It was the little things she had noticed first.
Ornaments slightly out of place, a mug on the draining board that she thought she had put back in the cupboard, a damp towel in the bathroom that should have been dry. Little things. Puzzling things.
Unsettling things.
But not enough to be worried about.
If Suzanne Perry had known then how far it would go, what kind of nightmare her life would become, she would have been more than worried. She would have run as fast and as far away as possible.
Suzanne was twenty-six. She lived alone in a flat on the Maldon Road in Colchester. She worked as a speech therapist at the General Hospital. She had broken up with her boyfriend a few months ago and, while she had dated since then, she wasn’t looking for anything serious.
She just wanted to enjoy herself.
Suzanne went out with her friends once a week, to a few bars in town, maybe a club. She liked dancing. She liked whatever was popular. She played Little Boots and Lady Gaga in the car and sang along. She enjoyed movies, especially comedies. And eating out, when she could afford it. Some nights she wished she had a boyfriend, some nights she liked nothing better than curling up on the sofa with a chick-lit novel, a bar of chocolate and a glass of white wine.
She was attractive and friendly and she didn’t think she was anything special.
But someone did.
Someone thought Suzanne Perry was very special indeed.
The nightmare started in early June. Suzanne was asleep in her bed, in her room, in her flat. The doors locked and bolted, the windows secured. She thought she was safe.
She was wrong.
The thick, heavy drapes were pulled close at the window, the wooden blinds tight shut. As always. Since she had been a child she was a light sleeper, needing total darkness and silence. So her bedroom was like a sensory deprivation chamber. She loved that.
But this night was different. This darkness was different. Not comforting or secure but cold and deep, as if the safety of her womb-like room had been breached. She didn’t know if she was dreaming or awake. The room was hers and not hers.
She lay on her back in her bed, her eyes wide open, her head propped up on pillows, stared straight ahead into a nightmare-black darkness of deep, dank shadows in which huge, hulking shapes could be glimpsed. She blinked, tried to move. Couldn’t. Blinked again. Her head, full of imagined whispers and screams, ached.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness, moved towards her. Her heart raced, she tried to roll over, pull away. Couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t respond.
The shadow took shape. An outline against the blackness. A human shape, bulky, with two huge, glowing eyes at the front of its head. Bright, like car headlights. Suzanne tried to shield her face, but her arm wouldn’t respond. She closed her eyes. The shadow moved in closer. Suzanne, her heart hammering, kept her eyes closed. Her brain sent a signal to her mouth: open, scream. Nothing happened.
She kept her eyes screwed tight shut, tried not to breathe. Pretended she wasn’t there. Willed herself to waken.
Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes. The dream room was spinning, a pitch-black kaleidoscope. She pulled it into focus. The shadow was right beside her, its bright eyes by the side of her head. She could feel its dream breath on her dream cheek.
She closed her eyes again, tried to move her lips, a mantra running through her head: It’s only a dream… it’s only a dream… it’s only a dream…
Then the shadow spoke. Low, burbling and monotonous, a rattle and rasp like a pan of water boiling dry. Crooned, painful words she didn’t understand.
She tried to understand, form those words into sentences. There was something familiar about the sound, carried over from her waking life if only she could understand it. But the words shivered away into the recesses of her dream, lost and irretrievable.
Then the shadow moved, flowed over her body; it smelled of dark, oily, toxic smoke.
Then it wasn’t smoke. It became hard, rough, unyielding. She held her breath once more, tried to call out. Nothing. She tried to pull her legs away, stand up. Nothing. Bring her hands up clenched as fists, fight the shadow off. Nothing.
Cold, hard hands touched her, ran down her sides. Her dream body recoiled, but stayed where it was. The hands slowly moved down to her thighs, to the hem of her T-shirt.
It’s only a dream… only a dream…
The hands moved her T-shirt up, over her thighs.
Only a dream… a dream…
She screwed her eyes closed once more.
The shadow started talking again. The wounded, twisted crooning.
Wake up… wake up…
The crooning building, getting louder…
Only a dream… wake up, please… wake up…
Then flash of light. A scream. Not Suzanne’s.
Then silence.
Suzanne opened her eyes. The shadow had gone. She was alone in the darkness once more.
Her heart was still hammering, her breathing harsh and ragged. She kept her eyes closed. Willed herself to go to another area of sleep. A safer, kinder one.
Suzanne slept.
A harsh, shrill noise crashed in Suzanne’s ears.
She jumped, opened her eyes. Blinked. Looked around. Sighed. Her womb-like bedroom. She closed her eyes again.
But the noise wouldn’t let her sleep: Chris Moyles’ voice blaring out, telling her in his own unlovable way that it was time to get up.
She opened her eyes again. Something wasn’t right. It took her a few moments but she worked out what it was. Sunlight was streaming round the edges of the blackout curtains.
Suzanne sighed again. Normally she liked to lie after the alarm woke her, cherish the last few foggy tendrils of sleep that had wrapped themselves round her. Leave it as late as possible before throwing the duvet back and reluctantly trudging off to the shower.
But not this morning. Not with the nightmare she’d had. She didn’t want to stay in bed a second longer than she had to.
Now she threw the duvet back, felt pins and needles all down her arms. She swung her legs round and down to the floor. They ached, felt heavier than usual, stiffer. She tried to sit up, felt her head spin. Blinked as the room refused to stay still. She flopped back on the bed again.
Her body felt as if she had done a particularly strenuous workout in the gym followed by a huge session in the pub with Zoe and Rosie then had just collapsed into bed and not moved all night. But she knew that wasn’t true.
She’d had a night in, watching Corrie, eating a bar of Fruit and Nut. Couple of phone calls then a long bubble bath and an early night with a Kate Atkinson novel. No workout. Only a small glass of wine, what was left in the bottle.
Suzanne tried once more to stand and made it, her legs shaking, the room spinning. Maybe I’m coming down with something, she thought. Swine flu, probably. She stumbled towards the window, placing one hand on the sill to steady herself, pulled back the drapes, ready to see what kind of day it was.
She didn’t get as far as looking out of the window.
The blinds were up, which explained the extra light in the room, and there was something stuck to the pane of glass. She frowned, not quite understanding what it was doing there, why the blinds were up. Then she pulled the object off, scrutinised it more closely.
And felt her heart lurch.
It was a photo. Of herself, sleeping. The oversize T-shirt she wore for bed – the one she was wearing now – had been pulled up, revealing her trimmed pubic hair, the tops of her thighs.
Blood sped round her system. Her chest pumped, as if she couldn’t get enough air into her body. Her legs shook even more.
She turned the photo over. Gasped as fear shuddered through her. There were words on the back. Neatly printed block capitals. She read them.
I’M WATCHING OVER YOU
The nightmares punched back into her head. The shadows. The lights. The voice.
The hands on her body.
Suzanne’s head spun rapidly, her legs gave way, her eyes closed.
It was no nightmare. It had been real.
She fainted.
Well,’ said Detective Sergeant Mickey Philips, trying to give a cocky smile, ‘someone didn’t like her…’ The smile then disappeared as his face rapidly changed colour, draining to a shade of mildewed putty. He then heaved his head over the side and was sick into the river.
‘Do it in the bag…’ Detective Inspector Phil Brennan’s words came too late.
‘Sorry…’ The apology came accompanied by gasps and spitting.
Phil Brennan shook his head, turned away from his new DS and back to what was before him. New or not, he couldn’t blame the man. Not really. In his years with the Major Incident Squad – MIS – he had seen plenty of unpleasant things but the sight before him was definitely one of the worst.
The body had once been female. Now, it more resembled something from a butcher’s shop or a horror film. Abattoir leavings. The woman had been stripped naked and severely mutilated. Tortured. Her torso, arms, legs and head were criss-crossed by a lattice of scars, most of them deep. Whip marks, Phil guessed. Knife marks. Chain marks, even.
But amongst all that devastation two things stood out for Phil. The first was that her vagina had been savagely mutilated, even more so than the rest of her body, and her legs spread open at the base of the light tower. The second was that a word had been carved into her forehead:
WHORE
‘I think,’ said Phil, ‘someone’s trying to send a message…’
He was standing on the deck of an old lightship moored to King Edward Quay on the River Colne in Colchester. A banner along the front railing proclaimed it to be used by the Sea Cadets. Each side of the river seemed to host two separate worlds. The quay held a ribbon of single-storey buildings, all fenced off businesses and none of them looking too prosperous: a scrapyard, a garage, a couple of small manufacturing units. Brightly coloured billboards loudly proclaimed urban redevelopment.
On the opposite side of the river apartment blocks in glass, metal and wood, some cool and minimal, some gaudy and primary-coloured, lined the bank side. Creating a mini Docklands skyline, they demonstrated the redevelopment along the Hythe. The past on one side, the future on the other, thought Phil. Old and decaying versus shiny and new. And in the middle, a dead woman on a lightship.
Phil shook his head, tried to clear away the thoughts that had preoccupied him on his way to work. About his personal life. Shove them to one side, get on with his job.
DS Mickey Philips hauled himself back upright. Phil looked at him. ‘Better?’
He nodded, cheeks now flushed with exertion and embarrassment. ‘Sorry. Suppose it’ll get easier…’
Phil’s features were tight. ‘If it does, it’s God’s way of telling you to go and work security in M & S.’
‘Right. Yes, boss.’ Mickey Philips risked a glance at the body. ‘Is it… d’you think it’s her, boss?’
Phil looked down also. Flies were beginning to gather. He batted them away, knowing they would return. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I mean… I hope not, but yes, because I’d hate to think there was another…’
Mickey Philips nodded, understood.
Phil turned away, looked upwards. The sun was up already, the sky a vivid robin’s egg blue. The air alive with warmth and possibility. But for Phil, the brightest light cast the darkest shadows. He saw the scene with cop’s eyes because he saw the world with cop’s eyes. He couldn’t help it; it was the job. Instead of the living he saw the dead. And the ghosts of the dead spoke to him all the time, asked him for justice, for peace. The gentle creak and maw of the boat giving the dead woman a voice, seeming to whisper to him, plead with him. Find who did this. Let me rest.
Julie Miller had disappeared a week last Thursday. Twelve days ago.
Phil hadn’t dealt with the case directly, an ordinary missing persons not falling under the MIS remit unless foul play was suspected. But he had heard about it.
In her late twenties, regular boyfriend, worked as an occupational therapist at the Colchester General Hospital. Own flat, own car. And then one night she disappeared. The police investigated, found no signs of a struggle, forcible abduction or murder. The distraught boyfriend had been thoroughly questioned and released. Uniforms had checked hours of CCTV footage following Julie to and from work. Nothing. It was as if she had completely vanished.
Julie Miler was young, pretty, white and middle class. The media’s favourite profile. They got involved, issuing appeals, showing photos. Julie’s parents and boyfriend had given a press conference, made tearful pleas to her to return home. And still no sign of her.
People do that all the time. Disappear. The words no comfort or consolation for Julie’s parents but they heard them over and over, a mantra of no explanation. She’ll either come back on her own, people said, or she won’t. No one knew what to do next, apart from hope Julie sent a postcard from somewhere hot and far away.
‘This our runaway, then?’
Phil turned at the voice. Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was walking up the gangplank, his blue suit, gloves, boots and hood somehow not obscuring his smugness.
‘I think so, sir,’ said Phil, knowing that ‘sir’ gave the pretence of deference Fenwick liked. ‘I mean, I hope so.’
Fenwick nodded, his face a mask of professional concern. ‘Yes. Right,’ he said, standing beside Phil and looking down at the body, wincing. ‘Wouldn’t want there to be another one, would we?’
Phil had voiced the same sentiment out of concern for the victim. Fenwick, he knew from experience, had expressed concern at keeping his stats down.
There was no love lost between the pair of them. But they had called a temporary truce in order to get their jobs done. Since Phil was hardworking, inspired and always got results, Fenwick, as his superior, endured him as a necessary evil. Phil, for his part, thought Fenwick was a phoney; trotting out whatever the latest politically correct management-speak jargon happened to be, paying lip service to ideas of progressiveness and equality in the police force, but underneath his tailored suit and expensive haircut he was as reactionary and scheming as any old department dinosaur.
Phil noticed Fenwick had brought with him a similarly blue-suited sidekick who stopped walking when he did. Fenwick turned to the newcomer.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Martin. Rose. She was in charge of the original missing person’s case.’ Fenwick smiled. ‘She’s here to give her expert opinion.’
DS Rose Martin stepped forward, shared a small smile with Phil and Mickey, looked down at the body. She flinched, looked away. Phil feared her response was going to be the same as Mickey’s but she composed herself, looked again, bending down getting in closer. Phil admired her for that. Mickey, Phil noticed, seemed slightly put out at her reaction.
‘What d’you think?’ asked Phil. ‘You’ve got a better idea than us. Is it her?’
Rose Martin straightened up. Keeping her eyes on the body she nodded. ‘I think so. Yes, I think this is Julie Miller.’
Phil nodded. Looked at the body again.
Definitely no time for personal stuff now.
Phil looked at the other three, all of them sweating inside their blue paper suits. He was aware what they must look like standing there, hoods up, feet and hands covered. A twenty-first century gathering of druids at a contemporary sacrificial altar.
‘Clearly not natural causes, then,’ said Fenwick, trying for a feeble joke.
No one laughed.
‘Her heart stopped,’ said Mickey Philips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘how natural d’you want?’
Phil turned to his new DS, the comment leading him to believe the man had regained his cocky composure after the vomiting incident. But the look in his eyes said something different. His words had been a genuine response to Fenwick’s weak joke. There was nothing funny or flippant about them. Phil began to warm to him a little.
‘Phil,’ said Fenwick, making a stab at some kind of authority, ‘I’d like you heading up the team for this case.’
Phil nodded.
‘And I think it would be a good idea if Rose, DS Martin, that is, joined your team. She’s had nearly a week working on this already. Knows the lay of the land.’
The lay of the land, thought Phil. King Cliché rides again.
‘OK.’ Normally Phil liked to choose his own team members, make sure he could trust them, but he could see the sense in Fenwick’s words.
‘Good. I’ll handle the media and leave you to it. You report directly to both me and the Super in Chelmsford as per usual.’
‘What about the media? We going public with this?’
Fenwick frowned. ‘Let’s get a definite confirmation before we release any names. Don’t want to jump the gun, do we?’
Jump the gun. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it.’
Fenwick turned and moved away. As he did so, Phil noticed that his hand lingered on the small of Rose Martin’s back for a few seconds longer than it should have done.
‘Right,’ Phil said and made introductions. ‘Looks like you’re my team on this one. We may get Anni back but we can’t count on that so let’s get cracking. Gather.’
Phil always had his team group at the site of an incident, pool thoughts, ideas.
‘Before we do anything else, let’s see what this scene tells us. What’s important here?’
‘You mean was she placed here deliberately, that kind of thing?’ Rose Martin frowned as she said it.
‘That kind of thing, yes,’ said Phil. He looked again at the body. ‘Her head’s facing towards the front end of the boat-’
‘Bow,’ said Mickey Philips. Phil looked at him. The DS blushed. ‘Front end. Bow. My old man. Used to take me sailing.’
Phil surprised himself and smiled. ‘Really?’
Mickey shrugged. ‘Yeah. Hated it. Always threw up.’ He gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘No change there.’
‘Concentrate,’ said Phil. They did so. ‘So her head is at the bow, her body in a straight line towards the cabin and the light tower. Her legs are apart.’ He looked at the other two. ‘Is that deliberate? Did whoever did this want us to find her like that? Or is it just accidental, the way it turned out?’
‘Looks deliberate to me,’ said Rose. ‘I mean, the body could just have been dumped and left. He took the time to arrange her, place her like that.’
Mickey pointed to the wooden deck. ‘There’s the scuff marks. Could they be from who ever left her here?’
‘Could be,’ said Phil. ‘Might have taken a while to get her the way he wanted her. There’s blood on the floor too, smudged where he’s moved her.’
‘Just one bloke, boss? Or d’you think there was more than one?’
Phil shrugged. ‘Hard to say. She doesn’t look that big. One guy would have struggled, two could have handled her easily.’
‘Killers working in tandem?’ said Rose. ‘Rapist-killers?’
‘We don’t know she’s been raped yet, Rose.’
‘It’s a fair assumption,’ said Mickey, pointing at her mutilated vagina, swallowing hard.
‘Sexually motivated, you think?’ said Phil.
Rose looked around the boat. ‘Legs apart with a huge tower of light between them? That’s Freud for Beginners, isn’t it?’
‘It looks that way but let’s not jump to conclusions. Wait till Nick Lines has his say. What we do know is she wasn’t killed here. Not enough blood. But she was left here for a reason.’
‘Her flat,’ said Rose.
Phil looked at her, waited.
She pointed over the river to the apartment blocks. ‘She lived there. In one of those flats. In fact, I think you can see this ship from her window.’
Phil felt a familiar tingle inside him. Information was coalescing, forming patterns. He didn’t know what it meant but he was sure it was significant. He nodded. ‘Deliberate, then.’
‘And I think it’s safe to say he hates women,’ said Rose, trying not to look at the carving on the body’s forehead.
‘I’d say that was a given.’ Phil looked at his watch. ‘CSI on the way?’ Phil hated saying that. But since the TV franchise had conquered the world the department insisted.
Rose nodded. ‘Ben called them on the way here.’
Ben, thought Phil.
‘Probably stopped for an ice cream,’ said Mickey Philips, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.
Phil ignored him.
‘No one touch anything,’ Phil said then looked pointedly at his DS. ‘No sweat and certainly no more vomit. Let’s get this crime scene sealed off.’
The three of them left the boat as the uniforms stepped in and did their job. The roads were cordoned off, blue and white tape stretched across all access routes, traffic stopped down the road and turned back. The CSIs would assume the largest possible area for a crime scene then circle inwards, blue-suited birds of prey, narrowing their scope of reference down to just the body. Then, using their painstaking, occult sciences, hopefully recreate the path it took to reach there. And, more importantly, tell Phil and his team who put it there. And maybe even how to catch them.
There was a man sitting on a wood and concrete bench in front of an urban regeneration mural. Middle-aged and balding, in a blue polo shirt with an exercise-free stomach spilling over the complaining waistband of work trousers. He looked visibly shaken. A uniformed officer who had been sitting with him stood up, crossed towards Phil.
‘That the guy who phoned it in?’ said Phil.
She nodded.
‘Made a statement?’
She nodded. ‘Came to open the garage as usual. Saw some seagulls – an unusual amount, he said – congregating on the deck of the boat. Crossed over to shoo them away, saw the body.’
‘He see anything else? Hear anything? Vans? People acting suspiciously?’
She looked down the length of the quay. ‘You know what some of these firms are like down here, boss. If it wasn’t for suspicious characters they’d have gone out of business long ago.’
Phil sighed. ‘Point taken. But take him through it again. You never know, something might trigger a memory. Thanks.’
The officer nodded, turned her attention back to the seated man. Phil turned back to the boat. He couldn’t see the body for the lip of the boat’s side but he knew it was there.
Mickey Philips came and stood alongside him, his eyes as focused as Phil’s, his hood pulled down. The departure of Phil’s previous DS had been traumatic, murdered in the course of work, an act which had devastated the whole team. He knew Mickey Philips was aware of that, knew his attempts at humour, however misplaced, his strained bonhomie, were just his way of trying to fit in.
Phil gave him a quick glance. The DS was unzipping his blue suit, pulling his shirt away from his chest to allow air to circulate. Mickey Philips was a burly, rugby-playing type. Stocky and muscled, like a shaved and domesticated bull. He was dressed like every policeman was supposed to be. Well-cut – but not flashy – suit. Polished shoes. Short, spiky haircut. Cufflinks, even. Under his paper suit, Phil looked the opposite. And deliberately so. Jeans. Superdry trainers. An untucked, flowered shirt with a suit jacket over the top. Hair spiked and quiffed. When he had graduated from uniform and joined the Major Incident Squad he had been adamant he wouldn’t be swapping one uniform for another. And he had stuck to his word. In fact, he was well dressed by his usual standards.
DS Rose Martin came over to join them, her paper suit dispensed with altogether. Phil got his first real look at her. Tall and big-boned yet fit and lean, her straight black hair was cut into a long bob with a fringe resting below her eyebrows. And with her jeans, T-shirt, boots and designer-looking, collarless leather bike jacket, she looked like she fitted Phil’s work ethos better than Mickey Philips. But appearances, he knew, were deceptive.
Phil hoped there wouldn’t be tension between these two. He already had trouble with another of his DCs, Anni Hepburn. She had put herself in for promotion when the DS position needed filling, been unsuccessful and was consequently harbouring resentment about it. He had tried to call her, get her to join him this morning, but she had already been called out on another matter. He wondered whether she had arranged that deliberately.
He just hoped his team could put aside whatever differences they had and work together. They had to. It was his job to ensure that.
‘Right,’ said Phil, ‘before we start, any questions?’
‘Boss…’ said Mickey.
‘Yes, Mickey?’
‘Well…’ He glanced round at the boat, back to Phil. ‘I’m just wondering. I know I’m new here, coming from the drugs squad an’ that, but this looks pretty serious. Less like a one-off and more like a serial in the making, you know what I mean?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well, shouldn’t we think about getting a profiler in?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Phil.
‘D’you know any good ones?’ said Rose.
‘One or two,’ said Phil. ‘One in particular.’
‘Worth a call?’ said Mickey.
Phil became thoughtful. Marina Esposito was the best profiler he had ever worked with. She was also his partner. His soulmate. The mother of his child. And the cause of his problems he had tried not to bring to work with him that morning. Right now she was distant. Hard to read, to talk to. Secretive, even. About where she went, what she did. Something wasn’t right. He would have to sort it out, talk to her. Work it out between them. It had taken so much to get them together, he wasn’t going to let anything pull them apart.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Phil. ‘She’s… busy. Anything else?’
They both shook their heads.
‘Good. Oh, and one more thing.’
They looked at him expectantly.
‘Welcome to MIS,’ Phil said.
‘Hi.’
Marina Esposito sat down in the chair provided, looked at the man opposite her. He was still, his face, his posture serene, in an attitude of listening. She gave him a small, tentative smile.
‘Traffic was awful,’ she said. ‘Murder coming up past the station. Everything rerouted, for some reason.’ She sighed. It covered up the awkwardness she was feeling. ‘But I made it. Wouldn’t want to miss our session.’
She was dressed in a long, black linen skirt, white linen top, jewellery. Large-lensed sunglasses pushed up on the top of her thick, dark, curly hair. It felt good to be out of the house. To get dressed up for something. For anything. Even to come here.
Marina pulled the chair round, positioned it the way she wanted. The windows were open, the late spring/early summer air and morning sunshine giving the institutionalised room a warmth and life it didn’t often have.
‘Right then…’ She sighed again. Then found things that needed doing before she could next speak. Physical actions that helped to compose her mind. She switched her phone to silent, rearranged the contents of her bag prior to placing it on the floor. Marvelled at some of the things she found there. Pushed her hair behind her ears, arranged her neckline. Pulled her top away from her chest, allowed air to travel down there, stop it sticking. Eventually, with nothing more to occupy them, her hands came to rest in her lap like grounded birds. The signal that she was finally ready to talk.
‘So…’ She glanced at him. His face was immobile. Waiting. ‘I’ll start. It’s been… OK. Yeah,’ she said, as if convincing herself, ‘OK. Josephina’s doing well. I’ve left her with her… with Eileen and Don. They love her. So that’s… that’s where she is this morning.’
Marina sighed. Words were tumbling through her brain. She grasped for them, clutching them, hoped she settled on the right ones. ‘I’m… things are going all right. Since we last… since our… since the last time I came to see you. All right.’ She nodded. ‘Yeah.’
She sighed again and a cloud covered the sun. The summer brightness was leached from the walls as they became grey and bleak and the room became what it was – an institutionalised, dying room.
‘No,’ she said, as if the change in the light had also stripped away her false brightness, leaving just a grim honesty. ‘Things are not all right. I mean, Phil and I are good. You know, good. We’ve got the new baby who’s just gorgeous, and the new house. So that’s all positive. That’s good. But there’s… you know. The other stuff.’
She waited for the sunlight to return. It didn’t. She went on.
‘The fear. That’s what they never tell you about. The fear. You’ve got this tiny little infant, this… human life…’ She clasped her hands, looked down at them as if they held her invisible daughter. ‘And you’ve got to, you’ve got to look after her. You’re responsible for her. You’ve given her life, now you have to help her to live.’
She unclasped her hands. Looked up. Back at him.
‘Sorry. You don’t need to hear that. I’m sure.’ Another sigh. ‘Because there’s all the other stuff too. All of… this.’ The words were starting to tumble out now. This was what she had wanted to say. Came here to say. ‘I can’t… can’t… enjoy it. Any of it. There’s this shadow. This… spectre at the feast, elephant in the room. Call it what you like, you know what I mean. And sometimes I forget, and I’m happy for a moment. Just a moment. And I can relax. And laugh. And then I remember. And it starts again. And I just…’ Her hands were out in front of her, fingers twisted, as if grasping in the air for an invisible, intangible solution. Her voice dropped. ‘Sometimes I don’t think it’ll ever change. I think that this is it. This is the way it’ll always be.’
She looked round. The sunlight had returned and with it warmth, but Marina didn’t notice. To her, it seemed suddenly cold. Not light, but dark.
‘And… I can’t live with that.’
She stopped talking. She waited for a reply. None came. Took his silence as listening, as encouragement to keep talking.
‘It’s my fault. I know that. Mine. And…’ Her hands started grasping once more, fingers wriggling as if to be free. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know what to do…’
She paused, looked down at her hands once more.
‘I just feel so… guilty… And I am. It’s my fault. Everything that happened, everything that went wrong. My fault. But I don’t know what to do for the best. I need… I want this hurt to stop. I need to know what to do for the best…’
The tears came, as they always did at this time. She bent her head forward, reached out. Took his hand. He let her. She sat like that until it was time for her to leave.
She wiped her cheeks, took a tissue from her bag, dabbed her eyes, blew her nose. ‘I’ll be… I’ll be back soon. Thanks. For listening.’
She opened her mouth as if to speak once more, closed it again, her thoughts unvoiced, her words unspoken. She shook her head, placed the sunglasses over her eyes, turned, left the room.
‘Ms Esposito…’ A voice down the corridor. Footsteps accompanying it.
Marina stopped, turned. A nursing official was making her way towards her. She knew the woman, didn’t have anything against her, but still felt an irrational irritation bordering on anger at the sight of her. Marina waited until she was level. She looked at her. Made no attempt to remove her sunglasses.
The nursing official looked at the door Marina had just come out of. ‘How was…’
Marina took a deep breath, expelled it. Said nothing. She was glad the nurse couldn’t see her eyes.
The woman’s voice dropped. ‘I don’t mean to… you’ve been coming here for quite some time now. Longer than we would normally allow.’
‘I know.’ Marina’s voice was like old, rusted gears.
‘You have to… I’ll be blunt. This situation can’t continue. You must reach a decision. Very soon.’
Marina nodded, not trusting her voice this time.
‘If you’d like to, we can talk-’
‘No. No. I’ll… I’ll do it.’
The nurse looked relieved. ‘If you’re sure. But we’ll-’
Marina turned away. ‘I know. I have to go. I have to pick up my daughter.’ Her voice caught on the words.
She hurried down the corridor and out of the building. The sunlight hit her but didn’t reach her. Without looking back, she hurried away.
To pick up Josephina.
To make her decision.
To try and get on with her life.
‘So… is that it, then?’
‘Nearly.’ DC Anni Hepburn glanced down at her notes. ‘Just a couple of things. Can you just take me through it again from waking up, check there’s nothing I’ve missed…’
Suzanne Perry sat opposite her on the sofa in the living room of her apartment. She was still dressed in the T-shirt she had slept in, a dressing gown over it, pulled tight round her body. The mug of coffee she was holding was down to cold dregs. She swirled the gritty liquid around, her eyes following its progress, clamped to the mug as if scared to look anywhere else. She sighed.
‘But I’ve already…’
‘Please. Just once more.’ Anni’s voice sounded compassionate, tender yet laced with steel, showing she was used to having her requests carried out. It wasn’t something she had consciously worked on, just a skill that had naturally evolved with the job until it was an everyday part of her working identity.
Suzanne’s eyes slowly closed, her head lolling forward. Then she gave a start, her eyes wide and staring, darting round the room as if searching for anything – or anyone – hidden in the shadows. Anni caught the look, tried to reassure her.
‘It’s OK. Just me here.’
A two-person CSI team had painstakingly examined Suzanne’s bedroom, hallway and any potential entrances and exits for possible clues to the identity of her supposed intruder. From the tone of their voices and the expressions on their faces, they didn’t seem to regard those chances as high.
Anni checked her notes. Looked at the woman before her. Suzanne Perry was a speech therapist, working at the General Hospital, first job after graduating from Essex University. She was tall to medium height, with a good figure, dark hair and a slight Mediterranean cast to her skin. But it was her eyes that you noticed first, Anni thought. Beautiful, clear brown eyes. Even through all the tears and redness, the beauty of those eyes came through.
The flat was on the top floor of an old Edwardian house that had been divided up, on Maldon Road. Quite spacious with good period fittings, but with its primary coloured bookshelves, beanbags, throws and sub-Bridget Riley prints on the walls, it had been furnished predominantly in a kind of Ikea version of sixties pop art. But already there were other touches creeping in that suggested the garishness would soon go, to be replaced by a more mature style. Anni had seen this kind of thing before. The first tentative steps taken between student and wage earner. It felt like that had been her, not so long ago.
This case was a natural fit for Anni. A reactive DC working with the Major Incident Squad, she specialised in rape cases, abused children, had been trained for any situation where a male presence might be a barrier to uncovering the truth. This case was clearly one for her. Plus, it would keep her away from Phil, which, given the way things had been between them lately, wasn’t a bad thing.
‘So,’ Anni said, concentrating once more, ‘you woke up…’
‘No, before that.’ Suzanne Perry placed her coffee mug down on a nearby shelf but still kept her eyes on it as if it was a talisman giving out a protective aura. ‘While I was asleep… I thought, I felt… someone in the room with me.’
‘When you were asleep.’
‘I don’t know… I think I was asleep. But then… then… I felt it…’
‘It?’
‘Him. I felt him. His hands on me, his…’ She shuddered.
Anni waited.
‘And I couldn’t… I couldn’t move…’
Another shudder. Anni feared she might cry again. It had happened twice already. She pressed on.
‘You felt his hands on you.’
Suzanne nodded.
‘Do you remember whereabouts on your body?’
Suzanne looked to the floor, her cheeks red.
Anni had to be careful what she said. Traumatic experiences often left a victim open to suggestion. She didn’t want to say anything that could later, in court, be seen as leading Suzanne on. ‘Where did he touch you, Suzanne?’
Suzanne turned her face even further away, closed her eyes like she was anticipating a punch.
‘Suzanne.’ Steel in Anni’s voice once more. Suzanne’s head snapped back round. Now she had her attention again she allowed her voice to drop once more. ‘Suzanne… where did he touch you?’
Suzanne’s eyes closed once more, her lower lip began to tremble. ‘He… he moved my T-shirt up… I couldn’t stop him, I…’ The tears started again. ‘And… and he…’
Anni sat back. ‘OK. OK…’ Her voice was soothing once more. ‘Take a moment.’ Anni waited until Suzanne had composed herself. ‘You said he spoke to you. Can you remember any of the words he said?’
Suzanne shook her head.
‘What did he look like? Can you describe him?’
Another shake of her head. ‘Just… a shape. And those eyes, shining, staring… like, like devils’ eyes… And his hands, touching me. And I, I couldn’t move…’
Anni didn’t press her any more. She decided to move on. ‘And then you, what? Slept?’
Suzanne shrugged. ‘Must have done.’
‘Then got up, opened the curtains…’
Suzanne nodded. ‘Yes. And then…’ Her head dropped once more.
Anni kept looking at her. Scrutinising her. Something was gnawing at her. ‘Were the blinds closed or open?’
‘Open. That’s how I saw the photo.’
‘You said earlier you like your bedroom dark. Is it possible you could have left them open?’
Suzanne shook her head. ‘I’m a light sleeper. I need the room dark as possible. Specially in the summer…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘So you couldn’t have opened the blinds yourself?’
‘No. I never open them.’ Her voice emphatic.
‘Do you open the window to sleep? When it’s warm?’
‘No.’ But her voice wasn’t so emphatic this time.
Anni saw the opening, jumped in. ‘Could you have left the window open and someone got in? Is it possible?’
Suzanne looked up at her, those brown eyes looking suddenly lost. ‘I… I… does it matter?’
Anni shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Suzanne. When something like this happens, we think everything matters.’
She sighed. ‘I don’t know… I didn’t… I can’t… I don’t know…’ She looked once more at the coffee mug.
‘What about the people downstairs?’ Anni had spoken to her neighbours, got nothing from them, ruled them out. But she had to ask. ‘Could they have access?’
‘I don’t see how…’
‘Can you remember going to bed last night?’
‘I…’ Suzanne seemed about to answer in the affirmative but stopped herself. ‘No. I… I woke up this morning feeling really bad, shaky, like I was hungover or something.’ She screwed her face up, thinking back. ‘I can’t… I can’t remember going to bed…’
‘Had you been drinking? Were you hungover?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I just had a bath. Then some chocolate. A glass of wine. Red. Just one. With the chocolate. While I sat on the sofa. Red.’
‘Small glass?’
Suzanne nodded. ‘It’s… on the draining board. The wine bottle is there, too. With the, the cork in it. And then this morning I felt terrible.’
‘Maybe you’re coming down with something.’
‘Maybe. Swine flu. Great. Just what I need.’
‘So, the blind. If you can’t remember going to bed, you might have left it up by mistake. The window open.’
Suzanne frowned. ‘Up? No. The blind’s never up. It might have been open, but it’s never up… and the window… no. No… I didn’t, no…’
Anni looked at her face, checking for truth.
‘Never,’ she said. ‘Never…’
The fear was back in Suzanne’s eyes.
The Creeper loved being close.
It was what thrilled him.
Not that he didn’t enjoy the planning – he did. All the following, the strategising. The courtship. The anticipation. It was all good, but it was all for an end result. Being close.
That was what really did it for him. Being in a relationship. Half of a couple. In someone else’s life. That was the part he loved most. It topped the lot, made everything else worthwhile.
And now he had found her. The one.
He smiled to himself.
He had been searching for her for so long. Everywhere. The town, the countryside. Here and… and there. Waiting to hear her voice, a sign, any of the things that would let him know that she was the one.
His star-crossed lover.
His Rani.
And he had her.
And that made him happy.
There had been false starts. Times when he thought he had her, was sure he had her, only for her to disappear once more, leaving only a husk behind. A husk to be disposed of.
And he had been stupid, been a fool for love. But this one was real. He knew it. Could feel it.
And there she was now, so close to him, a few metres away. He could even reach out, touch her… like he had last night.
But he wouldn’t. Not while that policewoman was there.
He would just wait, be patient.
He lay back, stretched out. Listened to the sound of Rani’s voice coming through the boards.
Waiting for another chance to be alone with his lover.
Phil looked along the quay, checked to see how well his instructions had been implemented.
The road was completely sealed off from the roundabout. Nothing and no one could get in or out. Workers in businesses along the quay had been given a few hours of enforced leisure and gawping. Phil didn’t think they’d mind.
Over the other side of the river and on the bridge, gawkers were gathering. Phil had ordered the erection of a white tent over the body, both to preserve the crime scene and to deter onlookers. As always, he wasn’t sure if doing that didn’t just make them even more curious.
A full team of CSIs was scrutinising the deck of the boat and working their way out to the quay and the road. Taking impressions left on the ground, scraping surfaces, bagging and cataloguing anything that struck them as potentially interesting. Not for the first time, and definitely not for the last, the blue-suited, booted, masked and gloved figures reminded Phil of a haz-mat team stopping the spread of a lethal virus. Which in a sense, he supposed, was what they were.
As Phil watched, his hand instinctively went to his ribs. Nothing. No pain. It had been absent for months but it still surprised him.
He had been victim of panic attacks since he was a boy. He knew what had caused them originally – the children’s homes he had grown up in weren’t known for their nurturing atmosphere. In fact, they were at the cutting edge of Darwinism. They were bound to leave some scars, whether physical, mental, emotional or all three. When he had finally settled down with Don and Eileen Brennan, his foster-parents, later his adoptive ones and, ultimately, the only people he dared call Mum and Dad, the panic attacks had ceased. But during his police career they had made return visits. Usually mild, but sometimes crippling. Always at moments of great stress. Like a huge iron fist was wrapping itself round his ribs and squeezing as hard as it could. Squeezing the life out of him.
He knew some officers who would have milked the situation, seen a doctor, taken paid sick leave with union backing. But Phil wasn’t like that. He had told no one, preferring to cope himself.
But he hadn’t had one in months. Not since…
Not since he and Marina had set up home together. Not since he’d became a father.
But he still felt his body for the attacks. Braced himself for their return. Because it was only a matter of time until something happened, some dark trigger tripped and that iron fist would have him in its grip once more. Only a matter of time.
But not today. And not now. Or at least not yet.
Nick Lines, the pathologist, was examining the body in place. He called to Phil.
‘I’m about to turn her. Want to see?’
Phil hurried back up the gangplank, on to the boat.
Nick Lines was only slightly more animated and lifelike than the corpses he worked with. Stripped of his paper suit, and despite the warmth, he stood dressed in a three-piece suit, pointed shoes, his tie loosened at the neck. He was tall, thin and bald; his glasses, perched on the end of his nose, might have looked fashionable on someone else. He wore the kind of expression that might have got him a part-time job either as a professional mourner or the kind of character actor in horror films who warned teenagers not to stray off the path into the woods. This expression, Phil knew from years of experience, hid a razor-sharp intellect and an even sharper – and dryer – wit.
Nick, together with a CSI, turned the body over.
‘Oh God…’
‘Hmm…’ Nick was masking any revulsion he may have felt by appearing to be professionally interested. For all Phil knew, he might have been.
Phil pointed. ‘Are those… hook marks?’
Nick peered at the back of the woman’s body. There were two huge wounds underneath her shoulder blades where something large and sharp had been gouged into her flesh.
‘Looks that way. By the way the flesh has torn, she must have been hung up to be tortured.’
‘Great.’ Phil felt his own stomach pitch. Emotions hurled themselves around inside him. Anger at what had been done. Revulsion. Sorrow. And a hard, burning flame in the pit of his stomach that made him want to catch the person who had done this. He stood up, turned away from the body. ‘So what have we got to go on, Nick?’
Nick stood also. ‘Not a lot. Female, mid-twenties. Tortured, sexually mutilated, murdered.’
‘In that order?’
Nick glanced at the body. ‘Your guess is as good as mine at the moment. But if I had to stick my neck out I’d say, judging by blood pooling and lividity, the sexual mutilation was carried out after the killing.’
Mickey Philips and Rose Martin came onboard. Rose had her notebook in hand, open.
‘You’d better stand near the side, Mickey,’ said Phil. ‘In case you go again.’
Mickey Philips was about to argue then got a look at the body. He moved over to the side.
‘Cause of death?’ asked Rose, her face rigidly composed.
Nick shrugged. ‘Take your pick. Knife wounds, chain wounds… she was comprehensively worked over.’ He sighed and, for the first time that day, Phil saw genuine concern break through the man’s brittle mask. ‘And from the looks of it, whatever the weapons were, they’d been… augmented.’
Phil fell silent, contemplative. He knew what that meant. Hammers. Nails. Razors. Blades. Julie Miller, if it was her, hadn’t died easily.
Phil swallowed. ‘Time of death?’
Nick looked round at the sky, back to Phil, a gesture that made him look like he was thinking but was more about regaining his composure. ‘It’s a hot day, Phil. Clearly, she was killed elsewhere and brought here. From what I can make out of the internal blood pooling and lividity in her body she was lying on her back for some time. Best I can do at the moment.’
Phil turned away, walked down the gangplank. The image of the dead woman seared on his retinas. The hatred someone must have felt to do that…
Nick called out to him. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve got anything.’
‘Thanks, Nick.’
Phil called Mickey and Rose to him. Looked at the pair of them. His new team. He hoped they were as good as… Just hoped they were good. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is it. I should imagine this case is going to be high priority so I need you to be on top of your game here. Pool information. Support each other. No mavericking, right?’
They both nodded.
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Here’s what needs to happen. The Birdies should be here soon. They can-’
Mickey Philips laughed. ‘The what?’
‘Birdies,’ said Phil, impatient at the interruption. ‘DC Adrian Wren and DS Jane Gosling. Hence, the Birdies. Adrian can follow Nick to the mortuary, do chain of evidence. Jane can get started with you, Mickey, on the door-to-door.’
Mickey Philips looked around. ‘Over there?’
‘Start with the businesses here. Someone might have been in early, seen something. Then after that…’ He looked across the river. ‘The flats over there. Coordinate with uniforms. Rose, you handle that. You’ve done it before, see what Julie Miller’s neighbours have to say.’
Rose nodded. Phil looked saw the eagerness in her eyes. Ready, burning to go. He hoped that energy wasn’t misplaced. He didn’t want her making mistakes. Either of them, for that matter.
‘I’ll get Milhouse to set up the incident room back at Southway, get a mobile one put here, couple of uniforms manning it. Bit of presence, you never know.’ He looked between the two of them.
‘What about where she was killed, boss?’ said Mickey. ‘Should we be looking for that?’
‘Initiative is good,’ said Phil, ‘and I approve, but, as our esteemed leader DCI Fenwick would say, that would be creating a needle/haystack interface.’
Mickey, surprised at Phil criticising his superior, smiled. Phil also noticed that Rose’s attention sharpened at the mention of Fenwick’s name. He caught the look, filed it away with the other stuff.
Phil continued. ‘We think we know who she is. Once that’s confirmed, hopefully the where and the why will follow.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anni should be joining us soon, so that’s one more body.’ He looked between the pair of them. ‘Any questions?’
If they had, they were keeping them to themselves.
Phil breathed in, out. No pain. His ribs felt fine.
‘Good. Right. Let’s-’
‘What the hell’s going on with my boat?’
The three of them turned. A middle-aged man, red-faced and sweating, was running towards them, a uniform in pursuit.
‘Ah,’ said Phil, smiling. ‘I think this may be the boat’s owner.’ He turned to the other two. ‘I’ll deal with him. You go catch a killer.’
Anni’s questions had kept Suzanne’s tears at bay. She pressed on.
‘Suzanne, your flat. The CSIs are checking everything now. They say the lock on the door hasn’t been forced. Same with the window. Is there any other way someone could have got in?’
She shook her head.
‘Anyone else have a key?’
Something flitted across her face. Dark and swift, an evil fairy-tale sprite. ‘No.’
Anni leaned forward, surprised by the response. ‘You sure about that?’
‘Just…’ Suzanne kept her eyes averted from Anni. ‘Zoe. My friend Zoe.’
The look hadn’t been for her friend Zoe. ‘No one else?’
Suzanne looked away, shook her head.
‘Suzanne, I’m trying to help you here. If there’s someone who could have had a key then please tell me. It could be important.’
Another sigh from Suzanne. ‘I think Mark might still have one.’
‘Who’s Mark?’
‘Mark Turner. My old boyfriend. But he’s… It’s not important. We’re not seeing each other any more.’
‘Could he have done this?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because… because we’re not… he’s just not that into me any more.’ The American accent was an attempted joke but the bitterness of the words cancelled it out.
‘Oh,’ said Anni. ‘Right.’
Suzanne looked at her once more. ‘These things happen.’ Her voice reedy, unconvincing.
‘But he still has a key.’
‘Yeah.’ Suzanne frowned, as if the thought had just entered her head. ‘Not because he still wanted to see me. Just…’ She shrugged. ‘… because…’
‘Never gave it back.’ Anni took his details. ‘So you got a new boyfriend?’
Suzanne shook her head. Picked up the mug once more, toying with it, swirling the dregs round and round, staring.
Anni sensed there was something more. ‘Have you had trouble like this before, Suzanne? With men?’
She answered without taking her eyes off the mug. ‘I… no. Never. Nothing like this.’
‘Nothing at all? No intruders? Stalkers?’
The last word hit a nerve. Suzanne said nothing.
‘Suzanne?’
‘No.’ She shook her head with a finality that told Anni she wouldn’t be getting anything further from that line of questioning.
‘This photo…’ Anni gestured to it, sitting alongside her in a clear plastic evidence bag.
Suzanne braced herself once more, as if she was expecting a physical assault.
‘Are you sure it was taken last night?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘There’s no chance it might have been older?’
She shook her head.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Suzanne began turning the coffee mug once more. Cold, brown liquid spilled over the sides, splashed out on to the floor. She didn’t notice.
‘Suzanne?’ Anni reached out a hand. She placed it over Suzanne’s, stopping her agitated movements. Suzanne looked up at her. Anni held the eye contact. ‘Why are you so sure it was taken last night?’
‘I… it was. I had… in the bathroom last night, I… did my… my bikini line.’ She swallowed the words in embarrassment. ‘With a razor. I… cut myself. It’s… on the photo. You can, you can see the, the cut…’
Anni looked at the photo. It clearly showed Suzanne asleep with her T-shirt pulled up to her breasts, exposing her body. Her legs were open. She leaned in closer, squinting. The cut was clearly visible.
She looked back to Suzanne. The mug fell to the floor, the remaining liquid spilling out. Suzanne looked at it as if not understanding what it was. Then her head dropped, her shoulders moved rhythmically back and forwards.
Anni had no option but to let her cry.
Eventually, Suzanne found her voice. ‘I’m not – not lying…’
‘I didn’t -’
‘I’m not making it up.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
Suzanne looked up, an angry fire fighting through the tears. ‘I wasn’t then and I’m not now. Right?’
‘You weren’t doing what then?’
Suzanne looked away, regained composure. ‘Nothing.’
‘What did you mean, Suzanne? Was it something to do with your ex-boyfriend Mark?’
She wiped her face with the sleeve of her dressing gown. Sat back, exhausted. ‘I can’t talk any more…’
Anni knew that was all she would be getting. For now. She leaned forward once more. ‘Suzanne, I’d like you to come with me.’
Suzanne sat back, fear and distrust on her face. ‘Where? Why?’
‘To the station.’ Anni’s voice was all calmness and reason once more. ‘I’d like you to be seen by a doctor.’
Anni nodded. ‘It’ll be sensitively handled. It won’t hurt. And I’d also like your consent to a blood test on top of that.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if you’ve got anything in your system that could have made you feel bad this morning. Other than a glass of red wine and chocolate, of course.’ She smiled. Suzanne didn’t return it.
‘OK?’
Suzanne nodded, her face slack, empty, like she was still in a dream. She stood up, her body moving like a somnambulist’s.
Anni told her to come as she was and bring a change of clothing to go home in. Suzanne numbly walked to the bedroom to do so. Anni watched her go. As Suzanne reached the doorway, she turned.
‘Do you… The door, I’ll, I’ll… keep it open.’
‘I’ll be here.’
Suzanne took a bag from the wardrobe, began to throw clothes into it. She was clearly traumatised, thought Anni, but something was off. Suzanne Perry was holding something back, hiding something. Never mind. While Suzanne was in the rape suite Anni would be at her computer running background checks.
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t stay hidden for long.
The Creeper was missing Rani.
She had gone out. Left the flat with that black girl, the police officer. Left him alone. He didn’t mind. As long as she wasn’t too long. He would get lonely if she was away too long. Miss her. That wouldn’t do. And if she was away too long he would be angry with her.
And she really didn’t want that.
But he knew what to do. How to fill in the time until she returned, make it feel as if she was there with him.
The door clicked shut. He waited, counted to a thousand, then came out. Looked round. Felt anger rise within him. The police had left the place in a real mess. That wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair at all. Maybe he should tidy up. A treat for Rani coming home. Or maybe not. Might make her cry again.
He smiled. He liked it when she cried. Made him feel like his love was working, like she wanted him.
He went into the kitchen. Thought about making himself a cup of tea. Decided not to. He wasn’t in the mood. He looked across the hall to the bedroom. Smiled.
He knew what he was in the mood for.
He went into the bedroom. It was only a few hours since he had been in here with her, his beautiful Rani, but it felt longer. So much longer. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Held it as long as he could. Let it go. Smiled. He could smell her. Her perfume, her skin, her clothes… everything. He opened the wardrobe door, looked at her clothes hanging there. Traced his fingers along, felt the fabric of her skirts, her jeans, her dresses. Slowly caressing, imagining being next to her skin…
Then away from the wardrobe. He knew what was coming next. Could feel it. He went to the sideboard, opened the second drawer down on the right. Rani’s underwear drawer. He smiled. Put his hands in.
He ignored the everyday stuff. The boring cotton drip catchers. Went straight for the flimsy, filmy gossamers. Rubbed the sheer fabric between his fingers. Imagined her in them…
The Creeper was getting hard. He knew what was coming next.
He chose the pair of knickers he wanted. Black and dirty-pink, all sheer and see-through, lace and bows. Then lay down on the bed, undid his flies. Got comfortable, in the right position. And with her knickers in his hand, he closed his eyes, summoned her.
And there she was before him. Vividly alive, realer than real, better than life. His fingers moved slowly. He felt the fabric against his skin, whispered her name.
‘Rani…’ Sighed again. Smiled again. His heart pumping, butterflies fluttering in his stomach from just hearing it said aloud. ‘Rani…’
And she answered him. As she always did. I’m here… for you…
Rani was her real name. Her secret name. He didn’t care what name she went by, what she called herself day to day. Because he knew what she really looked like, who she really was. She had told him. Revealed herself to him.
He sighed. His fingers moved faster, heart picking up speed.
‘Rani…’
Yes, my love?
‘I’ve been with you all day… did you see me?’
I did…
‘I was with you this morning, there when you opened your eyes.’ He paused, gave a small laugh. ‘You looked funny. When you got up you could hardly walk.’
She laughed also. I’m glad I make you laugh.
He felt a thrill course through him at her words. Quickened his pace. ‘Last night… I felt so close to you…’
And I you…
‘Did you like my present?’
Loved it…
His little valentine. His declaration of love and intent.
I’M WATCHING OVER YOU
He’d spent a long time working on that sentence, trying to find words that expressed not only his love for her, but also his devotion. Her own personal guardian angel. And he thought he had achieved it. Proud of it.
‘You cried when you saw it…’
I did…
His fingers moved faster at the thought, no longer butterflies in his stomach, more like finches trapped in a barn.
But then…
That thing caught inside him. That niggle, that thought, working away at him like a worm in an apple…
‘Oh Rani…’
Sadness overwhelmed him. Like he hadn’t felt for ages, not since… before. He tried not to think of it, let his mind go back there. Concentrate on the present. On Rani. On his love. But it was difficult.
Other memories, other voices, would fill his head and the butterflies, the swallows, would leave his stomach, and something else, something more dangerous, would take their place. A serpent, hard, cold and coiled in the depths of his guts, hissing acid inside him, poisoning him with fear and hate.
And its voice… all that anger, that hate… All women are whores… every one… use them like whores… that’s all they’re good for…
‘No… no…’
Cut them, slice them…
It wasn’t him. Not now. Not any more. He had to do something, drive the voice out, repeat his mantra, defeat the snake. ‘Out of the cleansing fire I was born and he was lost…’ Keep going… ‘Out of the cleansing fire her soul was freed when her body was lost…’ Keep going… ‘Out of the cleansing fire was born my search and love to be found…’
The snake slithered away, back to the darkness. He heard Rani’s voice once more.
I’m still here…
Joy flooded his heart. He was hard again. His fingers moved faster, a smile spreading across his face.
His fingers increased speed, his breathing became heavier. His love’s voice was in his head once more, her face before him.
Then, gasping and whispering her name, it was all over. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you…’ Over and over, gasping and whispering. Sighing and smiling.
‘Rani… Rani…’
And I love you… He voice faded as it always did in these moments. But she would be back. He had no doubt.
He opened his eyes. Wiped himself off on her knickers, pocketed them for later. He had an idea what to do with them.
Rani needed another present, another token of his love for her…
He looked round the room, getting dreamy. He could lie here all day. But he had things to do. So he got up, left the bedroom.
He stood in the hall, looked up at the hatch to the loft. Time to go back. Assume his position watching over Rani, her own guardian angel. But not just yet.
Down the hall and into the bathroom. Just time for a quick shower.
Then leave his present where she would find it.
The Creeper couldn’t wait until Rani came home.
He had such plans for her…
Mickey Philips flipped his notebook shut, put it in his jacket pocket and crossed the road, walking away from the river.
The businesses along the quay hadn’t yielded up anything of value. Mickey hadn’t been made welcome. When he approached with the uniforms, orders were shouted in languages other than English and bodies dissolved into shadows. Rags were thrown over number plates in workshops, objects were put hastily into desk drawers or beneath counters. He was met with too-wide smiles and helpless shrugs, and eyes that looked anywhere but at him. Even when he told them it was a murder inquiry and that he didn’t care what else they had going on, the smiles dropped but the shrugs continued. No one had seen anything, no one knew anything. He heard it so many times that eventually he thought it might even be the truth. Eventually he left the uniforms to it, instructing them to take extra notice of anyone giving them a particularly hard time, and walked off down the road.
He preferred working alone, in spite of what DI Brennan had said about mavericking. It was when he could drop the persona and be himself, not have to be one of the lads, play the game. Remember he was a university graduate and not just a Nuts mag cookie-cutter copper. He’d been there, done that. And seen what it had almost cost him.
The job wasn’t for the weak-willed, he knew that when he signed up, but the Drugs Squad was one of the most full-on outfits in the force. He had gone into it looking for glory, for collars, for headlines. Knowing the rewards could be big, ignoring the fact that the failures could be bigger.
As a DC he had thrown himself into the life. One of the gang, never missed a night out whether it was playing pool or poker, off for a curry or out to a strip club. Bonding, he told himself. Helping to make them a team, a unit.
And what a unit they had been. What a force on the street. Cocks of the walk, the Met’s finest, like The Sweeney reborn, with Danny Dyer playing him in the film version. And with a clean-up rate second to none. And if some of their haul never made it to evidence, so what? Bit of charlie never hurt anyone. Perks of the job. And if one drug dealer was allowed to flourish at the expense of another because he kept the boys supplied with both information and product, how was that wrong? And if they made a little cash looking the other way occasionally, so what? No harm done in the great scheme of things.
Except there was. As his girlfriend pointed out one day when, blood running down his nose and the backs of his eyes feeling like they were pincushions for burning needles, he pulled his fist back and screamed that she didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. And not for the first time. She made him see his life ahead of him. The ghost of Christmas yet to come. And it wasn’t pretty.
So that was it. Fix-up time. Get straight, ship out.
And he had. Narcotics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous, too, just to be on the safe side. Even thought about church. But not very seriously. Took the sergeant’s exam, filled an opening up in Colchester, Essex. Played up the arrests, played down the rest. His girlfriend didn’t hang around, though, she’d had enough. But that was OK. He deserved it.
So, Colchester. Clean slate, new start.
He made a mental note not to keep trying too hard with his new squad members and checked his watch. Gone eleven. And he hadn’t eaten since God knows when. Well before he’d thrown up. Not even a cup of tea. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled.
He looked ahead. And smiled. A burger van was parked at the side of the road. He quickened his pace.
‘Bacon sandwich and cup of tea, please, mate,’ he said to the guy behind the counter. He was big, fat and greasy-looking. A bad advert for getting high on your own supply, thought Mickey.
‘You with that lot over there?’ the bloke said, slapping a couple of rashers of bacon down on the grill, standing back as they started to spit.
‘Yeah,’ said Mickey, staring at the bacon hungrily.
‘Looks pretty bad,’ the bloke said.
‘It is,’ said Mickey. ‘Very bad.’
‘If you’re gonna be here long,’ the bloke said, ‘send them over here. I’ll do discount.’
‘Cheers. You not busy, then?’
‘Been here since crack of dawn. Same as usual. Those places along the river start early. But the recession…’ He sniffed. ‘Customer’s a customer, innit?’ The bloke moved the bacon round the griddle, picking up old, black grease but still looking tasty.
‘It is,’ said Mickey, hoping the bacon wouldn’t take long.
‘What is it then, murder? Body or somethin’?
Mickey nodded. ‘Yeah. Awful.’ A thought struck him. ‘Hey, you’ve been here all hours. See any activity on the quay this morning?’
‘Like what?’
‘Dunno.’ He shrugged, tried to keep it light. ‘Vans, people coming and going. Maybe quickly, maybe acting like they shouldn’t have been there. That kind of thing.’
He stared at the grill, kept the bacon moving. ‘Don’t know nothin’ about that.’
At the bloke’s reaction, Mickey felt that thrill. The copper’s thrill, the one that meant a breakthrough.
‘You did, didn’t you?’
The bloke said nothing, just became intensely interested in the grill, willing the bacon to cook quicker, prodding it with his spatula.
‘What did you see?’
‘I… nothin’. Didn’t see nothin’. Keep me out o’ this.’
‘Listen. Someone’s been murdered over there. A young woman. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. In my life. Now, if you’ve seen something, you’d better tell me.’
He took the bacon off the grill, stuck it on a slice of white bread, slapped another one on top of it, put it on the counter. ‘On the house.’
Mickey sighed. ‘I didn’t want to do this, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Like you said, over there is swarming with coppers. Now, I can either direct them across to here when they get a bit hungry and thirsty or I can get this van impounded and off the road.’
The man held his spatula in the air. ‘What for?’
‘I’ll think of something. Health and safety’s a godsend for stuff like that.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Or…’
The man looked around the inside of his van like it was his own little kingdom, one he would never see again. He sighed. ‘All right, then. I’ll tell you.’
He did.
And Mickey got that tingle again, that frisson that said he was on to something. And it felt so damned good. He had forgotten just how good. In fact, he was in such a hurry to get back to the quay he almost forgot his bacon sandwich.
Almost.
Suzanne closed the door, put the bolts in place, the chain across, flattened herself against it. Sighed like she had been holding her breath underwater.
She looked down the hall of her flat. At first glance, everything looked the same as it always did, but, looking more closely, she noticed differences. Things had been moved out of place and not put back. Doors and drawers left open that she would usually have shut. And vice versa.
The police. She hoped.
This should have been the place she felt safe, could take refuge in. Not any more. There was nowhere she could feel safe in now. Not even her own body. Not after today. What she had just been through.
The rape suite had been what she expected. White, tiled, functional.
So had the feelings inside her: apprehension, fear, terror.
The detective had taken her into the station, insisting Suzanne call her by her first name of Anni. Taking her straight through to this white room, waving away the paperwork until afterwards. Then pulling up two stiff-backed chairs, sitting opposite each other, talking and maintaining eye contact all the while.
‘You can have counselling, you know. We can arrange it.’
Suzanne couldn’t reply. There were no words in her mouth.
Anni continued. ‘If, you know, you need it. If things…’
Suzanne’s head was still spinning. It was like she had stepped out of her normal life into something surreal. A waking dream or some absurdist theatre play. In the car on the way to the station she had looked out of the window, watched people moving around, going in and out of shops, coffee houses. Carrying shopping, talking on phones, wheeling pushchairs. Normal people doing normal things. Leading normal lives. And there was her. Watching that life through the window, like a TV documentary on an alien tribe.
Suzanne found a nod for Anni. Anni returned it, gave her knee a squeeze. Suzanne’s first instinct was to place her own hand over it, keep it there, pressing hard, her only communication to that normal world. But she didn’t. She just sat there numbly, allowing Anni’s hand to stay where it was. Anni stood up.
‘We need you to undress,’ she said.
Suzanne was still wearing the T-shirt she had slept in the previous night, her dressing gown over the top of it. Anni left the room, gave her privacy, waited until she was in the cotton hospital gown. She sat on the examining table, against the wall, the loose ties at the back of the gown making her feel even more naked.
Anni returned and, with gloved hands, held out a plastic bag for Suzanne to deposit her T-shirt into. She did so. Anni smiled. Suzanne couldn’t return it.
‘Right,’ Anni said, sitting down next to her on the table. ‘I’ve got to nip upstairs to get some paperwork done. You won’t be alone for long. Will you be OK for a couple of minutes?’
Suzanne nodded, her head down, hair wafting back and forth like curtains in a slow breeze.
‘Good. The doctor’ll not be long.’ She placed her hand on Suzanne’s shoulder, gave another small squeeze.
Eventually, with another small squeeze, Anni removed her hand, stood up and left the room.
Now it was just Suzanne. Alone, but with a whole new world in her head for company.
Her mind slipped back to the night before. The dream that might not have been a dream. Her moods, her responses to it, had clicked backwards and forwards all day like a metronome: I’m making it all up. Imagining things. Wasting their time. Then: no. I’m not. It was real and there was someone with me. Someone in my room. In my bed. In my-
She tried to balance her thoughts, still her racing heart. Her hands clamped between her thighs, her ankles crossed. She closed her eyes, attempted to calm her breathing. The same thoughts tumbling over and over in her head.
I’m not giving in to this… I’m not giving in to this… I’m going to be strong, be strong… this bastard isn’t going to win…
And then the door opened.
Suzanne gave a start as a woman in a white coat entered. Overweight, hair a functional bob, clothes muted shades of grey and beige. She held a file, looked at it.
‘Suzanne… Perry?’ She looked at Suzanne with eyes that had a calculated, professional deadness about them, a shield between herself and the wreckage of women she must confront daily.
‘Yes.’ Suzanne’s voice was small, rusty, as if shrunken from disuse. She cleared her throat, spoke again. ‘Yes.’ Stronger this time.
The doctor gave a smile that penetrated the shield and reached her eyes, showed that, no matter how much she tried not to become involved with her patients, she was still a human being.
‘I’m Doctor Winter,’ she said, still smiling, trying to reassure her. She took another look at the file in her hands, then looked back at Suzanne. ‘Right,’ she said, her voice warm and comforting, like a children’s storybook reader. ‘The first thing I want you to do is to provide a urine sample.’
Doctor Winter sent her into a cubicle with two small pots to fill. Suzanne did as she was asked, returned with the pots, put them on the desk as instructed.
‘OK,’ said Doctor Winter, snapping on latex gloves, ‘if you could just pop yourself on the table…’
Suzanne did as she was told. ‘Legs apart, knees bent, please. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible…’
Suzanne put her head back, closed her eyes. She had been fine up until then. This was the part she had been dreading.
It was afternoon, the sun was shining and Castle Park seemed to have been specially designed as the perfect place to enjoy the perfect day.
The castle had stood for two thousand years and looked like it was ready to stand for another couple of thousand. Flowers bloomed from the perfectly maintained beds and borders surrounding it, people strolled along the neat walkways. Even those who were hurrying to weekday work or business appointments slowed down to enjoy the surroundings. It felt to Marina like a small vacation in another world.
The parkland behind the castle sloped down towards the small lake and the children’s play areas. For Marina, sitting on a bench, taking in the view, the castle always brought to mind images of Boudica and her army, blazing around in their chariots. But where once the warrior-queen would have whipped her horses to get up the hill, attacking the castle while dodging arrows and spears, now the grounds were full of school children on educational day trips, young mothers, nannies and au pairs pushing their baby buggies round. The only kind of sustained assault on the castle came from busloads of primary school children running riot or the occasional Lycra-wearing, stroller-pushing mother taking on the hill as part of her jogging route.
One was running past Marina now. She looked up, smiled. The woman, thin, tanned, her blonde hair pulled away from her sweating face in a severe ponytail, saw Marina sitting with one hand resting on Josephina’s buggy, returned the smile.
‘Got to keep going,’ the woman gasped, passing, ‘get my shape back…’ And off she went.
Marina watched her go. What did she mean, get her shape back? The woman looked in perfect condition. Thin, fit-looking, her stomach didn’t even have the slightest bit of sag to it.
Despite the sunshine, Marina felt suddenly cold, like the black cloud from earlier was following her. Was that the kind of thing she was expected to do? Run to get back in shape? To have her new mother’s body scrutinised and deemed either acceptable or unacceptable? She didn’t want that. She couldn’t have that.
Marina thought back to her pregnancy. Before Phil. While Tony was still – was still around. That was hard enough. She felt like she was the first person ever to experience what she was feeling. There was no elation about it, none of the joy she had been told to expect. Just terror. Abject terror.
And then there was Phil. Getting together had been traumatic enough, and she had hoped that, once he was there, Josephina’s real father, then things would be OK. She would calm down. Enjoy the changes her life was going through.
But.
It felt like every time she looked at Josephina she was reminded of what happened. Of the real, dark world, not this sunny, colourful one before her. She saw not a baby but a living slab of guilt.
And that was it. She felt like she could never relax, never enjoy the life she ought to be having with her partner and daughter the way she should be. The way all the other mothers around her in the park seemed to be doing.
Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were just pretending, putting on a public face. Maybe they were shrivelled with terror inside.
She looked round. No. They didn’t seem to be. The mothers around her seemed to be as happy as their children in the play area. She looked down at Josephina. The baby was lying asleep, arms up as if in surrender, tiny fists at the sides of her head. Completely unaware of this world – or any world – and anything in it.
And Marina felt another layer of guilt. For the baby. She should be happy, enjoying herself for Josephina’s sake. She was with the man she loved, Phil, the baby’s real father. She tried to imagine what it would have been like the other way round, what she would have felt if they hadn’t all been together. But that didn’t work.
So she tried to wish herself happy. Tried. And failed.
Marina pushed the baby buggy backwards and forwards. Josephina stirred slightly, kept on sleeping. She had tried to talk to the other mothers in the park but they seemed to have their own circles of friends. None of her old friends from teaching had small children so she couldn’t talk to them. And she couldn’t talk to Phil either, no matter how much she loved him.
Sitting there in the sunshine, with children playing all around her, the flowers in bloom and what she usually regarded as the comforting presence of the castle, she felt alone. Completely alone.
Her phone rang. She jumped. Her first response was to check the baby, see if it had woken her, if she was upset in any way. But Josephina just kept on sleeping. Good. Relieved, she checked the display, answered it. She knew who it was.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Hey yourself.’
Phil.
Then couldn’t think of anything more to say to him.
‘You OK?’ he said.
‘Fine. Just in Castle Park. Pushing Josephina. Letting her see the sunshine.’ She bit her lip.
‘Wish I was with you.’ He gave a small, brittle laugh that died away. ‘You’ve probably heard on the news, there’s been a murder.’
She hadn’t heard. She was barely aware of anything or anyone but herself at the moment. Still, the old, dark familiar shiver ran through her. ‘So that means…’
‘I’ll be late.’ He sighed. ‘Sorry. You know… you know what it’s like.’
That shiver again. ‘Yes. I know what it’s like. Is it…’ she said, knowing she should say something. ‘… is it bad?’
‘Like there are good ones?’ An old phrase he always used. ‘Yeah. Worse than… yeah.’ There were some other voices on the line, the sound of Phil covering the mouthpiece to talk to them. ‘Look,’ he said, coming back to her, ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, OK? Let you know what’s happening.’
‘OK.’
She rang off, looked at the phone. Only then realising he had still been talking to her, telling her he loved her.
She stood up. Looked around, saw nothing to keep her in the park, her vacation over. Started walking. She reached the top of the hill, the main road. Looked down the hill towards East Hill, upwards towards the town centre. Set off walking.
It was only when she found herself down by the bridge over the River Colne then she realised she had no idea where she had been or where she was going.
Suzanne stood with her back against her front door, wondering when she would ever feel safe again, hoping the locks and chains would be enough to keep out any intruder.
She could still feel the ghost of the cold metal inside her. See the screw-top pots with her different bodily fluids and samples taken on cotton buds all in a line. And Doctor Winter checking her notes, looking her in the eye:
‘You haven’t been raped.’
There would be more tests, but that was the conclusion.
Suzanne should have felt relieved. But…
Before her was the phone table. Her landline handset lying across her hard-back address book. Had she left it that way? At that angle? Down the hall she could see into her bedroom, see the duvet pulled back, the open curtains, the raised, wooden blind…
‘Oh God…’
She sank to the floor, her back against the front door, covered her face with her hands. Tears came. Great, wracking sobs. She pulled her hands in tighter, her fingernails digging into her skin.
‘No… no…’
Her legs kicked out, impotent with rage and frustration. Felt herself caving in to the emotion, being weakened by it like acid eating away at her, destroying her from the inside… Then she opened her eyes. Willed the tears to stop.
‘No…’ Shouting. ‘No… you’re not going to win… No…’
Suzanne felt something rise within her. Hot. Fiery. Angry. She stood up.
‘No, no, you bastard…’
She looked around the hallway for something – anything – to hold. Saw the phone. Picked it up. ‘You hear me?’ Turning round on the spot, shouting at the walls. ‘You’re not… going to… fucking… win…’
She hurled the phone as hard as she could. It hit the far wall, fell to the floor.
She stared at it, sighed. Light-headed but the emotion subsiding, breathing like she had just run a marathon. Or run for her life.
And she hadn’t mentioned Anthony. Surely they would find out soon enough. They had records, they would check them. And then they would think she was lying. Making it up for whatever reason, to get attention.
Well, she wasn’t lying. Wasn’t making it up. And if the bastards thought that…
She wiped the tears away, her cheeks burning. Sat back on the floor.
The photo of her lying semi-naked would now be in some forensic lab. She could just imagine it being passed round by strangers, objectified like some porn image. Being commented on, judged, rated. It felt like a second violation. She tried to tell herself that they were professionals, that it was only a piece of evidence from which clues could be removed. But she wasn’t convinced. She began to tremble, from anger or pity she didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.
She breathed deeply, tried to focus. Concentrate. Her fingers picking at the plaster in the crook of her arm where she had given a blood sample. She looked down the hall again, into the rooms. Everything that she had built up, the place she regarded as safe, had been violated. No other word for it. Burglary victims talked of the same thing, but this, thought Suzanne, was something more. Something deeper and crueller. A kind of rape.
‘Bastard…’ Her jaw ached. She was grinding her teeth.
Then the doorbell sounded.
And Suzanne screamed.
Anni Hepburn lifted the phone, keyed in a number, waited. It was answered.
‘DS Gosling.’
‘Jane? It’s Anni. You busy?’
‘Doing door-to-door. You going to be long?’ Door-to-door. The Birdies were working with Phil, of course they were. Well, good luck to them. And him.
A shudder of guilt ran through her. No. Bitterness wasn’t healthy. She should ignore it. But it had been happening more and more since Clayton’s death. The team had been shaken after that and, she told herself, they all had different ways of coping. As Phil had told her, grieve all you like, but get on with the job.
And she would. Just as far away from Phil as possible.
Anni leaned back at her desk, the phone cradled in the crook of her neck. ‘This won’t take long, Jane, thanks. Just a case you once worked on. See if you can remember it.’
‘I’ll try.’
Anni had left Suzanne in the rape suite of Southway station, come into the office to do a bit of checking. She had run Suzanne Perry’s name through the computer and was surprised to find a hit. She had come to their attention before. She had checked the case notes.
Two years previously Suzanne had been a student at Essex University on a post-graduate course in speech therapy. She claimed that one of her tutors, Anthony Howe, had offered her a first in exchange for sex. She had turned him down and reported him for sexual harassment. It came down to her word against his and, with no evidence to back up the claim, it was dismissed.
But that wasn’t the end of it. Anthony Howe, Suzanne said, began stalking her. Standing outside her flat at night, sending her obscene texts, leaving messages on the phone or just not speaking at all. Her claims were investigated. No further action taken.
Strange, thought Anni. Why no further action? She had picked up the phone.
‘Suzanne Perry,’ said Anni into the phone. ‘University student, couple of years back. You were the investigating officer. Ring any bells?’
‘Not offhand.’ Anni could hear traffic, voices in the background. Jane Gosling wasn’t giving her full attention. She would have to help her.
Anni filled her in on what the file said. The harassment claim, the stalking. ‘Any clearer?’
‘Student…’ said Jane. ‘Flat on Maldon Road?’
‘That’s her. Teacher was stalking her. Anthony Howe.’
‘Right. Except he wasn’t.’
Anni leaned forward, interested now. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Let me just…’ Another pause while she brought up the memory. ‘Phone calls, wasn’t it? Texts?’
‘What it says here.’
‘Only there weren’t any. We checked her landline. No messages. Her mobile. No texts. Said she’d deleted them. Made her feel violated. Same with her answerphone. This teacher said she’d been nothing but trouble the whole course, looked like she was going to fail, made the whole thing up to get a higher mark. He was furious, going to sue her for defamation of character, if she kept going. And that was that. We heard no more.’
‘You reckon she was making it up?’
‘Probably. I thought it was just a bit of a fling that went wrong and she was trying to get revenge.’
‘Did she mention a boyfriend? Mark Turner?’
Jane Gosling gave a laugh of irritation. ‘Two years ago, Anni. Can barely remember what I had for dinner last night.’
They both laughed.
‘She back in the news, then?’ said Jane.
‘Another stalker. Inside the flat this time.’
Jane’s turn to laugh. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Another? What was it Oscar Wilde sort of said? To get one stalker is a misfortune. To get two is just carelessness.’
Anni laughed. ‘Oscar Wilde?’
‘Amateur dramatics. I was a very good Miss Prism. Got all the laughs.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Look, I’d better go. Listen, get your paperwork done and get down here. We could use a bit of help.’
‘I’ll see.’
They made their goodbyes, Anni rang off. She sat back once more, considering her options. Polish off the paperwork of what looked like a fantasist wasting police time and go join Phil, or investigate Suzanne Perry’s claims thoroughly.
She checked her notes, moved her fingers over the keyboard.
Looked for Anthony Howe’s contact details.
Phil felt like a ghost hunter.
Julie Miller’s flat held a kind of terminal emptiness, a sense of a life interrupted, never to be finished. Sadness and loss hung heavier in the air than dust.
This was one of the things he hated most about the job. He could face down a knife-wielding drunk or tackle a two-fisted husband using his wife for target practice, no problem. He could hold his own in court against some defence barrister trying to provoke him and belittle him. He could even write up a whole barrage of arse-covering reports and attend box-ticking diversity training sessions. But to stand in the ruins of someone’s life and be expected to make sense of their absence just depressed him to the core. And left him with no answers.
Phil closed his eyes, blinked the thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him to find out what had happened, to catch Julie Miller’s killer. To do his job.
‘So Julie Miller went missing a week past Thursday,’ he said.
‘Reported missing a week last Thursday,’ said Rose Martin. ‘By her mother. Lives in Stanway. Julie hadn’t been at work the day before. Missed some appointments. Parents were down as contacts. Work called them, asked if she was ill. No reply. Quick call, and there we were.’
‘And everything was checked? The doors, the windows-’
‘Yes.’ Exasperation in her voice. ‘CCTV. Door-to-door. Statements taken from neighbours. I am a professional, you know.’
Phil reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I have to check.’
Rose nodded. Waited a few seconds before speaking. ‘I know. We couldn’t understand it either. It was like she had just… vanished.’
Phil looked all round the room as if the walls would answer him. ‘And no one saw her?’
‘No one.’
‘Upstairs? Downstairs? Heard nothing?’
‘Downstairs said they heard nothing. Concierge says upstairs are away on holiday.’
He sighed. ‘Let’s look round. See if anything stands out.’
They were in the living room. Phil tried not to acknowledge the cruel irony in that. It was sparsely furnished, what furniture there was chosen as if not to upset the bland, beige colour scheme on the walls and ceiling. A sofa in a darker shade of beige had a brightly coloured throw over it. A multicoloured rug covered the fitted beige carpet. A small, flatscreen TV and DVD recorder was on a glass stand against one wall, a small hi-fi unit with a docked iPod next to it. A blond wood bookcase stood in the corner of the room, the shelves mostly empty of books and ornaments, as if a life was just being acquired and collected.
The heavy-handed remains of a police presence also contributed to a sense of a life interrupted. Windowsills and door frames held residues of silver, black and white powder where prints had been lifted. Furniture and possessions had clearly been moved and not returned properly to their original positions. Drawn curtains added to the gloom.
‘Check the shelves,’ said Phil. ‘See if there’s a diary, anything like that. A photo album, anything.’
‘We did that,’ said Rose.
‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘But you were looking for a misper. I’m looking for a killer. And open those curtains, let some light in here.’
Phil went into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy for the most part. A single mug stood on the draining board, coffee stained dry inside it. He checked the dishwasher. A small number of dirty dishes in it, ready to be washed.
He went looking for other rooms. Found the bedroom. Bedrooms, in cases like this, were even worse for Phil than living rooms. Living rooms were for show. There were no secrets in bedrooms. No hiding.
He looked round. It was hard to tell whether it had been left in a mess by Julie Miller or by the investigators. The bed was unmade. Underwear and jeans were piled at the bottom. A pair of trainers that looked liked they had been kicked off. Drawers pulled open, their contents spilling out.
Phil looked at the bedside cabinet. A Jodi Picoult novel lay there, the bookmark about a third of the way in. He opened the bedside cabinet door. Another couple of books, some prescription blister packs of contraceptive pills. Nothing else.
He knelt down, looked under the bed. Saw something silhouetted against the light on the other side. He stretched his arm in, made contact, pulled it out. A laptop wearing a thin coat of dust. Phil took it out, opened it, booted it up.
‘You missed this,’ he called out.
Rose Martin entered the bedroom, stopped when she saw what he had. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘Under the bed. Right under the bed, mind.’
Rose nodded, her features tight. ‘As you say, we were looking for a missing person. Whoever searched this room wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to fit under there.’
Phil, eyes on the laptop, didn’t rise to her words. He just hoped it wouldn’t be password protected. It wasn’t. Desktop wallpaper appeared, a shaggy-haired dog, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.
‘What about the boyfriend?’
‘Clean. And, believe me, we looked at him from every angle.’
His fingers moved over the keys, searching for anything that would give him a clue as to Julie Miller’s life. He established Wi-Fi connection, clicked on Facebook. Julie Miller’s homepage appeared. In the corner was a photo of a dark-haired woman in her twenties, lying on a bed, her hand in her hair, smiling shyly for the camera, her mouth open as if she was in mid-sentence to the photographer. The photo looked both innocent and intimate at the same time.
‘That her?’
Rose sat down next to him. ‘From the other photos I’ve seen, yes. Do you agree with me that it’s her down there?’
Phil tried to imagine the smiling, pretty face before him superimposed on to the body on the boat. It was depressingly easy to match the two. ‘I… it’s looking that way.’ He kept looking at the photo. ‘Why did she put this one on? Out of all of them she could pick, why this one?’
Rose looked at it too. ‘Because it’s flattering, a good likeness… Maybe her boyfriend liked it.’
‘Maybe.’
He sighed, kept looking through the Facebook profile. She had her place of work as Colchester General Hospital, her schooling as the local secondary in Stanway, her university as Essex in Colchester. She hadn’t moved far away from home.
She didn’t have an enormous number of friends, which was good news for the officers who would have to trawl through them, but there were enough. He started to look through them but didn’t get far.
‘Phil?’
He hadn’t noticed Rose get up and move away. Her voice came from the living room. He got up, followed her. She was standing by the window, the drawn curtains slightly parted, looking downwards.
‘I was right,’ she said. ‘Look.’
Phil looked. Down below them was the River Colne. And the lightship.
He looked at her. ‘Coincidence?’
‘No such thing,’ she said. ‘Not in cases like this.’
Phil looked at his new junior officer. Saw only sadness and concern in her eyes. And a copper’s hunger for answers. Good, thought Phil. The right stuff. Then looked again out of the window.
The white tent had been erected on the boat, a temporary barrier placed along the road. A small crowd of print journalists, photographers and TV cameras had gathered behind the barrier and Detective Chief Inspector Ben Fenwick was still down there giving an address. Or practising his clichés, thought Phil.
‘There he is,’ said Phil. ‘King Cliché rides again.’
Without looking at her, Phil felt Rose bridle and stiffen beside him. He had said that deliberately to see what her reaction would be. He knew now. She was sleeping with his boss. And no doubt telling him everything he said. Phil would have to watch himself. Or make sure he only said things he wanted to get back to Fenwick.
Phil sighed. ‘Time to pay the parents a visit, I think.’
‘We don’t know for definite it’s her, do we? Shouldn’t we wait?’
Phil gestured to the crowd of reporters below them. ‘And let one of them do it instead? I think we should at least talk to them.’
Rose nodded.
They would move in a moment. But for now they just stood there. The room still and tomb-like behind them.
The bell rang again.
Suzanne stayed where she was, slumped against the front door.
Was it him? Back again? Had he hidden himself outside, waiting for the police to leave, to see Suzanne return alone? Was it?
The doorbell rang again.
Suzanne stared at the door, at the chains across, at the lock. Hoped it would be strong enough. She reached out a hand to open it, pulled it back. Just stared at it.
‘Leave me alone… leave me alone…’
The angry resolve of a few moments ago was dissipating. Panic was again threatening to overwhelm her. Her heart began pumping like sports car pistons, pounding the blood round her body. She stretched out her hand.
Her third-floor flat in the old Edwardian house had no entry phone or intercom system. If someone rang, they had to be let in manually. Down three flights of stairs to the front of the house.
No. Opening the door was one thing. Going down all those stairs – alone – was another. So she stayed where she was. Waited.
The bell didn’t sound again.
They had gone, left her in peace. Suzanne sighed.
Then her phone rang.
She jumped again. Looked around. The handset lay on the floor, the plastic and metal flashing and bleating.
‘No, just… just fuck off…’
It kept ringing, an insistent, piercing, metallic clang. She stayed where she was, eyes screwed tight shut. Wanting it to end, wanting to be somewhere – anywhere – else.
The phone kept ringing.
Until the answerphone kicked in, her voice telling the caller to leave a message, then the tone.
Then: ‘Hey, Suzanne, it’s me. I’m outside now, you-’
Zoe. Her best friend. She got to her knees, made her way into the living room, grabbed the phone.
‘Zoe?’ She was breathing heavily, like the last few minutes had given her an hour’s worth of gym workout.
‘You OK? What’s the matter?’
‘Oh… oh…’ Struggling to get her breath.
Zoe’s voice was full of concern. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s started again, Zoe, it’s started again…’
Suzanne stared into her coffee mug. It was one of her favourites, an Indian design in various swirling shades of turquoise, bought from The Pier before the shop crashed and disappeared.
Before her life did the same.
‘C’mon, then.’ Zoe sat in the same place Anni Hepburn had occupied earlier. She placed her mug on a side table and stray strands of perfectly coloured blonde hair fell, as if by design, around her face, framing her pretty features. Zoe seemed to find the business of looking beautiful effortless. It made Suzanne feel even worse.
‘You told me to come over. I’ve had to throw a sicky so tell all.’
Suzanne sighed, held the mug in front of her once more like a shield, told her everything.
‘So…’ Her account didn’t actually conclude, she just seemed to lose the energy to make words. ‘That’s, that’s it…’
Zoe stared at Suzanne, eyes wide, lips parted. Even her look of horror seemed perfect. Suzanne felt suddenly tired once more.
‘God, Suzanne, that’s, that’s really horrible…’
Suzanne closed her eyes, said nothing. She knew that already.
Zoe leaned forward. ‘Was it…’
Suzanne opened her eyes again. ‘Couldn’t have been. I… No.’ She sighed. ‘No.’ Her head dropped. ‘No.’
Zoe leaned back, said nothing.
Suzanne looked up. ‘Why would it be him? Why now?’ Emotion was building inside her once more. ‘Why?’
‘It can’t be him, not Anthony… ’
‘You weren’t there, Zoe. You didn’t see the photo, you didn’t have the dream.’ Her mind slipped back to the previous night. ‘The dream, oh God, Zoe…’
‘Suzanne.’ Zoe’s eyes locked on to Suzanne’s. Clear and bright and blue, not like Suzanne’s muddy-brown ones. Her hands reached out, took Suzanne’s.
‘You being a therapist, now?’ Suzanne’s smile was as weak as her voice.
‘Bringing my work home with me,’ said Zoe. ‘Now take a deep breath. Be calm. It can’t be Anthony. You know that.’
Suzanne said nothing, just concentrated on breathing, waited for Zoe to continue.
‘What happened with Anthony, Suzanne… that’s all done with.’
Suzanne said nothing, kept her eyes averted from her friend.
Zoe tried to make eye contact, frowned. ‘Suzanne, it is finished, isn’t it?’
Suzanne said nothing.
Zoe sat back, dropped Suzanne’s hands. ‘Oh, you’re not. Suzanne, tell me you’re not…’
Suzanne looked up. ‘No. I’m not.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes,’ Suzanne said, looking at the carpet. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Good.’ Zoe smiled. ‘Well, you needn’t worry. I’ll stay tonight.’
Suzanne looked up. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Why not? You can’t stay on your own. I’ll be with you. We can go to work together tomorrow. You are going in tomorrow? ’
‘Well, yes, I hope so, but…’ Suzanne tried to find some objection. This was typical of Zoe. Good-looking and good-hearted. Sometimes she didn’t feel worthy of her friendship. ‘What about Russell? He’ll-’
‘-be fine for a couple of days. He can cope.’ Zoe smiled.
‘Might give him a chance to miss me. Appreciate me all the more when I go home.’
‘But-’ Suzanne felt tears well within once more.
‘Stop it. None of that.’ Zoe stood up. ‘I’ll just nip home and get a few things. Will you be OK on your own for an hour or so or d’you want to come with me?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Lock the door after me.’
Suzanne did so, triple-checking the locks. Then walked back into the living room, sat down. Her coffee was cold. She looked round for something to do, something to distract her. Take her mind off things until Zoe returned. Saw the phone.
No.
No. She shouldn’t.
She knew what she was going to do. Who she was going to call. No.
She picked it up. Put it on the table.
Kept looking at it.
No.
Picked it up again. Her hand a claw, holding the receiver like an eagle would its prey.
Dialled a number she knew by heart. A number she had never forgotten.
Anni Hepburn stared at the painting on the wall and wondered what to make of it and also the person who owned it.
It took centre stage in a very small, cramped office, a narrow, shelf-lined room that could have doubled as a store cupboard or a corridor to nowhere. The shelves were full of books: textbooks, novels, old, new, with no particular order to them that she could work out. Shoved in around the books were magazines, folders, papers. A few ornaments and nicknacks sat on what space there was. Small and disparate, things that probably had a story or at least a joke behind them when first placed there, but were now dust-heavy and sun-faded. Opposite the shelves a desk dominated the rest of the room. A computer in the centre surrounded by a mini cityscape of piles of books. Around the painting on the wall was a timetable, a wall planner, a few postcards, a couple of yellowed cartoon strips cut from newspapers. But it was the painting that drew the eye. Anni was sure that was the intention.
Mounted in an elaborate, yet old and chipped gold frame, it showed a man, tall, young and handsome, head back, chin up, standing in some marbled hall, his hands grasping the lapels of his jacket, gazing out with, on first viewing, a look of untouchable arrogance and haughtiness that bordered on contempt. On closer viewing, however, it showed the skill of the painter. The arrogance that informed the handsome features never reached the eyes. They held a mirth, a mockery, saying that the whole thing was a sham and that the man was going to burst out laughing at any moment.
A smaller piece of artwork was pinned up next to the painting. Superman, all massive chest, huge arms and tiny underpants, was soaring above the Earth, an American flag fluttering behind him.
The man has a serious ego problem, thought Anni.
She sat in a gap between the desk and the doorway in a chair, ancient and wooden, dark and worn, with a tired tapestry cushion on the seat. It seemed to be at odds with the rest of the room, more like something found by the fire in an old, wood-beamed pub rather than in a functional 1960s office, all breeze-block walls and cast-iron windows, of a university professor.
The subject of the painting was now sitting in front of Anni, at the book-covered desk, and he was no superman. His appearance showed, even more than the damaged frame, the dust collected on it or the fading of the oils, just how long ago it had been painted. He was still tall, but the black hair was largely grey and thinning slightly at the temples. The arrogant, haughty set of his features had deepened to become a set of permanent lines, like a mask worn for so long and so often it had become the wearer’s real face. The eyes, though, were what had changed the most. Rather than the self-mocking dancing in the painting, they just showed a weariness. And, once Anni had announced who she was, a wariness.
‘You’re lucky to catch me,’ he said. ‘I was about to go home.’
She smiled. ‘So, Professor-’
‘Just Anthony, please,’ he said, offering a tentative smile. ‘No need for formality.’
‘Right.’
Professor Anthony Howe had been easy to track down. Anni had made one phone call to the university to find him in his office. He had finished teaching for the day and was catching up on his marking. He would be in for a few hours, he said, if she wanted to drop by, but what was it concerning? Once she mentioned Suzanne Perry’s name, however, he hurriedly said he had to leave for home. When she suggested she meet him there he claimed to be on his way to a pressing engagement. No problem, she would catch him in the morning. But she would talk to him. It was important.
And he had sighed and, realising she was going nowhere and that it would be best to get it over with as soon as possible, had relented. So there she was.
‘I must say,’ he said, still working on his smile, ‘you’re not what I was expecting.’
‘Really.’ Anni raised an eyebrow. Almost stifled a yawn. ‘Because I’m black?’
He nodded, then realised what Anni must have been thinking. ‘Oh no, not because you’re… because of that. No. Just… when I spoke to you on the phone I got quite a different impression of you.’
‘In what way?’
He tried for a smile. ‘You sounded like a police officer. Now, sitting here, you could pass for a student. That’s all.’
Anni thought of what had happened with Suzanne Perry and was glad she wasn’t. She smiled politely.
He returned it.
He was trying, she thought. To be polite, to be at ease. But he hadn’t offered her tea.
‘Nice painting, by the way.’
The smile became slightly more genuine. ‘Thank you. I like it, something a bit different. Got used to it, really. Forget it’s there until someone points it out to me.’
‘Must have cost a bit to have done.’
A small laugh. ‘Had a friend, aspiring artist. She wanted subjects, models. Cost me nothing.’ He couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. ‘But…’ He waved his hand as if dismissing it. ‘All in the past. A long time ago.’
Anni kept her attention on the wall. She pointed at Superman. ‘What about the guy next to him?’
‘Oh. Him.’ He smiled again, and this time he looked like a university teacher about to address a class. ‘What do you think he sounds like?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Superman. His voice. What do you think he sounds like? Timid? Shy? Does he stutter?’
‘I doubt it,’ Anni said, wondering where this was leading, ‘Authoritative. In command. That kind of thing. American.’
He nodded. ‘And Clark Kent?’
‘What?’
‘His alter ego. Clark Kent. How does he talk?’
‘Erm…’ Anni had never given the matter much thought. ‘Like… a normal bloke?’
Anthony Howe nodded, as if she had just confirmed a thesis he had personally created. ‘Exactly. If he spoke like Superman he would never fit in, would he? Not at the Daily Planet. Not bumbling, mild-mannered Clark Kent, would he?’
‘No.’
Anthony Howe sat back, folded his arms. Thesis proven. ‘We change. We don’t have just one voice. We have several. Depending where we are, who we’re talking to at the time, how we want to be seen, to come across. Different voices for different situations.’ A smug smile. ‘One of the first things I teach my students. If you’re going to be a speech therapist, find out which voice – which persona – the patient needs to use most.’
She couldn’t resist the next line. His arrogant statement set him up for it.
‘And which persona did you use with Suzanne Perry?’
His expression – his demeanour – changed. The set of his mouth hardened. His eyes narrowed, were lit by a dark, ugly light. He moved his body towards her.
And in that moment, Anni wasn’t so ready to believe that Suzanne had been making it all up.
The death knock. The bit Phil hated most.
It made him think of his own parents, Don and Eileen. What it would be like if one of his colleagues turned up on their doorstep with news of him. And now, of course, there was Marina. And their daughter Josephina.
Everything had changed when she was born. He had been there at the birth, holding Marina’s hand as she screamed the baby out. Afterwards, he kept trying to understand the conflicting emotions he had gone through. It was a polarising experience. On the one hand there was his child, his daughter, coming into the world. Joyful, yes, but also terrifying. Another life. A huge responsibility. And there was Marina. Screaming out, her body twisted with pain. And the blood… he hadn’t expected there to be so much blood. It came gushing out of her, the weight of it pooling in the sheet underneath her. He had hated to see her suffering, and also hated the fact that he was helpless to do anything about it. But then there was the baby… And she more than made up for it.
But it was the responsibility that hit him most. A parent. A father. He had noticed himself do different things. Not take chances at red lights. Drive more carefully. Look both ways before crossing the road. Cut down his alcohol and takeaway food intake. Start running again. Because it wasn’t just him any more, or him and Marina. It was their daughter, and he had to be there for her. Because if something happened to him or Marina, Josephina might end up having the kind of upbringing he had. And he didn’t wish that on anyone.
Phil stood on the doorstep, hesitated. Rose Martin was beside him, along with Cheryl Bland, the Family Liaison Officer. She was a small, blonde woman, mid- to late twenties, Phil guessed, but difficult to place with any accuracy as she looked even younger. Soft eyes. Phil imagined that was a bonus in her area of work.
His Audi was parked in the gravel driveway. The house was detached, the plasterwork decorative, all fleur-de-lis and faux-heraldic roses. Pots of flowers lined the drive like herbaceous sentries. Twin potted bay trees flanked the heavy wooden front door.
‘What can we expect, then?’ he asked Cheryl.
‘They’re a nice couple. Decent. He might get a bit angry, wanting action, she’ll talk. About Julie.’
Phil nodded. Thought once more of Eileen and Don. ‘Any brothers or sisters?’
‘One brother. Works out in the Middle East. Supertankers, something like that.’ Cheryl smiled. ‘She did tell me.’
‘And their names?’
‘Colin and Brenda.’
Phil thanked her, rang the bell. Waited.
A woman opened it, middle-aged and in good shape, but tired looking. She looked at Phil, then Rose, hope rising in her eyes. Then she saw Cheryl Bland and the hope died.
‘Mrs Miller?’ Phil said. ‘Brenda?’
She nodded. Her mouth moved but no words emerged.
‘Can we come in?’
‘What’s happened? What have you got to tell me?’ She clung on to the edge of the door, her knuckles white.
‘I think it’s better if we come in.’ Cheryl moved forward, placed her hand on Brenda Miller’s arm.
She jerked the door backwards, stood aside, her breathing increasing.
They went in, Phil and Rose first, to the living room. Cheryl Bland, her hand still on Brenda Miller’s arm, steered her to the sofa. Cheryl sat, Brenda refused, staying standing. She looked at Rose and Phil as if only registering them now.
‘Who…’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Brennan and this is Detective Sergeant Martin.’
‘I know you,’ Brenda said. ‘You’re the one who was in charge of the…’ Her mouth hung open. ‘Oh God… you’ve… oh God…’
The three police officers shared a look between each other. Phil nodded. He would take it.
‘Mrs Miller… Brenda… I’ve got something to tell you.’
Brenda Miller’s breathing increased, her chest rising and falling, her hand to her neck.
‘We’ve discovered a body.’
‘Oh God… oh God…’
‘We can’t say for certain at this stage that it is Julie, however we strongly suspect it may be.’
But Brenda Miller wasn’t listening.
Because, like her world, she had collapsed.
‘Well,that went as well as expected.’
Rose Martin was sitting on the Millers’ front doorstep, a Silk Cut clamped between her lips. She was drawing the smoke down deep, as if reinflating her lungs after giving the kiss of life.
Phil closed the front door behind him, sat down next to her.
Brenda Miller had been helped to the sofa and brought round. Cheryl Bland had made tea and Phil, as tactfully as possible, had told her what had happened. She had sat there blank-faced, her mouth slightly open, as if punch-drunk from a twelve-round heavyweight fight.
Rose drew in more smoke, put her head back, let it out in a huge, grey fountain, an artificial cloud against the blue sky. She turned to Phil.
‘It was a good investigation.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘We did everything we could.’ There was a hardness in her eyes, almost an anger.
‘I’m sure you did.’
‘We had no leads. None at all. It was, literally, like she had vanished. We tried everything. We…’ She stubbed the cigarette out on the gravel, so hard the filter snapped off.
‘We’ll reinterview,’ said Phil. ‘Old boyfriends, work colleagues, family. Everyone. Go back to the beginning.’
She was nodding, not hearing his words, just waiting for him to finish so she could start speaking. ‘Back to the beginning. Start again. So that’s it, is it? You come in and take it away from me.’
‘That’s not the way it works. You know that.’ Phil’s voice calm and even, trying to talk down her anger.
‘MIS comes in and we just roll over. And you glory boys get your collar and make us ordinary CID plods look like brainless shits.’
Phil managed not to rise to her words. He knew she was upset and angry and looking for someone to lash out at. ‘You’re part of the team. We need you here. I need you here.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’t you take a couple of hours off? Get your head together. Because you’re no use to me like this. And you’re no use to Julie Miller either.’
Rose didn’t get the chance to answer as two men came hurrying round the corner, up the drive. One of them trailing behind the other, weighed down by camera equipment.
‘Shit,’ said Phil, standing up.
Rose joined him. ‘You know them?’
‘Dave Terry and Adrian Macintyre. Freelancers. Both obnoxious twats.’
Rose smiled. ‘Is that your professional opinion?’
‘On every level. They’re local but they sell to the nationals. Trying to beat the competition to it. Wondered who’d be the first to work out where we were. Come on.’
Phil stepped in front of the two journalists, stopping their progress. The one with the camera, Adrian Macintyre, tried to dodge round him. Rose grabbed him.
‘Whoa there,’ she said.
‘Look, we’re just doing our jobs,’ said Dave Terry. ‘We’ve got as much right to be here as you two.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Phil. ‘We haven’t confirmed that the body is Julie Miller so the last thing the family needs is you two pestering them. There’s no story here.’
‘Yeah?’ said Terry, a snide grin appearing on his face, ‘then what are you two doin’ here?’
‘Stopping people like you harassing innocent citizens,’ said Rose. ‘Now back off.’
‘Sorry, darlin’.’ Macintyre slipped Rose’s grasp and was round her.
‘Hey…’ She turned, gave chase up the drive, grabbed him easily. She turned him to face her.
‘Get your hands off me or I’ll do you for assault…’ He slid the camera bag from his arm, struggled to free himself. His face twisted with anger.
‘Want to get arrested? Yeah?’ Rose’s voice was rising.
‘Get your fuckin’ hands off me!’ Camera down, his fists were raised to reply.
‘Rose…’ Phil turned, made to go to her, but didn’t get that far.
From out of her pocket she produced a small canister and sprayed it in Macintyre’s face. His hands went immediately to his eyes and he fell to his knees, screaming.
Phil stared. She looked at him, anger still dancing in her eyes. ‘You saw what happened,’ she shouted. ‘He assaulted me. I was within my limits and defending myself. Right?’
Terry was standing open-mouthed. A smile crept over his features, his eyes still glassy. Phil could see the journalist’s mind working. Terry knew as well as Phil that DS Rose Martin had been not only out of order but also out of control. And that meant money.
Phil had to take action. He couldn’t give Rose a bollocking in front of the two journalists but he couldn’t let them get away to tell what had happened. He turned to Terry. ‘There’s no story here, right?’
Terry looked at him as if he was breaking a spell.
‘Right?’
He gave an ugly laugh. ‘Really? You don’t think so?’
Phil’s eyes hardened, his body language became tense, threatening. ‘At the moment your little mate is looking at assaulting a police officer and trespassing. What about you? Want to join him?’
‘There was only one person doing any assaulting here.’ Terry’s eyes were lit by a nasty light. He had found an even better story. ‘That’s how it’s going to read.’
Phil sighed. ‘I’m warning you…’
Terry laughed. ‘What you gonna do, Officer? Hit me as well?’
Phil sighed. ‘Here we go…’ He grabbed hold of Terry, turning him round and thrusting his arm up his back, reading him his rights as he did so.
Terry cried out in pain. ‘What… what you doin’?’
‘Arresting you.’ He turned to Rose. ‘Get the other one.’
She didn’t need to be told. Macintyre had slipped to his knees, hands rubbing his eyes and whimpering, kicking out his legs in pain. She roughly pulled his hands behind him, cuffed him.
They had the two journalists in armlocks and were preparing to take them to Phil’s Audi when the front door opened. Brenda Miller stood there, Cheryl Bland behind her.
‘What… what’s happening?’ she said, her voice distant and small as if trying to wake from a stubborn dream.
‘Journalists,’ said Rose Martin. ‘Trying to make your life hell. We stopped them.’ She couldn’t keep the triumph from her voice.
‘My life is already hell…’ the words screamed, her voice cresting before breaking down into sobs. Cheryl Bland put her arm around her, led her away from the door.
But not before she had fixed Phil with a look that spoke of pain and disappointment. At everything and everyone. At him.
He didn’t blame her. Pushing Terry inside the back of the Audi he felt the same way himself.
He got behind the steering wheel, started the car. Rose got into the passenger seat, eyes blazing with righteous anger. She was smiling. There was no sense of victory inside Phil. Only a hollowness.
Not trusting himself to speak, Phil drove to the station in silence. He put a CD into the player, wanting something to fill the empty space.
Doves: Lost Souls.
It felt appropriate.
There was a knock at the door.
The tension was broken. Anthony Howe straightened up, looked at the door, frowning as if emerging from sleep. His features changed, his eyes no longer darkly lit.
‘Come in,’ he called.
The door opened. A young man, dark-haired, tall, dressed in regulation student-issue jeans and sloganed T-shirt, stood there. He was about to speak but saw Anni sitting there, stopped.
‘Yes, Jake,’ Anthony Howe said.
The student looked between the two of them, uneasily. ‘Um… we had a meeting?’
‘Did we? Thought I was…’ Howe looked at his watch. ‘Right. Sorry. Just a few more minutes. Not be long.’
Jake pointed towards the corridor. ‘Shall I…’
‘Please.’
He left, closing the door behind him. The silence in the room was like the inside of a human heart; Anni could hear, feel, the blood rushing round her body.
‘Right,’ said Howe, finding a pen on his desk suddenly fascinating enough to lift up and toy with in his fingers, ‘you mentioned Suzanne Perry?’ His voice had changed. Softer, reasoned. Back in control.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Why? That subject, as far as I’m concerned, is closed.’
‘Perhaps.’ Anni crossed her legs, looked down at her notepad, pen poised over the page. ‘Can I just ask you where you were last night?’
‘I was-’ He pulled his eyes off the pen, back to her. ‘Can I ask why you need to know that?’
‘If you could just answer the question, please.’
He sighed. Anni watched his eyes. He seemed to be deciding how best to answer the question, what tone to take, what information to give. ‘I… was at home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘You live alone?’
‘I… we’re separated. My wife and I.’
‘And there was no one with you?’
‘Please tell me what this is concerning.’
His voice was rising. Anni kept hers steady, her gaze level.
‘In a moment. If you could just answer the question, please.’
‘As I said, I was at home.’
‘And what did you do there?’
‘I… made dinner. Then I read for a while. Watched some TV.’
‘What did you watch?’
He looked startled by the question. ‘Why do you need to know that? Are you making, making some kind of value judgements about me?’
‘No. I just wanted to know what you watched.’
‘A soap opera. Coronation Street. Then…’ He put his head back, thinking. Or, thought Anni, pretending to think. ‘I don’t know. Something on BBC4. A documentary.’
‘About what?’
‘Byzantine art.’
‘That something you’re interested in?’
‘Not particularly. It was on and I, I… can you tell me what this is about, please?’
‘And what did you do after that?’
‘Had a whisky. Went to bed. What I normally do.’
‘And that was it for the night?’
He nodded. Anni didn’t reply.
‘Am I supposed to have done something? Does this involve Suzanne?’
The dark fire returned to his eyes when he mentioned her name. Dark. Nasty, Anni would have said.
‘It does,’ she said. ‘Suzanne Perry was attacked last night.’
He recoiled, as if the news had hit him in a physical way.
‘Attacked… where?’
‘In her flat.’
‘How?’
‘Someone came in while she was sleeping, into her bedroom. ’
‘My God…’ He looked again at the pen, thought of picking it up once more, then decided against it. ‘Did he… what happened?’ And then, before she could answer, almost as if he didn’t want to hear the answer to his question, he said, ‘Was she hurt?’
‘We don’t think so.’
Anthony Howe shook his head. ‘Oh dear…’ Then a realisation seemed to dawn on his face. He looked directly at Anni. ‘You think I did it?’
She said nothing.
His anger rose. ‘You think I did it? I… somehow… made my way into her flat and, and… you think that was me, that I could do that?’
Anni kept her voice professionally calm and even. ‘We don’t know, Mr Howe. There was no sign of forced entry. Whoever it was must have been known to Suzanne. Probably had a key.’
Howe sat there, staring at the wall, saying nothing.
‘And since you and Suzanne have, shall we say, a history, I thought I should pay you a visit.’
Still nothing.
‘What did happen between you and Suzanne, Mr Howe?’
‘Professor.’
‘Professor.’ So much for informality, she thought. ‘What happened?’
He sighed. ‘She destroyed my marriage.’ His voice was small, fragile. ‘I… We had an affair. That was that.’ He looked at Anni. No trace of any anger in his eyes now. No trace of anything but sadness. ‘That was that.’
‘And the stalking? The phone calls?’
‘It ended badly. Animosity. Accusations.’
‘But was there any-’
‘It ended badly. That’s all I’m saying.’
Anni didn’t press him. ‘So,’ she said instead, ‘last night-’
‘I was at home. All night.’
‘No one to vouch for that?’
Bitterness entered his voice. ‘I didn’t know I would need anyone to.’
‘Do you still have a key to Suzanne’s flat?’
‘I never had one in the first place.’
‘But you’re still in touch with her.’
‘No.’ Said very quickly.
‘But you’re-’
‘I said no. She destroyed my marriage. Offered me her body if I gave her a first. Then, when it all went wrong, went to the police, to you lot, told them lie after lie about me. I’m lucky to still have a job here.’ He leaned towards her once more, anger informing his features. ‘So after all that, would I really stay in touch with her? Really?’
The mobile on his desk rang, stopping Anni from giving an answer.
‘Excuse me.’ He leaned forward, picked it up ready to answer. Checked the read-out. Stopped.
It kept ringing.
Anni put her pen down. ‘Don’t mind me.’
He kept staring at it, his eyes widening. His fingers began to shake.
Anni looked at the phone, back to Howe. ‘I said, don’t mind me.’
He kept staring, then, as if breaking from a trance, glanced at Anni, back to his phone. He hit the red button, silencing it.
‘They can leave a message if it’s important.’ He pocketed the phone, turned back to her. ‘And that’s all I have to say. So if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have work to do.’ He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk, pretended to look at it. His hands were still shaking.
Anni stood up, saw herself out.
She passed the student, waiting patiently outside the door, made her way down the corridor.
She had seen the read-out on the screen. The name.
Suzanne.
The blood was pounding in her ears, her wrists.
Anni left the building.
‘Don’t you ever do that again.’
Phil had parked the car at the station with the two reporters still in the back, gestured for Rose to join him at the other side of the car park.
She looked up at him, eyes still dancing with a defiant adrenalin rush. ‘Why? They were out of order. It’s a damned good job I stepped in.’
‘Is it? Really?’
‘I was within my rights on everything. You’ll back me on it.’
‘You were angry. At me, at the case, at not finding Julie Miller. You allowed that anger to cloud your professional judgement.’
‘You backed me up.’ Her voice was petulant but still defiant.
Phil leaned into her, face to face. ‘I had no choice, did I? But don’t you ever do that again. No mavericking, I told you. You pull something like that again and you’re off this case.’
‘You need me. I was in charge of the original investigation.’
‘I don’t need an officer who behaves like that.’
‘Make a complaint against me, then.’ There was an ugly smile twitching at the corners of her mouth.
Phil knew what that smile meant. Fenwick, his boss, was her protector. Let’s see who he believes, she was thinking.
Phil stepped back. ‘You can take them in, you can get them processed, you can handle the paperwork. Good luck.’ He turned to walk away, stopped, turned back to her. ‘This is your last chance with me. I mean it. And I don’t care who you think’s protecting your back.’
He watched the shock register on her face as she realised who he was talking about.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know.’
And this time walked away.
Suzanne heard his phone switch to voicemail. She started speaking but stopped herself. She didn’t know what to say. How to say it. Instead she ended the call.
She put the phone down on the table, sighed.
She would try again later.
The building was low-level with a brown sloping roof and nicotine-yellow brick walls. An anonymous piece of eighties architecture, this beige palace could have been anything from a prison to a hospital to a provincial budget motel. But it was none of those things. It was the main police station for the town.
Phil stood back and let Rose march their charges through the main door and up to the desk. She could deal with the Duty Sergeant and the processing. Good luck to her.
Phil crossed to the door at the side of the reception desk, punched in the code on the keypad. The lock clicked.
‘Excuse me…’
Phil opened the door, didn’t realise the voice was addressing him.
‘Excuse me…’
Phil turned. A woman had stood up from the sofa, was standing directly in front of him. She looked tired, her eyes red-rimmed, her face creased into worry-heavy frown lines. No make-up and her clothes weren’t good quality and they hadn’t been selected with care. She looked like she had slept in them. Her hair was uncombed and he couldn’t place her age. Possibly mid-forties but it could have been ten years either side of that.
Rose took the two journalists through the door without looking back. The pneumatic hinges pulled the door shut, leaving him behind. He had to talk to the woman now.
‘Yes?’
She looked him up and down. ‘You’re a police detective, aren’t you?’
The uniform on the desk had seen what was happening. ‘Just a minute, please,’ he said.
Phil held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, Darren.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Detective Inspector Brennan. Major Incident Squad. What can I do for you?’
Her eyes held his, unblinking. Like sci-fi tractor beams. ‘There’s been a body found, hasn’t there?’
Phil said nothing.
Her hand gripped his sleeve like a vulture on carrion. ‘Hasn’t there? A young woman. In her twenties. Hasn’t there?’
‘There…’ No point in lying, he thought. ‘Yes. We’ve found a body answering that description, yes.’
The woman’s hand slipped from his arm. She gave a rough gasp, like she’d taken in more than she could swallow. She recovered quickly, her eyes locking on his once more. ‘Is it… is it my daughter?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said and she gasped again. ‘Have you informed us that your daughter is missing?’
She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Over a week ago.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Adele. Adele Harrison. I’m her mother, Paula.’
‘Paula Harrison.’
‘OK. What does she look like?’
‘’Bout my height, bit big, dark hair-’
‘Dark?’
She nodded once more, eyes still on his, waiting for the next words out of his mouth.
‘We think we have an identification for the body we’ve found, Ms Hamilton. I can’t say too much about an ongoing investigation, I’m afraid. But if there are any changes we’ll be in touch.’
The air seemed to sag out of her, her legs buckled. Phil knew the signs. Not dead but not safe. The tyranny of hope, Marina had called it.
Marina. He hadn’t thought about her or the baby for hours. But he couldn’t feel guilty now, while he was working. He would leave that luxury for later.
‘So where’s my Adele, then?’
‘I… don’t know. It’s not my case, I’m afraid.’
‘That other girl, the one who’s on the news all the time, I bet you’re working on her case, aren’t you?’
Phil couldn’t answer.
‘I bet she’s gettin’ all the attention. An’ my Adele gets nothin’. No one’ll take any responsibility. My daughter just disappears, vanishes, and there’s nothin’ any of you can do-’
Her voice was tightroping on hysteria. When she spoke Phil saw the bite marks on her lips, anxiety kisses. She was attracting an audience in the reception area. Phil put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. ‘Please don’t shout. I don’t know anything about your daughter’s case. But if you give me the details I’ll get someone to look into it.’
‘Get someone. Yeah, right.’
Phil sighed. ‘Who’s your FLO?”
‘What?’
‘Family Liaison Officer. You must have been assigned one.’
‘Some kid. Cheryl Bland. Some kid.’
Busy woman, thought Phil. ‘Couldn’t you speak to her?’
‘Worse than useless. Looks about twelve.’
‘Right. Who’s the CIO, the Chief Investigating Officer?’
‘Farrell. Detective Sergeant. But I never get to talk to him. They fob me off with this Cheryl Bland.’
‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Have a word with DS Farrell, if he’s here. See if there’s any news.’
She gave a bitter laugh. Twisted the corners of her mouth into a cruel parody of a smile. ‘No you won’t. You’ll get behind that door and you’ll forget all about me. About Adele. You might speak to him and say I’m here. Then you’ll laugh about the stupid woman sittin’ there. And walk away and forget me.’
‘No I won’t.’
‘Yes you will. You’ll just forget. But I’ll still be here. I’ll still be waitin’.’
‘Look, Paula.’ He held her gaze again, returning her stare. ‘I appreciate you must be going through a considerable amount of pain. But I’m sure DS Farrell will be doing everything he can. And I will talk to him.’
Her gaze wavered slightly, his words connecting with her.
‘If he’s in the building I’ll talk to him and ask him to come down to talk to you. Give you an update.’
‘Thank you.’
‘OK?’
She nodded. Bowed her head quickly as her eyes became glassy and moist. ‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’
Phil looked at the woman standing before him. Her anger now dissipated by his words, she seemed to have shrunk. He put his hands on her forearms, gave her a reassuring squeeze.
‘I’ll go find him now.’
She nodded, not raising her head.
Phil punched the numbers in, let the hydraulic door swallow him up.
The Creeper was irritated. And when he got irritated he became unhappy. And when he became unhappy he became angry.
And that wasn’t good. For any one.
Rani was back home. Which was good. He was looking forward to spending some quality time with her. Just the pair of them. The way it should be. But that wouldn’t be happening. Because she’d brought her friend with her. Without asking.
This was their place. Didn’t she understand that? If she wanted to bring people back she should ask him first.
Or accept the consequences.
But no, there she sat, in the living room, the blonde one who thought she was really pretty, drinking, not going anywhere in a hurry. In fact, she had brought a bag with her. Looked like she was going to stay.
The Creeper’s irritation tripped over into anger. That wasn’t right. Not right at all.
He had only just found her again. After all this time. There was so much they had to say to each other, so much catching up to do. So much time to spend together, just the pair of them.
That coiled snake began to writhe and twist inside him once more. Zoe shouldn’t be there. It should be Rani and him. Only him. They didn’t need her. They didn’t need anyone.
He watched, shaking, as Zoe went into the kitchen, began to prepare food for her and Rani.
The snake slithered, spat. That’s where he had left his present. And now this whore was going to find it. Not Rani.
Poison spread through him. His hands flexed and unflexed. Saliva foamed and frothed round his mouth, as he breathed through clenched teeth.
Not for her… not for her…
But there was nothing he could do, just watch.
Zoe went into Suzanne’s kitchen, filled the kettle. Tea. That was what was needed now. Not coffee, tea. It was warming, soothing. It destressed you, brought back happy associations from when you were younger, made you feel like you were curled in a chair, safe and warm. And if you had chocolate HobNobs to go with it, so much the better.
Zoe took the biscuits from the canvas carrier she had brought with her. When she had gone home to grab some clothes, she had popped into Sainsbury’s on the way, put a few essentials together, the makings of a meal for the pair of them, something for them to share in the hope it would take Suzanne’s mind off what had happened.
She arrayed the food on the counter. Looked at the biscuits and felt immediately hungry. She wanted to open the packet, start in on them right now. But she wouldn’t. She would take them in to Suzanne, open them in front of her and allow herself only one. Or perhaps even a half. And make sure Suzanne took them and put them away. Somewhere Zoe couldn’t find them.
Her stomach felt like a ravenous, cavernous space. But then it always did.
She loved food. Loved the sheer sensuality of eating, the feel of it in her mouth, the smells, the tastes, the textures. The way it slipped down her throat and into her stomach. The act of putting something inside her body, satisfying herself, her hungers and cravings, feeling it gradually fill her out. Wonderful. Nothing to touch it in the world. For Zoe, food was her sex.
But like so many of Zoe’s early sexual encounters, she ended up feeling bad about it afterwards. Guilt-ridden, hating herself and what her hungers had led her to do.
And that’s when her problems had started.
She’d never been anorexic, never been one to starve herself. That was something, she supposed. But sticking her fingers down her throat to bring it all back up again… to let her body feel cleansed, guilt-free and empty… that made perfect sense to her.
University for her had been about secrets and lies and double lives. The happy, extrovert – even exhibitionist at times – Zoe who was never short on friends or boyfriends. And the self-loathing, toilet bowl-hugging wreck that she really saw herself as.
Thank God she wasn’t like that any more. Thank God for her friends – or rather Suzanne. She had been there for her, helped her out, shown strength when Zoe didn’t have any of her own. She had picked her up, made her feel worthwhile, turned her life around. Been there for her when she needed her.
And thank God for therapy. It had been Suzanne’s idea and she couldn’t thank her enough for it. She hadn’t wanted to go at first but had to admit it was the best thing she had ever done. It gave her a new life, new confidence.
And a new boyfriend. Not as good-looking as the others but he loved her. She had felt he was different and she was right. She thought she could trust him with the truth so she told him all about her trouble. It was the best thing she had ever done. He said he didn’t care, would love her whatever size she was. And that filled her with something else, so rich and full and nourishing that her hungry heart no longer needed to binge any more.
But those HobNobs still looked good, though.
The kettle boiled and Zoe went about making tea in two of Suzanne’s fanciest mugs. A little thing, but hopefully it might help to cheer her up.
She opened the fridge door, looking for milk.
And stopped dead, her heart skipping a beat.
‘Suzanne…’ Her voice was small, wavering. Her heart skipped, a shiver of real dread passed through her. ‘I think… can you come here…’
Bitch.
Fucking Bitch. Why did she have to find it first? It wasn’t for her. It was for Rani. It was all for Rani. The blonde bitch was unworthy of it. Like she was unworthy of everything to do with Rani.
The snake was writhing and hissing inside him, coiling and uncoiling, baring its fangs, spitting poison. The voice had returned. Whores… the whole fucking lot of them… whores… that’s all they’re good for… don’t trust them… any of them…
He hated the blonde bitch. Wanted her gone. She’d come between them, she had no future.
Rani entered the kitchen. The snake calmed itself.
He watched.
Listened.
Hung on her every word, her every action and gesture.
Spotting the secret ones she made just for him.
Breathing fast. Excited, because even if the blonde bitch was there, Rani was going to see his present.
His valentine.
‘Oh my God…’
‘Is… is that what… what I think it is…?’
Suzanne had taken one look inside the fridge and stumbled backwards. Her legs were shaking, about to collapse beneath her, her heart hammering, thudding against her ribcage. Zoe was still looking, fascinated yet repelled.
‘Oh God…’ Suzanne’s eyes were screwed tight shut, willing it all to be a dream, herself to be somewhere else, somewhere safe.
Zoe reached out a hand. Suzanne opened her eyes.
‘Don’t touch…’
Zoe turned, stared eyes wide at her friend.
‘Please, don’t… don’t touch…’
‘Leave it for the police, you mean?’
‘Just, just leave it. Leave it…’ Suzanne wanted just to slump down on to a kitchen chair, her head in her hands. Give in. Not hold back any longer. Let those huge, great, wracking sobs out of her body. And tell him: you win. Whoever you are, you win.
But she didn’t.
Instead she stood there, felt that heat rise once more, that anger. Clenched her fists. ‘I’m not giving in, you bastard. You hear me? I’m not…’
‘Suzanne?’ Zoe crossed to her, put her arms round her.
‘He’s been here again, Zoe, here…’
‘Or the police missed it. Bloody useless.’
Zoe looked at the open fridge door. On the top shelf was a pair of her knickers. With something unmistakeable on them.
Semen.
‘Oh God… what a fucking nightmare…’
Zoe held her, said nothing. There was nothing she could find to say.
The Creeper smiled. Watched. Rani was sitting down, overcome with emotion. Weeping with joy at his present.
‘Oh, Rani…’
He felt himself hardening as he stared at her.
Touching himself.
Smiling.
Blonde bitch or not, it couldn’t have gone any better.
‘What d’you want to do?’
‘I want to find him.’ Suzanne didn’t recognise her own voice. ‘I want to find him, Zoe, and I want to take the biggest knife I can find and stick it in him. Right in him. And watch him suffer. Like he’s made me suffer. And watch him die. That’s what I want to do, Zoe.’
Zoe was sitting next to her. Her arm tightened round her. ‘I know you do. I know. What about the police? D’you want me to phone them? D’you want to go somewhere else?’ No reply. Suzanne stared at the wall. ‘Just tell me and we can do it.’
She spoke eventually. ‘I want…’
Zoe waited.
‘I want…’ She sighed. ‘I want my life back…’
Zoe kept holding her.
Suzanne started sobbing. She didn’t know if they were tears of anger or pain or pity or what.
She just sobbed her heart out.
The Creeper kept watching.
Smiling.
Waiting.
‘She still down there, then? Heard she was in, poor cow. Don’t know what I can do, though. Part from slap an ASBO on her, restraining order, or something.’ He snorted. ‘Probably not the first.’
Detective Sergeant John Farrell leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, hands behind his head. He was a small man, round and bald. His suit looked like he had been wrestled into it, collar open, tie askew. Tired shoes on his feet. His words contained the usual amount of copper’s front and bluster, but his eyes showed a genuine care. Or at least Phil hoped that was what he saw there.
‘She says you’re not updating her on the investigation.’ Farrell looked at Phil, eyes narrowed. ‘FLO not good enough for her?’
Phil held up his hands. ‘I’m only repeating what she said. She’s concerned. Wants to know what’s happening.’
Farrell sighed. ‘Nothing. That’s what. Her daughter ran off a couple of weeks ago, we’ve been trying to find her. Exhausted all the avenues, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, work colleagues, family, the lot.’ He reeled off his achievements – or lack of them – on his fingers. ‘Tried all the usual stuff, TV, the papers, internet, radio, National Missing Persons Helpline. Nada. Blank.’
‘No sign of abduction? Nothing like that?’
‘If it was it must have been Derren bloody Brown.’
‘Right.’
‘But between you an’ me…’ Farrell removed his hands from behind his head, leaned forward. ‘Typical mispers case, I reckon. Done a bunk. She’s got previous.’
‘For what?’
‘Runnin’ away. Works as a barmaid, pub in New Town. Part-time. Got history of bein’ a bit loose, if you catch my drift.’
Phil frowned. ‘You mean, what? She’s a prostitute?’
Farrell shrugged. ‘Part-time, like I said. Used to go off with blokes, not come back for days. Mother says she’s changed, havin’ a kid an’ that, but… dunno. Leopards an’ spots, you know.’
‘So what you’re saying is,’ said Phil, ‘she’s not a priority.’
Another shrug. ‘You know what it’s like. When they don’t want to be found they don’t want to be found. They’ll come home when they want to.’ He sat back once more, replacing his hands behind his head. ‘When the bloke’s money runs out.’
Phil was more than a little annoyed at his colleague’s attitude but he had to admit he did know what that was like. He’d been on enough cases that didn’t come to a conclusion but just petered out, faded away. But that still didn’t excuse his attitude.
‘And you don’t think there’s any connection between Adele Harrison going missing and the body we found this morning by the Hythe?’
Farrell sat forward again. ‘It’s not her, is it?’
‘We think it might be Julie Miller, the girl who disappeared last week.’
Farrell sat back again, satisfied. ‘There you go, then. Different case entirely.’
‘You don’t think there’s a connection? Two young women disappear within days of each other?’
‘What, that posh bird that’s all over the news and my case? Doubt it.’
Phil sighed. ‘Her mother’s downstairs. Go and see her.’ Farrell looked to Phil as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he said, ‘You’ve just had a kid, haven’t you?’
Phil nodded. ‘Daughter.’
Farrell nodded as if that explained everything. ‘Right.’ He unclasped his hands from behind his head. ‘All right, then. I’ll go down and see her. Tell her again her part-time prossie daughter’s off with some bloke an’ that she’ll come home when he gets bored of her.’ He looked at Phil, saw the look he was giving. ‘In the nicest possible terms, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Welcome.’ Farrell didn’t move. ‘Then maybe she’ll go home, give us all a bit of peace.’
Phil walked away from him, glad Farrell wasn’t on his team.
And peace was the last thing he wished on him.
Phil tried to use the time spent walking down the corridor productively. He called Nick Lines to see if there was any news from the autopsy. Nothing new as yet, was the reply. Adrian would present the full findings in the morning. No DNA results yet, so no positive match could be made. But he was fairly sure it was Julie Miller. Unless there was another missing girl he didn’t know about. Phil said nothing and rang off. Thinking.
His mobile went before he could put it in his pocket.
‘Boss? Mickey.’
Phil could tell by the tone of his DS’s voice that it was important. ‘What you got?’
‘Sighting of a van.’ There was the sound of scrabbling on the line. Mickey getting his notepad ready. ‘Early this morning. Black, small. Not a Transit, he said, something with back doors. Came down to the quay at about five this morning. ’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Guy in the food van. Gets down there early.’
Excitement rose within Phil’s chest. ‘Number plate?’
‘Nah, sorry. He didn’t see. Didn’t think it would be important. Says he only remembered when he saw us all down there.’
‘What made him remember?’
‘The speed it was doing. Came off the quay like Jensen Button, he said.’
‘Driver’s description?’
‘Two of them, he thinks. That’s all he can remember. Came out, turned left. Sped off.’
‘Thanks, Mickey. The first solid lead. We’ve got something to go on.’
He broke the connection, after telling Mickey there wasn’t much more he could do for the day but to start looking into it first thing in the morning.
Thought of Marina. Of Josephina. Felt something tugging at him from deep inside.
He wanted to go home. Needed to go home.
But there was business to attend to first.
Marina signed, sat down in the armchair, took a sip from the Californian Shiraz at her side, sighed, closed her eyes.
Josephina had gone down peacefully. Her regular feed, already snuggled up in her Babygro, eyes fluttering as she drank. Now she was asleep in her cot at the side of their bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, fingers curled in like tiny woodlice.
Marina had set up the baby intercom, crept downstairs, sank into an armchair with a book and a large glass of wine. Tried to tune everything out, relax while Midlake played on low volume in the background, singing about heading home.
Home.
The new house she had bought with Phil. It was part of a new waterfront development in the west side of Wivenhoe, not far from where she used to live. Wivenhoe was an old fishing village full of old, character-filled houses, independent shops, good pubs and interesting people. The university where Marina had worked was just down the road and consequently the town had a distinctly liberal, corduroy feel to the place. It was comfortable, homely, vaguely bohemian and a little self-consciously arty. Martina used to feel very at home there.
But not any more.
The new house was at the opposite side to the cottage she used to live in. Designed to fit in and complement the ambience of the old waterfront, the development consisted of tall, red-brick houses in a small development with an aged, nautical feel, arranged round a lock gate that flowed out to the River Colne. It was a compromise. Phil, she knew, might not have felt comfortable in such an old house, but there was no way Marina could stay where she had been living.
Her first instinct had been to move as far away as possible, not be anywhere that would remind her of what had happened in her old house; the nightmares were getting less frequent, but were still bad enough. Phil, knowing her state of mind and understanding entirely, had left the decision up to her and they had looked at property all over Colchester. But when it came to it, she couldn’t move. It was like something was still holding her there, drawing her back. So she’d relented. And they’d bought the new house.
And now she wasn’t so sure.
Another mouthful of wine. She looked round. The room, like the rest of the house, wasn’t fully hers yet, or Phil’s. They had put out what they needed – furniture, TV, hi-fi – but the bookshelves were still empty, the walls still bare and there were boxes everywhere. It wasn’t a home. Not yet. But hopefully it would be.
Hopefully.
She checked her watch, wondered what time Phil would be back. She had eaten and was planning on an early night since she knew she’d be up with Josephina at some point. She might not get to see him. She didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.
Phil was her soulmate. She knew that. When she and him met, she had never felt a connection like it. They understood each other perfectly, seeing the damage and sense of loss in each of them reflected in the other, knowing that apart they would be incomplete individuals but together they would make a complete whole.
His childhood spent in brutal institutions and uncaring foster homes mirrored hers spent with a violent, abusive father, an emotionally absent mother and brothers she never wanted to see again. Phil’s adoptive parents had saved him. Marina’s mind had saved her. University, leading to a job as a practising psychologist, meant she never had to go home again.
Marina hated using pop psychology greetings card analogies but in this case it was true. Phil completed her. And she him.
If only it was that simple. If only it was just the pair of them.
It wasn’t even Josephina. They were both thrilled about their daughter. Thrilled and terrified. She should have been a proud, public acknowledgement of their love for one another, their sense of commitment to each other, their contentment.
She should have been. And if it was just the three of them, even that would be fine.
But…
She picked the book up from the arm of the chair, tried to tune everything out of her head, just get into it, slip away. James M. Cain’s Double Indemnity. She had found it in one of the boxes, not picked it up since she’d studied it as part of her MA at university and had now decided to reread it.
The story of a couple who recognise something damaged and kindred in each other and fall madly, passionately, in love. The only obstacle is the woman’s husband so they murder him in order to be together. But once they do that they find their guilt has bound them together in a fearful, destructive state and killed any future happiness between them. At least that was the way Marina was reading it.
She put the book down, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes.
Another mouthful of wine. Then another.
Another look round the room in the house that wasn’t hers, the home that wouldn’t be.
‘Oh God…’
The words of the nurse that morning came back to her, about how things couldn’t continue as they were, how she had to make a decision.
Midlake playing, Tim Smith singing that there was no one else so kind, no one else to find and that it was hard for him, but he was trying.
Marina sighed, took another mouthful of wine.
Not knowing how much more of this she could bear, forcing herself to come to a decision.
Not noticing the tears rolling down her cheeks.
The main MIS office was busy, even though it was time for most people to leave for the day. Milhouse was working at his computer terminal, looking for clues in the virtual world. It wasn’t his real name but no one used that. His resemblance to the Simpsons character was uncanny, even down to his level of social skills, so it had stuck. When he was referred to officially as DC Pecknold, Phil often had to take a few seconds to realise who was being addressed.
Rose Martin had been given a desk and a computer and now sat before it, writing up reports and looking thoroughly, angrily, unhappy. She saw Phil enter, looked immediately back to her work.
And then Anni entered. There was no way the two of them could avoid each other as he was standing right beside the door and she literally bumped into him.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Boss,’ she said, and tried to dodge round him.
But Phil wasn’t about to let her go so quickly. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while, what you working on?’
Anni shrugged. ‘Stalking case. Maybe breaking and entering. ’
Phil frowned. ‘That’s not MIS. That’s just bog-standard CID, isn’t it?’
Anni’s turn to shrug now. ‘It came in, there was no one else to take it.’
Silence fell between them. Like a heavy wool blanket, uncomfortable and irritating.
Phil’s voice dropped. He led her to one side. ‘Look, I know you’re still pissed off that you put in for promotion and didn’t get it. Especially after the last big case we did.’
Anni said nothing.
‘I put your name forward. I wanted you.’
She looked at him as if about to argue.
‘I know you think I didn’t-’
‘I was told you didn’t.’ Her eyes were angry dots.
‘And I know who told you.’ Phil glanced over towards Fenwick’s office. The DCI was behind his desk, on the phone. Phil noticed that, by a strange coincidence, Rose was also on the phone, her hand over the receiver.
Anni looked at Fenwick’s office, looked back at him. Her eyes dropped. ‘Why would he lie, then? Why would he say that?’
Phil gave a small smile. ‘You’re asking that? Of Fenwick? Because he’s a twat, that’s why.’
Anni smiled too. She nodded.
‘Now, d’you think you can put your case to bed and come and join me?’ Another quick glance at Rose Martin, who, putting the phone down, got up from her desk and came towards them. ‘I need your help. Soon as.’
‘I just have one more person to see, an old boyfriend, then I’m done. For now.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ve done the reports and got the two journalists ready for processing.’ Rose Martin came to halt before the pair of them, started talking. ‘They’re in an interview room waiting to be spoken to.’
Phil was annoyed at being interrupted but didn’t think confrontation would be the best way to go. ‘Good work, DS Martin. Now let them go.’
Her face flushed red. ‘What?’
‘Insufficient evidence, whatever you want to call it. We’ve kept them away from the Miller home for a while, given them a scare. Let them go.’
Her voice was rising. ‘After all I’ve done-’
Phil squared up to her. ‘You made the play. You carry it through. Maybe you’ll think twice next time, before you go all Dirty Harry on me.’
Rose clamped her mouth shut, swallowing whatever it was she had been about to say. She took a deep breath. Another. Phil waited.
‘So that’s that, is it? I’ve learnt my lesson and I’m back on active duty, right?’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Phil didn’t rise to it, kept his voice calm and level. ‘Just about.’ Then he glanced at Anni, back to Rose. A smile played on his lips. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘DC Hepburn here, I don’t know if you’ve met, is coming to join us but needs a bit of help in wrapping up her case. If you wouldn’t mind…’
Phil led Anni and Rose over to Anni’s desk. Both women looked surprised. ‘Anni’ll give you the details. Just one last thing before home time and then the slate’s clean and tomorrow is another day. OK?’
He left them to it, crossing the floor to Fenwick’s office.
Unable to keep the smile off his face.
Phil knocked on the door, entered. Fenwick looked like he was expecting him. He sat down before the desk. Fenwick leaned back on the other side, scrutinising Phil. He was sure it was meant to be intimidating but one thought went through Phil’s head:
David Brent.
‘So how’s it coming, then? The Julie Miller murder inquiry?’
‘We’re making progress. But we don’t know for a fact that it’s Julie Miller yet. Let’s not call it that until we know for certain.’
Fenwick sat back, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, no one else has gone missing recently from Colchester, have they?’
‘Well…’ Phil told him about Adele Harrison. Watched the expression on his face change, the smile disappear. Concern – or something like it – crept into his eyes.
‘Oh. Shit.’
‘Indeed. Does that change things?’
‘John Farrell doesn’t think so.’
‘John Farrell’s an arsehole.’ Fenwick stared at him. ‘Sir.’
Fenwick seemed happy with that.
‘I just think we should be aware. If Adele Harrison’s body turns up and we haven’t done all we could have done…’ Phil left the threat hanging in the air. Fenwick stared at him, deciding whether Phil was trying to start a fight.
There was animosity between himself and his superior. Phil thought Fenwick insincere, two-faced. Paying lip service to progressive ideas, hiding his reactionary soul in management-speak so he could advance up the political police ladder. Mostly they managed to work together but occasionally there was conflict. Sometimes huge.
‘Just covering ourselves, sir,’ said Phil, using a phrase Fenwick would understand.
Fenwick nodded. ‘Covering. Yes. In case it does, you know…’ He made what Phil assumed was a thoughtful face. ‘Perhaps we should call in a profiler.’
‘Marina’s on maternity leave.’
‘Of course. Congratulations, by the way.’
Was there relief in Fenwick’s features? Phil had met Marina when she had been brought in to work a case with him as a profiler. Fenwick had shouted her down, humiliated her, derided her input. Then gone crawling to her afterwards when he realised that her help had been invaluable in bringing the case to a successful conclusion.
Fenwick then frowned, spoke as if arguing with himself. ‘But the expense… Budgets are already being cut, overtime slashed… Plus we don’t know for certain that this is a serial. Not yet.’
Phil said nothing, waited to see how Fenwick’s dialogue with himself played out.
He sighed, nodded. ‘I’ll make some calls,’ he said. ‘See what we can get. Still got contacts at the university. The hospital. And a lot of incoming officers are of the new breed, Phil. Trained in behavioural science and profiling. Much better able to make informed judgements. Might not be as expensive as we think, eh?’
‘Well, if you’re getting one we need them to start as soon as possible. And be good.’ Fenwick was still looking at him. ‘And cheap, of course. Sir.’
Fenwick narrowed his eyes, wary. Was Phil being cheeky again?
‘Covering ourselves, sir, remember?’
Fenwick, sensing no threat this time, agreed. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, time to be off. Early start tomorrow, briefing eight thirty. No overtime for now, but let’s see if the powers that be upgrade this case.’
They will if there’s another murder, thought Phil, but again didn’t voice it.
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Fenwick, a slight glint in his eye,
‘what d’you think of your new team, Phil? Working out all right?’
Phil again kept his face blank. ‘OK so far. We’ll see.’
‘DS Martin comes highly recommended.’
‘You’d know more about that than me, sir.’
Fenwick reddened immediately, his mouth opened, about to say something, but he was too late.
Phil had already left the office.
Rose’s temper was flaming.
It was bad enough that Phil Brennan was punishing her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, her by sending her out when everyone else was going home, but spending over a quarter of an hour driving up and down Greenstead Road trying to find a parking space just made it worse.
If it wasn’t permit parking it was double yellow lines. She could have just parked anywhere, flashed her warrant card and claimed official police business if hassled. Fine in theory, but it still didn’t make a space appear.
She eventually found one at the far end from where she wanted to be. Took a quick look at the notes, familiarised herself with the case, and, still fuming, set off to walk.
The houses on Greenstead Road were small. Red-brick terraces with minuscule gardens slabbed over for car parking. The only remaining greenery weeds poking between the cracks. From the lack of both upkeep and pride in the exteriors, most of the houses looked rented. Those that weren’t seemed to belong to people who were either starting out on the property ladder or whose progression had stalled.
Rose walked along to the far end of the road, the second to last house before a Chinese takeaway and a patch of waste ground. The day still held residual warmth as she pulled her top away from her chest, checked the address. The brickwork had been plastered over and painted a pale herb green, now darkened from road dirt. The windows were white casement, paint peeling, panes dirty. The front door, dark-stained with flaking varnish, led directly on to the pavement.
She raised her hand to knock but stopped as a sound ripped through the air. Like a car or burglar alarm turned up to eleven. The level crossing at the side of the road. The houses backed on to the main line to London. Lovely, thought Rose. And wished she wasn’t there.
Rose Martin was ambitious. She had made no secret of it. Married for two years to a solicitor and with a comfortable-sized Edwardian house in the Old Heath area of town, they had a good life. No kids – she was adamant – or at least not until her career had gone as far as she felt it could.
Her husband, Tim, was a good man. Dependable, honest, stoical. Taciturn, even. All manly traits she admired. And, yes, she loved him, sure. But that hadn’t stopped her having an affair with Ben Fenwick.
It had started, the way these things often do, with a few drinks after work. All the gang together, then the pair of them had got talking, found a spark, started to see each other separately. Before too long they were both telling their spouses they had to work late and booking hotel rooms where they could indulge in levels of lust that Rose found surprisingly animalistic but very cathartic.
The affair wasn’t anything she had thought about greatly. Just a mutual attraction acted upon. Easily compartmentalised and coped with. Ben had something that Tim hadn’t, provided her with something Tim couldn’t. She couldn’t specifically say what it was but it was fun finding out. But nothing serious, at least not as far as she was concerned. She didn’t want to leave Tim and she didn’t want Ben to leave his wife and kids. Just a bit of fun. Filthy, flirty, secret fun. Well, possibly career-related. Ben was a DCI, two steps above her. And it was always handy to have someone higher up to be able to put in a good word for her, to help with advancement. She certainly wouldn’t have dreamed of having an affair with anyone ranked lower than her.
But now Phil Brennan knew about it. A higher ranking officer who seemed to be developing a grudge against her. Not good. He had leverage against her now and that could make him a threat. An affair like this could halt her progress if it was discovered. And she didn’t want that. She would have to tread carefully. Do something about him, even get something on him if she could. Or get Ben to.
But that was for tomorrow. She cleared all that from her mind, concentrated on the job in hand. Waited for the noise of the level crossing and the train passing to subsist, then knocked on the door.
No reply. She knocked again.
Eventually she heard someone making their way to the door. It opened. A man stood there, tall, dark, greasy, messed-up hair, young. He wore a T-shirt with a logo on that Rose didn’t recognise or understand, jeans, glasses. His eyes behind the glasses were red-rimmed, like he had been staring at a screen for too long. He blinked at her. Said nothing. Like voice production involved a different part of the brain to the one he’d been using.
‘Mark Turner?’
He nodded.
She held up her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Martin. Can I come in?’
Mark Turner blinked again. Eyes narrowing, focusing, as if understanding that something was catching up with him. ‘What?’
She tried a smile, not wanting him to catch any trace of her earlier temper or irritation, all professional now. ‘Just need to talk to you about something. Might be better to do it inside.’ She gestured behind him. ‘Shall we?’
Mark Turner blinked again, stood out of the way, allowing her entry.
She went in.
The curtains were closed, the house in near darkness. It felt odd, a complete contrast to the early evening sunshine outside. Dust motes danced and jumped, caught in the beams of light that crept in through the chinks. She made the outlines of furniture, square and heavy looking. Covered with sheets or throws. The room was cold. It felt remote, cut off from the world, Dickensian almost. Rose half expected to find Miss Haversham lurking in some corner.
‘Sorry,’ said Mark Turner, ‘I was… working upstairs. I… My Ph.D.’ He looked round as if seeing the room through her eyes. Then turned back to her, remembering who she was. ‘Why are you here, please?’
‘Is there somewhere we could sit?’
Mark Turner found the light switch. An old three-bulb chandelier lit up the room. Rose saw that the house was small, living room and dining room all in one. Stairs in the centre. A kitchen at the back of the house. A brick chimney breast with a gas fire in front of it. Shelves on both sides, crammed with books. A TV and DVD player underneath the window. CD system beside it. Throws covered the furniture. It looked functional, nothing more. A student or academic house. Except for one thing. Halfway down the room was a tree. The trunk against the wall, the branches spreading out along the ceiling, separating the one room into two areas.
‘Nice feature,’ said Rose. ‘Still alive?’
Mark Turner looked at it, frowned, as if it was the first time he had noticed it. ‘What? Oh. Here before me. Dead. Think it’s just for ornamentation.’
‘Right.’ She sat down in a covered armchair. Took out her notepad and pen.
He sat also, on the sofa. ‘So… what’s happened?’
‘You used to be involved with…’ She checked the notebook. ‘Suzanne Perry.’
A wariness came into his eyes, as if whatever answer he gave would lead him into a trap. ‘Yes…’
‘You and her were an item?’
‘Yes… why?’
A quick check of the notes again. Concentrate. Into the groove, get the answers quickly, then off home. ‘She was attacked at home last night.’
He reeled backwards as if a sudden gust had taken him by surprise. ‘What? She…’
‘Was attacked.’ She dropped her voice, calm and authoritative. ‘So we’re talking to anyone who knew her and who may have a key to her flat.’
‘Well, I…’ Mark Turner’s eyes widened. ‘You think I… you mean, I…’
Three ‘I’s in one breath, thought Rose. He might look innocuous enough, but that was a sure sign he had an ego on him. ‘When you and her split up, was it harmonious?’
He shrugged. ‘Is any break-up easy?’
‘You didn’t want anything more to do with her.’
His voice raised slightly. ‘Right. No. I didn’t. Had enough of her.’
‘But you kept her key.’
His eyes widened. ‘What?’
‘Her key. To her flat. You kept it.’
Mark Turner said nothing.
‘Any reason?’
‘I…’ His eyes darted all round the room as if looking for something or someone to answer for him. Eventually, finding nothing, he answered for himself. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t leave any of your stuff there to pick up later?’
He shook his head.
‘You still in touch with Suzanne?’
‘No.’
Rose looked at her notepad, read back something she had just written. ‘You’d had enough of her.’ She looked up at Turner. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking like he wanted to run. ‘What do you mean by that?’
He ran his hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, searching for inspiration, playing for time. ‘I’d just…’ He sighed, his whole body deflating. ‘She wasn’t an easy person to get on with.’
‘Why not?’
‘She…’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t trust her.’
Rose leaned forward, interested now. ‘You mean with other men?’
‘Not… really. Just… well, she’d tell me things, right? Little things. Plays or films she’d seen, who she’d been there with. Or people she’d met. And then we’d all be out together, the rest of the people from her course, and they wouldn’t know anything about it.’
Rose said nothing, made notes, encouraged him to continue.
‘Then we’d go and meet people for a drink and beforehand she would tell me about things that I was supposed to have done. You know, if anyone asked me.’
‘Why did she do that, d’you think?’
He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Wanted to seem more popular? She didn’t think she was well liked, I don’t think. Felt she had to do something to attract attention to herself. Make herself stand out.’
Rose said nothing, just took notes.
He sighed. As he did so, there came the creak of floor-boards from upstairs. He glanced up quickly, Rose’s eyes following him.
‘Someone else here?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said quickly, his eyes darting down to the right.
He’s lying, thought Rose.
Phil opened the door quietly, slowly, like he would at a crime scene when he didn’t want to disturb anything.
The house was in darkness apart from one table light, its crackled, mirrored mosaic base casting out a spider-web glow into the room. An empty wine glass and bottle next to it on the table, a paperback book left face down and open, like a bird refusing, or unable, to fly.
Marina must have been sitting there. Ever the detective, he thought, then castigated himself for the thought. Loosen up. You’re at home now.
He listened. No sound. Josephina would be sleeping. He put his car keys on the table, went into the kitchen, took a bottle of beer from the fridge, opened it, returned to the living room and sat down in the seat Marina had recently occupied. Took a long drink, sighed, closed his eyes and put his head back, tried to work the tension of the day out of his body.
Phil opened his eyes, looked round. So unlike his old, comfortable house, things here were unfamiliar and out of place. Still trying to think of the new house as home, of Marina and Josephina as family. Knowing they were both things he would have to work at.
He got up, checked the CD in the hi-fi. Midlake. Thought of putting it on himself but didn’t want to wake his partner and daughter. So he took another mouthful of beer, sat back.
He felt restless, agitated. Tried to tell himself it was because of the case. But he knew it wasn’t. Knew there were other reasons.
Knew that wherever he went in this house there were invisible walls that he couldn’t see, couldn’t go round, couldn’t climb over.
It was an early summer’s evening, still light, still sunny. A beautiful, tranquil view just outside his front door, a promenade by the river. The three of them could have gone for a walk, put Josephina in her buggy, set off along the front. Maybe stopped for a drink at the Rose and Crown, sat out on the front and watched the boats bob in the low tide, the sun go down.
Enjoying life. Enjoying one another in each other’s lives. Living.
Irritation rose with him. Strong irritation. That was what he saw himself doing when he moved to Wivenhoe. That’s what he should have been doing. With Marina and Josephina. Relaxing, having fun. Enjoying each other’s company. As a family.
Instead Marina was living an almost separate life from him, like she was in a hermetically sealed glass box. He could see her and even hear her but not reach her, touch her. It wouldn’t have mattered so much if it had been someone else doing it. Someone who didn’t mean as much to him as she did. Didn’t mean everything to him. But it was her. She was excluding him from something – from her life – and it hurt. Badly.
He drained the bottle of beer, went into the kitchen to get another one. Stopped himself. No, he thought. This isn’t the answer.
Instead he turned, made his way upstairs. Slowly, so as not to wake them.
Marina had done the same thing the night before. Been asleep when he came in. Or claimed to be asleep. He was sure she was faking, lying as still as possible until he put the light out, fell asleep himself.
He wished he knew why.
He opened the bedroom door. Again, slowly, carefully. Looked in, expecting to see Josephina, with her tiny, perfect face, lying in her cot, Marina next to her.
But saw nothing.
He opened the door all the way, not bothering about making a noise now.
The cot was empty, as was the bed.
He checked the other rooms, called for her. No reply.
Downstairs, in all the rooms. No reply.
She must have taken Josephina for a walk, he thought, an angry envy working its way into his brain. Taking her for the kind of walk he wanted them to take as a family.
He checked for the baby buggy. Gone.
Then back into the living room, looking round again. And he saw the book on the table, the paperback Marina had been reading. Noticed there was something sticking out from underneath it. He crossed the room, picked the book up. Underneath was a folded piece of paper with his name written on it. He unfolded it, saw the first word.
Sorry…
Read the rest.
And sank into the chair.
‘Oh no… oh God, no…’
They were gone. Marina, Josephina. His family.
Gone.
‘Sure?’ Rose Martin looked carefully at Mark Turner. ‘Sure there’s no one here?’
He shrugged. ‘My girlfriend. New girlfriend. Having a… a lie in.’ His voice trailed away.
Rose stifled a smile. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So, back to Suzanne. You were together for…’ She checked Anni’s notes.
‘Two years.’
‘Happy?’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah. Mostly. You know. Ups and downs.’
‘D’you miss her?’
He didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he glanced towards the stairs. ‘It… had run its course.’
Rose nodded. As he spoke, Mark Turner sat back, settled into the chair. He seemed to relax, become less bookish, more socialised. Growing in confidence as he dealt with questions he knew the answers to. Everything seemed fine, she thought. Couple more questions then she could go home. She checked the notes.
‘What about Anthony Howe? Where does he come into this?’
Turner’s mood changed instantly. He became tense, sat upright. ‘He… ask Suzanne.’ His lip curled. The words sounded unpleasant in his mouth. ‘Ask her.’
The way he said her sounded to Rose like he was saying whore. ‘I’m asking you.’
Mark Turner’s fingers became agitated, restless, like a jonesing drummer denied his kit. ‘That’s…’ His breathing became heavier. It looked like he was fighting to stop himself from saying what he really wanted to. He sat back. ‘No. There’s lying and lying. Ask her.’
Rose knew that was all she would be getting from him on the subject. ‘Where were you last night, Mr Turner?’
‘Here.’ He frowned. ‘When last night?’
Rose tried not to smile. ‘Wrong order.’
‘What?’
‘You’re supposed to ask what time I’m talking about before you say where you were.’
His features tightened. His eyes became lit by a cruel, angry light. Again, he seemed to be stopping himself from saying what he wanted to. ‘I didn’t break into her flat. I didn’t beat her up, or whatever. I was here. All night.’
‘Alone?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘With…’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘Who would be…?’
‘She doesn’t need to be involved. I don’t want her… not with Suzanne. Please.’
‘She does if she’s your alibi. Is that her upstairs?’
He nodded. ‘She’s… asleep. I don’t want to bother her.’
‘Noisy sleeper.’
‘Yes,’ he said weakly, ‘she is.’
‘Right. And you and her were here all night. What did you do?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ He cast a look towards the stairs as if willing her to answer the questions for him, beckoning her with the power of his mind.
‘Read? Watch TV? A DVD?’
Turner looked from Rose to the stairs and back again. ‘We… I…’
His phone rang. They both jumped.
He looked at Rose apologetically, pulled it from his pocket, answered it. After the initial greeting he turned away from Rose. He didn’t say much, just nodded his head, made a few affirmative noises. He rang off, turned back to her. There was a new kind of light in his eyes. Shining, more confident.
‘We were working,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Last night. We were working. Late. Here.’ He made the statement sound like scientific fact.
Whoever had been on the phone had given Mark Turner strength. Sitting there erect, he seemed to have grown taller, his eyes bright, alert. A small smile danced at the corners of his mouth. There was a kind of cruel triumph in the smile – like an habitual victim suddenly being gifted the power of the bully.
‘And I… I think, I think it’s time for you to leave now, Detective, Detective Sergeant Martin.’ His voice became clearer, stronger as the sentence went on. He stood up at the end to emphasise his words.
Rose stood also, flipped her notebook closed. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She made her way to the door. She could feel his eyes on her all the way.
Weirdo, she thought. And his ex-girlfriend sounded like she made stuff up all the time. There was a feel of that from the case notes. And that’s what her report would say.
She left the house and went to find her car.
Outside on the street, the level crossing siren was broadcasting at air raid pitch once again.
She blocked it from her mind, thought about the first gin and tonic waiting for her at home.
The Creeper closed his eyes, willed the night to wrap itself around him.
He had learned to love the dark. The time of hunters. Of secrets. Of lovers. It made him feel truly alive, let him move, flow like a living shadow. His vision was at its strongest. The world was at its truest. And Rani would talk to him the most.
Whisper her secrets. Tell him what to do.
He smiled at the thought.
He used to hate the dark. Hate and fear it. It was where the demons lived. Waiting until nightfall when they would emerge, come hunting for him. Canvas-covered, smelling of sweat and drink, of secrets and lies. Of pain and fear.
He hid at first but that never fooled them. They knew all his secret places. They would find him. And hurt him.
But that wasn’t him any more. That boy died in the fire. Now he was the Creeper. And he could fight back. And the demons couldn’t hurt, couldn’t scare him any more.
His eyes were screwed tight shut but darkness refused to fall quick enough.
He thought again of the previous night. Kneeling beside Rani, his head next to hers, smelling along her arms, the soft, downy hair tickling his nostrils.
Then later, moving her T-shirt up and licking her stomach. One long line from the top of her trimmed hair to her belly button. He had savoured the taste. Relived it now… Smiled at the memory.
The smile stopped. There would be nothing like that tonight.
Not with the blonde bitch there.
Rani had found her present. It had moved her to tears once more. He enjoyed seeing that. Afterwards, he was sure she would have sent the blonde bitch home, let the pair of them be alone. Together. But she hadn’t. They had drunk a bottle of wine between them and it looked like they were embarking on another. And sometimes Rani had cried and the blonde bitch had consoled her. Sitting where he should have been. Her arm round his love.
Him bringing the smile back to her face. Him. Him. His hands begin to shake. Not a good sign. He had always been angry. Like that kids cartoon character, the Tasmanian Devil, spinning and punching and kicking his way through life. Until Rani appeared. And he had learnt how to harness it. Use it, don’t let it use him. Difficult at first, but he had managed it. But it was still there, slithering underneath his skin, threatening to return him to how he used be, threatening to take control.
He watched them again. Rani thanking the blonde bitch for staying, the bitch saying it was the least she could do. Control the shake. Keep breathing.
And still, he hadn’t heard her voice.
He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate. He could see his lover better that way.
He felt himself stiffening. Felt that curling and writhing in the pit of his stomach. His hand moved down his body, found the waistband of his trousers. He sighed. Kept his eyes closed. Kept touching.
What are you doing now?
He took his hand away quickly. Tried to control his breathing. ‘Nothing…’
You sure?
‘Yes, yes, I’m… Sorry, sorry, Rani…’
Don’t be sorry. It’s nice you make tributes to me. Shows you love me, doesn’t it?
‘Oh, I do, Rani, I do, you know I do. That’s why I left you the present…’
She was silent for a few seconds. He heard her breathing, thought she was going to disappear again. Then she was back. Her voice less playful, angry even. You’ve been naughty again, have you?
He froze. She knew. The police, everything. She knew. He had to be careful, not lose her again. He said nothing.
You just had to touch, didn’t you? You just had to touch me…
He said nothing.
Didn’t you?
‘Yes… yes…’
You came into my room… touched me while I was asleep. Didn’t you?
He nodded.
Can’t hear you…
‘Yes… I’m sorry…’
You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you know.
‘I know. And I’m sorry…’
Lot of trouble. The police, everything.
‘I know… I’m sorry…’
I might have to disappear.
Fear suddenly grabbed him, a childhood demon, its claw round his throat. ‘No, no, you can’t, please no…’ Life without Rani. Wasn’t worth living.
You’ve made things very difficult…
‘No, no, please, don’t go, I’ll do anything, anything…’
She sent silent. He thought she had disappeared.
‘Rani…’
I’m here. I’m thinking.
Relief washed over him. Flooded through to his nerve ends. ‘Whatever you want. I’ll do it.’
I know you will. Let me think.
He waited, hardly daring to breathe.
I think… it’s time for me to change.
‘What? Again? But you’ve just…’
Doesn’t matter. You know what to do. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again.
‘Yes. I will. I never doubt you.’
Good. I’ll tell you where I’ll be soon.
‘I know you will, but…’
But what?
He looked at Rani again, sitting there on the sofa, the blonde bitch with her arm around her, her mouth moving but different words coming out to the ones the blonde bitch was hearing. Words for him and him alone. The truth. The blonde bitch getting any old lies.
He smiled.
But what?
He heard the sharpness in her voice, jumped. ‘The blonde bitch,’ he said quickly. ‘What about that blonde bitch?’
What about her?
‘She’s sitting there, talking to you…’
I’m only pretending to be interested. You know that, don’t you?
‘Yes…’
It’s you I want to be with.
‘So… what should I do?’
I don’t want her. You decide.
‘Right…’ He smiled.
You know what you’re doing?
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Good. Then do it. For me.
And she was gone.
He kept looking at her. Rani was alone now. The blonde bitch had got up, gone into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. Rani looked up. Right at him.
His heart jumped, he pulled a breath quickly into his body. Smiled at her.
‘For you…’
Stretched his fingers out. He could feel her, stroked her.
‘Soon,’ he said to her. ‘Soon, it’ll just be you and me…’
Zoe couldn’t sleep.
There should have been no problem, given the amount of wine she and Suzanne had put away. Not to mention the stress of the day. And if there was an intruder, the huge kitchen knife she’d placed under her side of the bed would offer plenty of protection. So she had expected to just drop straight off. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.
Suzanne, lying next to her in bed, was spark out, but that may have been a combination of wine, exhaustion and sleeping pills. For Suzanne every little creak and groan from the old house, every car or lorry that went past the window was an intruder.
They should never have stayed. She knew that. As soon as they found that disgusting thing in the fridge they should have upped and left. Zoe should have insisted. But no, she had given in to Suzanne who didn’t want to be driven out of her own home. So they had stayed, tried to be comfort for one another, draw strength. And now, in what must have been the middle of the night, it seemed like a very stupid idea.
And, to make matters worse, she was hungry.
Another car went past, another jump and involuntary tug on the duvet. Another sigh, once it had gone.
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Zoe.
Zoe had made a decision. She wasn’t going to be scared any more. There was no one else in the flat but herself and Suzanne. She had checked, double-checked and rechecked the locks on the doors and windows. No way anyone could get through them. At least, not without making a hell of a racket in doing so. So they were alone. They were safe.
And she was still hungry.
She flung the duvet back, got out of bed. Her head spinning slightly from the wine. Suzanne didn’t wake, didn’t even move.
She padded to the kitchen, checked her watch as she went. Just after three a.m. What was that quote? Something about in the real dark night of the soul it’s always three a.m.? Was that it? And who said it? Scott Fitzgerald, wasn’t it? Well, she thought, looking round the kitchen, seeing yellow sodium streaks of street light and shadow snaking round the window blind, he had a point.
She crossed to the fridge, opened it, glad of the unapologetically bright light that shone out, looked inside. Suzanne didn’t have much. Cheese, milk, some leftover pasta, a bit of salad. A couple of bottles of white wine. Cheese gives you nightmares, she thought. She doubted that. You had to be asleep to have nightmares. That would do her.
Taking out a lump of cheddar, she stood up, closed the door, turned.
And stopped dead.
Was that a shadow flitting across the doorway? Someone moving in the hall?
Her heart tripped. ‘Suzanne?’
No response.
Zoe looked round. It was impossible. She had locked the doors and windows, checked and double-checked them. No one could have got in. She would have heard them.
She stood still. Listened.
Nothing.
Must have been a trick of the light. Seeing things out of the corner of her eye. Her imagination working overtime. Yes. That’s what it was.
But still…
The knife. She had left it in the bedroom. It was the only sharp thing in the kitchen, Suzanne being domestically useless. She should get it, just in case. She would feel safer with it in her hand.
The cheese forgotten, she put her head slowly round the kitchen door, checked both ways up and down the hall. Nothing. She hurried across to the bedroom. Suzanne was still lying there, sound asleep, mouth open, snoring slightly.
Zoe knelt down at the side of the bed, felt for the knife.
It was gone.
Her heart hammered once more.
The rational side of her brain kicked in. She must have pushed it underneath, knocked it with her foot, sent it further in than she had realised. She felt around, arm extended as far as she could.
Nothing.
Quickly, she straightened up. Thought of waking Suzanne, decided against it. She was too out of it. Instead, she ran across the hall to the kitchen, pulled out drawers, frantically searched for another knife, anything she could use as a weapon.
Nothing.
Then, a noise. From behind her. Zoe turned.
A figure moved forwards. Big, dark, like a living shadow had detached itself from the corner of the room and come to life. It seemed to flow towards her.
Zoe didn’t have time to cry out, to scream.
She barely had time to feel the knife – the missing knife from underneath the bed – slice quickly across her throat, push into her neck.
She knocked the lump of cheese from the worktop to the floor as her hand went to her throat.
Thoughts spat, rapid fire, through her head.
Cheese gives you nightmares – that was quick, haven’t even eaten it yet…
The real dark night of the soul is always three a.m…
Sodium yellow streetlights and living shadows…
I checked all the locks, I double-checked…
The knife…
Hungry…
She fell to her knees, her hands feeling hot and wet at her throat.
Nightmare…
She saw the shadow flow out of the room, head towards Suzanne’s bedroom. She tried to call out but no sound would leave her lips, just more hot redness.
Darkness began to grow before Zoe’s eyes, a darkness more than night, untouched by streetlights or shadows.
Then her eyes closed and she felt hungry and sad and anxious.
And scared.
Very scared.
Her head hit the floor, her body shuddered and vibrated like it was trying to expel its last few atoms of air and there was no more time to think or feel anything.
Nothing.