by Tania Carver
She had to think. Work out what happened to Julie. Make sure it didn’t happen to her.
Suzanne controlled her breathing once more, kept her mind focused. Thought back to what Julie had said, what she was doing.
I’ve got the bottom of the box open. I don’t think they closed it properly when they let us out. It’s a bit… bit tight, but… if I can just… wriggle down…
Then tearing and creaking…
Then silence.
Then she was out and laughing then…
The screaming. Long and hard.
Suzanne shook her head, shaking loose the image that had stuck there. The darkness just made her imagination worse. Seeing something so horrible, no true, real-life scene could ever match it.
Or at least she hoped not.
She focused. The box, the tearing and creaking… that was the noise it made when opened. And Julie had said their captors mustn’t have closed it properly.
Think, think, process…
What about her trip out of the box? Her toilet break? Anything to be gleaned from that?
She retraced it in her mind once more. The door had opened, she’d been given the hood to wear. Nothing there. What about the feel of things when she was out? The sounds?
The first thing she had experienced had been water up to her ankles. What could that tell her? It was still. And there was no smell. Not tidal, then. Not on the seafront, then.
The water had ended and she had stepped out. So a small amount of water. A pool, maybe? Ditch? Concrete underneath. A trough of some kind? But why?
Leave it. On to the next part. She had been guided over a cold concrete floor. Hard and dirty, with small, sharp bits sticking in her wet feet as she went.
Was there anything about the walk itself…
Nothing. Except…
That sound. Like a humming or churning. Power lines, pylons… or a generator.
A shudder ran through Suzanne, jack-knifing her body with its suddenness.
She knew what had happened to Julie now. And it didn’t make her feel any better.
A generator. And a trough of water. And a scream from Julie as soon as she wriggled out of the box.
Booby-trapped. Even if they managed to escape the box itself they couldn’t escape from where they actually were. The water must be too wide to cross. And electrified.
Suzanne sighed.
Felt more alone and abandoned, more hopeless than ever.
83
Mickey was following the Nemo. Out of King Edward Quay and on to Haven Road. Over the roundabout and down the Colne Causeway. Heading towards the Magic Roundabout.
At first he had thought it was just a nickname, a less than affectionate term everyone used. He was surprised to learn that was its official name too. He was less surprised to learn that the rest of Colchester despised it as much as he did.
It comprised one main roundabout with several mini ones orbiting it, plus a lot of irritated motorists. And that was where the Nemo was headed.
Mickey thought he had managed to shadow the van without being seen so far but he was winging it on his own. Following was a delicate operation, usually carried out in tandem with at least one, possibly two other vehicles. That was how he was used to doing at. On his own he was just improvising.
And the Magic Roundabout could be where his luck ran out.
He was two cars behind and no other unmarked cars had come to join him yet. So he had to be careful. Too close and he would give himself away, too far back and he would lose him. He watched, waiting for him to indicate.
Right. Mickey did the same.
The Nemo pulled out. Mickey tried not to be too impatient with the car in front, concentrate on not losing the Nemo, keeping it in visual contact all the time. The car in front went left. Mickey went right.
The Nemo was just in front of him.
Mickey allowed himself a small smile. Kept his eyes on it.
Right at the next mini roundabout. Mickey did the same.
And off down St Andrews Avenue, signalling and moving over to the right.
Mickey kept smiling. He knew where the Nemo was headed.
He thought about getting back on the radio, giving his location and where he thought they were going but, since his car was directly behind the Nemo on the dual carriageway, he didn’t want to do anything that could be seen in the wing mirror, something that might tip the driver off, make him suspicious.
Off to the right down Brightlingsea Road.
Yes. Mickey knew where he was going.
The university.
He had heard on the radio that the house in Greenstead Road had belonged to Fiona Welch and her boyfriend. This confirmed that they were involved in this.
The Nemo turned into the grounds of the university, then into the car park. Mickey followed. The Nemo parked. Mickey drove round until he found a space nearby. He found one in the next row, facing the van. He watched, the engine running.
The driver was definitely male, thin. The wool hat was removed revealing longish, unkempt hair. Typical student, Mickey thought.
The driver shucked out of his army jacket leaving a sloganed T-shirt beneath. It looked like he was pulling something down over his hips. Getting rid of his army trousers too, Mickey reckoned. He got out of the van, leaned back in, grabbed a canvas bag from behind the seat, slung it across his body. Ready for class.
Mickey smiled. Mark Turner. He knew it. And there was virtually nothing on him. This would be easy, he thought.
Turner set off in the direction of the campus. Mickey got out of the car and, at a discreet distance, followed.
Essex University campus was a textbook design in sixties neo-brutalist modernism, with each subsequent architectural feature either an accompaniment or an apology to the original. It was laid out as a series of squares and quadrants with concrete steps and walkways joining them. Turner walked towards the main quadrant through the car park, going past the gym and down the steps, trees on either side. Mickey followed him easily.
He should have radioed for back-up but, again, he didn’t want to risk losing him or letting him see the radio. Instead, Mickey opened his phone, called Anni. She answered immediately.
‘It’s Turner,’ he said.
‘Where are you?’
‘University. He’s just got out the van, walking towards the campus. I’m on foot. Looks like he’s trying to behave as normally as possible.’
‘Give himself an alibi, more like.’
‘Anyway, back-up would be appreciated.’
Turner didn’t look back, which was helpful as most of the people Mickey’s age were much less formally dressed. Turner didn’t seem hurried or stressed, just walking along casually. Either that, thought Mickey, or he was affecting to look casual just in case anyone was watching him. Which meant he really was nervous.
Which meant…
Turner turned round. Saw Mickey. It was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know who Mickey was but certainly knew what he was.
Turner ran.
Mickey, no longer needing to pretend any more, cut his call short, gave chase.
Along a concrete walkway, the Student’s Union bar on one side, opening out to a main quadrant. Windows all round and, in the floors above, coffee shops and a general store on the ground.
Turner ran to the right, up a flight of stairs, under overhanging buildings. Knocking students, teachers and administrators alike out of the way. A cluster of smokers in one corner jumped as Turner came barrelling towards them.
Mickey ran at full pelt, his chest burning, legs pumping. He tried to match Turner for speed, knowing how difficult it would be to slow down and stop if Turner took an unexpected route.
Turner ran into the nearest building, up a small flight of stairs, down a corridor, Mickey right behind him. Students jumped out of the way when they saw the pair of them coming.
Turner slammed open a set of double doors, took the stairs before him two at a time. Mickey still chased. At the top of
the stairs he went through another set of doors, then left down another corridor. Through another set of doors and into the main cafeteria.
People turned, initially puzzled but then rooted to the spot with fear as the two men came their way. Turner took advantage of the situation, grabbing a pile of trays as he passed, throwing them behind him. They scattered and clattered, fanning out and hitting Mickey in the legs. He did his best to jump over them, not lose speed, not let them slow him down.
Turner hit the double doors at the other end of the cafeteria, slamming them open, knocking the people before him out of the way. Mickey didn’t give up.
Down another flight of stairs, out on to the upper quadrant. Then left and away, past the library, heading towards the lake.
It seemed like Turner had no real idea where he was going, his only thought to get away. Mickey didn’t know where the lake route led to but, if it was outside the campus, Turner could escape. He powered on, finding extra strength from somewhere, pushing himself as fast as he could go.
He was gaining on Turner…
Faster, faster, pushing harder and harder…
Stretching out, almost able to touch him…
Turner risking a glance over his shoulder, seeing how close his pursuer was.
Then, looking forward again, Turner missed his footing, hit a pothole in the grass, stumbled.
And Mickey was on to him. Rugby tackling him to the ground, both his hands on Turner’s back, pushing him into the earth.
‘Get off, let go… bastard…’
Turner struggled, tried to kick, to punch. But Mickey, adrenalin ascendant, ignored him. He twisted the student’s arm up his back until he cried out in pain. Then twisted it further.
‘Get off me… bastard…’ Another cry of pain to accompany it.
Mickey didn’t care. Fed on that pain. Ate it up. Smiled. There would be time for the full reading of Turner’s rights soon enough. But there was something else he had to say now. Something more important.
He laughed. ‘You’re nicked, my son.’
And there was Mickey triumphant. His old self back again.
84
The Creeper looked down at Rani lying there still, eyes closed.
And then she spoke to him.
Is that you? Are you there?
The Creeper frowned, confused. How could Rani be talking to him if she was lying there, right in front of him?
‘Rani…?’
Yes. It’s me. She sounded impatient. Hurried. Come on…
‘But you’re… you’re there, on the floor… with your, your eyes closed…’
Never mind about that now.
He was genuinely confused. ‘But how…’
Never mind.
What was wrong with her? Was she upset with him? Because of what he had done? ‘Have I… have I done something wrong? I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I’m sorry… I should have, should have…’
I don’t have time for that now.
He had to tell her, make himself understood. Plead, if he needed to. ‘But you did a bad thing to me first. I only hit you after that, you made me do it…’
Stop it.
‘I wouldn’t have done it otherwise…’
Stop it! Now shut up and listen.
‘But…’
Listen. She took a deep breath, stopped talking. He listened. I’m not mad at you. You did… It doesn’t matter what you did to me.
He smiled. Felt relief wash through him. ‘Thank you…’
Don’t interrupt. I don’t care about that now. You have to listen to me. You need to be prepared.
‘I am prepared…’
Good. Listen closely. You need to get out of there. And you need to make it so that no one can follow you. Understand?
He frowned, confused once more. ‘No… what, what d’you mean?’
There are people coming for you.
‘I don’t…’
I told you. Listen. Closely. Right? Good. You need to get out of where you are now. Quickly. Now we discussed this, remember? What you had to do if something like this happened?
The Creeper thought hard. This was difficult. This didn’t feel right at all.
Remember. What we discussed. People are coming to the boat. You need to get out of there and not leave anything behind. What we talked about. What we planned. Remember?
He sat down beside the inert body of Rani. Tried not to look at her. He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed. Thinking. It took some effort, but, yes, he remembered. He told her so.
At last. That wasn’t so hard, was it? We got there eventually, didn’t we?
He laughed, thinking that was what she wanted him to do.
She ignored him. You remember what to leave?
‘Yeah, no problem.’ He wanted to please her once more, make her happy again.
Good. Now-
‘What about you?’
What d’you mean?
‘You. Lying here, on the floor. With your eyes closed. You’re talking to me and you’re not talking to me. What am I going to do with you?’
Just… just leave, leave me there.
‘Like a husk? Another husk? You mean put it with the others?’
No, no time. Just leave it there.
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his heart. ‘But, but you said this would be the one. The one body you were going to stay in. Forever…’
Well, plans change, don’t they?
Her words, harsh. He didn’t like that. It upset him. Made him feel like crying.
‘I’m sorry… I didn’t, didn’t mean to…’
It doesn’t matter. Just leave the husk there and do what I told you. Can you do that?
‘I won’t let you down. Promise.’
Good. Now, when you’ve done that, there’s somewhere I want you to go to.
He listened. She told him. Asked him to repeat it back to her until she was sure he understood.
Good. I’ll talk to you soon.
And she was gone.
He looked down at the husk. Sighed. Felt that stabbing in his heart once again. What a shame. He had thought that this was it. This was them back together forever. He should have known better. Should have known things wouldn’t work out.
Oh well.
He looked round the boat, knowing this was going to be the last time he would ever see it. It didn’t feel like home. Not really. But then nowhere ever did. Not any more. No place felt like home. Not if Rani wasn’t in it.
Felt tears well up. Swallowed them down. Wouldn’t give in to them. Not again.
But he was going to meet her. She had said so. Would this be the real Rani? No more husks? He hoped so. But then he had thought so before and been disappointed.
Still.
His eyes fell on the box in the corner. He smiled. That would help. That would be something to look forward to.
Fire. He liked the fire. It was power.
And he liked having power.
No longer caring about the husk on the floor, but checking it didn’t need another punch to keep it quiet, he crossed over to the box in the corner, opened it. Looked in.
Everything just as he remembered it.
Yes.
Fire was power.
And he was going to use it.
85
The circus had arrived.
The armed response unit had been hastily assembled in an old abandoned warehouse at the far end of Haven Street, along from King Edward Quay where Ian Buchan’s boat was moored.
It reminded Phil of the kind of desolate, empty, run-down place – all rusting metal supports, crumbling walls, rubble-strewn floors and partially destroyed roofs – that he imagined spies being exchanged in during the Cold War. Or the kind of location in which producers of TV spy dramas held end-of-episode shoot-outs. As he watched the armed response unit check, lock and load their weapons, he hoped that was just fanciful thinking.
He refused to carry a gun. Wasn’t even firearm trained. He disliked guns intensely, in an
y shape or form. Knives were worse, he knew that, but if he couldn’t disarm a potential aggressor with his mind and wits, or at the most with his hands and stick, he wasn’t being truly effective as a police officer.
He disliked the armed response unit. Thought the whole of CO19 – the Met’s supposedly elite force responsible for training all armed officers in the country – were a bunch of macho, fascist cowboys who hid behind the uniform while committing acts of barely licensed villainy. He was also intelligent enough to know that wasn’t a popular opinion for a serving officer to hold, never mind express, so kept it to himself. Most of the time. But he did admit there was a time when they were needed, a necessary evil. And this was one such occasion.
He snapped the Velcro tapes shut on his stab vest, pulled it down, making sure it fitted snugly but not tight enough to restrict his movements. He turned to the team, saw a bunch of hard-faced men standing there, in the kind of mental and emotional zone reserved for sportsmen and cage fighters. If they were superheroes, aggression would be their superpower and it would explode from their fingertips like lightning.
Their senior officer, Joe Wade, was addressing them.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here’s the objective.’
He gestured at his laptop, placed on a folding table that had been brought along specially.
‘This boat. King Edward Quay. Out of here and to the left. About two hundred yards along the quay. The target is on the boat. He may be armed. He is certainly dangerous. He may also have a hostage with him.’
‘Detective Inspector Rose Martin,’ said Phil. ‘She was with DCI Fenwick when he was stabbed.’
Wade nodded, acknowledged the interruption, continued. The team were well drilled, well organised. While Wade marshalled his team into sections, Phil tried to calm his nerves. Anni had given him a description of the layout, which he had passed on to Wade. He wouldn’t be entering the boat until Wade’s team had secured it and brought Ian Buchan out. And, hopefully, Rose Martin. Then, with the area secured, he would enter.