a cloudless blue sky, she felt a damp chill run through her because of her surroundings. The boarding ramp was open. The door to the hold looked unlocked. She gave another quick look round, stepped on to the boat.

  The tide was out and it was pitched at an angle on a mud-bank. Anni crossed the deck, careful of her footing as some of the wooden planks felt soft and rotten beneath her feet. She reached the wheelhouse, leaned across and pulled on the small wooden door. Unlocked. It opened slowly on creaky, horror-movie hinges. Before her was darkness, a steep set of stairs leading down.

  ‘Mr Buchan?’

  Nothing. Just an echo.

  She took another look round. Then went slowly and carefully down the steps.

  The only illumination in the hold came from gaps in the wooden ceiling and rusted walls. Jacob’s ladders of light criss-crossed in front of her, dust motes dancing in the rays.

  She looked round. Grimaced.

  On the floor were a sleeping bag, some old newspapers, dirty underwear and T-shirts. Opened and emptied food cans lay about, with varying degrees of fungal growth attached to them, looking like an Al-Qaeda chemical weapons breeding lab. It stank of waste, decay. Scratching, scuttling noises sounded underfoot as Anni moved.

  That was bad enough. But it was the walls that really made her gasp.

  Pictures, everywhere. Dotted around randomly, culled from different sources. Some cut from newspapers, grinning topless models and celebrities. Others, their open legs, naked bodies, faked ecstasy and even more fake breasts betraying porn mag origins. Some actual photos. Anni took out her mobile, used the lighted screen for illumination as she examined them more closely.

  She recognised some of the surroundings. Colchester’s main shopping centre. Maldon Road. The hospital where Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot had worked. All blurred, grainy. As if they had been taken without the subject’s knowledge. Like surveillance photos.

  Something a stalker would do.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She knew who the women in the photos were.

  But that was only an educated guess. She couldn’t make a positive identification. Because all the pictures, whether from newspapers, magazines or those taken in the street, all had one thing in common.

  The eyes had been scratched out.

  She recoiled from them, her heart hammering in her chest, suddenly wanting to get out. She stepped on the sleeping bag, gave a small cry.

  Then stopped dead.

  A noise from the deck above.

  Someone was up there.

  Anni froze, looked quickly, desperately round. Shining her phone display everywhere. Finding no other exit but the stairs.

  Another footstep, then another from above.

  ‘Oh God, oh God…’ Her breath was coming in short, ragged bursts.

  She looked round frantically.

  Another footstep, getting nearer to the wheelhouse.

  Her phone was in her hand, ready to dial. She just hoped that someone could get to her quick enough.

  The doorway above her opened. A voice called down.

  ‘What you doing down there?’

  Anni closed her eyes. Froze.

  65

  Phil had struck lucky. The building that Julie Miller lived in had a doorman.

  ‘Awful business,’ the doorman said. He was a small man, in his fifties, Phil guessed. Everything about him was round. Bald head, long-sight glasses that curved and emphasised his eyes, portly figure, even bow legs. He was polite and deferential but the tattoos that covered his hands – home-made, blue ink – spoke of a different past. Phil wondered whether he had had a run-in with him before. He couldn’t place him. Which was fine. He was all for second chances.

  ‘Julie Miller…’ The doorman brought his brows together in concentration. ‘Awful…’

  ‘I just wondered whether you’d seen anything else unusual in the flats.’

  His frowned intensified. ‘Unusual? What d’you mean?’

  ‘You know.’ Phil tried to spell it out him. ‘Different people coming and going. The same people disappearing, maybe not coming back. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  More brow furrowing, like he was really trying to be helpful. Phil gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was. Part of putting his past transgressions behind him.

  ‘Have you got a description? Of this person I should have been looking out for?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Then how am I supposed to know who he is?’

  Phil smiled. Fair point. ‘You’re not. I’m just looking for anyone who sticks in your mind.’

  ‘Hmm. Not easy. Kind of people who pay to live in a block like this tend to want a bit of privacy. Bit of blind-eye turning, know what I mean?’

  ‘I do. But if you could just think of anyone, anything.’ Phil had an idea. ‘Somewhere near Julie Miller’s flat.’

  Again, more brow furrowing. Then, like a light bulb going on, his eyes widened. ‘The Palmers. Christopher and Charlotte.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They went away. Long holiday, apparently. Short notice. Had a win on the lottery, apparently, so I heard.’

  Phil’s pulse quickened. His fingers tingled. ‘Where do they
live?’

  ‘Near Julie Miller. Flat above her, in fact.’

  The doorman’s pass key let Phil into the apartment.

  The doorman himself had wanted to accompany him but Phil had put him off. He was well-meaning and the last thing he needed was hand-holding a well-meaning amateur.

  Phil closed the door behind him, looked round the flat. He didn’t need to be a detective to know something was wrong.

  The flat hadn’t been lived in but it had been occupied. And he could guess who by. Empty Red Bull cans littered the floor, interspersed with energy bar wrappers. Just like Suzanne Perry’s loft. Opened food cans joined them, some with spoons still sticking out. Like someone who had no respect for their surroundings had squatted here.

  He checked the bedroom. More of the same. Sheets, duvet left all over the place. He went back into the living room, scanned it once more. He had been here. Phil was sure of that. He must remember to tell the CSIs to check Julie Miller’s flat for hidden cameras. He was sure they would find some.

  He had one more room to check. The bathroom. He found it, walked inside. The shower curtain was pulled across as if someone was in there. He pulled it back.

  And stood back, gasping.

  ‘Oh shit…’

  Phil took his phone out, hit speed dial.

  ‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation.’ He looked again, looked away quickly.

  ‘A hell of a situation…’

  66

  Anni was too terrified to move.

  She stood stock-still. She was sure he could hear her hammering heart, her ragged, shallow breaths. She wanted to move, scream, or at least take in a full breath. But she didn’t dare.

  The voice laughed. Footsteps started on the stairs.

  Oh God…

  A figure blocked out the light, came slowly towards her.

  She had to do something, buy herself some time.

  ‘My name is Detective Constable Anni Hepburn,’ she said, feeling sure her breath wouldn’t carry her to the end of the next sentence, ‘please identify yourself.’

  Another bout of laughter. ‘You sounded so formal there.’

  What? Then she recognised the voice. Mickey Philips.

  ‘And I know who you are, Anni.’ He moved into one of the beams of light, laughing. ‘Should have seen your face…’

  She hit him. And again, and again, slapping him on the chest out of fear, frustration and relief. ‘You… bastard… fucking bastard, Mickey Philips…’

  ‘Hey, hey, stop.’ He put his hands up and, still laughing, caught her wrists.

  She managed to regain some semblance of composure. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘Said to meet you here. Remember?’

  She dropped her hands. Looked round, took in the walls once more. ‘Glad you did.’

  Mickey followed her gaze, took in what she had seen. ‘Jesus Christ…’

  ‘I know. Think we might be on to something here. Fiona Welch and her profile…’ She shook her head.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘Last night.’

  Anni raised an eyebrow. Waited.

  He looked round once more, took in the photos and pictures, seemed clearly unnerved by them. ‘Can we go outside? Think I’ve seen as much of this place as I need to.’

  They made their way back on to the quay. Anni was amazed that the sun was still shining. After being down below in that boat she thought she would never see the sun again.

  Mickey seemed to be feeling it too. ‘Fancy an ice cream?’

  ‘I fancy a gin and tonic. Bloody huge one.’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t blame you.’

  Her smiled faded. ‘So. About last night…’ She attempted a smile but what they had just seen didn’t make it easy.

  ‘Fiona Welch,’ said Mickey. ‘What d’you think of her?’

  Anni shrugged. ‘Haven’t had an awful lot to do with her. Can’t say she’s the best profiler ever to work in the department. ’

  ‘I can’t make her out. One minute she doesn’t want to talk to me the next she’s all over me.’

  ‘Must be your aftershave. Is that the Lynx effect?’

  ‘I’m serious. She’s really starting to bug me. I was thinking about this last night. And then this morning when Anthony Howe tried to kill himself, I was watching her again.’

  ‘And?’

  He looked around, suddenly uneasy about speaking his mind. ‘She seemed to be, I don’t know, getting off on it. Like this was all some great day out that she was having.’ His eyes dropped. ‘Like… it was all going according to plan.’

  Anni stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  Mickey’s hands became restless. ‘I… look. I checked the logs. She went to talk to him last night, Anthony Howe. Down in the cells after Phil had finished.’ He sighed. ‘And sometimes I’ve watched her in the office when she thinks no one’s looking at her and she’s smiling.’

  ‘Very rare. Especially in our office.’

  ‘Don’t mean just that. It’s like she’s, I don’t know, laughing at us. All of us. Like it’s some big secret joke.’ He sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It seems really stupid saying it out loud. I’m probably making something out of nothing. But… she doesn’t feel right.’

  Anni looked at him. Mickey’s discomfort seemed genuine enough. And he didn’t seem like the kind of person to make up false accusations for the sake of it.

  ‘So what d’you think she’s done?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. I just wanted to… I don’t know. Tell someone.’ He looked away down the quay. ‘Someone I could trust.’

  Anni smiled. ‘Thank you. Maybe a background check wouldn’t go amiss.’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  Anni’s phone rang, startling the pair of them. She answered.

  ‘It’s Phil Brennan here. Listen, we’ve got a situation…’

  67

  ‘Julie? Julie…’

  No reply. Suzanne’s fellow captive had drifted away from her again.

  Suzanne no longer knew whether it was day or night or how long she had been there. She had tried counting from when she had been allowed out, given that can of disgusting food, trying to give structure to time, but it hadn’t worked. The counting had slowed then speeded up. She lost count several times, going over the same numbers twice, three times. Sometimes she forgot to keep counting, her mind drifting off. A couple of times, like counting sheep at night, she nodded off. All sense of time was gone.

  Even her panic, her anger, had abated. In its place was a dull acceptance, her body slipping into a kind of fugue state, shutting down everything but the most basic of life-support systems. Even her ability to dream, to imagine, was gone. She just lay there, enveloped in nothingness.

  ‘Julie… Julie…’

  Suzanne hoped she would answer. She had a question. But she doubted there would be a reply. She was just saying the name out of habit, a quickly established ritual. Something that kept her going. Or maybe if she could work out Julie’s sleep patterns it might help to synchronise.

  ‘Yes…’

  A reply. Suzanne’s heart quickened.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Julie sounded drowsy, just pulled out of a deep sleep.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Suzanne. ‘You’re Julie, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not Julie Miller, are you?’

  Silence. Eventually, she spoke. ‘How… how do you know my name…?’

  ‘You disappeared. It was all over the news. The police were on the wing for days.’

  ‘On the wing?’

  ‘Gainsborough.’

  ‘But…’ Julie’s voice sounded animated, urgent. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I think we know each other. I’m Suzanne. I work there as one of the SALTs.’

  ‘With Zoe?’

 
‘That’s me.’

  Silence, while they both took the information in.

  ‘God…’ said Julie eventually. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But… who’s done this, then? Do we know them?’

  ‘We must. We’ll have to think.’

  There was the sound of a body moving. Julie must have been excited, turning in her box.

  But another sound followed the noise Julie made in turning and moving. A different kind of sound, yet one that was also familiar. The ripping, tearing sound Suzanne had heard earlier, the one that accompanied the box being opened. Just small, fleeting, like an echo of the earlier sound, but unmistakeable.

  ‘What was that? Julie? What was that?’

  The sound came again. Slightly louder, longer this time.

  ‘Julie? You there? What’s happening? What’s going on?’

  Silence. Suzanne thought Julie must have disappeared again, but her voice came back eventually.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I think…’ Her voice was no longer sleepy, she was wide awake now. Energised. ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’ve just found a way out…’

  68

  ‘In here,’ said Rose Martin, ushering Ben Fenwick into his own office, closing the door behind him.

  He looked round, nervous. Not wanting to be seen by other officers, going against years of accepted procedure. Whatever he was, he was a copper who did things properly. Followed the rules. Made them work for him. This was completely new territory to be in.

  Rose guessed from the look on his face what was going through his mind. She smiled, unable to resist the urge to toy with him. As he crossed to his desk, sat down behind it, she put down the laptop she had been carrying, stood with her back against the door. Her hands went to her breasts, opening the buttons on her blouse. She threw her head back as if the touch of her own fingers were sending her into ecstasy.

  ‘I want you, Ben. Here. Now. In your office. Your lovely, shiny, DCI’s office.’