PART THREE

57

Phil knew what he must look like. But he didn’t care.

He had made an effort to smarten himself up, sort himself out. Clean shirt and a shave. Wash and brush up. But his eyes were black-rimmed, broken capillary fractals, gazing away when they should be staying focused, clouding over when they should have been clear.

He sat at his desk in the bar, waiting for the briefing to start. Caffeine-alert, telling himself to pull it together, compartmentalise. Shut off his home life, live only in his work life. But whether he was actually listening was another matter.

He had tried Marina again last night. And again and again. A different message every time. Inquiring about her safety and wellbeing, their daughter’s too. Then telling her how much she was missed, just to talk to him if something was wrong. She didn’t need to come back home. Even asking for her opinion on his case. Different every time, something he hoped would attract her to pick up, make it impossible not to. She didn’t. Eventually he stopped leaving messages. Eventually he stopped calling.

He must have slept at some point. But he couldn’t remember when. Woke up on Marina’s side of the bed once more. Several more bottles at his feet. He couldn’t remember those getting there either.

He had formulated a plan for contacting Marina. Really simple, wondered how he hadn’t thought of it earlier. He would do it later. First he had the briefing to get through.

He pulled his eyes on to the whiteboard, took another hit of pitch-black coffee, forced himself to concentrate on the case.

The team were assembled. The same faces as the day before looking marginally refreshed and rested. Anni would catch Mickey’s eye then turn away with a private smile while Mickey would look anywhere but at her. He didn’t know what was going on there, didn’t want to know either unless it affected their work. Rose Martin seemed to be humming with some kind of energy, ready to go. Either that, thought Phil, or she’d just had another fight. Fenwick was at the end of the room, trying not to look at her. Fiona Welch sat at her desk, straight-backed, pen poised. Face unreadable. She still unnerved Phil. Nick Lines had come over, armed with more findings from the post-mortems.

Fenwick moved to the centre of the room, ready to go.

‘Thanks for coming in early, people. Appreciate it. Let’s get started. Phil?’

Phil stood up, took centre stage. ‘As you know, we’ve got Anthony Howe downstairs in the cells. He’s been charged with Suzanne Perry’s abduction. Progress report, Adrian?’

Adrian Wren stood up. ‘He’s got no alibi for the night of the abduction and murder. Says he was out on his own, walking. Stopped in a pub for a drink. Can’t remember which one.’ He checked a sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Took a call from Suzanne Perry in the afternoon, tried calling her a few times that night. No reply.’

‘Left a message?’ said Phil.

Adrian shook his head. ‘No. But called her three times up until ten o’clock. After that, nothing. Says he went home. Wife’s left him so there’s no one who can say yes or no to that one. Got the CSIs going through his house now, though.’

‘Thanks, Adrian.’ Phil turned to the rest of the team. ‘So that’s where we are with him.’

‘Gut feeling, Phil?’ said Fenwick, his usual question.

Phil thought. He was the one who had interviewed him and charged him but he honestly didn’t know if he was guilty. Usually he got a feeling, a copper’s instinct. It wasn’t infallible but was accurate about 90 per cent of the time. But this time, no yes or no, nothing.

But before he could answer, Fiona Welch jumped in.

‘He fits the profile perfectly,’ she said. ‘Textbook. Just a matter of breaking him down, I would say.’

Fenwick stared at her. Phil knew he didn’t like profilers, only paid lip service to the idea of them for the sake of workplace politics and personal advancement. A win/win situation for him – able to take the credit if they got it right, providing someone to blame if they got it wrong. But he certainly didn’t like them interrupting when it wasn’t their turn. Fenwick blanked her.

‘Phil?’

‘Yeah, he fits the profile, but…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You mean whether he’s guilty or innocent?’

‘Yeah. I just… don’t know.’

Fenwick waited for him to expand on that. He didn’t. Instead, Phil turned to Nick Lines.

‘Nick. Good to see you again. What you got for us?’

Nick Lines got slowly to his feet. ‘Quite a bit since yesterday, actually. Nothing more on the DNA front yet, unfortunately, and there won’t be for a while, I don’t think. So I took a journey down some other avenues. I checked the physical description we had of Adele Harrison against the body we’ve got. Looked for any distinguishing features.’

‘And?’ said Phil.

‘Well, we didn’t find anything at first. So I persevered. Adele Harrison had a tattoo on the base of her spine. You know what I mean. Popular among a certain type. Some kind of curlicue. Arse antlers, I believe they’re called.’

Despite or perhaps because of the tension in the room, everyone laughed.

‘Tart tats, you mean,’ said Mickey.

‘If we were less politically correct,’ said Fenwick, glancing quickly at Rose Martin to gauge her reaction.

‘Please,’ said Phil, ‘can we?’

The laughter died away. Nick Lines continued.

‘It wasn’t an easy match. There wasn’t much of her lower back left.’

Silence, tinged with guilt for the earlier laughter.

‘The skin’s been flayed off. Whether that was deliberate to stop us identifying her or whether it was just frenzy, I don’t know.’

‘Maybe both,’ said Phil.

‘Perhaps,’ said Nick, continuing. ‘But they hadn’t done a complete job. There were still traces of the tattoo left. I was able to reconstruct a partial impression from that.’

‘Julie Miller doesn’t have any tattoos,’ said Rose.

Nick nodded.

‘So you think that confirms it?’ said Phil.

‘As I said, we won’t have the DNA back for a while, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe we should think about bringing her next of kin in for an identification.’

A depression settled over the room. He had all but confirmed what they suspected. But there was no sense of triumph or even achievement at it.

‘I found something else, too,’ said Nick. ‘Stomach contents analysis. Her last meal. As far as I can tell, dog food.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Phil, vocalising what the room must have been thinking. ‘It gets worse.’

‘Can we get a match on that?’ said Fenwick. ‘Find the brand, the make, maybe even the batch?’

Nick Lines nodded. ‘We’re already ahead of you. We’ve contacted all the major pet food manufacturers. Shot in the dark and may take a while, but stranger things have happened. Also. Suzanne Perry’s blood sample. They phoned me with results. Traces of pancuronium.’

‘That’s not good, right?’ said Phil.

‘Not good at all. It’s a muscle relaxant. Taken in large doses it paralyses the body. They can still feel but not move. It’s given to death-row inmates in lethal injections in the States.’

‘Charming,’ said Phil. ‘Well, let’s follow that up. See where a supply could be found. Check-’

The door burst open. A uniform rushed in.

Fenwick was first to react. ‘This is a-’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the uniform, out of breath, ‘but this is urgent.’

‘What?’ said Phil.

‘The prisoner, sir, Anthony Howe…’

‘Yes,’ said Phil.

‘Tried to kill himself.’

58

Anthony Howe had managed to rip his sheets up to make a rope. Then, knots tested, pulled strong and tight, he had looped it round the light fitting. Lassoed in place it hung there, a hangman’s noose. He had placed it round his neck, pulled the slipknot tight. Stepping off the bed, the sudden jerk expelled what air there was from his body, forcibly denied access to any more. The jolt and drop weren’t sufficient to break his neck so he had hung from the ceiling, legs thrashing and air-cycling, hands grabbing at his throat, dangling and strangling. His face had turned purple and his bladder and bowels evacuated.

The makeshift gallows hadn’t held for long, his weight being too much for the electric cord, and it had given way, the noise of his body hitting the floor and alerting an on-duty uniform.

‘Get the paramedics in here!’

Phil ran into the cell. A uniform had removed the noose from Howe’s neck and was attempting CPR on him. His body was in a state and there was no trace of the cultured, arrogant university lecturer.

‘What’s happening?’ said Phil.

The uniform looked up, fingers locked together, hands pressing down hard, rhythmically, on Howe’s chest. ‘Still breathing, sir…’ Breaking off to count the presses. ‘… just trying… to revive him…’

And back down to breathe more air into his lungs.

Phil stood up, looked around, felt impotent rage inside him. The light fitting was on the floor in pieces, bulb and casing shattered. The noose was lying in a corner where the uniform had thrown it, a venomous snake, once dangerous, now dead.

The doorway was full: the whole team from the briefing room having followed him down, now crowding round, trying to get in, winning the world record for most number of people crammed into a door frame at one time.

‘Who was looking in on him?’ Phil said. ‘Who was checking him?’

Another uniform, standing by the door, keeping the press of bodies back, glanced nervously at him. ‘We did, sir, we checked in on him regularly. Looked like he was sleeping.’

‘Well, he wasn’t, was he?’

The uniform recoiled. ‘No… but we weren’t given any special orders. No suicide watch or nothing…’

Suicide watch. Phil looked down at the body, thought of Howe’s words in the interview room the previous night:

I can’t go in a cell, pleaseI’m claustrophobicpleasepleaseI’m scared

Phil hadn’t listened to him. Ignored him, in fact. He heard stuff like that all the time, thought nothing of it. Looked again at the mess on the floor.

I’m losing it

At that moment the paramedics arrived, ushering everyone out of the way, taking over. Phil allowed himself to be led from the cell along with everyone else. Now the corridor was full of bodies.

Fenwick pushed his way over to Phil, placed an arm round his shoulder. ‘A word.’ He separated him from the rest of the group, walked him away to a quiet spot round a corner.

As Phil went he turned, saw Fiona Welch’s face. She was staring into the cell, her eyes lit up, a smile on her face. Fascination? He didn’t know. Didn’t have time to think about her now. He turned to Fenwick.

‘What the fuck just happened here?’ Fenwick’s voice low, angry.

Phil shook his head.

‘Where was the risk assessment? Why wasn’t this flagged up? Why didn’t you do that?’

Anger was still swirling around inside Phil, looking for an outlet. It had just found it. ‘Me? This is all my fault, is it?’

‘You interviewed him.’

‘You observed.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenwick, finger jabbing in Phil’s face. ‘And I said you didn’t look up to it. You were off your game in there, not thinking for yourself, doing whatever she told you too.’

Phil’s anger jumped up a gear. ‘Don’t make out this is my fault. Don’t you try and make me take the blame for this.’

‘Whose fault is it, then? That profiler’s?’ Fenwick sneered. ‘We all know you do whatever a profiler tells you, don’t we? She the next in line?’

Phil couldn’t stop himself. His fist was coming towards Fenwick’s face before his brain had a chance to stop it.

It connected. Fenwick’s head snapped back and round, taking his body with it. His legs went too, tangling and tripping over each other, taking Fenwick to the floor.

He lay there, looking up at Phil who just stared down at his superior officer. Shocked, stunned and amazed at what he had just done. His mouth was open, flapping with words that wouldn’t emerge.

Fenwick’s hand went to his mouth where Phil’s fist had broken the skin, blood pooling there. He stared upwards, as shocked as Phil was.

Anni appeared in the hall behind Phil. ‘Boss-’ She stopped dead at the scene before her.

Phil, aware that she was there, put his arm out to help Fenwick to his feet. Fenwick accepted.

‘It’s all right, Anni,’ said Phil. ‘Everything’s OK.’

Fenwick made it to his feet, staggering slightly. Phil couldn’t meet his gaze, turned to Anni.

‘Yes.’

‘I, uh, just wanted to tell you that the Super’s on his way. From Chelmsford. Said he wants to speak to you.’

‘Thanks, Anni.’

She looked between the two men, wide-eyed, then turned and rejoined the rest of the team in front of the cell door.

Phil looked at Fenwick. ‘Sorry,’ he said, eyes hitting the floor.

Fenwick nodded.

‘I’ll go.’ Phil turned to walk away.

‘Wait.’

Phil turned. Fenwick was still rubbing his jaw. Mouth working, trying to find words that wouldn’t come easily.

‘Go and lead your team. We’ll deal with this later.’

Phil nodded, turned, walked away.

He rounded the corner, back to where everyone else was. The paramedics were taking Anthony Howe out on a stretcher. Fiona Welch was still staring, fascinated, as his body went past her.

‘Fiona,’ said Phil, ‘geographic victim profile. Can you do that?’

She looked up at him. ‘Of course I can.’

‘Then do it, please.’ He looked at the rest of the team. ‘Right, upstairs. Back to work. It’s our job to make sure there aren’t any more deaths. Come on, excitement over.’

He turned, walked away. Thinking about what Fenwick had said, that this mess was all his fault.

Thinking that he might be right.

59

E xcitement over.

Phil was off, taking the stairs two at a time. Mickey walked back up the stairs to the bar along with the rest of the team. With a day of looking through vehicle registrations to come, that phrase went doubly for him.

He bumped into Anni. She looked up, startled.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘miles away.’

‘Don’t blame you,’ said Mickey. ‘What just happened…’

She looked sharply at him. ‘You saw-’ Her features changed. ‘Oh. Right. Yeah.’

They walked together in silence.

‘Look,’ said Mickey.

A ghost of a smile played round Anni’s lips. ‘Is this going to be an “about last night” thing? Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Even as he spoke he felt himself reddening. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

She gave him a quick look, eyes mischievous. ‘What way did you mean it, then?’

He glanced round, seeing who was listening. Jane Gosling was right behind him, behind her Rose Martin and Ben Fenwick, deep in conversation, Rose’s face angry.

‘Not here,’ he said.

‘Man of mystery,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Giving me a key to your house of secrets then, are you?’

Mickey sighed, shook his head. He thought he could trust Anni. Out of all of the team she seemed the most approachable, the one with less of an agenda, the most honest.

They reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner. Anni put a hand on his arm. He stopped, turned.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Just winding you up.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go out, follow up those client list leads of Suzanne and Zoe’s from the hospital. But I’ll be around later.’ She smiled again. ‘Or you could phone me.’

Fiona Welch came past, walking double time, self-importantly, like she was in an episode of The West Wing.

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he said and turned, went back to the bar.

Hoping he wasn’t blushing too much.

He reached his desk, sat down. Sighed. Looked round. Fiona Welch was at her desk on the other side of the room, looking at her screen, energised, lips moving in a dialogue only she could hear.

He just might give Anni a ring.

He looked at his own screen, at the scrolling numbers, the lists. Knowing in theory why his work was so important but wishing there was a more exciting way to do it.

Fiona Welch laughed to herself, went on staring at the screen.

He hoped the thing he wanted to talk to Anni about would keep, hoped he was right.

But hoped more that he wasn’t.

60

Anni stood on the doorstep and rang the bell.

The house was way out in Coggeshall, one of the most photogenic villages on Essex. Anni had always had a problem with the place and others like it, though. Because its main street and offshoots consisted of the kind of old, beamed, uneven houses, thatched roofs, Regency-windowed pubs and quaint, red-brick cottages that spoke of a certain kind of intractable tradition and held a natural attraction to a certain kind of reactionary mindset, being black, female and a non-Daily Mail reader made her feel uncomfortable there.

The bell she rang was only comparatively modern, 1970s as opposed to the rest of the house that looked like it belonged more in the 1870s. It was slightly less well maintained than the rest of the row, the paint round the windows chipped and peeling, the door needing a fresh coat of varnish, the front garden less manicured. She checked her list. It belonged to a writer.

Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot’s list of clients from the hospital. In need of speech therapy. Luckily, they hadn’t been there for a long time so the list wasn’t huge. But it was extensive and far-ranging. Socio-economically and geographically. Anni had ruled out the children. She didn’t regard them as a priority and would only start looking at them if the adult list didn’t pan out. There might be a vengeful parent or family member involved somewhere but she doubted it, really. So the adults were where she was starting.

She had cross-referenced the ones that she had flagged up with Julie Miller’s list. There were three that stood out and she was calling on the first one now. He had been referred to a speech therapist following a stroke. Anni had the bare essentials of his medical notes. Writer. Early fifties. Heavy drinker, heavy smoker. Mild to medium stroke. Responded well to treatment, discharged after three months of regular sessions, expected back for a check up in three months time.

She waited for the door to be answered.

The scene in the cell earlier that morning had stunned her. Horrible. Awful. She had heard of things like that before but never witnessed it for herself. Especially to someone she herself had questioned and fingered as a suspect.

Anthony Howe. When Fiona Welch read out the profile his name had jumped out at her. A perfect match. There had been such a sense of jubilation when she had brought him in, the exhilaration of a job well done. Or a good job about to be done. And then this. A total unravelling. Had he done it because he was guilty or because he was innocent? She didn’t know. She hoped he came round so they could ask him.

But the real shocker had been the follow-up she had witnessed. Her boss striking a superior officer. Their superior officer. She had seen arguments before, differences of opinion, sure. On an almost daily basis. Strong personalities clashed all the time when under pressure, no big thing, part of the job. But to actually go so far as to take a swing at a superior officer and to see Phil Brennan be the one to do it, that was unprecedented. Admittedly, there had been times she had felt like doing that to Fenwick herself, but still…

She hadn’t said a word. Knew she shouldn’t, it wasn’t in her best interests to. Knew Phil wouldn’t want her to either. And no matter what had gone on between them recently, she was still loyal to her boss.

And then there was Mickey. With his spiky hair, cocky smile and sharp suit she had dismissed him as just another ambitious young officer, thinking he was a master of the universe and a shag magnet because he had put away a couple of villains, won a few fist fights and made it to DS. That was how she had taken the previous night’s phone call at first, but the way he had behaved on the stairs earlier was different. He seemed serious, intense, even. Worried. In fact, she was beginning to think she had misjudged him.

And the way he had blushed when she had touched his arm. Sweet. She smiled at the memory.

But not too much. She didn’t date guys she worked with. Not after last time.

But maybe he did have something important to say to her. Maybe he would ring her.

The front door opened, putting all further thoughts of Mickey Philips out of her mind. In front of her was a man. Small, grey-haired, portly. He looked old enough to be the father of the man she was calling on. He looked at her, warily.

‘Keith Ridley?’ she said, folding out her warrant card.

‘Yes?’ His voice held a tremor that matched the one in his hand holding the door open.

‘Detective Constable Anni Hepburn. Can I have a few words?’

He slowly stood aside to let her in, closing the door behind her.

She entered and all thoughts of her fighting bosses, Mickey’s tongue-tied attempts to talk to her and the condition of Anthony Howe were forgotten and pushed from her head as she concentrated on the job she had to do.


Forty minutes later she was back out in the sunshine, striking him off the list.

He was a writer of crime fiction, she had discovered, although she hadn’t read any of his books. However, it would have been more accurate to say his real calling was self-destruction as he had sat in front of her chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette with a can of lager on the arm rest of his chair while she questioned him, his shaking hand alternating what he put to his lips.

He told her he didn’t know why he had suffered a stroke, must have been something hereditary. His wife was out at work teaching and he was home alone. Working on a new novel, he said, although he had turned off Homes Under the Hammer when they entered the living room.

He had nothing but praise for the work of Suzanne and Zoe, though. And, Anni thought, genuine shock and regret when he saw on the news what had happened to them. And, most importantly, a verifiable alibi. She had thanked him and left.

Walking to her car, feeling the kind of imagined, malevolent eyes on her that all outsiders were treated to in remote villages, especially black ones, her phone rang.

She answered it. Mickey.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Working through the therapy list like I said I was going to.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Not so far. Got an ex-soldier next. Post-traumatic stress disorder. That’ll be a laugh. See what he comes up with.’

‘Right.’

‘You?’

He sighed. ‘Losing the will to live. Rapidly.’

She laughed. ‘Still hunting for Nemo?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Dory was my favourite. And the sharks.’

‘What?’

‘The film. Don’t say you haven’t seen it?’

‘No. You have kids, then?’

‘Nephews. Two of them.’

‘Right.’

Mickey fell silent. Anni waited. Eventually she decided to prompt him.

‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about, then?’

‘Yeah. When are you free?’

She told him she had an address for the soldier on a houseboat by the quayside at the Hythe.

‘Where we found the body,’ said Mickey.

‘Probably,’ she said. ‘D’you want to meet up there?’

He did. They made a time, rang off.

She drove away, glad to be heading back to the town. Feeling much safer there than in the country.

61

The Super sat behind the desk in Fenwick’s office. Stared at him, unsmiling.

‘Jesus Christ. What a fucking mess.’

Phil said nothing.

Fenwick was sitting next to him, a red welt over the side of his lip, his cheek puffed up, face turned away from the Super, eyes still on him. Phil kept the swollen knuckles of his right hand covered with his left.

The Super was never known by his full title, Chief Superintendent Brian Denton, at least not throughout Colchester Division. Just the Super. He wasn’t a physically imposing man but he had the confidence and presence that comes from knowing whatever he said was going to be listened to and acted on. With his swept-back grey hair, impeccable uniform and artfully concealed broken veins on his nose, Phil was always reminded of an ageing matinee idol who thought he was bound for Hollywood but somehow ended up in daytime soaps. Not everyone can run the Met.

But he was a first-class copper and he still retained a thief taker’s instinct, no matter how many years he had spent behind a desk.

Usually on a case like this Phil reported directly to the Super at Chelmsford, the DCI at the station, his direct superior, taking more of an office management role. The Super had mentioned Fenwick before. Phil got the impression he didn’t rate him much.

‘Heads should roll for this.’

Phil again said nothing.

Fenwick, however, leaned forward. ‘Well, sir, I… I’ve covered all bases adequately. Perhaps if the…’ – he risked a sly, angry glance at Phil – ‘… shall we say lower-ranking officers had done their jobs properly, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

Phil’s vision turned red. His hands began to shake. Bastard.

He still said nothing.

The Super stared at Fenwick. ‘Surely as senior officer the blame should lie with you, DCI Fenwick?’

Fenwick went red. ‘Well, yes, perhaps… but I’m not out on the front line. I’m here, coordinating. I can’t be held responsible for everything that goes on.’

‘So you’re… what? Just a glorified office manager, is that what you’re saying?’

It was Fenwick’s turn to shake. Phil suppressed a grin.

‘I… I… no…’

The Super cut in. ‘This is a bloody mess. You’ve got more resources and bodies on this one than any other case in Essex. I want results. And I want this kept quiet, the press out of. If I see one word of this in the papers I’ll have both your jobs, clear?’

They both nodded.

‘Good. Right.’ He turned to Phil. ‘DI Brennan. Did you get a confession out of the suspect before he was taken to hospital?’

Phil shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Pity.’ He looked at his watch. Sighed. Clearly on his way to another appointment. He looked between the two of them irritably. ‘Can I trust you both to carry on with this? Without one blaming the other for failings either real or imagined? Or the other feeling the need to express his feelings physically, no matter how deserving the recipient may be of them?’

The Super’s eyes twinkled. Phil caught it. He didn’t know if Fenwick had.

He knows. He knows what’s happened.

Phil nodded. ‘You can, sir.’

Fenwick was more hesitant.

‘Problem, DCI Fenwick?’

Fenwick risked a sly look at Phil, eyes lit by a vengeful light.

Here it comes, he thought.

‘Yes? I’m waiting.’

Fenwick shook his head, dropped his eyes to the floor.

‘Good. DI Brennan, you’re still in charge of this investigation. Move it forward, get results. The whole world and his bloody wife are looking over our shoulder on this one. DCI Fenwick, you’re in charge of damage control here. Like I said, not one word of this to the press. Or heads will roll.’

The Super stood up, bid them good day, let himself out.

Fenwick breathed a sigh or relief.

Silence in the room.

‘Not one word, Ben,’ said Phil eventually, ‘or heads will roll.’

Fenwick turned to him, quickly, angrily. ‘You won’t get away with what you did.’

There were plenty of retorts that came into Phil’s mind then but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he stood up, left the office and walked back to the bar.

The investigation was in full swing. Phones were being worked, keyboards pounded, voices raised, bodies all over the room. But there was something Phil was interested in more than the investigation at the moment. All to do with the plan he had thought up on the way to work.

He walked across to Milhouse, crouched at the side of his desk.

‘Milhouse,’ he said, ‘need you to run a check on someone for me.’

Milhouse looked up, pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Who?’

He handed him a folded slip of paper. Milhouse opened it, read it. Then looked up, his mouth a perfect ‘O’ of shock.

‘This is-’

‘Marina.’

‘Right.’ Milhouse frowned. ‘What kind of check?’

‘Financial, mainly.’ He gave him another sheet of folded paper. ‘Here’s her account details. Debit and credit cards. I want to know if you can find a trail, see where they’ve been used.’

‘But, this is… this is against the law.’

Phil tried to act casual. ‘Strictly speaking, without a warrant and all that, yes. But please. As a favour to your superior officer? A discreet favour?’

Milhouse looked between the computer and the paper. Eventually he nodded.

Phil managed a smile. ‘Thanks. This means a lot to me. And let me know as soon as you find something, yeah?’

Milhouse said he would.

He stood up, crossed to the door. Fenwick was just walking through it.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To do some policework.’

He swept through the doors before Fenwick could say anything else.


Rose Martin looked up from her desk. Ben was standing by the double doors, watching Phil Brennan walk away. She knew the look on his face by now – angry enough to do some serious damage.

She stood up, walked towards him.

‘Ben? You got a minute?’

She walked outside, knowing he would follow her into the corridor. Knowing he would follow her anywhere. Aware also that Fiona Welch had looked up, was watching them go.

‘That bastard…’ As soon as they were alone, the anger was vented. ‘The Super knows what happened, knows what that bastard did and condones it, bloody condones it… oh, he didn’t say it in so many words but I know what he meant. It was clear whose bloody side he was on…’

‘Ben.’ She placed her hands on his shoulders, looked directly into his eyes. They were flailing around, avoiding her gaze, but she kept at him, waiting for them to settle, like startled crows following a gunshot.

‘D’you want to get back at him? D’you want to get even?’

‘You’re bloody right I do. I want to see the look on his face when-’

She jumped in quickly. ‘D’you want the glory for this one? Want Brennan to come in looking clueless?’

He looked at her. Said nothing.

‘I’ve got something that no one else has. And it’s gold.’

His anger stopped. She knew it was still there, though, like a stationary train at a platform or cancer in remission.

‘What?’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Calm down first, then I’ll show you.’

He smiled. It was a struggle. ‘You always know the right thing to say to me.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

She led him back into the bar, aware that Fiona Welch’s eyes were still fixed on the pair of them.

Rose smiled to herself. Hands off, spod, she thought. There’s only one person going to get the glory on this case and shag the boss.

And that’s me.

62

Paula Harrison’s face registered a range of emotions that Phil hoped he would never have to experience.

She stood in the doorway to her house, clutching the door. She stared at him, round-eyed. If she blinked, Phil thought, the tears would start.

And might never stop.

‘Adele…’

‘Can I come in, Paula?’

She let him in. It was the same as his last visit only more so. The mess was messier, the cartoons on the TV louder and more vivid, the sense of lost hope more palpable.

She chased Nadine upstairs, waited until the door closed, perched on the edge of the sofa. Looked at Phil. Preparing herself.

‘We…’

She cut him off. ‘It’s her, isn’t it? The body. Adele…’

‘I think you’d better prepare yourself for the worst.’

And she broke. Not just tears but her whole body seemed to crumple as if her bones had dissolved, leaving her unable to move, to stand.

‘I’ll…’ Phil went into the kitchen to make tea. Let her sob in peace.

He returned to find her dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose with a paper tissue. She kept dabbing, kept blowing until the tissue was too sodden to function then, seemingly forgetting about it, just let it drop to the floor.

‘How… how did…’

‘We believe the body we found is Adele. We still need to do other tests to be sure but I just wanted to warn you.’

She nodded absently.

‘You’ll be asked to make a formal identification of the body once we’ve confirmed it’s her. Is there anyone you’d like to come with you?’

She shook her head.

‘A family member? Friend?’

‘Adele was my family. All the family I had left…’

‘What about her father?’

A dark wave passed over Paula’s features. ‘He won’t be back…’ She glanced up at Phil, glanced away. ‘And, anyway, Adele hated him. She wouldn’t… wouldn’t…’ The tears started again.

Phil said nothing.

‘She was all, all I had…’

Phil looked at the pictures on the wall. Adele when she was younger with her brother. Both smiling, both looking like the summer would never end.

Both gone.

Phil didn’t know what else to say. He had no words that would make things better for her, no actions that could help. He phoned FLO, asked them to send Cheryl Bland round. She was on her way. Phil hung up, told Paula.

She nodded.

‘I think…’

But he never got to tell her what he thought. His phone went again. He answered.

‘Adrian here, boss. I’m with the CSIs in Suzanne Perry’s flat. Found something I think you should see.’

He looked across at Paula. Didn’t want to leave her alone. ‘Right now?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘What kind of thing?’

He hesitated. ‘I think you should come and see for yourself, boss.’

‘OK.’ He checked his watch. ‘On my way.’

He turned to Paula. ‘I have to go.’

She looked up at him sharply, as if she had forgotten he was actually there.

‘Cheryl Bland’ll be here soon. She’ll help you.’ He handed her a card. ‘Call me if you need to.’

She took it. Let it slip through her fingers to join the used tissue.

Phil saw himself out.

63

‘Up here, boss,’ said Adrian Wren. ‘And, like they say in Star Trek, set faces to stun.’

Phil didn’t correct him, knew the misquote was intentional. He was standing in the hallway of Suzanne Perry’s flat, a two-person CSI still working their way through, Jane Gosling supervising.

The flat was well on its way to looking like no one had ever lived there. The careful accretion of Suzanne Perry’s life – not to mention Zoe Herriot’s body – had been removed, broken down and analysed. It was something that always depressed Phil. Not for the first time did a murder scene remind him of a stage set when the actors had finished. This time it went even further. The play was over, the set being torn down. There was only the hope that another one would take its place.

Phil looked away, looked up towards Adrian’s voice.

The hatch to the loft was open. His DC was leaning over, looking downwards. ‘Get a chair, boss, and I’ll pull you up.’

Phil did so, struggling to be hauled into the square loft opening. Adrian, despite his scrawniness, was surprisingly strong. Phil knew he was a runner. Must have helped to build him up.

Phil reached the edge of the opening, let Adrian help him to his feet.

‘Watch your head,’ said Adrian. ‘And your feet. It’s been boarded over a bit, but not too well.’

On the floor were several old doors laid across the rafters, thick, wadded insulation sticking out between the gaps. Above his head, the ceiling was covered in cobwebs. Dust and dirt caught in the webby strands, strung like filthy grey hammocks between the beams.

Adrian gestured with his hand, pointed. ‘Along there.’

Phil looked. At the far end of the loft where the wooden beams ended in a triangular brick wall, there were no cobwebs, no dust, no dirt. It had been cleaned and cleared. The old doors had been moved together making a floor. Phil noticed now that the other doors over the rafters mirrored the layout of the flat below. A walkway.

Someone had been living here.

‘Christ…’

Adrian nodded. ‘I know.’ He moved forward slightly. ‘Don’t want to disturb it too much, the CSIs haven’t been along there yet. But, look, you can make out what’s been happening…’

He pointed again.

‘We became suspicious when we found some tiny cameras in the living room downstairs. Fibre-optic, good ones. Never know they were there if you weren’t looking for them. Well hidden.’

‘So you checked the other rooms?’

Adrian nodded. ‘Same in every one. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Tiny, with a wireless transmitter. So we checked the range, realised it wasn’t very far, looked around to see where the likeliest place to receive them would be. Traced them up to here. In that corner there, specifically.’

‘So… what? A bank of TV screens, or something?’

Adrian gave a grim smile. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, boss. All you need is a laptop and the right software.’

‘And our man had that.’

‘Oh yes.’

Phil shook his head. Adrian Wren loved a gadget. He would be in his element with this line of inquiry. ‘So,’ said Phil. ‘This was planned. Premeditated, yes?’

‘Meticulously, I’d say.’

‘Would we be able to trace him from the equipment? Find him from where he bought it? I’m assuming this is specialised stuff. You won’t get it at Currys.’

‘You’re right there. It could be government-issue. Army. I’ll be looking in to it.’

Phil frowned. ‘Why did he leave it behind? Didn’t he know we’d find it?’

‘I don’t know. He’s taken his laptop. Maybe he’s got another set of cameras and can start again. Maybe he got what he wanted here and didn’t need them any more. But that’s not all.’

Phil’s stomach flipped. He didn’t like the tone of Adrian’s voice, the look in his eye when he said that.

‘There.’ Adrian moved forward. Phil followed.

Two rows of bottles, the kind of specimen jars a doctor provides, were displayed neatly along the last door before the wall. All of them containing something off-white and viscous.

‘We’ve had a look at one of them. Human semen. He’s been knocking one out and saving it. Collecting them till he’s got the set. Don’t know what for, though.’

‘Tributes?’ suggested Phil. ‘Saving it all up for the woman he loves?’

Adrian grimaced. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Lovely.’

‘Get them analysed. Might get a DNA match.’

‘Already doing it.’ Adrian sighed. ‘He was living here, too. Bottling and boxing up his waste, leaving it under the floor. It looks like he had a sleeping bag here too.’

‘Food?’

‘Few remains. Wrappers from energy bars, that kind of thing. Red Bull cans. Maybe he went downstairs if he wanted anything else, helped himself when Suzanne was out.’

‘And there’s no trace of him now.’

Adrian shook his head. ‘Place is cold. My guess is he took Suzanne and headed out with her. Got what he wanted, no need to come back here.’

Phil stood staring at the scene before him, saying nothing, thinking.

Working out what to do next.

‘The others,’ he said eventually.

Adrian listened.

‘Julie Miller. Adele Harrison. Was he watching them?’

‘He might have been…’

‘I’d say he definitely was.’ He looked round, suddenly anxious to be out of the loft, on the move. ‘Can I leave you with this?’

Adrian nodded.

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

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

64

‘Hello? Mr Buchan…’

No reply.

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

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

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

The boats moored along this section mirrored their surroundings.

No mooring posts or power points or trees here.

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

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

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

Still no reply.

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

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

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

‘Mr Buchan?’

Nothing. Just an echo.

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

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

She looked round. Grimaced.

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

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

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

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

Something a stalker would do.

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

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

The eyes had been scratched out.

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

Then stopped dead.

A noise from the deck above.

Someone was up there.

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

Another footstep, then another from above.

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

She looked round frantically.

Another footstep, getting nearer to the wheelhouse.

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

The doorway above her opened. A voice called down.

‘What you doing down there?’

Anni closed her eyes. Froze.

65

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hmm.’

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

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

‘Afraid not.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘What about them?’

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

And stood back, gasping.

‘Oh shit…’

Phil took his phone out, hit speed dial.

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

‘A hell of a situation…’

66

Anni was too terrified to move.

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

The voice laughed. Footsteps started on the stairs.

Oh God

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

She had to do something, buy herself some time.

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

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

What? Then she recognised the voice. Mickey Philips.

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

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

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

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

‘Said to meet you here. Remember?’

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

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

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

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

Anni raised an eyebrow. Waited.

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

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

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

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

He laughed. ‘Don’t blame you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And?’

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

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

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

‘Very rare. Especially in our office.’

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

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

‘So what d’you think she’s done?’

‘I don’t know.’

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

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

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

He nodded. ‘Thanks.’

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

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

67

‘Julie? Julie…’

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

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

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

‘Julie… Julie…’

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

‘Yes…’

A reply. Suzanne’s heart quickened.

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

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

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not Julie Miller, are you?’

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

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

‘On the wing?’

‘Gainsborough.’

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

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

‘With Zoe?’

‘That’s me.’

Silence, while they both took the information in.

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

‘Yeah.’

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

‘We must. We’ll have to think.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Suzanne?’

‘Yeah?’

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

68

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

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

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

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

The look on his face was, she thought, priceless. He wanted her, too, no doubt about it. Here. Now. But it went against every action he had ever done, everything he had ever believed in.

She slid a hand between her denimed legs. She moaned, sighed. ‘All this power in here. And it’s all yours. God, I’m so horny…’

‘Rose…’ He looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest.

Indecision played across Ben Fenwick’s face, so easy to read. Like he had a cartoon angel on one shoulder, a cartoon devil on the other, and he was listening to each argument put forward, weighing them both up. Rose almost laughed out loud.

Mind made up, he got up from his desk, came towards her.

Immediately she stopped what she was doing, dropped her hands, straightened up.

‘Later,’ she said, pushing herself off the door, picking up the laptop and walking across to the desk. ‘We’ve got work to do. Come on.’

She sat down in the chair he had recently been sitting in. Spun herself from side to side. Smiled. ‘Nice, though. A DCI’s chair in a DCI’s office. I could get used to this.’

‘I thought… thought we had work to do…’

Poor Ben, she thought. Didn’t know if he was coming or going. Put him out of his misery, get down to business.

She reached for the laptop, opened it, powered it up. ‘This was Julie Miller’s.’

‘Past tense?’

Irritation flashed in her eyes. ‘Is Julie Miller’s. I entered her Facebook account. Found this.’ She flicked through some pages, scrolled up and down a screen. ‘Here. Look.’

Fenwick came round the side of the desk to join her. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘Photos. Julie Miller posted her life on here. There’s over a hundred of them. I went through all of them. Found a few coincidences. Well, more than coincidences, really.’

She moved the laptop over, pointed to the screen.

‘What am I looking at?’

The photo was of a house party. Students from the look of it, or at least all young people. Julie Miller was in the centre of the picture, tumbler of wine in one hand, a young man with his arm round her, clamped to her.

‘Him. There.’ She looked at Fenwick, triumph in her eyes.

‘That,’ she said pointing to the screen, voice raised higher than necessary, ‘is Suzanne Perry’s ex-boyfriend. Mark Turner.’

Fenwick frowned. ‘And he’s…’

‘Looking very friendly with our girl Julie, yes.’

‘So… they knew each other?’

‘I did some digging. It would have come up eventually. Julie Miller was at university the same time as Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot. Here in Colchester. The same time as Mark Turner. Well, he’s still there. Doing a Ph.D.’

‘And did he say he knew her?’

She shook her head. ‘Denied it.’

Fenwick straightened up. There was light dancing in his eyes now. ‘We might be on to something…’

‘I remembered something Mark Turner said to me. He’s part of a horror-film society that meets in the Freemason’s Arms on Military Road in New Town. So I did a bit more digging.’ She sat back, smiling. ‘Guess who the barmaid was there?’

Fenwick frowned once more.

‘I’ll tell you. Adele Harrison.’

‘So… Mark Turner is connected to all the women in this case?’

She nodded. ‘He is. And that’s something Phil Brennan doesn’t know.’

Fenwick stood up. ‘Then we’d better tell him.’

Rose didn’t move. ‘After the way he spoke to you earlier? Why?’

‘Because it’s procedure. Everyone’s so bloody accountable these days if proper procedure isn’t followed then heads will roll. Jobs will be lost.’

She turned to face him, stopping him leave just with her eyes. ‘But not your job, Ben. Phil Brennan’s perhaps, but not yours.’ She stood up, pushed her body against him. ‘We know something he doesn’t. If we act on it, bring Mark Turner in, while he’s off running round chasing non-existent leads, then we might well have cracked the case.’ She pushed right close against him. ‘What d’you think?’

Before Fenwick could reply, her phone rang. She ignored it.

She smiled. ‘Feeling hard, Ben?’

The phone kept ringing.

He was breathing heavily. But looking irritated. ‘Look, please answer that. It might be important.’

She sighed, took the phone from her pocket, glanced down at the display.

‘Phil Brennan. I’ll ignore it.’

She switched it off.

Fenwick looked slightly nervous. ‘I think you should…’

She put her hands round his neck.

‘Now, where were we?’

69

‘They’ve been dead a while,’ said Phil. ‘Both of them.’

‘I can see that…’ Mickey Philips tried to back out of the bathroom, only to find Anni blocking his way. Reluctantly, he stayed where he was.

‘You OK, Mickey?’ said Phil. ‘Not going to have a repeat of the other day?’

‘I’m fine, boss. Yeah…’

Phil wasn’t so sure. And he couldn’t blame his DS. The bathroom looked like the aftermath of a particularly violent, drunken party in an abattoir. Blood spray covered the white tiles from floor to ceiling, almost like a caricature of slaughter. But there was nothing caricatured about the bodies in the bath. A man and a woman, both fully-clothed, their necks slit open, the wounds deep and fierce, their bodies just dumped without any ceremony.

‘We know he likes a knife,’ said Phil. ‘That’s how he got rid of Zoe Herriot too.’

‘Weapon of choice,’ said Anni. ‘What’s that stuff they’re covered in?’

‘Quicklime, I reckon,’ said Phil. ‘Helps to break down the bodies faster. Hides the smell too.’

‘Lovely,’ said Anni.

‘Good job you were both nearby,’ said Phil.

‘Yeah,’ said Mickey, still trying not to look at the sight before him, ‘wouldn’t have wanted to miss this.’

Anni had told him all about Ian Buchan, the soldier she was tracking down, the boat he lived in. Seeing what had been done to Julie Miller’s neighbours in such close proximity, he had just jumped to the top of their prime-suspect list.

‘I’ll call it in, get a CSI team over here. I’ll just try Rose first.’ He dialled a number.

‘So what d’you reckon?’ said Mickey to Anni while Phil was on the phone. ‘He moved in here, kept Julie Miller under surveillance, then took her off somewhere.’

Anni nodded. ‘But why? Why take her away? Why not just keep watching her or if he wanted to, move in on her?’

‘Don’t know,’ said Mickey. ‘Maybe it’s, I don’t know, the next stage? Whatever he’s got in mind?’

‘But why one after the other?’

‘I don’t know. But I know one thing. That profile from Fiona Welch was a piece of shit. Either she’s not much cop or…’

‘She did it deliberately,’ finished Anni.

Phil put his phone away, clearly not happy. ‘Not answering. She’s bloody useless…’ He turned to the other two. ‘Right. We’ll get a team over here, go over the flat. I’m sure they’ll find surveillance stuff. In the meantime, I want you two to get over the river, keep watch on that boat for anyone coming back. Don’t go after them or try to take them on your own, just keep watch and let me know soon as. I’ll get an armed response team down there straight away.’

Anni and Mickey both nodded.

‘I’ll seal this place up then get back to the station. Brief everyone on what we’ve found. Things are picking up speed, let’s keep on with it. Any questions?’

Mickey looked uncomfortable. ‘Boss…’

‘Yes, Mickey.’

‘Fiona Welch. That profile…’

‘Was awful, I know. Fenwick got her on the cheap. His usual tactic, covering his arse, trying to make savings while paying lip service to what he considers good practice. She’s useless. I’ll get shot of her when I get back. Anything else?’

Mickey seemed to want to say something further but hesitated.

‘OK. On you go. Keep in touch.’

They left the flat.

Phil got on the phone again.

The case was moving.

It felt good.

70

Fenwick’s phone rang. He was still in his office, zipping up his trousers, Rose Martin sitting on the desk beside him, head back and smiling, like a cat that had just been particularly well fed.

Fenwick looked at the display, saw who it was. Phil Brennan.

‘Don’t answer it,’ said Rose, rearranging her clothes, running fingers through her hair.

He looked conflicted once more, his post-coital mood dropping away to reveal his earlier doubts.

It kept ringing.

Rose leaned across, placed her hand on his. ‘Don’t answer it.’

‘I can’t just… I’m the superior officer on this case. It might be important.’

Fire flashed in Rose’s eyes once more. ‘Ben, what have I just showed you? What links have I just made for you? I’ve just given you a lead that’s going to blow anything Phil Brennan’s got right out of the water. Now you can either answer that phone, go running after him or you can come with me.’

Fenwick said nothing. Kept his eyes averted from hers.

‘What’ll it be?’

The phone stopped ringing.

Fenwick sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Good call, Ben. That’s the right decision.’ She gave a sly smile, thrusting her breasts out as she did so. ‘And besides, you might just get another reminder of my awesome blow-job technique if you come with me.’

Despite having come only moments earlier, he felt himself stiffening once more. She knew how to press his buttons. And he loved to have them pressed.

‘Come on then,’ he said, unlocking his office door and stepping into the hall.

As he did so, Fiona Welch was walking towards him.

‘There you are,’ she said, ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

He stopped walking. As he did, Rose emerged from the office, bumped into him. Fiona looked between the two of them, a smile spreading across her face.

Fenwick felt himself reddening. ‘I’ve just been… We’ve been looking at a new lead that’s… that’s just come in. That we’ve just discovered. That Rose – that DS Martin has just shown me.’

‘Right.’ Fiona Welch nodded, kept her smile controlled. ‘There’s been a phone call for you in the bar. I took it. DI Brennan. Says he’s got a new lead. Lot of them about.’

Fenwick nodded. ‘Right. Right. Well, I’ve just – we’ve just got to pop out for a bit. Got a lead of our own to follow up.’

‘Oh, whereabouts?’ Fiona’s question was sharp, quick. She smiled. ‘I’m only asking because I’m… doing the geographic profile DI Brennan asked me to do. If you’ve got something I should know where it is, factor it in.’

‘Greenstead Road,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

Fenwick, with Rose in tow, squeezed past Fiona Welch. She watched them go. Then went back to her desk. Keyed the information Fenwick has just given her into her BlackBerry.

71

The Creeper had stopped noticing the smell.

He was used to being surrounded by death. Years of living with it on a daily basis had done that to him. There were tricks he used, ways to make them smell less, or to make him not think about them being there so much, but that’s all they were. Just tricks. The actual death, of stopping someone’s heart, seeing the light go out in their eyes, that didn’t bother him at all. In fact, he enjoyed it. And having their bodies around him, the empty husks that had once housed their spirits, just lying on the floor or in another room was nothing. Just more rubbish lying about.

It hadn’t always been like that. Or at least he didn’t think it had. If he thought back hard enough he could remember a time when things were different. Before the fire.

Before the nightmares and the monsters.

In those memories and dreams it was always summer. The colours so vivid, alive. There were swings and laughter. And a girl. Always a girl. Small, smiling. At him. In a kind way.

Not Rani. Not like her.

And yet… not unlike her.

And she would laugh and he would smile and the sun would make the soft downy hairs on his arms tickle. Those dream memories.

And he would open his eyes. And the world would be as it was now. With no colour in it. And there would be no sun tickling his arms. No heat. No fire.

And the girl with her sunny smiles would be gone.

And he would think some more and there would be Rani. Only Rani.

The old woman’s body had started to smell. It had gone through being stiff and impossible to move, like bodies did. And now it was starting to loosen up. Soon it would be nothing more than an old sack of fluid, fat and bones.

The Creeper didn’t care. It was nothing to him.

He was still watching. Waiting. Practising being patient. Willing Rani to appear again.

Rose Martin. That was the name she was going by. But it wasn’t important. He would call her by her real one. Make her answer to it.

He didn’t like that man being around, though. Felt a shaft of something hard and icy hot lance through him when he thought of that man with her, touching her, talking to her… He wished he were nearer to her than across the road. In the house with her where he should be. Living together as lovers.

Soon, though. Once he’d worked out how to go about it. Soon.

He closed his eyes. He could feel her, trying to get through, trying to talk to her.

And there she was.

‘Hello, Rani.’

Hello, my love.

‘I… I’m watching you. Can you see me?’

Yes, I can see you. I always know when you’re there.

He grinned, let out a little giggle. ‘Good.’

Listen, she said, d’you want to come and meet me?

He was too shocked to talk for a few seconds. That wasn’t what he had been expecting to hear her say. ‘Wha-… when? Where?’

She gave him directions.

As for whenWhy not right now?

‘Really? You mean that? I don’t need to watch the house any more, I can come and meet you?’

I’d love you to.

He heard the yearning in her voice. No mistaking it. Yearning for him. He giggled again.

But there is one thing. I have to tell you this and you’ve got to know. It’s very important.

‘What, Rani? Anything. You can tell me anything…’

Well, there’s this man. He’s been bothering me. Wanting me towell, I couldn’t say. But I’m sure you can guess.

And there it was, that hard, icily hot shaft spearing him once more. Making him angry. ‘Is it the one from the car last night?’

She was silent for a few seconds. Yes. That would be him. I want you to deal with him for me. Get rid of him. Would you do that?

‘Of course I would. You know that. I’d do anything for you. Anything.’

She laughed. I know. He’ll be with me. Get rid of him and then

He waited. ‘Yes?’

You can have me. I’m all yours.

‘I can’t wait.’

Me neither. Isn’t this great? We can be together again

72

‘You got a minute?’ Milhouse grabbed Phil as soon as he entered the bar. He was trying to be secretive about it, but since he was standing by the door looking shifty and suspicious, he couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d been wearing a trench coat and a trilby with the word ‘spy’ written across the hatband.

Seeing Milhouse, he realised that he hadn’t thought about Marina for hours. With the case moving the way it was, and at the speed it was, that was understandable but he still felt guilty over it.

Milhouse led him over to his desk. ‘Those cards,’ he said quietly, ‘the ones you asked me to trace…’ His voice dropped to a stage whisper. He sat down at his computer.

Phil stood over him, waiting. Anxious once again. ‘Yeah?’

Milhouse waved his hands over the keys. ‘Bury St Edmunds,’ he said. ‘Hotel, restaurant, supermarket.’ He looked up, compassion in his eyes. ‘That’s where she is.’

Phil managed a smile. ‘Thanks, Milhouse, I owe you one.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Could I ask you another favour, though?’ Phil gave a quick look round to make sure no one was in earshot. ‘Could you keep this quiet?’

Milhouse gave what he supposed was an enigmatic smile. ‘I am a keeper of many secrets.’

‘I’ll bet you are,’ said Phil, and crossed the room.

Bury St Edmunds. That made sense. So obvious when he thought about it. Where he should have looked first. It was almost like she wanted him to come, to find her. Suddenly his mobile felt hot in his pocket.

He took it out, ready to call, when he saw Fiona Welch enter. He quickly put it back, crossed to her.

‘Fiona,’ he said.

She stopped walking, looked at him. Her lips had been moving, deep in conversation with herself. She looked up, surprised to see him, startled, as if she had just woken from a dream.

‘Yes?’

‘The geographical profile,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Her eyes flickered like she was running through her mental Rolodex, working her way round to what he was talking about. ‘Right. Been working on it all morning. Nearly done.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Fire flashed in her eyes. ‘What? What d’you mean?’

‘We have a suspect under surveillance that we favour very strongly.’ He smiled, trying to play the diplomat. ‘So we won’t be needing it after all. But thanks.’

Her eyes began moving quickly from side to side, like she was scanning something, reading it quickly. ‘What? Who? Who is he?’

‘An ex-squaddie. Burns victim, apparently. Was being treated by both Suzanne Perry and Julie Miller.’

Her features became unreadable. ‘How did you… how did you find him?’

Phil shrugged. ‘Police work. It’s what we do. So, anyway. Send in your invoice and we’ll get it sorted.’

She stepped closer to him, got right in his face. ‘No.’

Phil stepped back, looked at her, frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said no. I’m not going. I won’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you need me. I’m an integral part of this investigation and you need me. So no. I won’t be got rid off so easily.’

Phil felt anger rise inside him. He had never liked Fiona Welch, never rated her, never even wanted her on the team in the first place. And he was tired of being polite to her.

‘Listen,’ he said, letting his voice be as angry as he could considering where he was, ‘your contribution so far has been to give us a profile that was so inaccurate, so inept, that an innocent man is now on life support because of it.’

‘Innocent?’

‘Well, it’s looking that way, isn’t it?’

‘That’s not my fault.’ Her voice was low, hissing. ‘I provided you with the best profile I could on the information provided. Anyone else would have done the same.’

‘No they wouldn’t. Not anyone. Certainly not anyone competent.’

Her eyes were dancing with anger. It seemed it was all she could do not to physically assault him. ‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that about me…’

Phil was matching her. ‘Good job we didn’t get your geographic profile. Might have sent us looking for someone in Cardiff.’

She stared at him. ‘How dare you.’ Her voice low, ominous. ‘You. A copper. An uneducated copper talking to me like that. How dare you.’ She spat the word ‘uneducated’ at him.

Phil stared at her, struggling to control his temper. ‘Send us an invoice,’ he said and walked away.


Phil walked outside into the car park. He sat on a wall. Sighed.

That went as well as expected, he thought and shook his head, tried to calm himself, clear Fiona Welch out of it. He was shaking, wanting to do something physical to take her memory away. A heavy workout in the gym or a five-mile run.

He didn’t remember getting his phone out, but there it was, sitting in his hand. Then he found himself dialling the number. And waiting.

And waiting.

Answerphone.

He sighed. ‘Hi, Marina, it’s me. Listen, I know where you are. Bury St Edmunds. It wasn’t hard to work out, I am a detective. And I should have known. Somewhere special. Special for us.’

Another sigh. He kept going.

‘I don’t know what else to say. I’m here. For you. Whatever. I… Whatever. Just… just call me.’

He hung up. Sat back. Looked at the sky. That beautiful, robin’s egg blue again.

Thought of what to do next. How to move the case along.

He stood up, making his way back inside. Stopped. His phone was ringing. He checked the display.

Marina.

He answered.

‘Hey,’ she said.

73

‘Is this the one? Are you sure of that?’

Rose Martin sighed. ‘Yes, Ben. Stop being such an…’

He summoned a smiled. ‘Old woman?’

‘I was going to say arse, but that’ll do.’

They were standing before Mark Turner’s house on Greenstead Road, Rose knocking once more. They waited.

‘I don’t think he’s in,’ said Fenwick, clearly uncomfortable with what was happening and wanting to walk away.

‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m counting on it.’

Fenwick’s heart skipped at the words. ‘What d’you mean?’

Rose smiled. ‘I’ve spoken to Mark Turner before. A couple of times. If I speak to him again he’s going to get lawyered up. He threatened to do it last time and then we’ll get nowhere. So we need leverage.’

She dug into her jacket pocket, brought out a memory stick. ‘Let’s make sure he’s got the same photos on his computer. ’ She then brought out a lock pick. Held it up to show to him. Smiled.

Fenwick physically recoiled, frantically looked round to see if anyone was watching. ‘Oh no… oh no…’

‘Oh yes.’

‘But this is… this is wrong. If we do this then any evidence we find, any confession we make on the basis of that evidence, is inadmissible in court. It’s tainted. We have to follow compliance…’

She turned to him, no longer smiling. ‘D’you want this collar, Ben? Really want this collar?’

‘Yes…’

‘Or do you want Phil Brennan to get all the glory? Again?’

Fenwick shook his head. ‘No… no…’

‘You sure? Maybe I chose the wrong man.’

‘No, no you didn’t. You didn’t…’ Fenwick swallowed hard, eyes never leaving the lock pick. ‘No, I want it… I want…’

She smiled, nodded. Clearly in control. She knew what he wanted.

‘Good,’ she said, and began to pick the lock.

It didn’t take long. She pushed. The door opened.

Fenwick was still nervously looking round.

Rose smiled at him. Reassuringly this time. ‘If anyone asks, we heard a cry and had to break in. Got that?’

He nodded.

‘Sure?’

‘I’m…’ He took a deep breath, swallowed hard. ‘We heard a cry. Right. I’m sure.’

‘Good. Then let’s go in.’

Rose stepped inside first. The house was as dark as she remembered it, the curtains still drawn, the light hardly penetrating. Fenwick followed, closing the door quietly behind them. He looked round. Stepped into the centre of the room, head going from side to side. ‘Should I-’

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. A dark shape emerged from behind the sofa and, before Fenwick could react, was on him.

Rose turned. Gasped. The figure was all in black, looking like a moving, angry shadow in the darkness. She watched as the figure pulled back its arm and thrust towards Fenwick’s stomach. Fenwick crumpled. And again.

‘Oh God, oh God, I’m bleeding, oh God…’ Fenwick staggered, holding his stomach.

‘Ben…’ Rose cried out, moved towards him, but the figure turned. She stopped moving, frozen, saw the blade in its hand. She looked at Fenwick who was swaying, now falling to his knees. Heart hammering, she turned and ran for the door.

The figure was on her. Arms holding her tight, pressing round her like the grip of a huge anaconda.

She tried to get her hand inside her pocket, reach for her pepper spray. Her fingers touched but didn’t connect. The figure saw what she was doing, loosened his grip with one arm, knocked her hand away, leaving it stinging from the blow.

Taking advantage of the loosened grip, Rose twisted her body round, trying to pull away.

That was when she saw his face.

‘Oh God… oh God…’

His mouth opened. Some kind of awful sound emerged.

‘Hahhneee… Hahhneee…’

He seemed to be saying the same word over and over. She didn’t know what it meant, didn’t want to think about it. Just wanted to escape.

‘Hahhneee… Hahhneee…’

But it was too late for that. She saw him bring his arm up.

But didn’t feel it come down.

74

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi yourself,’ said Phil. He knew he was grinning like an idiot. Didn’t even try to stop it. ‘How are you?’

‘Been better.’

Silence.

‘Bury St Edmunds,’ he said. ‘Should have guessed.’

‘You did.’

‘Right.’ He looked round the carp park. Saw Fiona Welch walking out of the building. She glared at him. He looked away.

‘I’m… sorry.’

He nodded. Then, realising she couldn’t see it, said, ‘That’s OK. How’s Josephina?’

‘She’s fine. We’re… we’re both fine.’

‘Good.’

Silence.

‘Look… d’you want me to come and get you?’

Silence. Phil could hear the world turning through the phone but not Marina.

‘OK,’ she said eventually.

He exhaled, not realising he had been holding his breath waiting for her answer. ‘Good.’ He looked at his watch. Weighed things in his head. ‘I’ll be right up.’

He heard her gasp. ‘Aren’t you in the middle of a murder inquiry? You can’t just… just leave everything and run off.’

‘You did.’

Silence. Phil thought he had lost her again.

‘OK. But we need to talk.’

‘I’ll be right up.’

He hung up, got in the Audi.

‘Yeah,’ he said aloud. ‘They can do without me here for a couple of hours.’

Still smiling, Doves coming out of the stereo, he headed off to Bury St Edmunds.

75

Suzanne heard more tearing, more creaking.

‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘What are you doing now?’

‘Just… a bit… more…’

Julie had been working away. Suzanne didn’t know exactly what at, just that she said there was a way out and she was trying to do it. The tearing noise was the same as the one she had heard when she was let out of the box earlier. Suzanne was terrified. If their captors came back when she was trying to escape, she didn’t know what they would do to her. Didn’t even want to think about it. Didn’t dare.

‘I can see… daylight. It’s day outside.’

Suzanne felt her heart beating faster. That forbidden emotion, hope, welling up inside her. Daylight. And Julie nearly out. And once Julie was out, she could help Suzanne out and then they would both be free. She found herself smiling uncontrollably at the thought.

The noise stopped. Suzanne could hear her own breathing once more, feel her heart beating so fast it threatened to leave her body. She almost didn’t dare speak. Almost.

‘What’s… what are you doing now?’

Silence.

‘Julie? You there?’

‘I’m here.’

Relief flooded through Suzanne.

‘I’ve got the bottom of the box open. I don’t think they closed it properly when they let us out. It’s a bit… bit tight, but… if I can just, just… wriggle down…’

Suzanne listened, heart in her mouth. ‘Keep talking, Julie. Keep telling me what’s happening…’

More tearing and creaking.

Then silence.

‘Julie…’

Suzanne heard a sigh.

‘I’ve done it.’ She laughed, disbelieving. ‘Suzanne, I’ve done it…’

‘Brilliant! Yes!’

‘Yeah, now all I’ve got to do is…’

And then she screamed. Julie screamed, loud and long and hard.

Suzanne’s eyes were wide, staring. ‘Julie…’ She tried to block the noise, cover her ears with her hands but couldn’t manage it. So she had no choice but to listen.

‘No, Julie…’

The screaming died away.

Silence.

‘Julie… Julie…’

Nothing.

‘Julie…’

No response.

‘Oh God, oh God…’

Suzanne started sobbing. Hope. That bastard emotion hope. Suzanne kept sobbing.

Feared she would never stop.

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