by Tania Carver
Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘So, you mean… you did all this, the murders, the abductions, everything… just for your Ph.D.?’
She looked affronted. ‘Why not? I told you I had a point to prove. This was it.’
‘But…’ Phil didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. ‘You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison for this.’
‘So?’
‘So? What’s the good of your Ph.D. if you’re going to be in prison?’
She shook her head slowly, grinned patronisingly, as if explaining a very obvious point to a very thick child. ‘The Ph.D. is still a Ph.D. In prison or anywhere.’ Her eyes glittered in the dark, like stabbing razor flashes. ‘And just think… I’d be famous.’
Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Famous.’
‘Yes. Famous.’ She looked away, thinking, lost in her words, her mind. ‘No. I won’t just be famous, I’ll be notorious. No. That’s not right either. I’ll be… adored.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s the right word. Adored. I’ll get letters. Visitors. They’ll write books about me. Serious, proper works, not just cheap lurid paperbacks. I’ll have my own acolytes. Disciples.’ She turned to Phil. ‘Do you know Charles Manson never killed anyone? He just made others do it for him. Yet he’s still locked up. And he’s just some stinking, addled old hippie. He’s nothing next to me…’
That’s when Phil realised she was completely insane. He had only suspected it before but now she had confirmed it. And in that moment another thought struck him.
I may not get out of here alive.
He had thought up to now there was a chance. He could reason with her, keep her talking until his team arrived, carted her away. And, yes, she had said she expected to be caught. But she was insane. There was no telling what she would do next. Did she have one last trick, a final twist of the knife…
He saw Marina in his mind’s eye. Josephina next to her. Had he just got them back for him to be taken away from them? Permanently?
100
Suzanne was awake. And listening to every word.
She lay curled up on the walkway, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. It was something she had perfected in the box. Her eyes were half open, darting back and forward between this policeman, Phil Brennan, and the mad woman who had captured him. She recognised her from the hospital. Fiona something. A psychologist. She was behind this? Why? They had hardly exchanged two words.
But it was the presence behind the mad woman that eyes kept being drawn to. The hulking, mute presence, silent except for his rasping breathing. He was mostly in shadow but not totally, and as he moved from foot to foot she recognised him.
He had the face of a nightmare.
She tried not to look up, for fear of attracting attention to herself – because she had seen what the madwoman’s attention had done to Phil Brennan’s face – but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the man in the shadows. The Creeper, the madwoman had called him. That made sense. Considering what he had done to her. In her own home.
Her own bedroom.
But she had been following the conversation. Or as best as she could. The madwoman had made the Creeper think that she – Suzanne – was the spirit of a dead woman? And that’s why he was stalking her? If someone else had said that to her, told her that it had happened to them, she would have said they were lying. That she had never heard anything more insane in her life. But it wasn’t someone else. It had happened to her. And she had never been through anything more terrifying in her life.
And she still wasn’t free of it. She was still here.
She gave another surreptitious glance round. Directly ahead were Phil Brennan and the madwoman. Behind them was the Creeper. No escape there. She slowly moved her head, pretended it was a random gesture. Looked the other way down the walkway.
Darkness.
She squinted. She was sure she could see a set of stairs among the shadows, leading down from the gantry to the floor. But not sure enough to make a run for it. Along the gantry hung chains, clanking in the breeze, or when anyone moved. Some with huge hooks on them, some with heavy counterweights. Could she grab one, swing down to the ground? Would that be the best way to get down? Would that be faster than someone coming down the stairs after her?
She checked herself. What was she thinking? Was that how desperate she was to escape? That she was willing to risk her life that much just to get away?
Yes. It was.
So how could she do it?
She hadn’t worked that out yet. She still didn’t have enough strength in her body to make a move. The walk up the stairs to the walkway had given her a chance to exercise her legs, get her circulation moving again. Probably helped more than they realised. But not yet. The time wasn’t right yet.
So she lay there. Faking unconsciousness. Or something near to it.
Biding her time until it was time to go.
Time to break free.
101
Mickey looked at Mark Turner sitting slumped down in his seat. Aiming to look like a slouching student at a boring lecture, Mickey knew better. It was a posture of defeat. Turner was on the way to being broken.
I’m going to have you, Mickey thought. Time to take you down.
‘So,’ Mickey said, leaning in once more, ‘Fiona chose all the girls. The victims.’
He nodded.
‘Why those in particular?’
‘Because they all looked like that dead woman, the one the Creeper was obsessed with. Rani.’
‘All dark-haired and brown-eyed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it was just coincidence that they were all your ex-girlfriends? ’
Turner, without moving in the chair or changing position, shrugged.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you were happy with that?’
‘Yeah.’ Eyes down, gaze averted. Something there he didn’t want Mickey to see.
‘Fiona Welch knew you’d had other girlfriends. I’ll bet she asked you about them. She probably saw you with them. That’s why she wanted you.’
Turner said nothing.
‘You went out with the popular girls at uni and at work. Must have made her jealous. Must have made her want you.’
Again, Turner didn’t speak.
‘And what if you still had a thing for one of them? Or all of them? She wouldn’t have liked that. Better get them out of the way. Remove the competition. So she did. One by one. And got you to help her.’
Turner remained silent.
‘Why did that not bother you, Mark?’ He waited. ‘Mark?’
‘Told you why.’ His posture more withdrawn, his voice more sullen.
Getting to an uncomfortable truth, thought Mickey. Making him face up to demons he’s been trying to ignore.
‘That you were superior to all that. That you were superior to human emotions.’
‘Yeah.’
‘All human emotions.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Like love.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Liar.’
Turner shot up like he’d just been slapped, shocked and wide-eyed at the sudden change in Mickey’s tone.
‘You fucking liar.’
Turner’s eyes widened. ‘You can’t…’
‘What? Talk to you like that? Why not? You’re a lair.’
‘No I’m not…’
‘Yes you are. You still had a key for Suzanne’s flat. Why? To pop back there one day? Just in case you started up again? Or could you just not let it go… because deep down inside, whatever Fiona Welch was feeding you, you knew it was bullshit, knew it was wrong. Knew that, no matter what she said or did for you, you’d never be as happy with her as you were with Suzanne. Is that it?’
Turner clamped his eyes tight closed. ‘Stop it…’
‘Stop it… why? Why should I? Let’s look at them. Julie Miller. She was the first.’
‘I wasn’t…’ His protestation
was weak, his expression said that even he didn’t believe his own words.
‘Don’t try to deny it, Mark, we’ve seen the photos of you both together on Facebook. If you weren’t seeing each other then you were very close friends. Unnaturally close. Close enough to make someone else jealous.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Then there was Suzanne. But where does Adele fit into this? When were you seeing her?’
‘On and off…’
‘When you were seeing Suzanne?’
He nodded.
‘Two-timing and a murderer. And you didn’t know she was the Creeper’s sister? Didn’t Fiona tell you? Not like her to forget something as important as that, is it? In the New World Order of your relationship.’
Tears welled in Turner’s eyes.
‘Did you kill her, Mark? Adele?’
He paused, his head forward. Like a condemned man reluctantly reaching for the noose.
‘What happened?’
He sighed. Stared straight ahead, seeing something Mickey couldn’t. Didn’t want to. ‘I’d been talking to Adele…’
‘Talking?’
‘Well… a bit more than that…’
‘You had sex.’
Turner looked away, nodded.
‘So you’d kidnapped Adele Harrison-’
‘The Creeper did that.’
‘Right. The Creeper did that. But you helped. You went along with it.’
Turner said nothing. Mickey continued. ‘You had her captive and then… what? You had sex.’
Another shrug.
‘Why?’
‘Because I still… had feelings for her.’ He leaned forward, arms on the table, hands out expressively. ‘I saw her there, scared and, and… and I wanted her.’
‘So you had her.’
‘Yes.’
‘You raped her?’
‘No…’ He looked shocked at the thought.
‘But… what? This rekindled feelings for her? You felt something for her again, is that it?’
‘Yes…’ Sounding like it was painful to have the word dragged out of him.
‘And you…what? Promised to let her go?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me, Mark. Tell me what happened. Your own words.’
Turner sighed. Mickey saw the conflicting emotions fighting for dominance on his face. In the end, resignation won out and Turner, sighing and shoulders heaving, started to talk.
102
The Creeper was confused. Confused and getting angry.
This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not at all.
When he heard Rani’s voice in his head once more, talking to him, telling him to come and meet her, he was almost too excited for words. Couldn’t wait to get there and see her, leave the husk on the boat, rig the charges just like she said. He’d watched it go boom, seen the flames streak up to the sky. Huge they were, the policemen running away tiny by comparison.
He had smiled watching that. Giggled.
He had done that. Made that happen. All that power, all his…
And then the anticipation, meeting Rani, face to face, at last…
And then the disappointment.
When he had agreed to meet her after the fire he had been excited, thrilled, shaking with anticipation. And what a let-down. She wasn’t Rani, wasn’t anything like Rani. She was that psychologist from the hospital, the one they had made him go and see.
So where was Rani? He had started to ask her that but she had just waved him and his questions aside. Literally, her arm waving at him dismissively, then walking away, getting him to follow her. Saying Rani had left her with a list of things for him to do. And despite the fact that she made him feel unsure, uneasy, he had followed her, had done the things she asked him to.
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 furth
er 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?’