Phil stood once more on the threshold. The gateway to another world.
There is a darker world, Phil knew, that lives alongside the everyday one. This secret world was unpleasant and depressing, a world of pain and hurt and sudden, senseless death, loss and despair. It turned homes, places of refuge and safety, into cold, abattoir death scenes. Destroyed lives both by what it took and what it left behind.
It was a place most people were aware of but chose to ignore, hoping that entry would only be for others, something that only happened to someone else. Not them. Never them.
But it didn’t work like that. The doorway to the secret world could be opened at any time, anywhere by anyone. This was the silently acknowledged truth. Its worst kept secret.
And here it was again, on Maldon Road in Colchester.
Suzanne Perry’s flat was now the latest gateway to the secret world.
Dead bodies in homes were the worst of all, Phil thought. Finding the body of the woman he presumed to be Julie Miller was horrific enough. But that had been outdoors with the possibility of looking away. A dead body in a domestic environment was much more upsetting to him. There, it was impossible to look away. Everywhere he looked he ended up looking back at the body.
‘Oh God, not again…’
Phil didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until everyone else turned to look at him. But they knew he was just voicing what the rest of them were thinking.
He stood in the kitchen doorway. Or it had once been a kitchen, now it was a killing room. Blood sprayed on the walls, the ceiling, the floor. On every surface, in every nook and cranny. Blood. Everywhere.
He looked down at the body of a blonde-haired woman. Her head was right back, at an angle that would have been impossible during life. The gash in her throat was so deep, wide and scarlet it was a parody of an extra smile. Her hands were at her throat as if trying to stop the spray of blood and her legs were splayed out at awkward angles to the rest of her body as if she had been kicking violently against death. Her eyes were wide, staring, her mouth open, as if she didn’t understand what had happened to her. Phil’s heart went out to her.
Mickey Philips appeared alongside him. ‘Morning, boss.’
‘Mickey,’ said Phil, his eyes still on the body. ‘What we got?’
Mickey opened his notepad. ‘Name’s Zoe Herriot. Speech therapist at the General. Boyfriend called it in.’
Phil frowned. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Friend’s been having trouble, apparently. She stayed over.’
Phil nodded, still not looking at his DS. He became aware, however, that his DS was looking at him. He looked at Mickey. ‘What?’
Mickey quickly looked away. ‘Nothing, boss. Just… nothing.’
Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care. He had read Marina’s letter the previous evening. All about needing space to make decisions. Wanting time to think things through. She had taken Josephina with her, was promising to look after her. Don’t call her, don’t contact her. Just give her time and space. To get her head straight.
To sort out my love.
He had no idea what that meant. But it scared him.
Putting the letter down he had felt the murmurings of a panic attack begin to grip him. He had stood up, walked round the house breathing deeply, trying to shake it off. But he kept going back to the letter, reading it and rereading it, looking for clues, hidden meanings, anything that might tell him where she had gone, what she was doing. She was the love of his life. He had gone through too much to have her in his life for her to leave it again.
It was too much for him. Eventually he had broken down, cried. Then picked up the phone.
He knew that wasn’t a good idea, going directly against Marina’s wishes, but he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help himself. He rang her mobile. Waited, hands shaking. Nothing. Voicemail. Left a message. Short, together. Call me. Let me know you’re OK. Nothing. Then another call. Nothing. Then another. Nothing, every time.
Eventually he ended up sitting on the side of the bed – Marina’s side of the bed – staring at the cot, unable to move. He had stayed that way for most of the night, the phone next to him, his hand on it, just in case she called.
But there had been nothing. No call, no text. Nothing.
At some point he must have fallen asleep fully clothed, curled up on Marina’s side of the bed. He was woken by his mobile. Thinking it was Marina he scrambled to the floor, grabbed it from where it had fallen, put it straight to his ear. Chest pounding, hoping it was Marina.
It had been Mickey. Telling him of a murder at a flat on Maldon Road and to get down as quickly as possible.
He had got straight up, had only a cursory wash and teeth brush, tried to pull himself together, compartmentalise and made his way straight there. He knew what he must look like. He didn’t care.
‘The boyfriend’s called Adrian Murphy. Apparently’ – he gave a quick glance at the body on the floor, not too long, remembering what had happened with the last one – ‘Zoe said her friend was having a bit of trouble. Ex-boyfriend, or something. Zoe phoned him last night, said she couldn’t sleep. He said he’d come over but she didn’t think that was such a good idea. Said to phone her first thing and if she didn’t answer, then come over. That’s what he did.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Down the station. Giving a statement. Didn’t think it was too healthy to keep him here.’
‘Right.’
Mickey kept looking at him. ‘We better get suited up, boss. CSI’ll be here soon.’
Phil nodded, looked up. Saw Anni making her way down the narrow hall towards him. Her eyes were almost as wide as the blonde corpse’s on the floor.
‘You all right?’
She nodded absently. ‘This was my case, boss. The one I told you about yesterday.’
Phil looked once more at the body then at his DC. ‘This is her? Your stalking victim?’
Anni shook her head. ‘This is the friend that was staying with her.’
Phil looked about. ‘So where is she, then? Your girl?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anni. ‘Gone…’
Suzanne opened her eyes. And it was still dark. She tried to move. Couldn’t.
Panic welled within her and she started to kick. She didn’t get very far.
Tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. She screamed. Nothing. No response. Just her muffled cries dying away.
She lay still, breathing hard, breathing heavy. Trying to work out where she was, what had happened to her. She closed her eyes, cast her mind back to how she got there, what had happened.
There was that figure. The one from her dream. Back in her bedroom again, looming over her, lights at the side of its head, sharp, white demon eyes staring right down at her. Had she screamed? She thought she had but it had happened so quickly. One second it was at the end of the bed, the next on her. Hand clamped over her mouth, tight and hard, cutting off her words, her breath.
She remembered being lifted up, carried. Trying to kick and scream and making no impact, her hands and feet held firmly. And then…
Oh God.
Zoe. Lying there, on the kitchen floor. Blood all over the place. So much blood, it seemed more than one body could hold…
And the gash across her best friend’s throat. The way her legs lay, her arms, her face.
Oh God, her face…
She screamed again, kicked again. Kept screaming and kicking until her body rode out the wave of fear and anger, leaving her still, panting. She looked round, willed her eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, make something out of her surroundings.
She was in a box of some kind. She breathed in, deeply. Smelled wood. A wooden box. Big, big enough for her.
Oh God, she thought. A coffin.
She held her hysteria down, tried to think.
The box was sealed. Tight. But she was breathing so there must be some air holes somewhere, some kind of contact with outside. She looked around. Blinked. Looked away, tried to see out of the corners of her eyes, like looking for stars on a dark, cloudless night.
There were some holes, just above her head. Round, like they’d been drilled. Still dark, but different. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night.
And her hands were tied together in front of her body. She tried pulling them apart, felt nothing but pain around her wrists. Either sharp plastic or wire. Something that would only make things worse for her the more she pulled. The same for her ankles. Her feet were bare and she was cold. There was a blanket wrapped round her, old and itchy. But she still felt cold. Not uncomfortably so, just not warm.
Suzanne lay still, listened. Tried to take in sounds beyond the box, make out where she was. Nothing. Silence.
She sighed. Tried not to let her fear overwhelm her once more. Because she had always been claustrophobic, that was bad enough. But there was something else.
There had been a film out years ago, Boxing Helena. About an obsessed doctor who keeps a young woman captive and gradually removes her arms and legs, ending up with just her torso and head, alive and in a box. Her friends and her had watched it late one drunken night at uni. And they had laughed at it, said what rubbish it was. But Suzanne hadn’t laughed. Because for Suzanne it was, quite literally, her worst nightmare.
Ever since she was a child she had had a recurring dream. Her arms and legs would stop moving, stop responding. Her dreaming mind would tell her that she had to run, escape. And she would try. But she could never move. Not an arm, not a leg. Nothing, until she woke up.
And when she did the dream was always so vivid and terrifying, she would spend the next day trying to shake it away. But it was harder to get rid of than tattoos.
And now the dream was back again.
Except this time it was real.
The fear, the panic, welled up inside Suzanne once more and she screamed. As loud and as hard as she could. And when the scream subsided she started it up again. Accompanied by kicks from her tied feet, punches from her tied wrists. She hit the wood, felt the blows bounce harmlessly off. She may as well have been trying to break into Fort Knox with a toffee hammer.
She lay back panting for breath, sweat on her face, trickling down her body. Let her pulse rate fall back, gather her strength.
Try to keep the panic down.
Soon, all she heard was her own breathing, all she could see was the different coloured blackness of the air holes.
She lay as still as she could, waiting to see what would happen next.
‘Be quiet… just be quiet…’
Suzanne’s heart skipped a beat. Then another. Was that her voice? Was she speaking aloud or imagining she was speaking aloud?
‘Hello?’
‘Please, be quiet…’
No. It was definitely a voice. Coming from outside her box. Not her own.
Suzanne looked round but of course she couldn’t see anything or anyone. Hope rose within her. There was someone there, someone else besides herself. They could help her, get her out. She should talk, communicate. Let them know she was here.
Then another thought struck her. Maybe this was her captor. What had the voice said? Be quiet. Maybe if she made more noise the voice would open the box. Do to her what it had done to Zoe.
She lay in the darkness, heart thudding, terrified. Waiting.
The voice spoke again. ‘There’s no point in shouting… or trying to get out. There’s no one here to hear you. But me.’
‘What… what… who are you?’
Nothing. Suzanne waited. Nothing.
‘Just, please… who are you? How do you know you can’t get out?’
The voice sighed. ‘Because I tried…’
‘So,’ said Phil, pulling the hood of his blue paper suit round his face, ‘Suzanne Perry had been stalked before?’
Anni nodded. ‘Anthony Howe, one of her lecturers at university. Apparently they had an affair and he couldn’t let go. Apparently. There was some doubt.’
Phil looked round the flat. The CSIs were moving through, sifting, numbering, examining, analysing. ‘Someone couldn’t let go…’
Anni had brought him up to speed about Suzanne Perry. The intruder of the night before, the rape examination. Also the lack of physical evidence for a break-in and the previous trouble with Anthony Howe, including the unsubstantiated allegations Suzanne made against him. Plus her subsequent scepticism about Suzanne’s claims.
Phil saw the look on her face, the guilt-ridden, haunted look in her eyes. She wasn’t sceptical now.
‘What about the ex-boyfriend?’ said Phil.
‘I don’t know till I talk to Rose Martin. She spoke to him last night.’
Phil nodded. Perhaps punishing the errant DS by giving her unpaid overtime on a case that wasn’t hers hadn’t been, in retrospect, such a good idea.
Mickey had suited up, come to join them. ‘So where do we go from here, boss?’
‘Out, I think,’ said Phil. It was another hot day and the small flat couldn’t take the press of extra bodies. Plus they were getting in the way of the CSIs.
They moved out to the landing, which wasn’t much bigger but was slightly cooler. Outside, the whole of the old Edwardian house had been cordoned off, the street outside swathed in yellow and black tape as if it had been gift wrapped by a wasp.
‘So what do we think?’ said Phil.
‘You mean is this connected with Julie Miller?’ said Mickey.
Anni joined Mickey in looking at Phil, waiting expectantly for him to answer.
‘Well, in a way I hope so. Two dead bodies in two days. Both young women…’ He shrugged. ‘Big coincidence.’
‘You’re right. Anni, what does Suzanne Perry look like?’
‘Tall, long dark hair, pretty.’ She looked between the two men. ‘Why?’
‘Because that’s a description of Julie Miller,’ said Mickey.
‘And Adele Harrison,’ said Phil. The other two looked at him. ‘She went missing last week, hasn’t been found. There may be a connection.’ Phil sighed. Tall, long dark hair, pretty. Marina. His mind slipped, jumped its professional groove to a personal one. He felt a constricting band round his chest…
‘You OK, boss?’
Anni was looking at him, concern in her eyes.
‘Fine, yeah,’ he said, regaining control. ‘Come on, let’s think. If there’s a connection, what is it? Why is it there?’
‘Maybe we need a profiler, boss,’ said Mickey.
Phil nodded, trying not to think of Marina. ‘Maybe. Let’s see what Fenwick can come up with.’
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Anni.
She was looking down the stairs. The two men followed her eyes. Fenwick was making his way up towards them, suit and hair immaculate. Rose Martin was behind him with another woman next to her.
‘Charlie and his Angels,’ said Anni quietly, but loudly enough for the other two to catch and smile at.
Fenwick arrived on the landing. ‘Phil. You and the team here already. Good man.’
‘Sir,’ said Phil. He was aware of Rose Martin looking at him. A strange look on her face: a mix of sly smile and barely disguised loathing. He smiled at her. ‘Rose. How you doing?’
She didn’t reply.
Neither did Fenwick. Instead he turned and ushered forward the woman standing behind him. ‘Allow me to introduce the answer to your prayers,’ he said with what Phil would call his typical modesty. ‘Fiona Welch.’
The woman was small, compact. She stood with her clasped hands before her body, handbag hanging from them. Her mousey hair was cut into a short bob and she wore glasses and little make-up and she was wearing a flowery summer frock in the manner of someone who didn’t get the opportunity to dress up much.
‘Hello,’ she said, giving a little wave of her hand, nearly dropping her oversized handbag in the process.
Phil returned the greeting then looked quizzically at Fenwick.
‘Remember we discussed getting a profiler in?’ he said by way of explanation, then gestured to her with a flourish. ‘This is her.’
‘Welcome aboard,’ said Phil, then turned to Anni and Mickey.
‘She’s got both a B.Sc. and an M.Sc. in Forensic Psychology,’ said Fenwick as if reciting. ‘She’s working at the hospital and teaches at Essex University.’
‘I’m studying there for my Ph.D. in Victimology,’ she said in voice that looked surprisingly stronger than her frame. ‘Part-time.’
Fenwick beamed as if she was his puppet and he was operating her from behind.
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Good.’ He introduced her to Anni and Mickey. She smiled shyly at both of them, her eyes perhaps staying on Mickey for a beat longer than was professional, Phil thought. Mickey didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Right. I think we have to assume,’ said Fenwick, looking round to see if they were alone, ‘that these two murders are connected.’
‘We don’t have to assume anything,’ said Phil, looking round also. ‘There’s a strong possibility but given a lack of similarities so far it’s not a certainty.’
‘Can I… Can I say something?’ said Fiona Welch.
The two men stopped talking, looked at her.
‘Thank you.’ She reddened slightly. Cleared her throat. ‘I’ve, erm… I’ve examined the case notes from yesterday’s murder and of course been briefed by Ben on today’s,’ she said, giving a shy smile and a nod towards Fenwick who beamed in response. ‘And I have to say, it looks very definitely like the same man. And it is a man.’
Phil raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice becoming stronger, more enthusiastic as she warmed to her theme. ‘I believe, in this instance, we’re looking for a spree killer.’ She began gesturing, her handbag swinging from her wrist. ‘Someone who it’s clear has killed once, liked it and wants to do it again.’
‘Right,’ said Phil.
‘And he will do it again. There’s no doubt about that.’
Fiona Welch’s voice trilled, like the song of an insistent bird. Phil closed his eyes. Felt a thumping behind them, in his head. Wished Marina was with him. She would tell him what to do, who they were looking for…
‘Anything else?’ he said.
Another shy smile. ‘I think I should look at the crime scene first. It should help to confirm my suspicions.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Phil, his headache starting to intensify. ‘Where did you say you were from? The Department of Wild Guesses?’
Fenwick turned to him, anger flaring in his eyes. ‘Phil.’
Fiona Welch’s mouth fell open. She stood, stunned, like she had just been slapped in the face.
‘Sorry,’ said Phil. ‘But you seem very sure of your theories and you haven’t even seen the crime scene yet, or the reports.’
Before she could reply, Fenwick took her arm, hurried her wide-eyed inside the apartment. ‘Well, let’s get a move on, then.’
Phil watched them go. And wished, not for the first time and, he felt, not for the last, that Marina was with him.
The latest husk had been stored away.
It would be screaming and shouting and sobbing by now. The carrier shells always did because that’s what happened when the spirit left them. But the Creeper never listened. Just walked away, wondering where Rani would appear next.
He lay back, eyes closed. The slight swaying from side to side lulled him, gave him peace, allowed him to conjure up her face once more. How she had looked when he first met her. How she would look one day when he saw her again.
Her smile. That’s what he had first noticed about her. The way the skin round those dark eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips turned up, her even, white teeth exposed. His heart would sing with joy when she did that. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping up and grabbing her, whisking her round and round, off her feet, taking her in his arms, hearing her laughter in his ears and seeing that smile light up her face.
And knowing he was responsible for that smile. He couldn’t describe how good that made him feel.
‘I’m thinking of you again.’ He told her his thoughts, of picking her up and whirling her round.
I wish you had, she said. I wish you’d said something at the time.
‘So do I,’ he replied.
Not kept it till later, when…
He could no longer see Rani’s eyes. Like a cloud obscuring the sun, the rest of her smiling face disappeared.
‘No…’ He stood up quickly, shaking his head, his eyes still closed. ‘No, no…’
And in his mind she was taken again. One minute she was in his arms, the next she was gone, pulled away from him. He could see her getting smaller, her arm reaching out to him, screaming. Then the heat, the blackness enveloped her from all sides and, even though she fought to be free from it, it was too late. She was gone.
He sat back down. Sighed. Eyes still closed, seeing only the blackness. Alone.
He didn’t want to think of all those years alone. Lost without Rani. When the pain was so great he couldn’t eat or sleep, couldn’t live or talk, even. All he could do was think of her. And how lost he was.
And that’s how it would have stayed if her voice hadn’t called to him once more, begged him to search for her. She guided him on. Told him where she was, gave him clues, instructions on how to find her. Her body had died, she said. The body he knew her in. But her spirit was too strong. It still lived on. It lived, she said, because her love for him was so great. She had to see him again. They had to be together. Forever. The way it should be.
He had thought his heart would explode when she told him that.
So he had gone looking for her. She hid clues for him to find, secret codes for him to decipher. She warned him she would look different, depending on the body her spirit was inhabiting. But not too different, she hoped. Similar enough so he could spot her.
And he did. Easily. And he thought that was it. They would be settled. But then she jumped to the next one. And he had to follow.
He didn’t like that, was impatient, told her to find a body and settle down, so he could be with her. She said it wasn’t that easy. She didn’t have full control over the bodies yet. Sometimes, like had just happened, the shell wasn’t right. It couldn’t hold her. And she couldn’t just jump out because the person whose body it was would know. So the hosts – the husks – had to be taken away. Dealt with. He didn’t question it. Just knew that if he wanted to be close to Rani it had to be done. And that was the important thing.
Rani. He sighed again. Saw her smile.
It wouldn’t be long now. She would find another host and then he would hear her voice, the secret codes she gave him, the hidden clues so he could find her again.
Yes.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Phil watched Fenwick and Fiona Welch enter the flat then turned to his team. He noticed Rose Martin had stayed behind with him, her eyes still on Fenwick’s retreating back. Phil had noticed the way Fenwick’s hand had rested on the small of Fiona Welch’s back, guiding her over the threshold. He was sure Rose had noticed it too.
‘Right,’ he said and turned to Mickey. ‘We have a profiler. Happy?’
Mickey didn’t seem to know what to say.
‘Not what you expected?’
‘Erm, not really…’
‘Never mind,’ Phil said, a grim smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘They can’t all be good. Just down to us then. Right.’ He blinked, trying to ignore the headache. ‘Plan of action. What have we got. Any ideas?’
‘I think Ben’s right,’ said Rose. ‘I think the two might be related.’
‘I think so too,’ said Phil, ‘but it’ll still pay to keep an open mind. Having said that…’ He turned to the team individually. ‘Anni. This was your case. Keep on it. Work on the missing girl’s background and the murdered girls. They were friends, work mates, maybe there’s some overlap between the two here and Julie Miller, something in their backgrounds. ’
‘OK.’
‘Oh, and get Rose to brief you on her visit to the boyfriend last night. Make sure we’re all up to speed. Mickey.’
He turned to his DS. ‘The van that was seen on the quay yesterday morning. Keep on it. Eyewitnesses, ownership, number plate, anything. And see if there’s been similar sightings round here. That should help to tie these two together. And Adele Harrison. Check with John Farrell for black vans.’
Mickey nodded, scribbling in his notebook.
‘Rose. You’re still part of this team. Julie Miller was your case and she still is. I want you to go through her background again.’
‘I’ve done that-’
‘I know you have. But this time you’re looking for anything that sticks out, anything that can be flagged up. And anything that might strike a chord with Zoe Herriot and Suzanne Perry. Anything. OK?’
She nodded.
‘Good.’ He sighed, checked his watch. Breakfast time. But he wasn’t hungry. ‘I’ll get Adrian to do chain of evidence, follow the body for the PM. Twice in two days. He’s going to love me. In the meantime-’
‘Ah, you’re still here, good.’
Phil turned. Fenwick and Fiona Welch had emerged from the flat. Fenwick’s face was decidedly pale. Fiona Welch looked wide-eyed, detached.
Phil felt a small pang of guilt over his earlier treatment of her. ‘We were just off,’ said Phil.
‘Can you stay? Talk to Nick Lines?’
Phil said he could. Fenwick also asked for a gathering later, pooling what information they had received. Phil agreed.
‘Oh, Phil,’ Fenwick said, putting his arm round the DI’s shoulder, taking him over to one side, ‘a word.’
Phil waited.
‘Let’s chat. Fiona. She has insights which could be most valuable.’
‘Is she qualified, Ben?’
‘She teaches at university. What more could you want?’
‘But is she qualified?’
‘Yes.’
Phil didn’t think he sounded so sure. ‘Good. Because if she isn’t, if she’s just an assistant, nothing she says will be taken seriously.’
‘She… she…’
A wicked smile crossed Phil’s face. ‘Comes highly recommended too?’
Fenwick knew what Phil meant. He reddened. ‘She’s had papers published, is, is highly thought of.’
‘And she’s cheap.’
Fenwick’s lips curled in a snarl. His voice dropped. ‘Make all the jibes you want, Phil. You aren’t the one who has to balance the books, provide accountability.’
‘No. I’m just the one who has to get results.’
Phil turned, went to rejoin his team.
Fenwick hurried after him. Phil was about to address them but Fenwick, seeing this, jumped in first.
‘Right, then,’ Fenwick said. ‘All got jobs? Good. Go softly on. And remember, we’re a team. We work as a team.’ He gave a quick glance to Phil. ‘And there is no “I” in “team”.’
Anni walking away, caught Phil’s eye. ‘No,’ she said, muttering, ‘but there are five in “patronising fucking idiot”.’
Phil smiled. He didn’t know if Fenwick had heard.
Didn’t care.
‘So… who, who are you? What’s your name?’
Suzanne heard only the echo of her voice, then silence. The voice had stopped talking.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
Nothing.
‘Hello?’
Nothing.
Panic began to rise within Suzanne once more. Stuck here on her own and now hearing voices. Or maybe it was her captor, taunting her. Pretending she wasn’t alone, trying to drive her mad. Trying to get her to…
What? Get her to do what?
She didn’t know. Nothing made any sense any more.
‘Please…’
Nothing.
She sighed. Heard her breath trail away. Her heart felt like a huge black stone inside her. A dead, dark lump. She felt cold and empty. She felt, suddenly and totally, devoid of hope.
This was it. The rest of her life. No rescue. No Hollywood ending.
She was going to die here.
She didn’t realise she was crying until she felt the tears run out of the corners of her eyes and into her ears. They tickled and she couldn’t reach to scratch them. That just made her cry all the more.
‘Hey… hey…’
Suzanne stopped herself crying. Was that the voice again? Talking to her?
‘Hey… hey you…’
‘Yes? Yes, I’m here…’ Suzanne was shouting, her voice verging on hysterical. ‘Hello, hello…’
No reply.
‘Hello… are you still there?’
A silence that stretched for a hundred years, then, ‘Yes I’m still here. Where would I be going?’
Suzanne could almost have started to cry again. From joy this time. Someone else there. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t have to suffer this – whatever it was – alone.
Questions began to tumble out of her. So fast she could barely articulate them. ‘Are you… are you here like me? Held here… Are you… what’s going on? Who are you?’
‘It’s best not to talk. They don’t like it when we talk.’
‘We? There’s more than you and me here?’
A silence. A sigh. ‘Not any more.’
‘What happened?’
‘Don’t know. She went, you came.’
‘Why? What’s going on? Why am I here?’
Another silence. ‘I cried at first. Just like you. And all the questions. But you get used to it.’
‘Get used to it? How long have you been here?’
‘Don’t know.’ Her voice faded a little. ‘Try not to think of it.’
Panic began to rise in Suzanne again. ‘But we’ll get out, won’t we? They have to let us out eventually.’
‘Do they?’ Another silence. Suzanne thought the person speaking had disappeared again. ‘That’s what the other one thought.’
‘The one who was here before me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what happened? Did they let her out?’
Suzanne heard a bitter laugh. Tinged with hysteria. ‘Oh yeah. She got out.’
‘Good…’
‘I heard the screams. I heard what they did to her…’ The voice broke, sobbed away into silence.
‘Hello?’ Suzanne felt like she was throwing her voice into a void.
‘I don’t want to talk any more.’
Silence returned.
Suzanne tried not to panic, not to cry.
For the first time in her life, Suzanne knew what it was like to feel totally, utterly, without hope.
‘Oh my God…’
Hazel Mills, the woman sitting opposite Anni, had
Hazel Mills, the woman sitting opposite Anni, had her hand over her mouth in a gesture of shock that would have looked caricatured if she hadn’t been so sincere and upset. ‘Oh my God…’
Speechless, thought Anni, then felt guilty at even thinking of a joke like that.
She was on Gainsborough Wing, in the office of the Head of Speech Therapy at Colchester General Hospital. The unit was as institutionalised as the rest of the building but efforts had been made to make it appear more colourful and comfortable. Anni had glimpsed primary coloured chairs and tables in the treatment rooms as she had been led along the corridor. Boxes of well-used toys were stacked and overflowing in corners where small children weren’t playing with them. Charts adorned the walls, phonetics and letters in bright, bold letters interspersed with positive messages.
Hazel Mills’ office was just the same: big, bright and bold. But there was little positivity at that moment. Anni had just told the head of department about Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot.
Anni had spoken to Rose Martin before she left the crime scene for the hospital. Asked her about her chat with Mark Turner, seeing if there was anything he had said that could have thrown some light on the situation. Given them something to work on. She had been tight-lipped about it.
‘I don’t think it’s him,’ was the first thing she had said.
Anni was taken aback by her defensiveness. ‘I didn’t ask that. Look, I’m sorry that Phil made you do it. It should have been me.’
Rose had said nothing, just looked at Anni as if waiting for her to finish talking. She barely blinked.
‘It wasn’t my decision. He’s the boss.’ Anni sighed. ‘Look, if it’s any consolation, I’ve just had a big bust-up with him.’
A light came on in Rose’s eyes.
Anni sensed a breakthrough. She smiled. ‘He’s not the easiest of people to get on with. I know.’ Phil was probably the best boss Anni had ever had if she was honest but if it would bring Rose Martin onside she would say what the woman wanted to hear.
Rose seemed to snap out of it then. She shook her head, gave a small smile. ‘We had a bit of a… difference of opinion yesterday.’
‘First day?’ Anni laughed. ‘Good going. I waited at least a week.’
Rose’s turn to laugh then. Anni joined her. More out of relief than anything else. She hadn’t known her long, but already she found the DS hard to get along with.
‘So, I’m sorry, yeah? Apology accepted?’
Rose nodded, the hint of a smile playing at her lips.
‘So what happened last night? Anything I should know about?’
Rose shrugged. ‘He’s a bit of an odd one. Typical student, I thought. Dull and nerdy. Not much to him. I doubt he’s a serious contender.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one thing he’s got a girlfriend who he says can give him an alibi for when Suzanne Perry reckons the intruder was in her flat, and another thing…’ She tailed off.
‘Yes?’
Rose smiled. ‘He’s just not that into her.’
Anni laughed.
‘Really. Had to be prompted to see if she was OK or not. Sounds like he’d moved on. No great loss, she can do better than him.’
‘Let’s hope she gets the chance.’
Rose reddened. ‘Sorry. I meant…’
‘I know.’
‘We can talk to him again, if you think we should, but to be honest…’ She shrugged.
‘Not a priority.’
‘I doubt it.’
So, armed with that and the hope she had made a new ally, she had gone off to the Speech Therapy Department at Colchester General.
There were other officers and uniforms taking statements from other members of staff but Anni, being of senior rank, was interviewing Hazel Mills.
She was a small woman. Compact, Anni would have said. In her late forties with short, greying hair and wearing a striped, mannish blouse, linen trousers and little make-up, she was clear-eyed and sharp-featured. But not today. Those eyes were wide and threatening tears, her featured blurred and unfocused.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anni. She hated this part of the job. Seeing the carefully constructed worlds of ordinary people collapse. It always made her think of the Shakespeare she had studied at school. Macbeth. The death of Banquo, the spectre at the feast. The reminder that no matter how much people try and forget, go about their ordinary lives, follow their dreams, indulge their passions and make their wishes, it all, ultimately, stands for nothing. Because it can be taken away so easily, so arbitrarily. And where a work colleague or friend or lover should be there’s now just a void. An ache. And with it another reminder: That’ll be me one day. One day there’ll be a world without me in it.
If that hadn’t yet happened to Hazel Mills, if she hadn’t quite reached that stage, thought Anni, she soon would.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anni once more.
Hazel Mills nodded, barely hearing her. She reached for a box of tissues on the corner of her desk, pulled one out. Then another. Rubbed her eyes with them. Kept them there a long time.
Anni waited for her to look up, then continued. ‘It happened quite quickly,’ she said. ‘To Zoe. She wouldn’t have suffered.’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘Does… have you told her, her boyfriend yet?’
‘Someone’s there now.’
‘And, and… Suzanne?’
‘We don’t know. Yet.’ Anni leaned forward. ‘Obviously we’re doing all we can to find her.’
Hazel Mills nodded once more. Anni wasn’t sure she had heard her. She looked at her, trying to make eye contact.
‘But we need help. D’you mind if I ask you some questions, please…’ Anni checked the woman’s fingers for wedding rings, ‘… Ms Mills?’
‘Go ahead.’ She blew her nose, blinked the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, sat stiff and erect, her body tensed as if ready to ward off blows.
Anni looked down at her notes. ‘Did you know Suzanne had a stalker?’
Hazel Mills leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. Anni got the impression she was a very serious person although she clearly wasn’t seeing her at her best. ‘I… yes.’
‘She told you?’
‘Word… got out. There was talk so I asked her outright. And she was honest with me. Told me it was something that had happened when she was at university. All over and done with. All in the past.’ She sighed and Anni thought she was about to start crying again.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re a small unit here. We all have to work together. Get on. That’s one of the things I look for in staff when I employ them. I like to create a… nurturing environment. The two girls fitted in very well with that.’ Her bottom lip trembled. She bit it. ‘I take a personal interest in my staff ’s welfare.’ She sniffed, dabbed her nose. ‘I’m sorry.’
Anni nodded, said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
‘So this stalker problem Suzanne mentioned,’ said Anni, keeping the questions going, keeping Hazel Mills’ mind occupied, ‘it was all over and done with by the time she came to work here.’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘She hadn’t been here that long really. Just before Christmas. She wasn’t long out of university.’
‘I know. And she had no trouble here?’
Hazel Mills shook her head.
‘Did she mention the name Anthony Howe?’
Hazel Mills frowned. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell…’ She sighed again, dabbed away at her tears. ‘This is awful. Especially after what happened to that occupational therapist. Like we’re cursed, here…’
Anni’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Occupational therapist?’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘Julie.’
‘Julie Miller?’
Hazel Mills’ eyes widened. ‘You know her? You know what’s happened to her?’
‘Let’s talk some more.’
Rose Martin stood outside the house on Greenstead Road once more. Knocked. Waited.
She hadn’t been paying attention the previous evening. She knew that and wasn’t proud of the fact. If she had she would have listened to her gut instinct. She had during the night. Virtually all night. Playing back one aspect or another of the previous day. Some more times than others. Some things kept her awake longer than others. Like Mark Turner. The more she had thought about him, the more she thought there was something off about his manner. She couldn’t define it, couldn’t explain it. But it was there. And she should have noticed it.
But she wasn’t going to dwell on that. She was going to put it all behind her – along with most of the previous day – and work on it now.
Another knock. Another wait. At least there was no level crossing siren this time.
She heard Phil’s voice in her head. Julie Miller was your case and she still is… go through her background again.
Right. Again.
… anything that sticks out, anything that can be flagged up… She knew what he meant. It was just an exercise to see if she’d made a mistake, another slip-up. Find something else he could pick up on, beat her with. Like she was going to give him the chance.
Another knock, harder this time, more impatient.
Nothing.
And no mavericking.
Right. Ben would vouch for her. He was a DCI. His word mattered.
She waited. Nothing.
Then turned, walked away.
The level crossing siren just starting to ring out.
‘Tell me about Julie Miller, Ms Mills.’
‘She… worked as part of the department.’
‘Here? On your team?’
‘No. On this wing, though. We have a structure here in therapy management. Different branches under one heading. The OTs and the SALTs come under the same Therapy umbrella. As well as Nutrition and Dietetics, Neuro and Health Psychology-’
‘Sorry? SALTs? OTs?’
Hazel Mills gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Occupational therapists. Speech and language therapists. Every job has its jargon.’
Anni returned the smile. ‘Don’t I know it. So, would Suzanne and Zoe have worked with Julie Miller?’
‘They might have done. We’re a multi-disciplinary team. We use standardised assessments for our referrals. SALTs can overlap with OTs, psychologists, any AHP.’
Anni raised her eyebrow.
‘Allied health professionals.’
‘Jargon.’ She made another note. ‘What kind of work did Suzanne and Zoe do here, Ms Mills?’
‘In what way?’
‘Therapy-wise. What kind of people did they work with?’
‘Anyone who needed it,’ Hazel Mills said. ‘Some therapists specialise but Suzanne and Zoe hadn’t been here long enough to do that. They were still starting out.’ There was a catch in her voice. ‘Starting out.’
‘Give me a for instance.’ Anni, keeping her on track.
‘Well, children, adults-’
‘What kind of adults?’
‘All stripes. Whoever was referred to us. Stroke victims. Cancer patients needing reconstructive surgery and learning how to communicate again. Paralysis cases. And with the garrison being nearby, a fair few soldiers suffering PTSD.’
‘Post-traumatic stress disorder?’
Hazel Mills nodded. ‘But, as I say, that would all overlap. ’
‘Could you get me a list of patients that Suzanne and Zoe saw, please?’
Hazel Mills’ face darkened. She glanced quickly round the room as if being watched. ‘I don’t know…’
Anni nodded, kept her voice calm and reasonable. Hazel Mills didn’t strike her as the kind of person to respond to threats. And Anni wasn’t going to make them. At least not yet.
‘I know,’ Anni said, ‘patient confidentiality. Data protection, all that. This is a murder inquiry, Ms Mills. And Suzanne’s missing.’
She said nothing.
‘There was a body found yesterday,’ said Anni. ‘Just outside Julie Miller’s flat.’
Hazel Mills’ hand went to her throat. ‘Is it…’
‘We don’t know. But it answers her description. And now Suzanne’s missing…’
Hazel Mills nodded. She looked even paler. ‘I’ll go and get the files.’
She stood up, composed herself and left the room.
Anni waited.
Impatiently.
‘And you can see the lightship, just down there…’
Phil pointed through the window of Julie Miller’s flat. Fiona Welch followed his directions, looked down. She was thoughtful for a few seconds then nodded to herself, a slight smile troubling her lips, as if this confirmed something she had been thinking. She started making notes on her BlackBerry.
She was already irritating Phil. He couldn’t make her out. On first impression she seemed small and timid, almost afraid to speak up for herself, content to keep her opinions safely hidden behind her glasses. But when she had spoken he felt that, behind her passive/aggressive manner, was a steely resolve. An arrogance even, in the belief that her theories were correct, no matter how unsubstantiated. And that everyone else would eventually come round to see things her way.
The lightship was still cordoned off with CSIs combing the area once again for clues. They would be there, Phil knew from experience, for days.
‘So what d’you think?’ he said, turning into the room and leaning back against the window, studying Fiona, not the murder scene. ‘Any ideas you want to share?’
If she noticed the low-level sarcasm in his voice she didn’t acknowledge it. ‘It’s obviously sexual.’ Nodding as she said it, confirming in her own mind. ‘A sexually motivated killing.’
‘Obviously.’
‘The placing of the body with her legs apart on the deck, the tower of the lightship between them… he’s sending us a clear, unambiguous message that he is a sexual predator.’
‘Not to mention the mutilated genitals and the fact that he’d carved the word “whore” into her body.’
Again, she made no acknowledgement of his tone of voice. She nodded. ‘Quite.’
‘If this is Julie Miller, which is increasingly likely, would you say it’s significant that he placed her body on the lightship in view of her flat?’
Fiona seemed about to rush into saying something but stopped herself. She glanced at Phil before continuing. ‘I think so.’ She smiled. ‘You could also argue that the tower of the lightship is pointing towards Julie Miller’s flat. Like it’s accusing her in some way…’
‘Of what?’
Another shy smile. ‘I don’t know. We’ll see, won’t we?’ She shrugged. ‘Or perhaps we won’t…’
Phil felt anger rising inside him. He shouldn’t have to work with someone like her, some eager little upstart trying to make a name for herself, not on a case as important as this. He wanted a profiler whose opinions he could respect, whose reasoning was sound and conclusions were reached by clear and tested empirical thinking. He wanted-
Marina.
He sighed.
‘Are you OK?’
Fiona Welch was right in front of him, her hand hovering in front of his face, as if about to touch him but unsure what the reaction would be. She stared into his eyes, concerned.
‘I’m… I’m fine,’ he said and caught her eyes. Yes, there was concern there. But was there something more? Or was he imagining it?
He stepped away from her, aware that her eyes were still following him.
‘You sure?’ Her voice sounded lower, huskier.
‘Yeah.’ He turned, looked out of the window once more. ‘I’m sure.’
She was still looking at him, he could feel it.
‘You look tired.’ She moved next to him. He could feel the warmth from her skin, her bare arm against his jacket. She snaked out a hand. It rested on his. ‘Are you?’
‘Let’s look at the rest of the flat,’ he said, moving away from the window and crossing into the centre of the room. He knew she was still watching him, risked a glance at her.
Fiona Welch’s head was down. She quickly looked up, saw he was looking at her, then cast her eyes downwards once more.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice small once more. ‘I was just… we didn’t get off on the right foot. I was… trying to help.’
Phil looked at her standing against the window, seemingly unaware of the light streaming round her, how it turned her thin summer dress translucent, obscuring her features but heightening her shape; the swell of her hips, her small breasts, the pinch of her waist…
She sighed and moved forward towards him, her walk fluid, flowing. She reached him. He looked at her. She looked at her watch.
‘I’d better have a look around,’ she said, dropping her wrist, her eyes back on him. ‘See if there’s anything that stands out. Anything that’ll help with my report.’ She moved away from him. ‘This is her bedroom, through here, yes?’
‘Yeah, through there…’
She walked away. He watched her go. Wondered what had just happened there. Had she been concerned for him? Trying to build bridges? Or had she started to come on to him? And if she had, would he have responded? She had stirred something within him, even though what he’d seen of her so far he hadn’t taken to. Was it opposites attracting? Or something more? Or, if he was imagining things, less.
Phil sighed, looked at his own watch. Closed his eyes, forced himself to concentrate. The clock was ticking. He could hear it, feel it inside him. There were only two things standing between Suzanne Perry and the same fate that had befallen Julie Miller. Him. And his investigation.
But he could feel the investigation slipping away from him. In giving him Rose Martin and Fiona Welch and forcing him to work with them, Fenwick’s interference in the investigation bordered on sabotage. But Phil was used to his superior officer. Normally he would have been able to work with that, found ways round it. But this time was different.
His head wasn’t in the right place. Marina and Josephina were his world. And they were no longer there. Usually he compartmentalised, kept his work and personal lives separate. But not this time. One was bleeding into the other, making his head pound, his thoughts mix and swirl. He could barely think what to do next.
Fiona Welch emerged from the bedroom.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you lot have been thorough in there. There’s virtually nothing of Julie Miller left.’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No matter. My report will just have to reflect that. Shall we?’ She walked towards the door.
Phil followed her out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Thinking not of Suzanne Perry, but of Marina once more.
Marina knew she shouldn’t have come here. She didn’t know where she should have gone, but it wasn’t here.
Another beautiful day in another park. She had pushed Josephina’s baby buggy down to the play area where she now sat on one of the wooden benches, her hand resting on the handle. She knew the infant was too small to get out and join in – plus she was sleeping – but if she had gone to any other part of the park she would have felt guilty.
Something else to beat herself up over.
She closed her eyes, could still hear the sounds of children playing enthusiastically. Swings, slides, roundabouts. Children never tired of them. Backwards and forwards, in and out, up and down. Dizzy and out of breath, seconds to pause, then back in again. Shouting and laughing. The moment, everything.
Life in miniature. Or life how it should be.
And hers anything but.
She shouldn’t have come here.
Bury St Edmunds, a small, market town in Suffolk. A heritage town of old shop fronts, buildings and churches. Ruined abbeys and castles. And, more recently, an ultramodern steel and glass shopping centre that the locals, predictably, hated.
It should have been the perfect place to escape to, to think, decide. But everywhere Marina went she saw Phil. His ghost, following her around. Here, in the park, he walked between the geometrically laid out flowerbeds. Sat on a ruined abbey wall. Walked over the wooden footbridge and watched the beautifully coloured caged birds trying to escape in the aviary.
Everywhere.
In the hotel room, at the foot of the bed as she slept, when she woke up. In the French restaurant where she had eaten dinner the previous night.
Everywhere.
She had walked past the Georgian theatre but it just reminded her of him again.
It was where they had spent Christmas. Their first together as a couple. She had said to Phil at the time that if she was ever called on to do the Guardian questionnaire and had to answer ‘When and where were you most happy?’ she would have said there and then. There were things between them they couldn’t talk about, shadows cast around them, but they both tried not to let them interfere with their happiness. Thinking, they would deal with that eventually.
But they never had. And because of that she was here now, without him.
But he was with her too.
And he wasn’t the only one.
She sighed, louder than she had intended, as it attracted the attention of some of the nearby mothers. She didn’t look at them, thankful that her sunglasses hid her eyes and the wet sadness in them.
And for all that, she was no nearer making her mind up.
She stood up. The children’s voices were beginning to irritate her, stop her from thinking. From deciding, she told herself. She needed to move, to get away. Find somewhere peaceful, silent. Calm.
Marina turned, walked towards the cathedral. It would be silent in there.
He’s behind you…
Oh no he isn’t…
Oh yes he is. He’s always behind her. Waiting to jump out. Or to creep up, surprise her. And Phil couldn’t help. She was convinced Phil couldn’t help.
They had gone to the pantomime at the Georgian theatre at Christmas, her and Phil. Held hands, laughed and even sang along. Phil had looked around at the other families, placed his hand on her growing stomach, smiling the whole time. They had felt so hopeful, so confident. So filled with the future.
It seemed a long time ago. A world away.
Then at the hotel eating Christmas dinner. Being told by a waiter that was the hotel Angelina Jolie had stayed in when she was filming in the area. Ate nothing but lettuce and boiled chicken, he had said. They had laughed, looked at Marina’s stomach. Said there was no chance of anything like that happening to her.
She walked towards the cathedral gates. Thinking all the time.
Putting off her decision.
Feeling Phil with her the whole time.
Knowing someone else was, too.
Rose Martin hated the library lifts.
They were completely open, continuously in motion and with a gap between the floor of the building and the and with a gap between the floor of the building and the floor of the lift wide enough to see straight down. To get a foot caught in, even.
She took a deep breath and, cursing whoever had invented them and allowed them to be installed, stepped into one.
She had gone looking for Mark Turner. Had tried his department first, flashing her warrant card to a shocked administrator, calming her down by telling her she only wanted to ask Mark Turner a few questions about an old girlfriend of his, nothing to do with the university whatsoever. Then, once he had been located, asking her to keep this visit very hush-hush.
Mark Turner was in the library. It was a huge, square building constructed of concrete slabs and glass panels and had probably looked like the future when it was built. Now it just looked stained and grim, even more so sat opposite a brand new, award-winning lecture hall that currently looked like the future, if the future involved buildings being circular and seemingly made of tin foil.
She eventually found him on the third floor, sitting in a cubicle with a view of the lake, books piled high around him, laptop open before him. She discreetly flashed her warrant card to the student next to him, inclined her head sharply to get the student to move. She didn’t need to be told twice and hurriedly escaped. Rose sat down in the now empty seat, leaned over towards him, tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Good book?’
He jumped, staring at her wide-eyed. She noticed he had the white buds of an iPod in his ears. She didn’t want to hazard a guess as to what he was listening to but, judging by the shabby way he was dressed and the way he had behaved the previous day, doubted it was anything fashionable.
He pulled the earpieces out, letting the tinny sound bleed out. He turned it off, looked at her. Fear and indignation fighting for dominance in his eyes.
‘What d’you want now?’
‘Ssh,’ Rose said, ‘we’re in a library.’
He looked round quickly, checked that no one was watching them, dropped his head and leaned in close. ‘Are you following me? This… this is, is harassment, you know.’
Rose raised an eyebrow.
‘I could have you… have you… struck off for this.’
‘That’s doctors not police officers,’ she said with a patronising smile.
‘So what d’you want?’ Resigned now. Take the pain, get it over with as quickly as possible.
‘Same thing we talked about yesterday, Mark. Suzanne. Seen the papers today? The news?’
He shook his head, unsure where this was going.
‘She’s disappeared. Her friend has been murdered and she’s disappeared.’
His mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God…’
Rose waited.
‘Did she… did she do it?’
‘What?’
‘Suzanne. Did she, did she kill her friend?’
‘State she was in? I doubt it. No. She’s missing. Someone broke in, killed her friend Zoe-’
‘Zoe… oh my God…’
‘-and took Suzanne.’ Rose sat back, looked at him, trying to gauge his reactions. So far his shock and horror seemed genuine. Her questions might change that. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes. After I left you, where did you go?’
He looked around as if seeking someone to supply his answer for him. ‘I… I was at home.’
‘All night?’
He paused before answering, weighing his words carefully. ‘No…’
A small thrill ran through Rose. ‘Where were you?’
‘I… went to the pub.’
‘On your own?’
‘Yes.’
Another raised eyebrow from Rose.
‘Well, I mean I went on my own. But I met some people there. Some friends.’
‘How many?’
‘Four. No, five. Six, including me.’
‘And was your girlfriend there?’
A smile played over his lips. ‘No.’
‘Why’s that funny, Mark?’
‘Just… because. You’d think so if you knew her. If you knew my friends.’
‘And what are your friends like?’
He took a deep breath, let it out. Here it comes, thought Rose. They’re paedophiles. Or worse, gamers.
‘We’re a… film society.’
She sat back a little. ‘What sort of films?’
‘Horror.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Right. Video nasties, that kind of thing?’
‘All sorts. The university British Horror Film Society. We just get together upstairs in this pub-’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Freemason’s Arms. Military Road. New Town.’
Rose knew it, nodded. Motioned for him to continue.
‘Well, we… that’s it, basically. We sit and watch films on this huge video screen they’ve got there. Have discussions, a few drinks.’ He was becoming animated, interested in what he was saying. ‘Sometimes we get guest speakers. Kim Newman’s been.’
He said the name like Rose should have been impressed. She humoured him.
‘I’ll need their names,’ she said, taking out her notepad.
He gave her them.
‘And what did you watch last night?’
Light was shining in his eyes. ‘A double bill. Horror Hospital and Killer’s Moon.’ He laughed. ‘It’s hilarious.’
‘Yes,’ said Rose, ‘murder always is. And you were there the whole night?’
He nodded. Then leaned back, relieved. The relief brought with it a cocky light in his eyes. ‘So, you see, Detective Sergeant, I have an alibi. Once again.’
‘And you also have a key.’
The light went quickly out.
‘What?’
‘A key. To Suzanne’s flat. The one you never gave back. Where is it?’
He looked speedily round once again, head darting from side to side, appealing mutely for anyone to step in and help him.
‘The key, remember?’
‘I… don’t know where it is. I… haven’t seen it in ages.’
‘Why did you keep it?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just…’ Sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
Rose nodded.
‘I never gave it back. That’s all. She never asked for it and I never gave it back.’ He made an imploring gesture, desperate to be believed.
Rose looked at him, unblinkingly. She got the feeling that something was off with him but also knew she wouldn’t be getting any more out of him at the moment. She flipped her notepad closed, stood up.
‘That’s all for now, Mark. But stay where we can find you. We’ll want to talk to you again.’
She left him sitting there, pleased that she had managed to upset or unnerve him.
But her victory didn’t last long. She still had to negotiate the lift.
Phil stood in front of the door, hand out, ready to knock. He paused, waited.
A terraced street of old houses in New Town. Front doors leading directly on to the pavement, no gardens. Windows to the left and right so passers-by could stare right in, watch other people’s lives like television.
Colchester didn’t have high-rises or sprawling estates. Instead it had New Town. Streets and streets of old red-brick houses, curling and narrowing and circling in on itself, and nothing new about it. Drugs, prostitution, gangs… all thrived in, and were controlled from, New Town. Phil wasn’t naïve, he didn’t think everyone who lived there was a criminal. But it was a poor area, and poverty, he knew both from studies and personal experience, created the conditions for crime to flourish. Poverty led to envy to anger to desperation. To crime. A doomed attempt at gentrification stood over the road by Aldi, a new, exclusive, gated development built right alongside the old terraces to attract a new, moneyed type of dweller, pull the area up a bit. The locals had turned and it now had the highest rates of property and car crime in the whole town.
Envy to anger to desperation.
To crime.
He looked up and down the street. Most of the houses had been quite well maintained; rotted old sash windows and wooden front doors replaced with uPVC. But some had not been touched, their doors and frames rotted away, an outward manifestation of whatever decay was housed within.
Phil stood before one of the uPVC replacements.
‘Is this the right house?’ said Fiona Welch.
Phil hadn’t wanted her with him but she had insisted. She would just sit quietly, she had promised, say nothing. Observe. It would help with her report, honestly. All perky and smiling, eyes glittering. Phil gave in. Not because he wanted her there but because he thought her report would need all the help it could get.
‘It is,’ he said.
‘Bet you’ve been round these streets a few times,’ she said.
‘Most Colchester police have at one time or another.’
‘Not surprised,’ she said, giving a small laugh. ‘All crack dens and brothels round here…’
‘Not all,’ he said, irritated at her tourist attitude. ‘Lot of lettings round here. Students, immigrants, some belong to elderly people. Too old to keep up the maintenance.’
‘Move them into a home, then. Stop cluttering up the street.’ Her voice suddenly frosty.
He looked at her, frowned. She smiled at him. ‘Anyway,’ she said, perkiness back in her voice, ‘I do know what it’s like round here. Shared a house in my second year at uni.’ She pointed. ‘Two streets over.’
Phil couldn’t help himself. ‘Crack den or whorehouse?’
She looked up at him, eye to eye. A smile slowly uncoiled on her face, like a librarian’s approximation of sultry. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know…’
He turned away from her. Knocked on the door.
He waited, glancing round, watching life continue as normal. Eyes had been averted as he approached, pavements suddenly found to be interesting. If people didn’t know who he was they knew what he was. That kind of area.
The door was eventually opened. A young girl answered, about two or three, pyjamaed and messy haired. She stood before them, eyes wide and staring, as if she had just woken from a deep sleep. It was nearly lunchtime.
Phil found a smile. ‘Hello there. Is your mum in?’ He realised his mistake, corrected it before she could answer. ‘I mean your grandma?’
The girl kept looking between the two of them.
‘Please,’ said Phil. ‘It’s important.’
The girl slammed the door shut. Phil looked at Fiona. ‘Probably been told not to talk to strangers.’
Fiona laughed. ‘Or coppers.’
The door reopened. Paula Harrison stood there. She looked no better than the day before. If anything, she looked worse. She had both hands on the door, peering round it as if expecting to be attacked. She recognised Phil and the hope drained from her face.
‘Oh no…’ She backed away from him, legs crumpling but still clutching the door like it was the only thing keeping her upright. ‘Adele… oh no… oh no…’ The words came out in a breathless rush.
‘No, Paula,’ said Phil, stepping towards her, taking the door, ready to catch her if she fell, ‘it’s not that. We still haven’t found Adele.’
‘The news, that girl on the Maldon Road…’
‘Isn’t Adele. I promise you. Can we come in?’
She released a juddering breath, her strength leaving her body along with it. Phil took her hand. Guided her inside. She allowed him to do so.
The house was small, the door opening straight into the living room where large lumps of furniture made a small room seem smaller. A huge, off-white leather three-piece fought for space with a sub-cinema-screen-size TV. An elaborately patterned rug sat on the pale beige wall-to-wall carpet. Cupboards held figurines of big-eyed porcelain children and photogenic animals. Family photos were prominently displayed on the shelves and the walls. Most of them showed herself and Adele. And the little girl who had answered the door. There were also a couple of photos of a young man in army uniform. Children’s toys littered the floor, creating a primary coloured assault course to negotiate. Old, stained mugs sat on the floor, coats and other bits of clothing, dirty plates and cutlery. Paula Harrison seemed oblivious to the mess.
Phil led her to the sofa, sat her down.
From the huge TV came an oversized image of a cartoon dog running along a road with a cat and a hamster in a ball. The sound came from all round the room. Paula pointed the remote at it, silenced it. The tiny girl looked at her, uncomprehending.
‘Nana needs to talk to these people, sweetheart. Go on upstairs.’
The girl looked between them but, still with an uncomprehending expression on her face, made her way upstairs.
‘Is that Adele’s daughter, Mrs Harrison?’ said Phil, sitting on the opposite armchair.
She looked surprised for a moment, as if she didn’t know who he was talking about. ‘Yes, yes, she is…’
‘Seems a nice girl.’
She nodded. ‘Nadine? Yes, she’s… she’s lovely…’
Phil smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘This is Fiona Welch, by the way,’ he said, gesturing to Fiona who was still standing. ‘She’s a… helping us with the investigation.’
Fiona Welch moved forward, hand outstretched, smiling as if being introduced to someone at a party. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Paula dazedly shook hands.
Fiona pulled away, took out her BlackBerry, sat down, started making notes.
‘Why don’t you go and make some tea, Fiona, while I talk to Paula? Yes?’ The look on his face, for Fiona only, told her it wasn’t a question.
Fiona looked up, eyes alive with unasked questions. Clearly she wanted to stay. Expected to. Phil’s gaze didn’t waver. Fiona’s eyes dropped. She put her BlackBerry back in her bag, sloped off into the kitchen.
Phil turned his attention back to Paula. ‘Did DS Farrell come and talk to you yesterday?’
She nodded. ‘He did. Thank you.’
‘That’s OK. Family Liaison been round?’
Another nod, head down at the carpet. ‘She wanted to stay with me but I told her no. As long as she kept me informed, made me feel part of it, that would do.’ She looked up. ‘That’s all I wanted, Mr Brennan. Just to know what was happenin’.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you.’
He managed another smile. Paula’s face darkened once more.
‘That girl, the one on the news… is she, are you the one dealing with that?’
He told her that was his investigation. ‘And that’s why I’m here. We think – and I must stress we don’t know for definite – but we think that the two may be connected. ’
‘And Adele?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some questions. About Adele.’
Paula braced herself, knowing this wouldn’t be pleasant.
There came a clatter from the kitchen. Paula jumped.
The mood broken, Phil cursed inwardly, stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’
Suzanne was once again aware of nothing but the sound of her own breathing.
The other woman’s voice, her fellow captor – if that’s who she was – had kept her word and not spoken after her outburst. In the silence that followed, questions had massed inside Suzanne’s head, fizzing and spitting like frenzied bubbles in a boiling pan. Questions, fears, screams… but not hope.
Anything but hope.
She tried moving around, making herself more comfortable, relieving pressure on her back and sides, stopping her muscles cramping. There was just enough room to do that but any movement was temporary. Lack of space made sure her body always came back to rest in its original position.
She didn’t know how long she had been there. Could have been minutes or hours or days. No. Couldn’t have been days. Because she hadn’t eaten since she had been put in here. And she was getting hungry now. Not to mention wanting to pee.
As if on cue, her stomach growled.
And the pressure on her bladder increased.
Panic gripped her again as the reality of her situation took hold once more. She tried moving around, looking for a way out, throwing her tied hands against the ceiling of her chamber, hitting, hitting, breathing heavily, adding a few grunts and shouts, helping the exertion.
Nothing. She lay back, heart hammering, panting, the sound of her breathing an almost physical thing in there with her.
‘It’s better if you just lie there… makes it easier…’
The voice was back.
‘But I’m… I’m hungry. I need to, to go to the bathroom.’
‘Just hold it in. Hold it in.’ The voice, cautious, quiet and steady. Balanced on a tightrope where a slip would involve a long, screaming fall.
‘Hold it – how long? I can’t…’
‘They’ll let us out at some point. Hold it in till then.’
‘What? When?’
‘Don’t know…’ The calmness in the voice was beginning to crack. It struggled to return resolve. ‘They will. He will. Just, just hold on.’
Suzanne sighed, closed her eyes. It made no difference.
‘And, and don’t make so much noise.’ The voice, pleading with her. ‘Please.’
‘Why not? Maybe someone’ll hear, come and rescue us.’
‘No.’ The voice, strong now. ‘They won’t.’
‘But how do you know?’ The other voice talking to her, making some kind of communication, knowing she wasn’t alone… Suzanne was starting to feel hope well up inside her. She ignored the danger of that, kept talking. ‘Look, if we both do it together, shout at the same time, maybe someone will hear-’
‘No.’ The voice emphatic, almost shouting. ‘No. We can’t.’
‘It’s worth a try.’
The voice laughed. ‘That’s what the other girl said. Look what happened to her.’
‘But… we have to try…’
‘That’s what she said.’ The voice fell silent for a few seconds. Suzanne thought she had disappeared once more but when she spoke again it was clear from the quaver in her tone that she was just trying to hold herself together. ‘Yeah. What she said. Exactly what she said. D’you want the same thing to happen to you?’
Suzanne didn’t answer. Couldn’t face giving an answer.
Silence fell again.
Suzanne couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t lie in the dark any longer and not communicate. She had to talk and make the other woman talk. Whether she wanted to or not.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘please. Talk to me. I can’t… if we’re here we may as well talk. Please.’ The final word echoed round her box.
Silence.
‘Please… don’t leave me on my own. Please…’
A sigh. ‘How do I know you’re not a plant?’
Suzanne almost laughed. ‘A what?’
‘A plant. They’ve put you in here to see what I’m goin’ to say. You’re one of them.’
She did laugh this time. There was no humour in it. ‘I could say the same about you.’
Silence once more.
‘Look,’ said Suzanne, ‘we’re stuck here. Let’s just talk. Please.’
Another silence.
‘All right,’ the voice said eventually. ‘But if they say anything I’ll tell them it was your idea.’
‘OK.’ Suzanne nearly smiled. The hunger, the pressure on her bladder were almost forgotten with this small victory. ‘Good. Well. My name’s Suzanne. What’s yours?’
Silence.
Sadness began to envelop Suzanne. Even blacker and heavier than the darkness in the box. ‘Oh, come on. Please. You said you’d talk to me…’
A sigh. ‘I’m taking a risk here. A real risk.’
‘I know. Just tell me your name. Then I know who I’m talking to.’
Another sigh.
‘Julie. My name’s Julie…’
‘What are you doing?’
Fiona Welch turned, stopped. She was kneeling on the counter in Paula Harrison’s kitchen, hands in the overhead cupboards. A jar of instant coffee lay on its side, still rolling, spilling brown granules as it rocked from side to side.
‘I’m… just getting something… for the tea…’
Phil closed the kitchen door behind him so Paula couldn’t see in. He crossed the small kitchen until he was standing directly in front of her. She turned, still kneeling, and towered over him.
Phil’s hands were balled into fists at his side. He flexed, unflexed them. ‘Get down.’
‘I think I’ll stay here, thank you. Harder for you to be angry with me if I assume a physically dominant position.’
‘Get down.’
The sultry librarian smile appeared again. ‘Don’t you like dominant women?’ She frowned, quizzical. ‘Is that a police thing, d’you think? An alpha male response?’
He was shaking with anger. He managed to keep his voice steady. ‘If I have to come up there and get you down, you won’t like it.’
He stared at her. She locked eyes with him.
Eventually she looked away. Climbed down.
Phil made no attempt to help her.
When she was on her feet he grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is someone’s house. Someone whose daughter’s gone missing.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Fiona said, picking up his rage and flinging it back at him, her voice an angry hiss, ‘I was looking for clues, evidence. Anything that I could find to help me build a fuller picture of Adele Harrison. I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, isn’t it? Putting together a profile?’
‘Of whoever’s taken her. Of whoever killed Julie Miller. Not…’ – he gestured round the kitchen. The coffee had stopped spilling out now, the jar motionless – ‘… this.’
Fiona Welch looked unrepentant. ‘Did you see the living room? Not a single book on a single bookshelf. DVDs, yes, but no books.’
‘So? These are real people here. With real lives. Not everyone gets all their ideas from books.’
A strange smile playing on her lips as if she was filing away his words, mentally storing them for use in some future thesis. That just made him even angrier.
‘I think it’s best if you leave. Right now.’
She blinked. Twice. ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t want you with me any more.’
‘But Ben said-’
‘I don’t give a stuff what Ben said. I’m running this investigation and I don’t want you here. OK?’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Go. Now.’
She gave him one last look of blazing defiance and opened her mouth as if to say something then closed it again, thinking better of it. She turned and left.
‘Sorry about that,’ Phil said, putting a mug of tea down before Paula. The mug was big and looked well used. On the side it had a cartoon of a smiling woman holding a baby in one hand and a vacuum cleaner in the other and underneath was written: World’s Best Mum.
‘Is that your mug?’ said Phil.
‘Adele’s,’ said Paula, sipping from it. ‘Got it on Nadine’s first birthday. Told Adele it was from the baby.’ She choked back a sob.
‘OK,’ said Phil, putting his mug down and leaning forwards, keeping Paula focused long enough to talk to him. ‘Questions.’
She took a deep breath. Waited for him to start.
‘Tell me about Adele.’
‘Like what?’
‘What she’s like… how she seemed before she went missing, that kind of thing.’
Another deep breath. ‘She was… before she disappeared she was lovely. Best I’d seen her in years.’
Phil frowned. ‘Why? What happened before that?’
‘Well, she was… wild. You know what kids are like. Her dad ran off, left us. Just me, Adele and her brother.’
Phil glanced at the photos on the wall of the young soldier. ‘That’s him? Adele’s brother?’
Paula nodded, head down. ‘Was.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘He died. Just over a year ago. Helmand Province. Afghanistan.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Paula kept her head down, nodded. ‘Roadside bomb. IED, they call them now.’ She sighed. ‘Got my letter from the Prime Minister. That was somethin’.’
Her tone of voice told him it wasn’t.
‘What was his name?’
‘Wayne.’ Still looking into her lap.
‘How did Adele take it?’
Paula looked up, thought for a while before answering. ‘It hit her. Hard. She’d been runnin’ round before then, ever since her dad…’ She sighed. ‘… her dad left, she’d be off with boys, sometimes for days on end. Then she got pregnant and that was like a wake-up call, you know? Like an, an intervention.’
Too much Jeremy Kyle, thought Phil. He nodded.
‘She settled down. Got a job.’ Paula looked directly at Phil. ‘I know what you think. What DS Farrell said.’
‘What?’
‘That Adele was a prostitute. A whore. Well, she wasn’t. Maybe she liked her boyfriends to give her something, presents, and that, but she wasn’t a whore. Definitely not.’
Phil nodded. ‘She was a barmaid, wasn’t she?’
Paula nodded.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘The Freemason’s Arms, Military Road.’
‘I know it.’
Paula gave a small smile. ‘I bet you do. It’s not as bad as people think, though. And, anyway, that was just temporary for Adele. She was savin’ up, goin’ back to college. Get some A levels first. Then…’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Somethin’.’
‘And there was nothing to show that she was going to run away again?’
Paula leaned forward. ‘Nothin’. At all. Nothin’.’
Phil talked with her a while longer, asking more questions. Adele had left the Freemason’s Arms after a shift to walk the couple of streets to her home. She never arrived. Between Paula reporting the disappearance and DS Farrell’s investigation starting, any possible forensic evidence had been lost.
Adele had no boyfriend. Studying too hard for that, Paula said.
Phil had a look in her room but felt like there was nothing he could find there. Farrell had already done it and it was clear Paula had tidied things away.
He came back downstairs, ready to go. He looked at the photos on the wall. There was one of Paula’s two children together. Taken at a barbecue, the young man wearing an apron and holding up a speared sausage. The young woman at the side of him holding a bottle of some violently coloured alcopop, both smiling for the camera, laughing as if they would stay that way forever. Life would always be as good as that moment.
‘That’s her,’ said Paula. ‘With Wayne. Just before he went back to Afghanistan. Just before…’ She sighed.
Phil kept looking at them. Adele had long dark hair. Just like Julie Miller. Just like Suzanne Perry. Just like the unrecognisable corpse on the lightship.
‘It’s always us that gets hit worse, isn’t it?’ said Paula. ‘The poor people. The ones who live round here. Never them in the posh houses, is it?’
Phil thought of the body he had found the previous morning, the trip to Julie Miller’s parents house.
‘Not always,’ he said. ‘Sometimes grief is grief, whatever or whoever.’
He left.
Mickey Philips was bored. There were people who probably enjoyed this kind of thing, scrolling through lists on screens, working their way down printouts and sheets of numbers and details. But he wasn’t one of them.
He would watch TV shows like Spooks and CSI and watch the tech guys doing what he was doing, except on better computers and in more moodily lit offices, and it only took them a few seconds to get a match. Then they’d up and off, guns out, shouting and roping in the bad guy before the end credits.
How he wished real life could be like that.
Instead he sat at his desk in the incident room at Southway, cup of something dark and brown masquerading as coffee at his side, pen in his mouth, while he scrolled down a screen and cross-referenced the numbers he saw there with the list in front of him.
The incident room was in the bar. He had found that a little strange at first, but Phil had assured him it was always the way with a major case. Tables had become desks, upholstered seats, stools and banquettes office chairs. The pool table had been covered over and was now home to a scale-model cityscape made out of files and papers. The whiteboard had been placed in front of the shuttered bar itself, photos of the two dead girls and two missing ones linked by spider-web felt-tip lines and circled names. A constant reminder, should anyone look up from their desks, of what they were engaged in, what was at stake.
Couldn’t have been more obvious, thought Mickey, if someone had put a ticking clock next to it.
He sighed, took a sip from the mug of brown water with grit in it, grimaced, went back to his lists. This was the part of the job he hated most. He knew that didn’t make him unique but it wasn’t something he’d done too much of in his previous posting. Although, considering how he was back then, this kind of thing might not have been such a bad idea. Would have kept him out of trouble, at least.
Or in less trouble, at any rate.
He had spent most of the morning printing off photos of vans, 4×4s and pickup trucks, then had headed back to see his burger van guy. Needless to say, he wasn’t pleased to see him. After Mickey had left he had been questioned yet again, his alibi checked and rechecked and his background gone into, none of which had helped to improve his mood.
But Mickey had persevered, reminding him of the good business generated by the police working the scene of crime. When that didn’t work he played on his conscience, saying he owed it to the murdered girl to find her killer. When that appeal fell on deaf ears he told him the way he’d been questioned up to now was nothing and that he’d hit him with everything he could, both him and his van and his family if he had to, if he didn’t help. That did it. Reluctantly, the burger van guy had looked through the photos.
Mickey had watched him doing it, gauged his reaction. Eventually they had the make and model narrowed down to two: a Ford Fiesta van or a Citroën Nemo. When pressed, he had narrowed it down even further: a Citroën Nemo. Mickey had thanked him for his time and told him not to go away; he would be back if he needed to see him again. The burger van man was clearly overjoyed at that news.
So there was Mickey sitting in the office. Finding Nemo. It was all a matter of circling round, narrowing down, moving in. He had discounted any Nemos that weren’t black. Then he had discarded any that weren’t registered within a hundred-mile radius. There were still more than he would have liked. Then he made a separate list of vans registered in Colchester. Again, still more than he would have liked. That was where he would start. If he drew a blank with that list, he would start again. He just hoped he struck lucky. If not he would have to try van hire and leasing companies and, if that yielded no results, go nationwide. But whatever happened, he knew he wouldn’t be up and running with his gun out, shouting and roping in the bad guy any time soon.
‘Hi.’
He looked up, startled out of his reverie. Fiona Welch stood before him, head on one side, smiling.
‘Oh. Hi.’ He turned away from the screen, rubbed his eyes. ‘How you doing?’
‘Fine.’ She smiled. Perched herself on the edge of his desk. ‘Thought I’d come back and start on my report. Think I’ve got enough to be going on with now.’
‘Did Phil show you round everywhere?’
She smiled but something flitted behind her eyes, something fleeting and unpleasant. ‘I’ve seen as much from him as I need to see.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll let you get on with it…’
Still sitting on the edge of Mickey’s desk, Fiona Welch stretched, arching her back and in the process thrusting her breasts out. He tried not to look, glancing everywhere and anywhere rather than at her, but couldn’t resist.
A quick look. And another. Nice, he thought. Very nice. Not his type, but still… boobs are boobs.
She finished stretching, put her arms by her side. Smiled at him.
‘So what you working on, then?’
He gestured towards the screen, the printout. ‘The van. Got a sighting of a black van near the quayside. Working my way through all possible combinations, trying to find the right one.’
She was still smiling. He returned the smile.
‘Not like the kind of thing you do. Proper, good old-fashioned police grunt work, this.’
‘Everything has its place,’ Fiona Welch said. She leaned forward, looking at the list, the screen. ‘So how d’you do it, then? How d’you find the right van?’
Mickey found it hard to look at her face. Once again her breasts were dominating his vision. Since she had leaned forward he also got an unimpeded view down her low-cut top. The curve of her breast, the edging of her bra – white lace – the shadow of her cleavage when she moved around…
‘Sorry?’ He looked up. ‘What?’
She was smiling at him. Innocent, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on him. ‘I said how do you know you’ve got the right van?’
‘Oh, erm…’ He could feel himself blushing. He looked down at the screen, away from her, started talking. ‘We, er, I cross-reference. Get a list of everyone who owns the van we want then check it against…’
He looked up again. Fiona Welch was no longer looking at him; her eyes were jumping between the screen and the printout, scanning her way down both, lips moving as she read. He stopped talking. It took her a couple of seconds but she stopped reading, looked back to him. ‘And you know what kind of van it is.’ she said, more of a statement than a question.
‘A Citroën Nemo.’ He smiled. ‘Finding Nemo, eh?’ He had been waiting for an opportunity to do that joke.
Fiona Welch didn’t laugh, just nodded. Looked around once more, checking desks and empty spaces. ‘So where’s everyone else?’
‘Anni’s looking into Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot’s background, Rose is checking on Julie Miller and Phil, well, you know where Phil is.’
She nodded, made to stand up. ‘Nice chatting to you. Got to make my report now. But thanks. Knowing what he drives, the van, it all helps.’
She turned and, before he could say anything else, walked away from him.
He watched her go, her legs striding across the office to where a makeshift desk had been made for her.
She was an odd one, he knew that much. Probably because of all that academia, that learning. They forget how to talk to people properly in the real world. And she wasn’t his type, not at all.
But the way she arched her back, her breasts…
He wouldn’t say no.
Probably.
Mickey looked at the screen once more. Tried to get his attention back on the job in hand. Glanced across the room to Fiona Welch. She was sitting at her desk, BlackBerry in her hands, thumbs working away. Making notes or texting or something. Lips moving with the words, head cocked again on one side, smiling, nodding as she wrote.
Lucky bloke, thought Mickey. Then admonished himself. Was he really falling for a mousy little thing like her? Was he getting jealous over who she was talking to?
Her legs were stretched out, crossed at the ankles.
Nice legs, too.
He shook his head, tried to force himself away from the direction his thoughts were heading in, the feelings running through him. Tried very hard to ignore the growing bulge in his trousers.
He took a sip of the cold brown water, grimaced. Looked at the screen.
Forced Fiona Welch out of his head.
Himself back to work.
The Creeper was missing Rani.
Lying there, slowly rocking, the gentle sway going from side to side, should have been comforting, lulling.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what he had had. It wasn’t back in the flat with Rani.
That was what he lived for. Planned for, worked towards. The time they could spend together. And when it was cut short like that it hurt. Especially when she hadn’t spoken to him yet, given him her next location.
Maybe he should get up, go for a walk, see if he could spot her. No. He’d tried that before. Daytime made him too visible. Too obvious. Attracted too much attention. He worked better in darkness, where he could use the shadows, practise stealth. And even then he might not find her. At worst, he would just settle for someone who reminded him of her. And that didn’t satisfy anyone.
He knew. He’d done it before.
So he would wait. Be patient. Lie low. Even though it was killing him.
The reason it felt so bad this time was because he felt so… unconsummated.
It was the third time she had appeared. Each one better than the last. Closer. And in the flat, just the two of them… that was the best so far. Perfect. Living with her, watching over her, looking out for her. They had eaten together, watched TV together, even slept together. Him right above her, watching over her in bed. He smiled, his heart sang again at the memory. Sure, certain people got in the way and had to be dealt with but that was nothing. That always happened. The course of true love, and that.
And then she said she was leaving. And he had to dump the husk. It wasn’t right. All his plans, his ideas… never got to carry them out. And that upset him. He had such plans for Rani, such exquisite plans… she would have been screaming in pleasure at them.
But no.
Or rather, not yet.
He sighed, looked round. At least he could see Rani from where he was. He had covered the walls with pictures of her in her various incarnations. He saw her everywhere. Sometimes glimpsed only through TV and magazines. Newspapers. Sometimes tantalisingly close, near enough to reach out and stroke, but just too far away. And sometimes right beside him. With him. He had photos from all of that.
He smiled. Lost in his world, lost in Rani.
And eventually he heard her voice again.
Had you given up on me?
‘Never. Always. I’m here for you always…’
I’ll remind you of that sometime.
He heard her laugh, waited until it died away. Felt like his heart had stopped beating, waiting for her to speak again. Waiting for her to say the words he wanted to hear.
I’m back, lover…
He sat up. ‘A new host? When can I see you?’
Soon…
She was being playful. He should enjoy it, play along. But it just made him angry when she did that. Like she was mocking him. His love for her.
He said nothing, waited.
You’ve gone quiet. Don’t you want to see me?
‘Course I do. You know that…’ He could wait no longer. ‘So… where are you? When can I see you?’
Soon. I’ll give you the new address. Might be a bit difficult, this one. You see, I don’t live alone in this body.
He felt himself starting to shake. Someone else with Rani? He couldn’t have that… ‘I’ll see to them.’
No, she said quickly. Not yet. Wait for my signal. I’ll let you know when. Trust me.
‘OK.’ He calmed down a little at her words. Patience. That was all. No matter how much it hurt. And then there was the next question. The one he always asked. He both feared and loved the answer at the same time. ‘What… what do you look like now?’
The same as I always do. Just a bit different. Give me time to adapt. I’ll start to look like my own self soon.
And she did. Always. That was the strange thing. When he would first see her in her new body he wouldn’t recognise her. But when he’d looked at her for a while, spent time with her, she started to change, resemble the Rani he knew and loved. It was weird. He wondered how it was only him who noticed, never the people around her.
‘When can I see you?’
I’ll let you have the address. And what I look like now.
‘And your new name. Don’t forget that.’
I won’t. She sighed. I have to go. But I’ll see you soon, my love.
‘I can’t wait. I love you, Rani.’
I know.
And she was gone.
He lay back, grinning like some love-struck teenager. Happy once more.
He ran over everything she had said to him, all her words. Over and over. Memorised them. Like always.
Then he had her new address. Easy enough to find. Then he saw what she looked like. And smiled again. Beautiful. But not as beautiful as she was going to look.
The name meant nothing to him because he knew her real one. Her secret one. But this was what the husk was known by so he would have to remember it, get used to it before he could start calling her by her real one.
He said it out loud, practising. Once. Twice. Then again, loud as he dared.
‘Rose Martin,’ he said and smiled.
‘I thought we might be seeing you again…’
Rose Martin forced a smile. She found the man sitting before her obese and obnoxious. His suit was stretched tight over his flabby frame, as if wearing a size smaller would make him look slimmer, and he seemed to be composed of melting lard. His face so sweaty he looked like he was leaking oil, his hair stubbornly refusing to be gelled down. He had a squint and a lecherous smile and his eyes constantly addressed her breasts.
As Head of Occupational Therapy he might be good at his job, she thought, a truly gifted man in his profession. But to Rose he was a dead ringer for BNP leader Nick Griffin. And just as charismatic.
‘Julie Miller…’ He lay back in his chair, the springs and joints groaning, and furrowed his brow. ‘I read about it in the papers. Terrible…’
‘We haven’t officially confirmed that it’s her, Mr Laverty.’
He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘Oh come on. Why else would the whole of this wing be getting torn apart by your people?’
She frowned. ‘My people?’
He ploughed on, pleased to have the upper hand. Thrilled, even. ‘The police. The murdered woman whose body was found this morning was a SALT. Speech and language therapist. So was the woman who went missing.’
Rose Martin understood. And was immediately angry with herself. Ben had briefed both her and the new profiler separately otherwise she would have made the connection straight away.
If the police were here, then the connection had already been made.
‘So I suppose it’s all connected, then?’ Laverty said, reading her mind.
‘It’s too early to say at the moment.’ The answer trotted out automatically.
Laverty wiped his brow with the back of his hand, wiped his hand on the side of his jacket. His eyes were dancing, he was almost buzzing with excitement. Some people were like that, thought Rose. Ignoring any tragedy, horror or upset to personal relationships, just thrilled to be part of a police investigation.
‘We’ll need to see your files.’
He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘To cross-reference them against the speech and language therapists. See if any patients match up. See if we get a hit.’
A look of horror was creeping up his face. ‘Patients? Our patients’ records?’
Rose nodded.
‘Don’t you need a warrant for that kind of thing?’
‘I can get one. If I need one.’
He sighed. It took some effort. ‘Out of the question.’
Rose leaned forward. She wasn’t in the mood for this. She was behind in the investigation, and she didn’t want Brennan and his acolytes to take over. She needed to catch up quickly. ‘Mr Laverty. I will get a warrant. But that takes time. However, if you wish to cooperate and willingly allow my team access to your patient records then you won’t be officially blamed.’
He frowned. ‘For what?’
‘For the next death. Because the way things are going, there will be one. And if there is, I’ll make sure everyone knows you held us up.’
Laverty looked down at his desk. Reluctantly, he nodded.
Rose smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ll get someone on to it straight away.’
But not me, she thought. I’m going to follow some other leads.
‘Are there any of Julie Miller’s colleagues here? I just want a word.’
‘Haven’t you done all that?’ Laverty, miserable now, wanted her out of his office.
‘I have but… let’s just say I’m pursuing another line of inquiry.’
Mine, she thought.
‘Julie? Yeah. She was lovely.’
Amy Hibbert was walking through the corridor on the way to see a patient. She had asked Rose to walk with her. Small, compact, with bobbed, blonde hair, she seemed the opposite of Julie Miller.
‘You and her started the same time, is that right?’
She nodded. ‘We kind of clung together, you know? Till we got settled. Went for lunch, that kind of thing.’ She shook her head. ‘Can’t believe it…’
‘It gets people that way. Amy, did Julie mention any boyfriend to you?’
She shook her head. ‘She wasn’t seeing anyone. Between boyfriends, she said.’
‘Was there anyone who was interested? Did she mention that?’
Amy Hibbert screwed up her eyes. Rose knew what she was doing. Sometimes people just wanted to help. Even if they didn’t know anything or had nothing to contribute, they wanted to help.
‘No,’ she said eventually, looking disappointed, ‘not really.’
‘Not really? What d’you mean?’
‘Well, she said she had friends who were boys. But they weren’t anything more than that.’ A sad smile. ‘She wondered whether hanging round with them was stopping her getting a boyfriend.’
‘Do you know the names of these boys?’
Amy shook her head. ‘Not really. We were supposed to meet them one night, all go out together. Never happened. Never will now…’ She stared off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts.
Rose straightened up. ‘Thanks, Amy. Do you think it would help looking through Julie’s Facebook page?’
‘Might do.’
‘If I saw anyone there you know would you help me identify them?’
‘If I know them.’
Rose smiled. ‘Thanks, Amy. You’ve been a big help.’
She touched the girl on the shoulder. Amy tried to smile.
Rose’s phone rang. She checked the display: Phil. She was considering ignoring it but decided he wouldn’t be phoning unless it was important. She picked up.
‘Where are you?’ he said, no preamble.
‘Doing what you told me to. Chasing down information on Julie Miller.’
‘Good. Need you back here by six thirty. The profiler’s done her report and wants to share it with us.’ From the tone of his voice she could tell what he thought of it.
‘That’s quick,’ she said.
‘Isn’t it.’
Rose put her phone away, thanked Amy, headed out of the hospital.
She needed to think. Find another connection.
Do it her own way.
Phil looked round the room. The last time he had been in the bar for a briefing during a major case like this Marina had been here too. And Clayton, his old DS. Both gone.
But one returning. Hopefully.
He pushed those thoughts aside, concentrated. It was still light outside with just a crepuscular hint creeping across the sky. The nights getting longer and warmer, summer on its way. The board was in front of the shuttered bar, the tables and chairs pulled in a loose semi-circle round it. Fenwick was standing to one side, discussing something in hushed tones with Rose Martin. Anni had sat down in the seat next to him, a pile of papers and files over on her desk that she kept glancing at as if it was pulling her back. She looked exhausted. Probably they all did.
Fiona Welch sat at the far end of the row, head down, making notes, her BlackBerry next to her, pen stuck in the corner of her mouth, fingers absently playing up and down the length of it. Beside her, Mickey Philips was trying hard not to be transfixed. Phil didn’t know whether to be amused or angry. He didn’t like the profiler. Couldn’t get on with her. And that made him wonder just how accurate her profile would be.
There were others in there too. Milhouse had managed to drag himself away from the computer screen, eyes blinking behind his thick black frames, like a miner emerging into the light. The Birdies sat behind him, together, as always, the wiry Adrian Wren contrasting with the large Jane Gosling like an old variety act. Beside them were other detectives, drafted in from other teams to help out with the case. Phil knew some of them personally, some only to nod at. It didn’t matter. They didn’t have to know each other. As long as they got their jobs done.
Fenwick turned away from Rose, gestured for her to sit down. Then he crossed the room, stood in front of the whiteboard.
‘Thanks, everyone,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘Let’s get started. Phil?’
Phil stood up, walked to the front. He hated speaking in front of people, even his own team, preferring to just get on with the job. But he knew it was necessary and he was getting better at it. No panic attacks now.
‘Right,’ he said, wasting no time. ‘This is what we’ve got so far. Julie Miller. Missing, presumed dead. Just waiting for confirmation from her PM.’
‘Nick said he’d be across soon to join us,’ said Adrian.
‘Good. Zoe Herriot. Dead. Murdered.’
‘Why do we presume it’s the same person for all of this?’ said Mickey. ‘Isn’t her death different? Don’t serial killers find a way of killing and stick with it?’
Phil saw Fiona from the corner of his eye. She tentatively raised a finger to answer but he didn’t want her to. Instead he answered for her. ‘We’re not sure this is a serial killer, Mickey. Or the work of one person. But all the other evidence would seem to point that way.’ He turned, pointed to the board. ‘Adele Harrison. Missing. Dead or alive, we don’t know. Suzanne Perry. Missing.’ He drew his finger in a line between Suzanne, Adele and Julie. ‘Note the similarities. All dark-haired, all approximately the same height, same build. Same age, or thereabouts. Dark eyes. Now look at Zoe Herriot. Blonde, blue-eyed. Not the same at all.’
‘But Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot were both speech therapists,’ said Anni, ‘and Julie Miller’s an occupational therapist. There’s a connection.’
‘Definitely,’ said Phil. ‘So are we getting the patient lists cross-referenced?’
‘Yep,’ said Anni.
Phil noticed Rose didn’t rush to reply. ‘Good. Rose?’
Rose Martin looked at him as if she wasn’t going to speak just to spite him. But he was in no mood for her games. He kept staring at her. ‘Rose?’
She sensed the steel in his voice. Started to speak. ‘Same as Anni. I’ve got some of my old team going over Julie Miller’s casework, checking for overlap. I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you.’ He saw Fiona Welch moving about in her seat like she wanted to say something, tried to ignore her. But he knew he couldn’t. She had written her report – in record time, he had to admit, not sure that was a good thing – and it was time for her to deliver it.
But not just yet.
‘Mickey, how’s the van hunting coming on?’
Mickey looked up from his notepad. ‘It’s going. We’re looking for a black Citroën Nemo. There’s photos coming round to all of you and the uniforms. I’ve narrowed it down to Colchester owners and I’m going through them now.’
‘Let me know if you need any more help. Jane?’
‘Nothing so far on CCTV from the quayside,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Cameras don’t extend to where the body was left. The door-to-door in the flats opposite hasn’t given anything up either.’
‘Thanks.’ He sighed. Felt a slight constricting of his chest. Maybe he had spoken too soon about not getting panic attacks when speaking in public. He ignored it, hoped it would go away. ‘That’s everything so far.’ He glanced over at Fiona Welch. She had her papers in front of her and was sitting up straight, like the teacher’s favourite, ready to be called to the front of the class to show them all how to unravel some impenetrable equation. He had to let her speak. It was her turn.
‘Well, if there are no questions, I’ll hand over to-’
He got no further. The door opened and Nick Lines came striding in. Everyone turned at his entrance. The normally unflappable pathologist was out of breath, his tie askew, his forehead beaded with sweat. For him that was the equivalent of huge disarray.
‘Apologies for the late running of this service,’ he said, walking straight to the front of the group, joining Phil before the whiteboard. ‘I have the results of the post-mortem. And some preliminary DNA results too.’ He paused, eyes taking in all the people watching him. He didn’t seem impressed by their reactions.
‘Do you know what that means?’ he said, loudly.
There was a general shaking of heads.
‘It means I pulled a hell of a lot of strings to get the results in record time. So you should be grateful. Very grateful.’
‘I’m, erm, sure we all are,’ said Ben Fenwick, stepping forward, giving his politician’s smile. ‘And I’m sure that… well, I think I speak for the whole team when I say that.’
Nick Lines raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you think you do, Ben.’
Phil hid a smile.
Nick was soon serious again. ‘But it’s a good job I did get them.’
‘Why?’ said Phil.
Nick took his time, waited until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention.
‘Because the body we found on the quay, the one I’ve just finished the post-mortem on and received DNA samples from, is not Julie Miller.’
Time stood still as the whole room took in Nick Lines’ words.
Phil was the first to speak. ‘You’re sure about that? Definitely not Julie Miller?’
‘As certain as I can be about anything,’ Nick said, dead-panning the room. ‘No matches at all.’
‘Then if it’s not Julie Miller…’ Mickey was speaking for everyone.
‘Oh God,’ said Phil. ‘I think I know…’
‘Adele Harrison?’ said Anni.
Phil nodded. ‘Looks like it. Unless there’s another one somewhere that we don’t know about.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Nick. ‘How soon can we get another DNA test done?’
Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Won’t be cheap.’
‘This is an upgraded case. High-priority. The money’s there.’
Nick screwed his eyes up, thinking. ‘Few days at best. Sooner you want it, the more money it costs.’
‘Do it,’ said Fenwick. He turned to Phil. ‘Where does this leave us?’
‘Revising everything we had until now. If Julie Miller’s still alive we have to assume it’s not for long unless we can find her. Same goes for Suzanne Perry.’
‘Clock’s ticking…’ said Fenwick, unnecessarily.
‘Right,’ said Phil, trying not to feel annoyed at his superior’s pointless interruption. ‘Based on what we’ve seen so far, whoever’s doing this seems to be following a pattern. Abduct the girl, keep them a while, torture them, kill them.’
‘Let their bodies go,’ said Fiona. ‘Give them back.’
‘Good point, Fiona,’ said Fenwick, giving a smile he probably thought was charming but if he had used it on a woman in a bar or nightclub she’d have made her excuses and left.
Rose Martin was still looking at him, though, Phil noticed.
Fenwick continued. ‘You were about to present us with your profile. The floor’s yours.’
Nick Lines took a seat as Fiona Welch stood up from her desk, arranged her papers in a neat order and crossed over, almost skipping. to the whiteboard. She looked excited, thought Phil. An X Factor contestant whose big moment has come.
‘Right,’ she said, trying to look serious but failing to hide the excitement in her voice. ‘Apologies for the speed in putting this together but, as Ben reminded us there, the clock is ticking.’
She paused dramatically, making sure she had all their attention.
‘Based on the reports I’ve read and the evidence I’ve seen, the site where we found the body and the victim’s homes, I’d say we’re looking for a sexual sadist.’
Phil rolled his eyes, not caring whether she saw it or not.
She saw it. Flashed him a dagger look, continued. ‘A sexual sadist. A predator. He’s getting off on what he’s doing.’
‘I think we’ve all worked that one out,’ said Phil.
Fiona reddened. Fenwick turned to him, looking cross. ‘Phil, please.’
‘I suppose he’s white, aged between twenty and forty, lives on his own and has trouble forming relationships?’ Phil couldn’t resist it.
Fenwick wasn’t amused. ‘Phil. Either listen or get out.’
Phil was aware that others in the room were looking at him. His junior officers. His team. He needed their respect. They needed his leadership. He needed to get a grip.
‘Sorry,’ he said, holding his hands up.
Fiona continued. ‘He’s acting alone. He doesn’t let anyone else into his fantasy, his scenario. He wants to control it.’ She leaned forward, eyes wide behind her glasses. ‘But he can’t. Once the thrill is on him he loses control. The torture, that’s just… a surrogate for sexual pleasure. That’s how he gets his kicks. That’s when he can let himself go, really be the person he believes himself to be.’
Phil watched Fiona. As she spoke, her whole demeanour changed. There was no trace of her earlier timidity. She was totally into her words, eyes roving the room, gesturing frantically, living them out, almost.
‘He has somewhere special he goes to. A place where he does this that no one else in his life knows about. It means something to him. It’s his chamber of dreams and secrets.’
‘Any idea where we can find it?’ said Phil.
Fenwick gave him a warning look.
‘No,’ said Fiona, ‘it’s a fair question. The short answer is no. Or not yet, anyway. I haven’t had time to do a geographical profile. But there is one other thing, one major factor in his make-up.’
She paused again, making sure she had her audience.
‘He’s a sociopath.’
‘Not a psychopath?’ said Mickey.
‘No,’ she said. ‘He can blend in. That’s the difference between them. Psychopaths can’t help themselves, they just do what they do and don’t care about the consequences. This man’s not like that. He plans. Plots. Schemes. He knows what he’s doing. He may have a good job, he may even be married. A sociopath can fool people for years.’ She looked round the room again, a slight smile on her face. ‘One of us, in this room, could quite easily be just like him. And the rest of us would never know.’
‘Some more than others,’ said Nick Lines.
Phil hid his smile.
‘So how will we recognise him?’ said Anni. ‘What can we look for?’
Fiona glanced at her notes once more, then back up to the room. ‘You were wrong, Phil, by the way. Right with a lot, wrong with one crucial point.’
Phil leaned forward.
‘Age. I don’t see him as being all that young. Everything points towards an older man.’
‘How old?’ said Anni.
Fiona shrugged. ‘Could be anything up to forties, fifties, even?’
‘And what would his character be like?’ Anni said. ‘Any pointers?’
‘Arrogant, that would be the main thing. This is someone who knows what he’s doing. He’s intelligent. Fiercely intelligent. And that makes him confident he won’t get caught.’
‘Can he be caught?’ said Fenwick.
‘It’s taken him a long time to get into this position. He’s been practising, escalating his behaviour, building up to this and now that he’s actually gone through with it, well… he thinks he’s found his purpose. His calling.’ She looked over at Fenwick. ‘So he’s not going to stop any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Would he be arrogant in real life, too?’ said Anni. ‘Would we recognise that about him?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Fiona. ‘He would want you to.’
Anni sat back. ‘I know who it is.’
All eyes were on her.
‘Anthony Howe.’
Suzanne lay in her box, staring straight ahead, blinking, her breathing shallow. Almost calm. She felt different. Not sure if it was better or worse. Just different.
Because she had been out of her coffin.
It started when she heard footsteps. Julie, if that was really her name, started shushing her, telling her to be quiet. Suzanne was still talking, wanting to know what was going on, but when she got no response and she listened for herself, hearing the footsteps, she did as she was told.
‘Close your eyes.’
The voice was muffled, disguised, hidden by something thick and distorting.
Suzanne did as she was told.
‘Don’t open them. Not for a second. Or you’re dead. Right?’
She nodded.
‘Right?’
‘Yes… yes…’
She closed her eyes tight.
There were sounds of scraping, like something heavy was being removed from somewhere, followed by a creaking, tearing sound. Suzanne felt a change of air on her feet, her ankles. The box was being opened.
She was tempted to look, just a peek, a squint. The temptation was great, almost overwhelming.
‘No looking.’ The muffled voice again, threat explicit in its tones.
She kept her eyes closed.
Something landed on her chest. She jumped.
‘Put that on.’
Her hands found the object. It was flaccid and rough. Working with her eyes closed, she discovered it was made of sacking or hessian, something like that. A hood. She pulled it over her head, opened her eyes again. Thinking quickly, she had expected to see something, some small amount of light between the weave, but there was nothing. It was tightly woven, thick and heavy. It smelled bad too. She didn’t like to think what it must have originally contained.
‘Come on.’
Suzanne just lay there.
‘Come on…’ More threat laced into the words.
She realised then that she was expected to get out. She couldn’t believe it, her heart suddenly soared. This is it, she thought, I’m going, I’m being set free. She dared to hope.
Suzanne wriggled her body towards where her feet had been and found only open air. Encouraged by that, she hurried out. She put her feet down, expecting solid ground, a flat floor. And gasped. There was no floor, just water. She had put her feet straight into freezing water. Gasping at the sudden cold, she stopped moving.
A hand reached in and grabbed her, pulling her out of the box entirely. She put her feet out to steady herself and found the water only came over her ankles. She was standing in what felt like a shallow trough. The rest of her body was pulled upright.
Suzanne didn’t have time to orient herself as the same hand grabbed her and forced her to start walking. She sloshed through the water until she came to a small step, stepped up. The floor here was dry and flat, cool. Concrete, she thought.
Suzanne breathed in, to see if she could recognise any smells, either from her surroundings or from her captor. It was impossible. Whatever made the hood smell overrode anything else.
She could hear something, though. A rumbling, throbbing sound like a car turning over. A generator?
She was pushed along, her hands in front of her, held together in an attitude of prayer by the plasticuffs. She kept moving at the speed at which the hand propelled her.
‘Who… who are you? Why are you doing this?’
No answer.
‘Are, are you the man I saw in my flat? In my bedroom?’
No answer.
‘Please… talk to me, let me know what’s happening… please…’
Nothing.
Suzanne kept walking until the hand grasped her harder, forcing her to halt.
‘Here,’ the voice said. ‘The toilet.’
Suzanne was pushed forward. She put her hands up to stop herself from falling into whatever was in front of her but it was her legs that connected first. She gasped in pain as her shins slammed into the hard porcelain of a toilet bowl.
‘Hurry up,’ the voice said.
She did so. Suzanne thought she had had some pretty bad toilet experiences when she was backpacking round the Greek islands as a student but nothing compared to this one.
She managed to do what she wanted to. Even found paper at the side. She flushed. It made no sound.
‘Finished?’
The hand grabbed her once more, pulled her away from the toilet, back the way she had come.
Her heart began to sink as realised what was happening. She was being led back to the coffin once more, made to lie down, be closed up, sealed in once more. She made one last attempt to talk.
‘Why are you doing this? Why?’
She tried pulling away from the hand.
‘Let me go. Now, let me go.’ She put her hands up to her hood. ‘I’ll pull this off. I will, see what you look like. I’ll do it…’
Literally, she didn’t know where the punch came from. All she knew was that it connected with the side of her head and knocked her over. She hit the concrete floor hard, the wind knocked out of her lungs, hot wires of pain radiating out from her left knee.
‘Up.’
The hand pulled her up once more.
Soon her feet were back in the water trough and she was being pushed inside her coffin once more. The same creaking, groaning sound and the box was sealed up.
She put her tied hands to her head, pulled the hood off, grateful to be able to breathe freely again. She listened for sounds outside of the box. Heard nothing.
Suzanne found her voice again. ‘Is that it? What about some food? When do we eat?’
Nothing.
‘Hello… hello…’
Nothing.
She lay back, sighed. And felt something at her side. Hard and round. A can. She leaned over, managed to get it between her two hands. There was a ring pull on the top. She opened it. Smelled it. Meaty, solid. But not pleasant. She had no idea what it was but had no choice. She put her fingers in, scooped a fingerful towards her mouth, ate. It tasted awful. And she realised what it must be.
Dog food.
Her first reaction was to spit it out but if she did that, she knew that would be it, no more. Left to starve. So she ate. Kept eating.
Barely aware of the tears streaming down her face, the sobs coming from her body.
She ate like it was the best meal she had ever had.
Phil stared through the two-way mirror, scrutinising. Anthony Howe sat in the interview room, sitting at the table, nervous, agitated. Looking round all the time, occasionally making fruitless attempts to engage the uniform by the door in conversation, fear fighting disbelief for prominence on his face.
‘Sure you want to do this?’ Ben Fenwick beside Phil, staring through the glass alongside him.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, it’s late, you’ve been working all hours, a new father… don’t you want to go home?’
Phil kept looking straight ahead, his eyes, his voice, flat. ‘This needs to be done.’
Phil felt Fenwick take his eyes off the glass and look at him. His body language had softened, there was nothing arrogant, adversarial about his manner. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Look, Phil, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but if there’s anything…’
‘Everything’s fine.’
Fenwick turned away, back to looking at Anthony Howe. ‘Whatever you say.’
The door opened. Fiona Welch came in, arms full of files and papers. As soon as Anni had spoken at the meeting, moves had been made to reach Anthony Howe. Anni and Mickey had found him at a pub in Wivenhoe near the university, sitting with students. Taking, Anni had told Phil when she came back, special notice of one young brunette in particular. Doing all the tricks, leaning forward, appearing to be hanging on to every word, his hand ‘accidentally’ landing on her thigh.
When Anni and Mickey had spoken to him, he had made a scene, refused to come with them at first, but they had been insistent. Eventually, and with great embarrassment, he had left the pub.
‘How’s he doing?’ said Fiona Welch.
‘Just sitting there,’ said Fenwick, turning towards her.
She nodded, as if that was what she expected. ‘Good.’ She turned to Phil. ‘You doing the interview?’
He nodded.
‘Right. Here’s the plan.’ She set her folders down on the desk, opened one, scanned the page.
Phil turned away from the mirror, looking directly at her. Giving her profile before the whole team seemed to have energised her. Bringing in Anthony Howe based on what she said had changed her mood to one of vindication. Consequently, Phil was finding her even more insufferable.
‘I think I know what to do by now,’ he said.
‘Yes, but-’ She held up a sheaf of papers.
Phil’s eyes flashed. ‘I know how to conduct an interview. Thank you.’
Fenwick was looking at him with concern. ‘You sure you want to do this?’
Phil felt anger rising within him. Fenwick was right. He should have been at home now. With Marina. With Josephina. As a family. But he wasn’t. He was still at work about to question a suspected murderer and sexual sadist.
‘I want to do it,’ he said, louder than he intended. ‘Let’s get going.’
‘Go in hard,’ said Fiona. ‘That’s the best way with this type of sociopath.’
Phil ignored her. He had planned on that but didn’t want to tell her.
‘D’you want a relay from in here?’ said Fenwick.
Phil shook his head. Left the room. Ready to find an outlet for his anger.
Anthony Howe looked up when Phil entered the room, nodded to the uniformed constable standing by the door, sat down opposite the university professor, stared at him, his face stone.
‘I… I want to know why I’m here,’ said Anthony Howe. ‘On what charges.’
‘As you know you’ve been formally cautioned but you haven’t been charged with anything.’
‘Good.’
‘Yet.’
Another wave of fear swept over Howe’s face. ‘Now, wait a minute…’
Phil opened the file he had slapped down on the desk, pretended to be reading, looked up. ‘You had an affair with Suzanne Perry.’
Howe put his hands up, palms out, as if in supplication or surrender. ‘Look, I’ve explained all this to your, the other detective, the other day. It’s finished. Over.’
‘Why did she call you yesterday, then?’
Howe’s eyes widened. ‘I… I don’t know…’
We’ve checked her phone records. She called you yesterday afternoon. You didn’t answer. She left a message.’
‘Ah… yes… I didn’t phone her back.’
‘No.’ Phil looked down at the file once more. ‘You were investigated for stalking her.’
Howe leaned towards Phil, looking desperate. ‘That was never proved. No charges were ever brought.’
‘Always the last refuge of the guilty, I find, that line. “That was never proved”. Person who says that always thinks they’ve got away with something.’
Howe swallowed hard. ‘What am I… what’s happened that I should know about…?’
Phil shook his head, felt his anger rising a notch at Howe’s manner. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s happened. It’s been on the news, the internet, everywhere. Suzanne Perry is missing. Her friend Zoe Herriot is dead. Murdered.’
His hand went to his mouth. ‘Oh God…’
‘Yes, oh God.’ Phil sat back, looked at him, squirming and sweating in his seat. ‘So where is she?’
‘I… I don’t know…’
‘Not good enough.’ Phil’s voice was tight, coiled. Contained. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know!’ Howe was leaning across the table, pleading to be believed.
Phil leaned in also, screaming in Howe’s face. ‘Not good enough! Where is she?’
Howe crumbled, head in hands. ‘I don’t know…’
Phil sat back, stared at him. Either he was telling the truth and was genuinely innocent or he was the cunning sociopath of Fiona Welch’s profile, hiding behind another mask. He wasn’t going to take that chance.
Phil sat back, folded his arms. Stared at Howe who couldn’t return the look, eyes darting about all over the place.
‘Suzanne Perry. Where is she?’
Howe shook his head. ‘No, no…’
‘Zoe Herriot.’
Phil slid a crime scene photo across the table. Howe looked at it, looked quickly away, his eyes screwed tight.
‘Why did you kill her?’
Howe didn’t reply.
Phil slid another crime scene photo across the table. The body from the lightship. Howe acted as if he didn’t want to look but couldn’t help himself. Once he had seen what was there he swiftly turned away once more.
‘Who is she, Anthony? What did she do to you? Did you stalk her first? Or was that never proved?’
Anthony Howe didn’t answer. He was slumped forward on the table, head in hands, sobbing.
Phil leaned back, stared at the ceiling, sighed.
‘Interview suspended,’ he said.
Rose Martin hadn’t gone home. Still in the station, away from the rest of the team, she was following a hunch.
And Phil and his ‘no mavericking’ rule could go to hell.
Fenwick had given her his office and she sat at his desk, opening up Julie Miller’s laptop, hoping she was going to be right. She waited for internet connection, opened up Julie Miller’s Facebook account. Went to the photos, paged through.
And eventually found what she was looking for.
The jolt, the spike she felt when she saw it was almost physical. An adrenalin rush like no other. They could do all the cross-referencing they liked, but this was going to put her far ahead of the rest of them, bring all the glory to her.
She closed the laptop, sat back, smiled.
Time to go home. Deal with it tomorrow.
But she knew she was too wired for sleep.
Wonder what time Ben was planning on leaving?
Anni Hepburn flopped backwards on to the sofa, bottle of beer in hand, sighed. Exhausted.
She had spent most of the afternoon going through patient files at the hospital, looking for possible matches with Fiona Welch’s profile. So far she hadn’t found any. But there was always tomorrow.
If Anthony Howe didn’t confess, that is.
She flicked the remote at the TV, stared at it for a few seconds, thinking about maybe running a bath, lying in there for an hour or so with another beer and this week’s heat magazine. Then her mobile rang.
She answered it.
‘Hi, it’s, er, it’s Mickey. From work, you know?’
She was surprised but managed to hide it well. ‘Yeah, I know. Hi, Mickey, what can I do for you?’
‘Well, I was just wondering…’
She smiled, waited.
‘There’s a couple of things about the case I was… I just wanted to talk through. And, well, to be honest, you were the only one that I thought would listen.’
She almost laughed out loud. That was the lamest chat-up line she had heard in a long time. Or at least from one of her colleagues.
‘I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m exhausted.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I just need an early night. Maybe we could talk about it tomorrow, yeah?’
She heard the disappointment in his voice. ‘OK. Tomorrow. See you then. Sorry to, you know, bother you.’
She smiled. He might look and sound like some alpha male wannabe at work but on his own he was quite sweet. And cute, too, now that she thought of it.
She said goodnight, hung up the phone, smiled.
‘Yep, girl,’ she said out loud, ‘you still got it.’
Then went to run herself a bath.
Mickey Philips put the phone down, sighed. Snow Patrol playing in the background, singing about her being the only thing right in all he’d done.
He hadn’t done anything right at all. In fact, he’d done that all wrong. Now she would think he fancied her. Well, yeah, he might, but that wasn’t the point. He had suspicions about this case. Suspicions he wanted to share with someone. Talk through, see if he was just imagining things. Or not.
Hopefully the former.
But now it would have to wait. He doubted he would have the time or the opportunity to talk to Anni alone tomorrow. Not without her thinking he was after her. He would just have to keep his suspicions to himself for now.
And having an early night? Yeah, right. How lame was that excuse?
He sighed. Sat back on the sofa. Flicked the remote at the stereo, silencing it. No longer in the mood.
On the one hand, he thought, things used to be much more complicated when he was in the Drugs Squad. But in a way, much simpler.
He got up, not wanting to stay in the flat any longer.
He would find a bar, have a couple of drinks.
Drown his suspicions at least.
And hopefully not bump into Anni, not having an early night.
He closed the door behind him.
‘Now, where were we?’
Phil sat down opposite Anthony Howe once more. The professor looked like he was in pieces. He had dried his tears but his face looked like it had aged ten years in the time Phil had been out of the room.
The crime scene photos were still in front of Howe, exactly where Phil had left them. He hadn’t even touched them.
‘Had a good look?’ said Phil. ‘Pleased with your handiwork? Because no one ever is, really, are they? There’s always something they could have done better. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time but just doesn’t look right once it’s finished.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Is that how it is with you, Anthony? Was there something here’ – he pointed at the photo of the woman on the lightship – ‘that maybe you could have done better? Hmm?’ He sat back, arms out, hands on the table. ‘What would that be, then? You tell me.’
Howe’s voice was tremulous, small. ‘I… I’ve never seen her before. I didn’t do it… I didn’t do it…’
During the break in the interview he had gone into the observation room. Fenwick and Fiona Welch had been watching. They both turned to him as he entered.
‘That’s it,’ said Fiona. ‘Keep at him. He’s going to crack, I know it. Just keep at him.’
Fenwick looked slightly concerned. ‘Can I talk to you outside a moment?’
Phil followed his boss into the hallway. It had the same institutional smell that every police station had. Phil had often thought there must be a spray somewhere, sitting in boxes in some store cupboard in the Home Office. Eau de Nick.
‘Are you OK?’ said Fenwick.
‘Fine.’ Phil’s eyes, face, gave nothing away.
‘Really? Because I saw you in there with that suspect and I’m not so sure.’
Phil said nothing. Fenwick continued.
‘You’re the best interviewer in the station, Phil. You know that. I’ve seen you get inside that room, get to work on someone and get them to confess while they still think you’re their best mate. I’ve seen you demolish villains that no one else could crack. But in there…’
Phil’s defences were up. ‘What about in there?’
‘You’re off your game. You’re going for him hard, why? Because she says so?’
‘No. Because… because… because it’s my job…’
Fenwick shook his head. ‘Phil…’
‘Look, Ben. If he’s guilty, he’ll crack. If he’s not he won’t. Simple as that.’
From the look on Fenwick’s face, he had realised he would get no further with Phil. ‘Fine. Do it your own way.’
‘I will.’
And Phil went back in the room.
‘So you didn’t do it,’ said Phil, looking at the top of Howe’s head, resting on the table.
The head moved slowly, side to side.
‘But you admit to stalking Suzanne.’
He nodded.
‘Good. That’s progress. We’re getting somewhere.’
Howe looked up. ‘We were in a relationship… She ended it and… and… I couldn’t bear it… I wanted to see her, talk to her… that’s all, just to talk to her, tell her I… I…’ His voice trailed off once more. He sighed. ‘She phoned me yesterday, yes. And I didn’t call her back.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she would have… shouted at me…’
‘And you don’t like being shouted at?’
He shook his head.
‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘What about Julie Miller?’
He shook his head.
‘Adele Harrison?’
Another shake of the head, eyes tightly closed.
Phil’s voice was rising. ‘Zoe Herriot. Why’d you kill her? Was she in the way? Was she a barrier to you being with Suzanne again? Is that it? Would she have shouted at you?’
No response.
‘Is that it?’
Howe started to cry again.
Phil sat back, stared at him. And a moment of self-doubt crept into his heart. A thought took shape: Fenwick’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Was Howe guilty? Phil realised he didn’t know. And he didn’t know why he didn’t know. He should have been on top of it, looking for the signs, interpreting them, basing his next set of questions on those interpretations. Instead he had gone in shouting, breaking the man before him and still not knowing whether he was guilty or innocent.
He thought once again of Marina. Wished she was with him.
And that was it. He knew it. The reason he couldn’t operate.
He stood up. ‘Interview terminated.’
Howe looked up, hope daring to dance at the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s it? I can go home?’
Phil looked down at the broken man sprawled across the table and didn’t know the answer.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to charge you with the abduction of Suzanne Perry and we’re going to keep you here overnight. We’ll talk again in the morning.’
Howe recoiled as if he’d been hit. ‘No… no, you can’t… please…’
Phil gestured to the uniform by the door to take over, turned away from him.
‘Please, you can’t… I can’t go in a cell, please…’
Phil said nothing.
‘I’m… I’m claustrophobic, please… please…’ And then shouting. ‘I’m scared…’
Phil left the room. Hands shaking, unfocused.
He had a phone call to make.
Phil sat on Marina’s side of the bed for the second night in a row. Staring ahead, seeing nothing, eyes focused inwards not outwards.
Thoughts focused once more on his partner and daughter.
He shook his head, lifted the beer bottle to his mouth. Empty. He couldn’t remember drinking it. He sighed. His head wasn’t where it should be. He should have been in the case, right in the thick of it, on top of it, surfing it like a wave, but he wasn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on it. And that both worried and scared him.
Anthony Howe. Innocent or guilty?
Julie Miller/Adele Harrison.
Suzanne Perry/Zoe Herriot.
And Fiona Welch. Why did he dislike her so? Why was he listening to what she said? Why were any of them?
There was something he was missing. Something he couldn’t see. Like there was fog all around, inside and out. Something…
The phone was in his hands. He didn’t remember putting it there. He looked at the floor. Must have let the empty beer bottle slip to the floor.
He dialled a number he knew off by heart.
Waited. Not breathing.
Marina saw the phone light up, vibrate. It was on the bed next to her. She had carried it with her all day, in her hands all night. She just looked at it. Let it ring.
Josephina was asleep in the travel cot at the side of the bed. The TV was playing softly in the corner of the hotel room. From the window in her bedroom she could see the night. It seemed barely dark, the lights of Bury St Edmunds twinkling and shining. Safe and enticing.
She sighed.
The phone kept flashing, vibrating.
Josephina stirred.
She had told herself she would answer it when he rang. Talk to him. Explain.
Because she would have made up her mind by then. She would know what she was going to do.
But she didn’t. She hadn’t made up her mind. In fact she was no further forward. So she couldn’t talk to him. Didn’t trust herself.
The phone kept flashing, vibrating.
Her fingers were right next to it. Reaching…
It would be so easy, just pick it up, talk to him…
So easy…
It stopped.
She sighed. Sat back. Looked at it.
She felt empty once more, alone.
She could pick it up, call him.
She could.
But she wouldn’t. Because she didn’t know what to say.
So she sat there looking at it.
Her heart breaking.
Phil put the phone down. He didn’t leave a message. He lay down on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
He tried to sleep.
Couldn’t.
Added it to the list of things he couldn’t do.
The Creeper stood outside the house. Smiled.
It was a large house but, crammed into a small street with other large houses, it just looked small. Old, with grey and red brick and big bay sash windows with stained glass in them. Nice. The sort of place that looked welcoming. The sort of place you could call home.
Rani had done well for herself this time.
The Creeper would never have dreamt of calling a place like this home. It was a different world. But he might. Soon.
He had watched it for a long time. A man had driven up, parked down the road in the first available space and let himself in. Suited and carrying a briefcase, he was young, confident looking. Like he knew what he was worth. Or thought he knew.
The Creeper had smiled. The man would soon find out.
He had waited longer. Eventually another car had pulled up, parked in the road. There were two people in it, a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat. His heart skipped a beat. There she was. He knew it as soon as he saw her.
Rani.
He couldn’t stop smiling. It was all he could to stop himself running out to meet her. But he did. He would be patient. He would wait. Bide his time.
He watched them talk. The driver looked like an older version of the man who had entered the house. He saw them hold hands before she left the car. Felt a sharp pang of anger when that happened. The car drove away. He watched it go, saw Rani enter the house.
Went back to waiting.
It wasn’t perfect where he was but it was good. It would do. It wasn’t as good as the last place, where he lived with Rani, was together with her all the time, but it would do. He wouldn’t be disturbed. The owner of the house he was in would be no more trouble. He could see her leg sticking out from the spare room where he had left her body.
All he had to do was wait.
And he was good at that. He could be a patient man. Because he had something to wait for. Someone.
Rani.