The Creeper

76

Brasserie Gerard was a French restaurant on the corner of Lower Baxter Street and Abbeygate Street in the old English town of Bury St Edmunds. Sunny, airy and light inside, it had a courtyard-like quality where a spring or summer’s lunchtime meal could easily slip into a leisurely afternoon of French hors d’oeuvres, good company and plenty of wine. How Phil wished he could be doing that right now. He imagined Marina felt the same.

They sat opposite each other, more distance between them than just the restaurant table. Both eyeing each other nervously, trying to smile, not sure whether to touch or not touch. Two tightrope walkers trying to keep their balance.

This is ridiculous, thought Phil. I should be at work, on the case. I shouldn’t be here, pulling a domestic. Then he looked at Marina, her perfect, dark features, her beautiful face, and their daughter lying asleep in her buggy at the side of the table, arms up, perfectly contented. And he knew why he had come.

‘You’re looking well,’ he said.

‘I look about as good as you do.’ Marina managed a smile, concern in her eyes. ‘But it’s nice of you to say so.’

She did look well, he thought. Yes, there was fear and worry etched in all her features but she still looked good. She always looked good to Phil.

Marina looked away, down at her menu. Wavering, her balance going. She sighed. ‘This is a bad idea. Maybe we should do this later.’

Phil kept his eyes on her. ‘Marina, if we don’t do this now, there may not be a later.’

She sighed once more, looked down at the table. The waitress chose that moment to arrive. Phil was about to wave her away but Marina was already ordering herself sea bass with a spinach and tomato salad. He quickly scanned the menu, ordered the first thing his eye rested on, the duck. And a large bottle of water. The waitress disappeared once more, leaving them alone with their silence.

Phil waited.

‘There’s… something between us,’ Marina said eventually. ‘Or, rather, someone.’

Phil forced an intake of breath to his body, steeled himself. He had imagined everything he could think of on the drive up, everything awful that Marina could possibly want to say to him, in the hope that whatever it was he would be prepared for and it wouldn’t feel so bad. Her finding someone else was the worst thing he came up with. And no amount of preparation made hearing those words any easier.

Phil just nodded, waited. Kept nodding.

The waitress brought the water. The bottle stood there on the table, untouched.

Marina looked away from Phil, down at the table. ‘It’s Tony.’

Tony. Marina’s ex-partner. Bludgeoned nearly to death by a killer Phil and Marina had been hunting. Just before Marina had a chance to tell him she was leaving him. So that was it, he thought.

Phil blinked, startled. ‘Tony?’

‘Tony. I…’ Another sigh. ‘I… he’s just lying there. And I keep…’ Her fingers began working on the napkin. ‘I just… I have to make a decision, Phil. He’s lying there on that life-support system and they want me to make a decision. They want me to turn it off.’

Phil’s voice was quiet, calm. ‘Is this why you ran away from me?’

She nodded, fingers now shredding the napkin.

‘But… surely we could have worked this out together…’

Marina looked up, directly at him, eye to eye. Hers were red-rimmed, wet, only the public place holding back full on tears. ‘No. I have to do it. It’s my decision. D’you understand? ’

‘You tell me,’ he said.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘I just can’t bring myself to switch off that life-support system, to, to… acknowledge he’s dead, really, finally dead, once and for all.’

Phil leaned forward. ‘D’you think there’s a chance he could come back? Is that it?’

She wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, determined not to let any tears fall. She shook her head. ‘No. No, that’s not it. At least I don’t think so, no…’ She shook her head once more. ‘It’s the guilt. It’s… it’s…’ Her voice dropped. ‘Crippling me.’

And that was just how her voice sounded, he thought. Twisted, crippled. ‘The decision?’

She shook her head once more. ‘Not just… no. It’s… eating me away, gnawing inside me… the guilt. I can’t… can’t move forward, can’t… enjoy… myself, my life, or allow myself to enjoy life, until I make that decision. Until I let him go.’ Her head dropped once more, shoulders heaved, like she was bearing a huge weight. She kept her gaze on the table. ‘And I can’t let him go…’

Phil said nothing, taking in her words. He picked up the bottle of water, unscrewed it, poured it into the two glasses.

Neither drank.

Phil kept looking at her. When he spoke his voice was still calm and controlled, the opposite of the emotions raging inside him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What about this. If Tony hadn’t… if he wasn’t where he is now, if he had never been attacked, if he was still… I don’t know, with us… what would you do?’

She frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Just that. What would you do? What would you be doing?’

‘I’d…’ She sighed, shook her head, looked away once more.

‘You were going to leave him, Marina. Tell him you didn’t love him any more and leave him. Weren’t you?’

She nodded, head still bowed.

‘For me?’ He made it a question.

She nodded once more.

‘Why?’ His voice was even quieter, calmer. The kind he used in interviews, the one that made people open up to him, trust him.

‘Because… I love you…’

He risked a small smile. ‘That it? That’s all?’

She shook her head once more, looked up. ‘No. Because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you. Because I’d never met anyone like you.’

‘Who was so like you, you mean.’

She nodded. ‘And because I was pregnant with your child.’

‘Our child.’

‘Our child. And you’re the love of my life.’ She turned away, words choked off by sobs.

Phil waited until she had composed herself. ‘Tony knew you’d leave him, Marina. He was older than you. He was your teacher, what you needed at that stage in your life. He knew you weren’t going to stay with him forever. That you’d go eventually. He expected it. Might not have welcomed it or been looking forward to it, but he expected it.’

Marina wiped her eyes, her nose, with the crumpled and torn paper napkin, her head still bowed. Phil reached across the table, took her hands in his.

‘Isn’t that the problem?’ he said. ‘The fact that you never got to say that to him? That you never gave that relationship closure?’

She pulled her hands away. ‘It’s not just that,’ she said, sniffing. ‘He’s in a coma because of me.’ She looked up, directly at him. Her eyes raw with emotion. ‘And you too, Phil.’

‘How?’

‘Because if we had never met, if I’d never come to work with you, if none of that had happened, Tony would still be alive.’

‘And you’d still be unhappy.’ He leaned forward again. Reached out for her hands once more. Held them tight. ‘I understand you, Marina. That’s not arrogance on my part. I understand you because you understand me. More than anyone I’ve ever met. I know your mind because it’s like my mind. I know what’s in it. I know the damage in there.’

She flinched at his words, but didn’t interrupt.

‘That damage stops you from thinking you’re worth anything. Worthy of happiness. Well, you are.’ He held her hands tighter. She didn’t pull away. ‘And this might be the only chance we get. And we have to take it.’

She looked straight at him, no tears, listening to everything he said.

‘What was that you once said to me?’ he said. ‘All psychologists are just looking for a way home? I’m offering you that way home, Marina. It might not be easy, we’ve got tough decisions to make, but it’s real. It’s there.’ He sat back, still holding her hands. ‘D’you want to take it?’

Marina said nothing. Just looked at him.

‘Say no and I walk away,’ he said. ‘Forever. From you and our daughter. Forever. It’ll hurt like hell but if that’s what you want, that’s what I’m prepared to do. But say yes and we go home. Today. And face whatever we have to face together. Up to you.’

He let her hands slip from his. Waited.

He hadn’t intended to say all of that. Or even half of that. And he wasn’t the kind of person who would come out with something like that normally. But he had never met anyone like Marina before. She was special. She was worth fighting for.

She said nothing. He wondered if he had gone too far.

He sighed. Waited.

The food arrived. The plates were placed before them. Neither took any notice, not even looking at the waitress.

Phil waited. Could feel his heart breaking.

Eventually Marina spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice small but strong. ‘Yes. I’m coming home with you.’

Phil reached across the table, grinning, grabbed her hands and squeezed. He hadn’t felt so happy in ages.

He inhaled. The food smelled delicious.

‘I’m starving,’ he said. And smiled.

Marina smiled back. Looking as happy as he did.

77

Outside the restaurant, Phil switched his phone back on. And the happiness he had been feeling dissipated.

Message after message piled up in his phone. He played them. Marina stopped fussing with Josephina and looked up, becoming aware of the hardening in his features, concern spreading over her face in response to the changes to his. Eventually he took the phone away from his ear. Marina waited.

He looked at her. ‘Oh God…’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to go. Now.’

‘Need me to come with you?’

Phil looked between the baby and Marina. ‘Can you?’

She nodded. Phil caught the look in her eye, fleeting and sharp, but unmistakeable. She was as hooked as he was.

‘I’ll fill you in on the way.’

They went to find the car.

Greenstead Road was a crime scene.

The road was entirely closed off, from the supermarket at the far end to the roundabout at the top of Harwich Road to the level crossing at East Street. Yellow and black tape fluttered in the slight, warm breeze, making a gentle, lapping sound that would have been calming and summery in any other situation.

Phil showed his warrant card as he stepped under the tape, uniforms closing in to block the cameras that tried to follow him. He kept a protective arm round Marina’s shoulders as he walked from the level crossing and round the corner to the house itself.

They had phoned ahead to Don and Eileen, asked if they fancied spending a bit of time with their granddaughter. They jumped at the chance. Although Phil kept the tone light, they sensed something was wrong but, from years of experience, knew better than to ask what.

Phil saw Nick Lines enter the house, his pale blue suit clashing with the colours on the tape. Anni was standing on the opposite pavement, waiting for the signal to enter the house. She saw Marina and him approach, crossed over to them.

‘Where’ve you been, boss?’ Conflicting emotions were running behind her eyes.

‘I… went to get a better profiler.’ He turned to Marina who said hello to Anni.

Anni returned the greeting.

‘So what we got?’ Phil tried to appear professional, speaking as if this was any other crime scene. But he didn’t pull it off.

‘Well…’ Anni looked round, herself struggling to keep it together.

‘From the beginning, Anni. I got your calls but catch me up.’

‘Call came in over an hour ago. Someone staggering about on the pavement, blood all over the place. Called for an ambulance.’ Her eyes involuntarily went to the pavement in front of the house, now dried brown against the grey. A mundane stain barely reflecting the enormity of what had actually happened.

‘Where is he now?’

‘The General. Thought we’d lost him at first. But he’s hanging on in there, apparently.’

‘That the latest?’

She nodded. ‘They’re operating now. Lost a lot of blood.’ Her eyes back to the pavement. ‘Hell of a mess.’

Phil nodded, looked around. The Birdies were there, notebooks out, coordinating uniforms. ‘Where’s Mickey?’

‘Keeping watch on the boat. Didn’t want to leave that lead in the wind. Thought he might be the best one for that.’

‘And Rose Martin?’

Anni shrugged. ‘Dunno, boss. Not answering her phone.’

Phil’s pulse quickened. ‘When was she last seen?’

‘At the station. Talking to Ben Fenwick.’

‘Fuck…’

Anni said nothing. She knew what he was thinking.

He rubbed his face, his eyes. Trying to think, concentrate. He glanced at Marina. It felt good to have her back on the team. To have her back beside him.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’m acting DCI now for this case. Let’s get on. Any witnesses? Anyone know what happened? ’

‘Person who called it in, neighbour opposite. Saw the DCI come out of the house and stagger into the street clutching his stomach, waving something round. Turned out to be his warrant card.’

‘Clever man,’ said Phil, a sadness in his voice. ‘Identifying himself.’

‘It worked. Someone called an ambulance straight away. Saved his life.’

‘What about the people who live in the house? Any sign of them?’

‘None.’

‘Who lives there, do we know? Looks like a student’s place.’

‘It is,’ said Anni. ‘I had a little root around before. Mark Turner, Suzanne Perry’s ex, lives there. Renting.’

‘The guy Rose Martin questioned the other night.’

‘That’s the one. And said she thought he was harmless.’

Phil sighed. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ Not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Does Mark Turner live alone?’

Anni shook her head. ‘With his girlfriend.’

‘And neither of them are there.’ It wasn’t a question.

She shook her head again. ‘But we’re on the lookout for them. Got their descriptions out straight away.’ Anni looked uneasy. ‘And you’re not going to like this, boss.’

Phil waited. Eyes hard.

‘The girlfriend. Like I said, I rooted round in the house before. Found some photos, paperwork…’

‘You’re stalling. Tell me.’

Anni sighed. ‘It’s Fiona Welch.’

78

Mickey was keeping watch. And he wasn’t happy. Just over the river from where the action was, stuck watching a boat just in case its occupant returned at any time soon. When he and Anni had received the call telling them of Ben Fenwick’s attack he had experienced that old Drugs Squad adrenalin rush straight up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was ready. Two-fisted, lip curled and ready. And he and Anni had discussed and it and, yes, in his head he understood that him staying behind and Anni going to the crime scene was the right decision but his heart was telling him something different. He was a copper. A detective. And he should have been down there, getting stuck in, finding the villain, hauling him in, making him sorry.

But he wasn’t. And that adrenalin was still there, charged up, pawing around inside him like a caged beast, just waiting for an outlet.

It wasn’t long in coming. And, when it did, he could barely believe it.

He was sitting in the car, fidgeting and uncomfortable. At least when Anni was there he had someone to talk to. All he had now was the radio and that was tuned to Radio One, spewing afternoon inanities and songs he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t recognise. He was contemplating turning over to Radio Two but something within himself wouldn’t allow it. It was comfortable. It was set in the past. It had DJs he had grown up with playing songs he had grown up with. To listen willingly would be like acknowledging he would never again embark on a four-day coke and alcohol bender, go straight from clubbing on a Friday night to the football on a Saturday afternoon, pick up a girl in a bar and stay with her for the whole weekend, coming in to boast about his stamina and prowess on a Monday morning.

He sighed. The truth was that part of him, an increasingly large part, didn’t want to do that any more. There was more to him than that. Use his brain again, remind himself why he had gone to university in the first place. That was why he had transferred out of the DS. He was concerned about himself, his future. But another part of him wanted to keep on living like that and damn the consequences. He had successfully managed to keep it controlled for now but he wasn’t sure he could do that indefinitely.

Maybe Radio Two would help, he thought, reaching out to change the channel, hating himself for it at the same time. Some anonymous eighties hit came on. He settled back in his seat.

He was glad he had confided in Anni. He felt he could trust her. And that was something, because for all the hard as nails fun he had had in the DS, there were none of them that he considered his lifelong friends. That all seemed to go when he went. But Anni… yeah. She was a good one.

His thoughts were stopped from wandering any further down that particular avenue because something had caught his eye. And he couldn’t believe it.

A van had pulled up in front of the boat. And not just any old van.

A black Citroën Nemo.

Mickey couldn’t believe his luck. The dormant adrenalin powered up inside him once more. He wanted to open the car door, run over and collar whoever was driving, pull them out, slam them against the bonnet old-school, making sure their head bounced off a couple of times as he did so, then loudly proclaim, ‘You’re nicked, my son.’ See what Anni made of that.

But he didn’t. Instinct kicked in, reluctantly overrode the adrenalin. Watch, he told himself, learn.

He did so. And saw the driver side door open, someone get out. Any hopes of a clean identification were dashed because the driver was wearing green army camo gear, buttoned up to the neck, a black wool watch cap pulled down tight on their head and a pair of big, face-obscuring aviator shades.

‘Bastard.’

The driver came round the side of the van, went to the back doors. Mickey tried to take in what he could. Medium height, male. That was it. Didn’t walk with a limp, have any particular distinguishing features. Nothing.

Then the passenger emerged. Walked round to the back. The van was parked so that the passenger was further away and Mickey’s vision was obscured. And this one was dressed identically to the driver. Army fatigues, boots, wool hat and sunglasses. But that was where the similarity ended.

The passenger was taller, walked more slowly than the driver. And there was something not quite right about the gait. Throwing his left leg out as he walked, a definite limp.

Mickey smiled.

He focused on what he could see of the passenger’s face. His smile widened. The man’s face wasn’t as he had expected it to be. What Mickey could see of it was red and blotchy, smooth – nearly flat – in parts, pitted and cratered in others.

A burns victim.

He watched as the two men opened the back of the van, leaned in, brought something out. They struggled with the object, a heavy bundle wrapped in a rug. He looked closer. The rug was discoloured, darkened in places. Mickey’s heart flipped. He knew what that was.

Blood.

And he knew what was in the rug. It didn’t take a genius to realise it was a body.

He sat back, as far down in his seat as he could, trying desperately not to be noticed. Heart hammering out Motörhead drum riffs, breath in short supply. The two men carried the bundle on to the boat, went below deck. Mickey let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He watched, waited. Nothing happened.

He picked up the radio, ready to call for back-up, for the armed response team Phil had promised would be there when he wanted it, when there was movement on the boat.

Mickey put the radio down. Watched again.

One of the figures, the driver without the limp, came back up on deck, walked across the gangplank and left the boat. He walked over to the Nero, got behind the wheel, turned over the engine.

Mickey looked between the van and the boat, torn.

The driver revved up the engine.

Another look between the two. Mickey weighed it up. The scarred man had a body inside the boat. But no transport. And whatever he was doing down there, not going anywhere would be top of his list. Whereas the driver of the van was clearly leaving and there might not be another chance to get him.

Mickey’s mind was made up. He waited until the van turned round and headed up the road, counted a few seconds, set off after it.

Once on the road he picked up the radio, gave the call sign.

‘Am in pursuit of a suspect. He’s driving a black Citroën Nemo, registration number…’

He would tell them what was happening in the boat. Get Phil’s armed response team on to it. Whoever this was in the van was his.

He smiled, switched back over to Radio One.

Thrilled to be giving his adrenalin a workout.

79

‘Ah…’ the Creeper sighed. ‘Alone at last…’ He was, for the first time in a long while, almost happy.

He looked at the bundle in front of him. The rug had been unrolled, its cargo disgorged on to the floor of the boat. Rani. She lay there, unmoving but awake, looking round, her eyes wide.

He crossed to her, knelt down beside her. ‘You awake, beautiful?’

He was giddy with excitement. Here she was. After all this time. Alone together. At last. His heart was hammering with excitement, stomach flipping with expectation. He wanted all his senses to take her in. He looked her over first, his eyes devouring her whole body. Then he closed his eyes, leaned in close, smelled her, fragrance, sweat, everything. Nothing was bad, all was good. All was Rani. He wanted to taste her, too, put his lips on her, his tongue, kiss her, lick her, all over…

There would be time enough for that later. For now he would be content to just start slowly. He reached out his hand, began to stroke her hair. She didn’t pull away or recoil, just lay still, eyes wide, breathing heavily.

He laughed. ‘Nearly awake. Good.’ Another sigh, his breath ragged. ‘Well. Face to face. After all this time, all these years…’ He knelt in closer, his hand stroking her face now, down her cheek. ‘We’ve got… we’ve got… a lot of catching up to do, my darling…’

His hand stopped stroking. He studied her face closely, eyes falling on every feature, memorising it as if he would never see it again, taking her all in once more. Seeing not Rani as she used to be but Rani as she was now. She looked different. That was to be expected, of course; there was no way she would be able to find a perfect match. She would in time, though, once her spirit settled in and began to change things. But even now he could see the similarities, make out what was to come. He touched the features he recognised. Her eyes, yes, he thought, fingers playing over them, and the curve of her cheekbone… and her mouth, her lips… so soft… oh, so soft…

He felt himself beginning to harden. Stopped stroking her. Not now. That was for later. Now they would just talk, get to know each other once more. Cuddle, even, like lovers were supposed to do.

He looked at her face again. Laughed, shook his head once more.

‘All the things I’d planned to say… years, you know, years… Years of stuff just built up, all those conversations I’d had with you in my head, when you couldn’t answer and I had to make it up… and then when I saw you again and we did talk for a bit, all those secret words when no one else was listening, but not proper conversations. Not like now.’ He laughed again. ‘It’s funny, but I’ve got all those things to say, all those things I’ve stored up and…’ He shrugged, almost apologetically. ‘… they’ve all gone out of my head. Isn’t that funny?’

She said nothing, just lay there, breathing heavily, eyes wide open.

‘So much to say…’ He shook his head once more, like he could barely believe his luck. ‘I suppose… we should go back to the beginning, shouldn’t we? Start with the fire. And I should say sorry for that. Because that was the start, wasn’t it? The cause of everything.’ He sighed. Stroked her face once more. ‘Sorry. For what happened.’ He leaned in even closer. ‘But it was all your fault. You did it. You’ve got to take the blame. If you hadn’t come on to me in the first place, pushed yourself against me, flirted…’ The last word was almost spat out.

He sat back, eyes never leaving her, his gaze hardened, his breathing quickening. Eventually his features softened. He smiled once more, laughed. Giggling like he was on a first date. Because that was how it felt. How it was. They had been apart so long it was like meeting for the first time.

‘You see, I knew you fancied me. All that time, you tried to hide it. Leaving the room when I came in, trying not to talk to me, all of that… But I knew. I wasn’t stupid, I could tell. And I know you knew I liked you.’ He leaned forward again, hand back on her face. ‘But you were shy, weren’t you? Just needed a bit of a push, that’s all. Get you to like me.’ He wagged his finger in her face. ‘Playing hard to get, you were. I know.’ He cocked his head on one side, stopped wagging his finger. Smiled again, moved in closer. ‘All I had to do,’ he said, voice dropping low, ‘was tell you how I felt. In my heart. How deep my love for you was. Then I knew you’d fall in love with me too.’

He dropped his hand from her face, sighed, his memories taking him down a dark, sad street. ‘And everything would have worked out just fine, if there hadn’t been that fire…’ He sat completely still, memories overtaking him.

No longer in the boat, no longer in the present. He felt heat on his face once more, panic in his heart… Then pain, all over, starting at his skin then lancing through him, trapped in a cabinet of flaming swords all slicing through him at once, pushing nerve-deep inside him… no way out…

And the smell… roasting pork…

‘I still hear the screams… they’re in my head. Always.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Trapped there, no way out… I close my eyes and hear you screaming, Rani, screaming… and the flames are, are…’ He sighed. ‘Fire is power, Rani, fire is power… it scares people… and the screams… you and… and me… there’s always this screaming in my head…’

He screwed his eyes up tight, curled his hands into fists, began to punch himself in the temples.

‘Screams… make the screaming… stop… No… no… Out of the cleansing fire… I was born…’

Black.

He opened his eyes. Blinked. He was lying on the floor of the boat. He looked round quickly, sat up. Rani-

She was still there. Lying exactly as he had left her. He breathed a sigh of relief. Allowed himself a small smile. ‘Thought I’d lost you again…’

He shook his head, clearing it of the screams, or at least quietening them down. For now. He didn’t know how long he had been out but it couldn’t have been long. Sunlight still streamed through the slats of the boat, the air was tipped with warmth.

‘You’re still there. Good. I’m not going to lose you again.’ He sighed. ‘Because I did, you know. Well, of course you know. That’s how I found you again, isn’t it? Because you led me to you…’ He giggled again stroked her chin. ‘But you led me a merry old dance, didn’t you? Popping up here and there, different bodies, hopping from girl to girl, teasing me, hoping I’d find you…’ He smiled, kept his hand cupping her face. ‘But still. All worth it. Because now you’re here. And here to stay, aren’t you?’

He looked round the boat, seeing where he lived through her eyes. He felt a sudden stab of shame. It wasn’t much. And he hadn’t kept it good. The place was a tip. She deserved better.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘This place. Not much, is it? Well, not at the moment. But you know what it’s like. Needs a woman’s touch, doesn’t it? You know what us men are like, living on our own…

‘I know you should have better. And we’ll make it better.’ He moved in closer, lay down next to her, slid one arm round her shoulder. She didn’t resist. ‘I know I’ve got to be patient because you told me I’ve got to be patient, but still, you don’t have to do it all today, do you? Haven’t seen each other for a long time. Not properly, anyway…’ His other hand began touching the front of her top, stroking her stomach, his grip tightening, his breath quickening.

‘Got a lot of catching up to do… haven’t we?’

80

Another incident room, thought Phil, another bar.

They had moved over to the Rose and Crown hotel on East Street at the other side of the level crossing. It was an old restored pub with black and white Tudor outer work, uneven floors, roof and ceilings, wooden beams and small leaded glass windows. The façade of authenticity stopped at the contemporary dining-room furniture and the modern hotel block at the rear. But first impressions were good.

Phil wasn’t there for that, though. He had commandeered the restaurant as a temporary incident room, flashing his warrant card and claiming that a murder inquiry took precedence over dinner preparations. The chairs and tables had been arranged in a semi-circle, and those with laptops had them open. Phil’s was open in front of him, a video link to Milhouse back at the station.

Phil hadn’t wanted to stop the team working, finding Fenwick’s attacker and Rose Martin’s abductor. But he felt it was important that they all got together before they set off. All singing from the same hymn book, he thought, echoing Ben Fenwick in the cliché stakes.

He also needed to find something inspirational to say, something to rouse them, drive them on. Saw Marina sitting at the back. Knew he’d manage somehow.

‘This is what we’ve got so far,’ Phil said, standing up to address the room. ‘Suzanne Perry and Zoe Herriot. Both SALTS. Both worked at the Gainsborough Wing at the General Hospital. One missing, one dead. Julie Miller. Occupational therapist. Again, working in the same hospital wing as part of the same team. Missing. Hopefully alive. Adele Harrison. Barmaid. Deceased. No connection to the others that we can find. Yet.’ He paused, letting the toll of the dead and the missing hit home.

‘Christopher and Charlotte Palmer. Julie Miller’s upstairs neighbours. Both deceased. Killed, we imagine, because they were in the way. Because our killer wanted somewhere to watch his victim from.’

Phil sighed. ‘And now a couple of our own. DCI Ben Fenwick, the DCI of this unit, severely wounded, in hospital now. DS Rose Martin, missing.’

‘And Anthony Howe,’ said Anni, ‘don’t forget him.’

Phil nodded. ‘Any news on him?’

‘Stable, apparently,’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Hospital talk for not alive but not dead yet.’

‘Right.’ Phil suppressed the urge to sigh again. ‘Any ideas so far? Any theories about links? Leads?’

‘Adele Harrison, Julie Miller and Suzanne Perry all look alike,’ said Anni. ‘Or, rather, all share similarities. Tall, white, dark-haired. Same bone structure and features. Same ages, just about.’

Phil nodded. ‘And Rose Martin too. On that basis you can add her to that list. It looks like that’s his type, his trigger. ’

Nick Lines put his hand up. ‘I think you’re right.’ He said. ‘Compare the way Adele Harrison’s body was attacked and mutilated as well as killed with the way Zoe Herriot was murdered. Like she’s been dispatched. She doesn’t fit the profile so she’s cut and dumped as quickly as possible.’

Several of the team flinched at his words. Nick didn’t elaborate or apologise.

‘We have to make Mark Turner and Fiona Welch our top suspects at the moment.’

‘What about the boat, boss? The soldier?’ said Anni.

‘There’s a lot of pieces that aren’t in place yet. We keep our options open at the moment. But since Ben was knifed in Turner and Welch’s house, we have to assume they’re a big part of it. The university are looking out for them. They’ve been told to call us the second they set foot there. Although I doubt they will. Nick, anything you can tell us from the house?’

‘Not much,’ said Nick Lines. ‘From the stains and the blood spray patterns, it looks like everything happened in the living room. It also looks like a rug’s been removed recently.’

‘How recently?’

‘Since Ben Fenwick was stabbed.’

‘Wrapping Rose Martin up in it?’ said Phil.

‘An educated guess,’ said Nick.

‘Adrian, any neighbours have anything to say?’

Adrian Wren stood up. ‘A woman opposite does say she saw two men loading a carpet into the back of a van in The Beijing car park.’ The house was next to a Chinese takeaway with a piece of waste ground between that the fast food outlet liked to call a car park.

‘That sounds like our team. Make? Model?’

He shook his head. ‘Just something dark. Quite small. Not a big one. No descriptions either. Both in some kind of work clothes, apparently. Woolly hats and sunglasses.’

‘Comedy Blues Brothers,’ said Phil, no humour in his voice. ‘Brilliant.’

‘The van fits with what Mickey’s been following up, boss,’ said Anni. ‘Black Citroën Nemo.’

‘Get some photos, Adrian. Ask her again.’

He nodded, made a note.

‘Fiona Welch,’ said Phil. ‘One of Ben Fenwick’s innovations, I’m afraid. I never rated her, never liked her, never wanted her here. And after that profile, never trusted her.’ He looked round the room. ‘Please feel free to join in with her character assassination.’

‘Mickey felt the same way, boss,’ said Anni. ‘Spoke to me about her earlier. Said there was something about her he didn’t like.’

‘Why didn’t he mention it to me?’

‘Because you’d said you were going to get rid of her. So that, he probably thought, was that. But he did say something else interesting about her, though.’

Phil listened.

‘He said she went to see Anthony Howe last night. After you’d finished questioning him. In his cell.’

Phil frowned. ‘What about?’

‘Don’t know. No record of that. Only of her visit.’

Phil thought for a moment, glancing round the restaurant. It looked comfortable, the kind of place you’d be happy to spend a few hours in if you were away from home. The bar looked the same. It was yet another glimpse into that other world, the safe, comfortable one, the one he could never inhabit.

‘I don’t think,’ he said, ‘we’re jumping to conclusions to say that whatever she said to him contributed to his suicide attempt.’

Anni frowned. ‘Why, boss?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he taught her at university. Maybe he made a pass at her. Some grudge or other.’ He sighed. ‘Why wasn’t her background checked into? Why wasn’t she properly vetted?’

No one answered. The only person who could was fighting for his life in hospital.

‘OK,’ said Phil. ‘In the meantime we keep an eye on the Greenstead Road house. It’s a long shot, but they may return. We’re also still going through it looking for any clue as to where they might be now.’

‘Don’t forget the boat, boss,’ said Anni.

‘I’m not.’

Anni’s phone rang. Phil stared at her, clearly unhappy with the interruption. She checked the display. ‘Mickey,’ she said. ‘I’d better take it.’

She got up from her seat, crossed into the bar.

Phil wanted to keep talking but knew as well as Anni that Mickey wouldn’t be phoning unless it was something important. ‘We’ll just wait a moment,’ he said. ‘This might be urgent.’

Anni returned, pocketing her phone. She sat down. Phil could sense the energy, the adrenalin, coming off her.

‘What you got?’

‘That was Mickey,’ she said, ‘he’s at the boat. There’s been developments.’ She told the team what he had seen, relaying it in almost as breathless a fashion as he clearly had to her.

‘Oh, lucky,’ said Phil, feeling that familiar tingle pass through him. He knew the others would be feeling it too. ‘A breakthrough. Anni, phone him back and tell him to keep tailing and we’ll get back up to him as quickly as possible. I’m guessing that’s Rose Martin on the boat. We’ll get an armed response unit down there as quickly as possible. Even if it’s not Rose, whoever it is we need to get them out safely. I’ll get down there right now.’ He looked round the room. ‘The rest of you get back to your jobs.’ He sighed. ‘Most of you, if not all of you, know that Ben Fenwick and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Or hardly ever, if I’m being honest.’

A small amount of laughter could be heard, breaking the tension.

Phil continued. ‘But that doesn’t mean I wanted this to happen to him. Or anything like it. It’s awful. What’s happened is absolutely, bloody awful. So let’s get out there and avenge him. Let’s do this for him.’

The meeting broke up.

81

Rose was terrified.

She lay on her back, on the filthy floor of some falling apart boat, eyes wide open, not daring to move or even to breathe. Like an animal freezing before a predator, hoping that if she stayed still long enough she would be ignored.

His hands were on her. His breath in her ear, raw, ragged grunts. His hands getting faster, moving quickly over her body, roughly tugging at her clothes…

She closed her eyes, trying to expel the vision of his face from her mind, take herself to somewhere she could think. Tried to make some sense of what had happened to her and how best to deal with it, thought back to how she had ended up in this situation.

She hadn’t seen him coming. That much was obvious. If she had, she would have been prepared. And then seeing what happened to Ben, watching him collapse like that. Was he dead? Oh God… All that blood, so much blood…

And now this. She had lain there, terrified, while he spoke to her. At least, she assumed that was what he was doing. She could barely make out any of his words. But that was no surprise. His mouth – his face – was ruined. She had studied him in close up all the time he was ‘talking’ to her. Clearly not Mark Turner. This man had suffered. His face was smooth in parts, pitted and wrinkled in others. Sometimes dead white, sometimes pink and red.

Burns, Rose thought. Bad ones.

As he moved closer she could see veins and arteries below the surface. They looked like fiery little red lines, networked, red hot pipes ready to burst and burn and spray at any moment.

His eyebrows were gone, as was half of his mouth. His teeth were pulled back in a perpetual, grimacing snarl. No wonder she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She understood why he wore the woollen cap, too. When he took it off his head had the same kind of smooth and uneven look as his face. What hair there was left had been razored down to nothing, leaving him looking like an angry, red skull.

He reminded her of a character in one of her little brother’s comics that he used to read. Ghost Rider, a demon biker with a flaming skull. He had terrified her then.

This one terrified her now.

And then that voice… deep, raw and wasted, all breath and pain, but with attempts at precision and diction. Like a horror-film zombie trying to articulate enough to get a job in a call centre.

He grunted loudly. She opened her eyes.

And wished she hadn’t.

He was on top of her now, pulling at her jeans, trying to get his lumpen, misshapen hand down the front. Grunting even more, his other hand pulling at the waist of his army trousers.

Oh God…

She closed her eyes tight shut once more, lay completely still, hands by her side, legs as rigid as possible.

And then she felt something. Her handbag.

Still on her shoulder from when she had been grabbed, it had been tight to her body when she had been wrapped in the rug and was with her now. And in the front pocket…

Oh please, please, let it be there… please God, let it still be there…

It was.

Rose couldn’t believe her luck. She almost shouted out aloud, punched the air, even. But she did neither. Just lay there as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. But it had.

She had found her pepper spray.

Keeping her breathing as shallow as she could so as not to alarm Ghost Rider. Although the way he was twisting and grunting in his efforts to remove her jeans, she thought he would be beyond noticing any changes in her breathing.

She tried to disconnect from what was happening to the rest of her body, just concentrate on what her fingers were doing. Touching the can of spray, finding the front, fitting her fingers round the container, getting her grip in the right place, readying herself to shoot…

She brought her arm up as far as it would go. Held the can right in his face.

Sprayed.

The effect was immediate. As the pepper hit him in the eyes, he reared back off her, hands going to eyes, clawing at them. She took advantage straight away, pushing herself off the floor, making for the stairs, the exit.

But he was quick. Even half-blinded he knew the boat better than her. His hand clamped round her ankle, pulled. His grip was too strong. Rose’s leg was pulled out from under her.

She fell to the floor, landing awkwardly, feeling something pop in her left knee.

She screamed, tried to rise once more.

Too late. He was on her.

Still clutching the can of spray, she brought her hand up but he was ready, knocking it out of her hand. She heard it land uselessly, somewhere on the far side of the boat, in the mess and shadows.

She tried to rise again. Felt pain arc from her knee all the way up her leg.

She gasped.

Saw his malevolent, red skull in her face once more. Eyes streaming.

Heard him scream in pain and rage.

Glimpsed his fist coming towards her face.

Felt nothing.

82

Suzanne still hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed.

She lay there, eyes wide, staring, straining to hear anything, something that would give her a clue as to what had happened to Julie. Just a scream and then silence. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew it wasn’t good.

She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate, the better to hear.

Nothing.

She let out a breath. After the scream she had tried calling but received no response. She had tried again. Nothing. Eventually she accepted the fact. Something bad had happened to Julie and she wouldn’t be talking again.

The easiest thing would have been to give in to panic. Scream, shout, pound the sides of the box, kick out… and it was so easy… she had felt it build inside her, a volcanic eruption of emotion looking for an outlet, a screaming, shaking outlet, but she had managed to stop it. Keep it dormant, keep it down. It would get her nowhere. Accomplish nothing.

She had to think. Work out what happened to Julie. Make sure it didn’t happen to her.

Suzanne controlled her breathing once more, kept her mind focused. Thought back to what Julie had said, what she was doing.

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

Then tearing and creaking…

Then silence.

Then she was out and laughing then…

The screaming. Long and hard.

Suzanne shook her head, shaking loose the image that had stuck there. The darkness just made her imagination worse. Seeing something so horrible, no true, real-life scene could ever match it.

Or at least she hoped not.

She focused. The box, the tearing and creaking… that was the noise it made when opened. And Julie had said their captors mustn’t have closed it properly.

Think, think, process…

What about her trip out of the box? Her toilet break? Anything to be gleaned from that?

She retraced it in her mind once more. The door had opened, she’d been given the hood to wear. Nothing there. What about the feel of things when she was out? The sounds?

The first thing she had experienced had been water up to her ankles. What could that tell her? It was still. And there was no smell. Not tidal, then. Not on the seafront, then.

The water had ended and she had stepped out. So a small amount of water. A pool, maybe? Ditch? Concrete underneath. A trough of some kind? But why?

Leave it. On to the next part. She had been guided over a cold concrete floor. Hard and dirty, with small, sharp bits sticking in her wet feet as she went.

Was there anything about the walk itself…

Nothing. Except…

That sound. Like a humming or churning. Power lines, pylons… or a generator.

A shudder ran through Suzanne, jack-knifing her body with its suddenness.

She knew what had happened to Julie now. And it didn’t make her feel any better.

A generator. And a trough of water. And a scream from Julie as soon as she wriggled out of the box.

Booby-trapped. Even if they managed to escape the box itself they couldn’t escape from where they actually were. The water must be too wide to cross. And electrified.

Suzanne sighed.

Felt more alone and abandoned, more hopeless than ever.

83

Mickey was following the Nemo. Out of King Edward Quay and on to Haven Road. Over the roundabout and down the Colne Causeway. Heading towards the Magic Roundabout.

At first he had thought it was just a nickname, a less than affectionate term everyone used. He was surprised to learn that was its official name too. He was less surprised to learn that the rest of Colchester despised it as much as he did.

It comprised one main roundabout with several mini ones orbiting it, plus a lot of irritated motorists. And that was where the Nemo was headed.

Mickey thought he had managed to shadow the van without being seen so far but he was winging it on his own. Following was a delicate operation, usually carried out in tandem with at least one, possibly two other vehicles. That was how he was used to doing at. On his own he was just improvising.

And the Magic Roundabout could be where his luck ran out.

He was two cars behind and no other unmarked cars had come to join him yet. So he had to be careful. Too close and he would give himself away, too far back and he would lose him. He watched, waiting for him to indicate.

Right. Mickey did the same.

The Nemo pulled out. Mickey tried not to be too impatient with the car in front, concentrate on not losing the Nemo, keeping it in visual contact all the time. The car in front went left. Mickey went right.

The Nemo was just in front of him.

Mickey allowed himself a small smile. Kept his eyes on it.

Right at the next mini roundabout. Mickey did the same.

And off down St Andrews Avenue, signalling and moving over to the right.

Mickey kept smiling. He knew where the Nemo was headed.

He thought about getting back on the radio, giving his location and where he thought they were going but, since his car was directly behind the Nemo on the dual carriageway, he didn’t want to do anything that could be seen in the wing mirror, something that might tip the driver off, make him suspicious.

Off to the right down Brightlingsea Road.

Yes. Mickey knew where he was going.

The university.

He had heard on the radio that the house in Greenstead Road had belonged to Fiona Welch and her boyfriend. This confirmed that they were involved in this.

The Nemo turned into the grounds of the university, then into the car park. Mickey followed. The Nemo parked. Mickey drove round until he found a space nearby. He found one in the next row, facing the van. He watched, the engine running.

The driver was definitely male, thin. The wool hat was removed revealing longish, unkempt hair. Typical student, Mickey thought.

The driver shucked out of his army jacket leaving a sloganed T-shirt beneath. It looked like he was pulling something down over his hips. Getting rid of his army trousers too, Mickey reckoned. He got out of the van, leaned back in, grabbed a canvas bag from behind the seat, slung it across his body. Ready for class.

Mickey smiled. Mark Turner. He knew it. And there was virtually nothing on him. This would be easy, he thought.

Turner set off in the direction of the campus. Mickey got out of the car and, at a discreet distance, followed.

Essex University campus was a textbook design in sixties neo-brutalist modernism, with each subsequent architectural feature either an accompaniment or an apology to the original. It was laid out as a series of squares and quadrants with concrete steps and walkways joining them. Turner walked towards the main quadrant through the car park, going past the gym and down the steps, trees on either side. Mickey followed him easily.

He should have radioed for back-up but, again, he didn’t want to risk losing him or letting him see the radio. Instead, Mickey opened his phone, called Anni. She answered immediately.

‘It’s Turner,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’

‘University. He’s just got out the van, walking towards the campus. I’m on foot. Looks like he’s trying to behave as normally as possible.’

‘Give himself an alibi, more like.’

‘Anyway, back-up would be appreciated.’

Turner didn’t look back, which was helpful as most of the people Mickey’s age were much less formally dressed. Turner didn’t seem hurried or stressed, just walking along casually. Either that, thought Mickey, or he was affecting to look casual just in case anyone was watching him. Which meant he really was nervous.

Which meant…

Turner turned round. Saw Mickey. It was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know who Mickey was but certainly knew what he was.

Turner ran.

Mickey, no longer needing to pretend any more, cut his call short, gave chase.

Along a concrete walkway, the Student’s Union bar on one side, opening out to a main quadrant. Windows all round and, in the floors above, coffee shops and a general store on the ground.

Turner ran to the right, up a flight of stairs, under overhanging buildings. Knocking students, teachers and administrators alike out of the way. A cluster of smokers in one corner jumped as Turner came barrelling towards them.

Mickey ran at full pelt, his chest burning, legs pumping. He tried to match Turner for speed, knowing how difficult it would be to slow down and stop if Turner took an unexpected route.

Turner ran into the nearest building, up a small flight of stairs, down a corridor, Mickey right behind him. Students jumped out of the way when they saw the pair of them coming.

Turner slammed open a set of double doors, took the stairs before him two at a time. Mickey still chased. At the top of the stairs he went through another set of doors, then left down another corridor. Through another set of doors and into the main cafeteria.

People turned, initially puzzled but then rooted to the spot with fear as the two men came their way. Turner took advantage of the situation, grabbing a pile of trays as he passed, throwing them behind him. They scattered and clattered, fanning out and hitting Mickey in the legs. He did his best to jump over them, not lose speed, not let them slow him down.

Turner hit the double doors at the other end of the cafeteria, slamming them open, knocking the people before him out of the way. Mickey didn’t give up.

Down another flight of stairs, out on to the upper quadrant. Then left and away, past the library, heading towards the lake.

It seemed like Turner had no real idea where he was going, his only thought to get away. Mickey didn’t know where the lake route led to but, if it was outside the campus, Turner could escape. He powered on, finding extra strength from somewhere, pushing himself as fast as he could go.

He was gaining on Turner…

Faster, faster, pushing harder and harder…

Stretching out, almost able to touch him…

Turner risking a glance over his shoulder, seeing how close his pursuer was.

Then, looking forward again, Turner missed his footing, hit a pothole in the grass, stumbled.

And Mickey was on to him. Rugby tackling him to the ground, both his hands on Turner’s back, pushing him into the earth.

‘Get off, let go… bastard…’

Turner struggled, tried to kick, to punch. But Mickey, adrenalin ascendant, ignored him. He twisted the student’s arm up his back until he cried out in pain. Then twisted it further.

‘Get off me… bastard…’ Another cry of pain to accompany it.

Mickey didn’t care. Fed on that pain. Ate it up. Smiled. There would be time for the full reading of Turner’s rights soon enough. But there was something else he had to say now. Something more important.

He laughed. ‘You’re nicked, my son.’

And there was Mickey triumphant. His old self back again.

84

The Creeper looked down at Rani lying there still, eyes closed.

And then she spoke to him.

Is that you? Are you there?

The Creeper frowned, confused. How could Rani be talking to him if she was lying there, right in front of him?

‘Rani…?’

Yes. It’s me. She sounded impatient. Hurried. Come on…

‘But you’re… you’re there, on the floor… with your, your eyes closed…’

Never mind about that now.

He was genuinely confused. ‘But how…’

Never mind.

What was wrong with her? Was she upset with him? Because of what he had done? ‘Have I… have I done something wrong? I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I’m sorry… I should have, should have…’

I don’t have time for that now.

He had to tell her, make himself understood. Plead, if he needed to. ‘But you did a bad thing to me first. I only hit you after that, you made me do it…’

Stop it.

‘I wouldn’t have done it otherwise…’

Stop it! Now shut up and listen.

‘But…’

Listen. She took a deep breath, stopped talking. He listened. I’m not mad at you. You did… It doesn’t matter what you did to me.

He smiled. Felt relief wash through him. ‘Thank you…’

Don’t interrupt. I don’t care about that now. You have to listen to me. You need to be prepared.

‘I am prepared…’

Good. Listen closely. You need to get out of there. And you need to make it so that no one can follow you. Understand?

He frowned, confused once more. ‘No… what, what d’you mean?’

There are people coming for you.

‘I don’t…’

I told you. Listen. Closely. Right? Good. You need to get out of where you are now. Quickly. Now we discussed this, remember? What you had to do if something like this happened?

The Creeper thought hard. This was difficult. This didn’t feel right at all.

Remember. What we discussed. People are coming to the boat. You need to get out of there and not leave anything behind. What we talked about. What we planned. Remember?

He sat down beside the inert body of Rani. Tried not to look at her. He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed. Thinking. It took some effort, but, yes, he remembered. He told her so.

At last. That wasn’t so hard, was it? We got there eventually, didn’t we?

He laughed, thinking that was what she wanted him to do.

She ignored him. You remember what to leave?

‘Yeah, no problem.’ He wanted to please her once more, make her happy again.

Good. Now-

‘What about you?’

What d’you mean?

‘You. Lying here, on the floor. With your eyes closed. You’re talking to me and you’re not talking to me. What am I going to do with you?’

Just… just leave, leave me there.

‘Like a husk? Another husk? You mean put it with the others?’

No, no time. Just leave it there.

He felt a sharp stab of pain in his heart. ‘But, but you said this would be the one. The one body you were going to stay in. Forever…’

Well, plans change, don’t they?

Her words, harsh. He didn’t like that. It upset him. Made him feel like crying.

‘I’m sorry… I didn’t, didn’t mean to…’

It doesn’t matter. Just leave the husk there and do what I told you. Can you do that?

‘I won’t let you down. Promise.’

Good. Now, when you’ve done that, there’s somewhere I want you to go to.

He listened. She told him. Asked him to repeat it back to her until she was sure he understood.

Good. I’ll talk to you soon.

And she was gone.

He looked down at the husk. Sighed. Felt that stabbing in his heart once again. What a shame. He had thought that this was it. This was them back together forever. He should have known better. Should have known things wouldn’t work out.

Oh well.

He looked round the boat, knowing this was going to be the last time he would ever see it. It didn’t feel like home. Not really. But then nowhere ever did. Not any more. No place felt like home. Not if Rani wasn’t in it.

Felt tears well up. Swallowed them down. Wouldn’t give in to them. Not again.

But he was going to meet her. She had said so. Would this be the real Rani? No more husks? He hoped so. But then he had thought so before and been disappointed.

Still.

His eyes fell on the box in the corner. He smiled. That would help. That would be something to look forward to.

Fire. He liked the fire. It was power.

And he liked having power.

No longer caring about the husk on the floor, but checking it didn’t need another punch to keep it quiet, he crossed over to the box in the corner, opened it. Looked in.

Everything just as he remembered it.

Yes.

Fire was power.

And he was going to use it.

85

The circus had arrived.

The armed response unit had been hastily assembled in an old abandoned warehouse at the far end of Haven Street, along from King Edward Quay where Ian Buchan’s boat was moored.

It reminded Phil of the kind of desolate, empty, run-down place – all rusting metal supports, crumbling walls, rubble-strewn floors and partially destroyed roofs – that he imagined spies being exchanged in during the Cold War. Or the kind of location in which producers of TV spy dramas held end-of-episode shoot-outs. As he watched the armed response unit check, lock and load their weapons, he hoped that was just fanciful thinking.

He refused to carry a gun. Wasn’t even firearm trained. He disliked guns intensely, in any shape or form. Knives were worse, he knew that, but if he couldn’t disarm a potential aggressor with his mind and wits, or at the most with his hands and stick, he wasn’t being truly effective as a police officer.

He disliked the armed response unit. Thought the whole of CO19 – the Met’s supposedly elite force responsible for training all armed officers in the country – were a bunch of macho, fascist cowboys who hid behind the uniform while committing acts of barely licensed villainy. He was also intelligent enough to know that wasn’t a popular opinion for a serving officer to hold, never mind express, so kept it to himself. Most of the time. But he did admit there was a time when they were needed, a necessary evil. And this was one such occasion.

He snapped the Velcro tapes shut on his stab vest, pulled it down, making sure it fitted snugly but not tight enough to restrict his movements. He turned to the team, saw a bunch of hard-faced men standing there, in the kind of mental and emotional zone reserved for sportsmen and cage fighters. If they were superheroes, aggression would be their superpower and it would explode from their fingertips like lightning.

Their senior officer, Joe Wade, was addressing them.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here’s the objective.’

He gestured at his laptop, placed on a folding table that had been brought along specially.

‘This boat. King Edward Quay. Out of here and to the left. About two hundred yards along the quay. The target is on the boat. He may be armed. He is certainly dangerous. He may also have a hostage with him.’

‘Detective Inspector Rose Martin,’ said Phil. ‘She was with DCI Fenwick when he was stabbed.’

Wade nodded, acknowledged the interruption, continued. The team were well drilled, well organised. While Wade marshalled his team into sections, Phil tried to calm his nerves. Anni had given him a description of the layout, which he had passed on to Wade. He wouldn’t be entering the boat until Wade’s team had secured it and brought Ian Buchan out. And, hopefully, Rose Martin. Then, with the area secured, he would enter.

Wade finished his address, looked at Phil.

Phil nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I just want to emphasise once more that this man is dangerous. He’s an ex-soldier who brought his training home with him. And he’s been making full use of it in this town recently. Be aware. Oh, and one more thing. This is also a missing persons case. We need him to tell us where they are. So please, don’t kill him.’

A few of them laughed, thought he was joking.

He wasn’t.

‘OK?’ said Wade, putting on his helmet, ‘let’s go.’

86

‘You’ve had some real cowboys in here…’

Marina was sitting at Anni’s desk back in the bar, looking through the reports Fiona Welch had made. She wasn’t impressed.

‘Did no one check this?’

Anni looked at her, uncomfortable. ‘Phil wasn’t happy.’

‘I’ll bet he wasn’t. And he shouldn’t have been the only one. What was Ben Fenwick thinking?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anni, ‘but he was doing it with another part of his anatomy.’

Marina looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘What?’

Anni turned away. ‘Sorry. Said too much.’

Marina looked at the files before her, back to Anni. ‘Tell me.’

Anni pulled up a chair beside Marina, leaned in, dropped her voice. ‘Rose Martin, the missing DS? Ben and her were getting it on.’

Marina nodded. ‘And that impeded his judgement?’

‘He’s a man. You know what they’re like. Especially at work.’ She saw Marina’s reaction. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean-’

‘That’s OK. I know you didn’t.’ Since Marina and Phil had initially got together during a case she had a right to be cagey about criticism.

‘He paid too much attention to her. Allowed her to influence the investigation. Same with Fiona Welch.’

‘Didn’t anyone see this? Try to stop it?’

‘Phil did.’ Anni smiled. ‘He ended up punching the DCI’s lights out.’

Marina smiled. ‘Good for Phil.’ Then she thought of the situation Ben Fenwick was in, felt immediately guilty. ‘Anyway. Moving on. This profile. A child of nine could have come up with something better.’

‘We think now she did it deliberately,’ said Anni. ‘To lead us to Anthony Howe.’

‘I know Anthony Howe. Taught by him and worked with him. He was an arrogant letch but he wasn’t capable of this. Where does Fiona Welch work?’

‘The hospital. But she’s also doing a Ph.D. at the university. This allowed her to teach, she told us.’

‘And Ben Fenwick found her.’

Anni nodded.

Marina wasn’t impressed. ‘He should have asked for a forensic psychologist. And if he got a clinical psychologist he should have had a qualified one otherwise their opinion won’t be recognised. Fiona Welch must be an assistant, right?’

Anni nodded again. ‘Looks like it now. Maybe she told him she was qualified.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised. She’s clever, though. Inserted herself right at the heart of the investigation, tried to influence it, control it even. I’m surprised Phil went along with it.’

‘He didn’t seem to be on the ball.’

‘Why not?’

Anni was reluctant to speak but knew she had to. ‘I don’t know. Something was distracting him.’

Marina nodded, not wanting to say anything further. ‘Well, whatever. He saw through her eventually.’ She sat back, ran her hands through her hair, thinking. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got. She’s manipulative, she’s controlling. She fed you a false profile that pointed to Anthony Howe. Who was someone she knew, someone who taught her.’

‘Someone she held a grudge against?’

Marina nodded. ‘I’d say that was very likely. Especially if she went to talk to him alone. And the suicide attempt followed. She’s manipulative all right.’

Marina rifled through the files on Anni’s desk. Brought over the post-mortem report on Adele Harrison. ‘And then there’s this…’ She looked through it. ‘I get a completely different feeling from the profile she gave based on this. Maybe it’s because I’m just looking for something different but it doesn’t feel right. Not at all.’

She picked up the phone, called Nick Lines. He answered.

‘Hi, Nick, Marina Esposito here. Listen, this PM on Adele Harrison…’ She looked through it. ‘I’ve read it and got a couple of things to run by you. Just a theory, but here you go. These injuries. Do you think there’s any chance this wasn’t sexually motivated?’

She listened to his reply.

‘I’ll tell you. Because they strike me as overkill, done to make us jump to conclusions. Mislead us. All this genital mutilation… it doesn’t seem consistent with the rest of the injuries. I mean, clearly they’re sadistic and there’s a lot of hatred there that’s been acted out, but…’

She listened again. For quite a while. Her eyebrows raised.

‘Interesting. Very interesting. Thanks, Nick.’

She put the phone down. Anni was looking at her, expectantly.

‘Well?’

‘He agrees. Thinks the sexual mutilation could have been done as a cover-up. No sign of actual penetrative sex, just aggression. And he did tell me something else.’

Anni leaned forward, irritated she was being made to wait.

‘He’s got the preliminary DNA results back from Adele Harrison’s body. Three sets.’

‘Three?’

Marina nodded. ‘And there’s something very interesting about one of them.’

But she didn’t get a chance to say what it was. Because at that moment Mickey Philips strutted into the bar looking flushed but exultant, and told them Mark Turner was in an interview room, ready to be cracked.

He looked between Anni and Marina.

‘So what d’you reckon?’ he said. ‘Good cop, bad cop or what?’

‘Let’s have a little chat,’ said Marina.

87

The sun was beginning to wane, getting paler, lower, more distant. The home-time traffic trying to escape Colchester was well into its gridlock of the Colne Causeway all the way through to the Avenue of Remembrance, drive-time radio of one sort or another soundtracking the long journey home. The other world going about its daily business while, down on King Edward Quay, Phil stood behind a rusted metal fence watching the armed response unit, weapons ready, take up their positions around the target houseboat.

Wade gave the signal. The team moved swiftly and silently into place. Phil found he had stopped breathing. Forced himself to start again.

The takedown was smooth. One team surrounded the boat, giving back-up and support if needed, the main team boarded. Over the gangplank, on the deck, down the stairs. A battering ram of testosterone, muscle and metal knocking down all before it. Screaming, shouting, creating noise and confusion for the target, years of training making them able to operate with clinical clarity of thought and precision timing within that confusion.

Seconds. That was all it took.

Seconds.

Joe Wade made his way back up on deck, looked over at Phil, shook his head. Phil ran over to him, joined him on the boat.

‘Gone,’ Wade said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. ‘But he left his hostage.’

Phil was straight down into the belly of the boat.

Rose Martin was being propped up by an officer, his gun at his side. Her hands were tied behind her body, her eyes wide with fear, pain and shock. Phil crouched before her.

‘How you feeling?’

She just stared at him, eyes roaming and pinwheeling in terror, like the rescue was just another weapon in the armoury of pin to be inflicted on her.

‘Rose, it’s me, Phil Brennan.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Rose…’

She flinched from his touch but he kept his hands there. Tender but firm. Eventually she managed to bring her eyes back into focus, look at him. No words, but definite recognition.

‘Yeah, it’s me. You’re safe now.’ He smiled, emphasising the point.

She nodded, going along with him.

‘Good. There’s an ambulance on its way. We’re going to get you to the hospital now. You’re OK. Everything’s OK.’ He turned to the officer at her side, pointed to the plastic cuffs attached to her wrists. ‘Can we get these things cut off?’

The officer took out a knife, cut them through.

‘Not standard issue, but I’m glad you brought it along,’ said Phil. He took over from the crouching officer, helped Rose to her feet.

‘All right?’

She nodded once more, rubbing her wrists. ‘He… he…’ Her mind slipped somewhere else, somewhere unpleasant. ‘I tried to stop him, but he… oh God…’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Phil, wishing that just the act of saying those words could make things better but knowing that it couldn’t.

‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’ She grabbed hold of his vest, clung to him.

‘Don’t worry. You’re safe. Let’s get you out of here.’

He started to move her, walking her slowly across the floor. As he did so, he took in the walls. The photos, magazine clippings, images of women with their eyes scored out.

Nutter, he thought, using the kind of technical term he was sure Marina would approve of. He scrutinised the images as he walked, taking Rose to the stairs.

Then froze. He had seen one of the pictures before.

And he knew where.

He began to move her with more of a sense of urgency. There was somewhere he had to be.

‘DI Brennan.’

He turned. The officer who had freed Rose was standing at the far end of the boat, looking down. He had flipped the lid on an old, wooden box, scarred and battered, and was staring inside.

‘What is it?’ said Phil.

The officer looked up. ‘Get out now, sir.’ Then louder, more generally, ‘Out now. Everyone off this boat, now. Go go go…’

Phil didn’t need to be told twice. He hurried Rose, who had jumped hearing the officer’s voice and started sobbing, up the stairs as fast as he could. On the deck and over the gangplank. He hurried her away. Behind him, armed officers were running for cover.

Phil just managed to make it back to the fence he had been behind at the start of the operation. He didn’t have time to settle because a huge wave of heat, forceful and strong, knocked him face down into the road.

He lay there, panting for breath, eyes closed. Not daring to move, wondering whether his legs were broken, his head still had hair, his back still had skin or whether it had been ripped off in the explosion. His ears more than ringing, sounding like he was stuck inside a tunnel with two highspeed trains passing each other at the same time.

He opened his eyes. Moved his legs. They still worked. Pushed himself up to his elbows. No real pain in his back. Got slowly to his feet.

He had managed to get outside the blast radius and was, apart from cuts and aches and gravel burn to the side of his face, relatively unharmed. He looked round. The warning had been given in time. No one had been caught in the blast.

The boat was belching out oily black smoke, flames licking their way up to the sky. On the Colne Causeway, the other-world inhabitants were staring out of their cars. People in the opposite flats coming to their windows, doors.

‘We need a fire crew here ASAP,’ Phil shouted, then looked round for Rose Martin. She was lying on the ground, curled up in a foetal ball. Unharmed.

‘Bastard was waiting for us,’ said Wade, walking up to Phil. ‘Must have been tipped off. We’ll get him.’

‘See she gets to a hospital,’ said Phil, walking off.

‘Where you going?’ said Wade, clearly not happy at the paperwork he was being left to face alone.

‘I’ll be back,’ said Phil. ‘Just have to go talk to the person who can tell us where he is.’

88

Mark Turner looked like an unremarkable man sitting in an unremarkable room.

His longish, dark hair was swept to the side in an identikit student indie manner, his clothes – jeans and a T-shirt – were dull, boring and uniform. Even the nonsensical slogan on his chest was nothing but a regulated attempt at individuality.

The room matched its inhabitant. Office surplus chairs and table. Grey scratched metal and worn, pitted and scarred wood. Depressing overhead strip lighting made Turner’s eyes look hooded, his face gaunt. A still, empty vessel waiting to be filled. A doll waiting to be wound up.

And that was just what Mickey Philips intended to do.

‘Look at him.’ Marina stood in front of the two-way mirror in the observation room, watching him sit there. Unmoving. Barely breathing. ‘Was it Flaubert or Balzac, which one?’

Mickey, standing next to her, gave her a blank, confused look.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘That quote. I will live like a bourgeois so my art will be revolutionary? Something like that. Do you think that’s an accurate description of our friend Mr Turner?’

Mickey frowned, genuinely puzzled. ‘What? You think what he’s been doing is art?’

Marina shook her head, her eyes compassionate, like she was explaining something complex to someone who spoke a separate language. Not patronising, just different.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t. I just mean that he’s been giving the impression of a normal, boring life, you know, studying, his film club, all that… while really he’s been saving all his energy to live out this depraved fantasy life of his. You agree?’

‘You mean he’s been showing the world one face and living another?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Yeah,’ Mickey said. ‘Definitely.’ Put like that, he agreed. Marina, learning Mickey was to be conducting the interview, had pulled him into the observation suite to prep him. Explaining that was usually how she worked with Phil, she had asked him if he wanted two-way communication with her in his ear. He had never done that before and was unsure whether to do it this time. He’d done interviews before and knew how to go about things. Even had his first questions in mind for this one.

Where’s Suzanne?

Where’s Julie?

What have you done with them?

Where are they?

Take it from there. But he hadn’t made his mind up yet. He would see how this conversation went before making a decision.

Marina looked at the file in front of her. ‘There’s one question that’s never been asked in this case. At least, not that I know of. And I think it’s the most important one. The one that the investigation should have hinged on. Why do men hate women so much?’

‘What?’ Mickey felt himself getting angry. Was she talking about him? ‘You mean me?’

‘I mean all men. Or at least all men who act on it.’

‘I hope you don’t include me in that,’ he said. ‘I don’t hate women.’

‘You never wanted to hit a woman? Punish her?’

‘I’ve wanted to hit lots of people. And I have done. But they deserved it. I’ve never hit a woman, though.’

‘Good.’ She smiled, nodded to the glass once more. ‘I’ll bet Mr Turner has. In fact, I think he’s done more than that.’ A quick glance down at her notes, then back up to Mickey. ‘Stalkers fall into two categories. Psychotic and non-psychotic. They’re usually sexual obsessives. The worst kind of women haters. And while our Mr Turner is not the best example of the male species, he doesn’t fit into that category. I’m not getting him as our stalker. That, we think, is the other one. On the boat.’ She pointed at the glass. ‘So what does he get out of it? Where does he fit in? Turner…’

Marina turned away, head back, eyes closed. Thinking, Mickey presumed. He watched her. She was completely different from Fiona Welch. That was a given. Older, certainly and better looking, although knowing she was the boss’s partner he pushed any such thoughts from his head. But there was something else. A conviction. Like she knew what she was talking about and said it in such a way that you could see what she meant. That, he knew from past experience, was rare in profilers.

‘I think… yes, I think our Mr Turner has a different motivation,’ she said. ‘Yes… It’s connected to Fiona Welch.’ She nodded as if confirming the thought to herself. ‘All bound up with her.’ She opened her eyes, turned back to the glass. Watched him intently. Turner was sitting there, looking like he was almost asleep.

A sure sign, Mickey knew, of guilt.

‘They’re Brady and Hindley, Bonnie and Clyde,’ said Marina. ‘Leopold and Loeb.’ She smiled, eyes alight with electricity. Turned to Mickey, gestured with her hand as if addressing a seminar. ‘Yes. Yes. That’s why they’ve… yes. That’s how they think of themselves. Nietzschean supermen. Yes…’

She paced the small room, gesturing to herself, alive with her theorising. Mickey watched her, wondering if she was like this at home.

She turned to him. ‘That’s the approach to take. Go for his vanity. His ego. Remember, this is someone who lives a rich inner life and a poor external one. Everything’s in his head.’

‘So why’s he acted it out?’

‘Because he met Fiona Welch. Classic pair. One leader, one follower. An enabler, allowing the other to become the person they imagine themselves to be.’ She turned to him. ‘Is that the approach you were going to take?’

Mickey just stared at her. Thought of his opening questions.

‘Er, yeah…’

He thought for a few seconds. Marina said nothing.

‘That link up, in my ear and that.’

‘Yes?’

‘I think I’ll take you up on that, thanks.’

Marina smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

89

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’

Phil stood in the doorway of Paula Hamilton’s terraced house. She held on to the door frame, swaying, fingers trembling. She looked terrible. Clothes askew, like she’d just won first place in a dressing in the dark contest. Hair greasy and unkempt, sticking out at odd angles, as if she’d just woken up and the sleep and the dreams were still stuck in it. Her eyes roved, not settling until she realised who he was. Then he wished they hadn’t. They looked like two open, ragged wounds.

She moved slowly aside, swaying insubstantially, a ghost, and allowed him to enter.

The living room matched its owner. A mess that wouldn’t be straightened out for quite some time. Phil saw empty rectangles on the wall where some of the photos had been removed. He could guess which ones. They must have been taken down after his last visit.

After he’d looked at them.

He moved debris from an armchair, sat down.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’ he said again. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

Paula slumped rather than sat on the sofa, crumpling. She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then…’

‘What?’

He sighed. Same question again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Her turn to sigh. Phil saw the vodka bottle lying on its side on the floor. Knew that whatever answers he received – if any – would be filtered through it.

‘I… I just…’ Another sigh.

‘He didn’t die in a roadside bomb, did he, your son?’

She shook her head. Looked at the carpet.

‘What happened?’

‘He… he was, was injured.’ She kept her eyes on the floor. ‘Badly injured. They…’ She trailed off.

‘They what, Paula? Tell me.’

She said nothing, just sat there deflated as if all the air, the fight, had left her body.

Phil leaned forward. ‘Paula, your daughter is dead. And it looks like your son is responsible. And that’s terrible. Horrible. One of the worst things that could ever happen to you. But there are two other women out there. Missing. That your son has taken. And if you can help me find them, if there’s anything you know that can help me find them, that can stop another mother going through what you’re going through, then do it. Please.’

She sat silently for a while, then she began to shake. ‘There’s no one… no one knows what I’ve been through, no one…’

‘Then tell me,’ said Phil. ‘Make me understand. Tell me about your son. Tell me about Wayne.’

She sighed, picked up a glass from the side of the sofa, put it to her lips, realised it was empty. She sighed again, as if even that was conspiring against her, replaced it. Looked at Phil, resignation in her eyes. She began to talk. ‘He was trouble, Wayne. Ever since he was little. Trouble. At first we thought… you know. Just bein’ a boy. But no. There was something in there.’ She pointed to her temple. ‘Something not right.’

Phil waited. Knew there would be more.

‘His dad didn’t help, neither. Ask me, his dad was the problem. Always wantin’ him to grow up. To be a man. Do the things Ian wanted him to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Fightin’. Taught him how to box when he was tiny. Was always throwin’ punches at him. Wanted him to harden up, he said. Stand up for himself. Made him play rugby because he said football was for poofs. Took him into the woods. Said he was gettin’ him to hunt for things.’ A shadow passed over those dark, ravaged eyes. ‘That’s what he said. But there must have been somethin’ else going’ on.’

‘You mean he was abusing him?’

Paula nodded her head slowly. A ghost image wavering on a badly tuned TV.

‘Yes. For years he was… he was doin’ that. Years…’

‘Is that why you left him?’

‘He left us, I told you.’ Sharp, a weary kind of fire in the words.

‘Where did he go?’

She didn’t answer. Just returned her head to the floor. Not soon enough. Phil saw what flitted across her face.

She’s said too much, he thought. And knew just what had happened to Ian Harrison.

‘You killed him, didn’t you?’ Phil’s voice was quiet, nonjudgemental. Encouraging her to continue.

She sat completely still for a while until she eventually nodded.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’

90

Mark Turner looked up when Mickey entered the interview room. File under his arm, walk purposeful, expression confident. He just hoped he could be as efficient as he looked.

He sat down, opened the file. Studied it for a few moments. Turner sat opposite him, slumped in his chair, resolutely resisting the urge to sit up, lean forward or even acknowledge Mickey’s presence. Mickey kept his head down, apparently reading.

The curiosity became too great for Turner. He just had to see what Mickey was reading. Slowly he leaned forward, surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of what was in the file. Mickey snapped the file shut, looked up.

‘So who’d win in a fight, then?’ he asked.

Turner looked puzzled.

‘Dracula or Frankenstein, who d’you reckon?’

Turner’s eyes widened, mouth gaped. It wasn’t the question he had been expecting.

‘Er…’ Turner began to speak, give an honest answer. Then a smug smile appeared on his face. ‘It’s not Frankenstein. It’s the Frankenstein monster. Frankenstein was the name of the man who created him.’ He sat back, triumph in his eyes. ‘You don’t know anything.’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Mickey, not missing a beat. ‘Who would win in a fight, Dracula or Frankenstein? Not the monster. The Baron. The Peter Cushing Baron. And the Christopher Lee Dracula.’

He waited. Turner’s eyes widened again.

‘Oh. Right. Dracula. Obviously.’

‘You sure? I mean, yeah,’ said Mickey, leaning forward, arms on the table as if it was just two mates in a pub having a chat, ‘physically, yeah. Dracula. No contest. But the Baron…’ Mickey shook his head. ‘Tricky. He wouldn’t play fair. He’d have traps and things waiting. Devices. Gizmos. I reckon it’s him.’

Turner leaned forward too. ‘I still reckon Dracula. He doesn’t get to live that long without learning a thing or two.’

‘Yeah, but a bit of garlic, sunlight, crucifix…’ He shrugged. ‘You think the Baron won’t take all that into account? Lay some traps for him to fall into?’

Turner nodded, giving the matter serious thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Mickey, ‘just thought I’d ask because I heard you’re a real horror film fan. The old stuff. The good stuff, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Turner looked incredulous. ‘Why? Are you too?’

‘The old stuff. Seventies, all that. British stuff. Love it. Could sit here all night talking about it. But…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Better crack on. Right.’ He opened the folder again. Looked at it. Closed it. Looked back at Turner. ‘Why did you run away from me, Mark?’ Asking the question in the same tone of voice he had used for the pub discussion.

Turner looked at him, seemingly trying to find an honest answer for him. ‘I, I…’

Mickey waited, watched. Checked the way Turner’s eyes went. Marina had briefed him, told him how to start the interview, get him onside, ask him questions, see which way his eyes went when he answered them. Up to the left for thinking and truth, down to the right for lying. Or was it the other way round? What had she said?

He scratched the back of left hand with the middle finger of his right.

‘Up to the left for the truth, down to the right for lying.’

He gave a small nod. Marina had spotted the signal, spoken to him.

Turner tried to stonewall, shrugged. ‘Just running,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know who you were. What you wanted. You’d have ran. If it had been you. Someone chasing you.’

Mickey nodded. ‘So where’s your girlfriend, then, Mark? She done a runner too?’

Turner shrugged.

‘Didn’t share your taste in films? Her idea of an evening in wasn’t sitting down to watch Killer’s Moon?’

Turner’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You’ve seen Killer’s Moon?’

‘Great film,’ said Mickey. ‘Not what you’d call a horror film, though. Comedy classic, more like.’

He heard Marina give a small chuckle in his ear. ‘Good old Milhouse, knew we could rely on him…’

Mickey leaned across the table. Speaking again like they were two mates in a pub, about something more important this time. ‘She’s left you, Mark. Gone.’

Turner shook his head. ‘No…’

‘Yeah.’ Mickey nodded his head in sympathy. ‘She has, mate. Gone. Sorry, but she’s abandoned you. Left you here to take the full brunt of it.’

He kept shaking his head, more vehemently now. ‘No, no, she wouldn’t, never, no…’

‘She has. So you may as well tell us what happened.’

Nothing. Just Turner shaking his head.

‘You see, with her gone, there’s just you. And everything gets pinned on you. The murders, the abductions, the misleading of a police investigation, everything. All down to you.’

No response.

‘But if you start talking, tell me things…’ Mickey shrugged. ‘It’ll make things a lot easier for you. Help you in the long run.’

Turner stopped shaking his head. Sat completely still, staring at the desk. Mickey waited.

Eventually Turner looked up. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘You nearly had me there. Copper.’

Mickey frowned. ‘What you talking about?’

‘The films, all that. Dracula, Frankenstein, God, Killer’s Moon, you’ve done your homework…’ He laughed. It held as much humour as the smile did. ‘And all for this. All to be my mate’ – he spat the word out – ‘all to get me to talk. No.’

Mickey said nothing.

‘She said this is what you’d say to me. What you’d try to get me to do if I ended up here. She knew that, course she did. She’s a psychologist, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Not a very good one,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

Mickey scowled. He didn’t need that. Marina apologised.

Turner sat back, folded his arms. ‘Anyway. It’s done.’

‘What’s done, Mark?’

‘It. Everything. What we set out to achieve. It’s all complete. Really, it doesn’t matter what happens to me now because it’s over. Finished. We’ve done it.’

‘Done what?’

‘Proved our point.’

‘Which was?’

Again, that smile. ‘That we are superior to you.’

‘To who?’

‘All of you.’ Turner stretched out his arms, put his hands behind his head, relaxed. ‘And that’s all I’m going to say.’

Mickey stared at him.

Lost.

91

Phil exhaled. Felt no sense of triumph at guessing correctly. ‘What happened?’

Paula sighed once more. ‘It was… Adele. Adele and me. We just couldn’t bear it any more. He was… hurtin’ me. And starting to look at Adele in a way I didn’t like. I couldn’t have that. I wouldn’t have that.’

She stopped talking, reached for the empty glass once more. Sighed. Continued.

‘So one day I… hit him. With a shovel. From the back garden. And he fell. And that was that.’

‘So where is he?’

‘We-’ She corrected herself. ‘I buried him. In the back garden.’

‘And you weren’t worried about getting caught?’

‘I did it at night.’

‘I mean about the murder. You weren’t worried about people finding out?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I went over that in my mind. Over and over. For ages afterwards. Ages. No. Because I’d done the right thing. He was a monster. I hadn’t killed a man. I’d killed a monster.’

Phil looked at her, the sad, defeated woman before him. He didn’t know what she had gone through, could only guess at that. But he did know one thing. Police officer or not, there were times when the law just wasn’t enough.

‘I got my story straight, stuck to it. People asked. But not much. They knew what he was like. Most people round here were relieved for me when he’d gone.’

‘Did you do this all yourself?’

‘Yes.’ A fast answer.

Too fast, thought Phil.

‘No, you didn’t. Adele helped you, didn’t she? And you want to protect her.’

Paula looked at him, straight in the eye for the first time since he had arrived there. Then she dropped her gaze. Nodded at the floor.

‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can understand you wanting to protect her. You did it for her. You didn’t want her to suffer for it.’

She nodded again.

‘And Wayne? How did he take it?’

‘He didn’t know. I told him his dad had gone. Run away. Left us. I thought that would be it, you know? The end of it. That would be fine. I’d get my son back and we’d all be happy. A happy family.’ She sighed. ‘Wrong.’

‘What happened?’

‘He… he blamed me. For what had happened. For his dad running away. Said I was a, a bitch. And a cow. That it was my fault he’d gone. I’d driven him away. My fault.’ She swallowed back tears.

‘And then what?’

‘He joined the army. Wanted to get away. Said what his dad always said. The army makes a man of you. Well, it makes a certain kind of man out of you…’

‘And his name?’

‘Changed it. Ian was his… his dad’s name.’

‘Buchan?’

‘I went back to my maiden name. Adele too.’ Another sigh. ‘Ian didn’t.’

‘Did you keep in touch with him?’

‘Not really. No, in fact. And then the army got in touch. Told me he’d been burnt in a fire. Badly burnt. Well, I went to see him. You have to, don’t you? I mean, he is my son, after all. So they sent him back here, to the garrison. And I went there.’ Another sigh. ‘My God. What had happened to him…’

‘What had happened to him?’

‘He’d… he’d raped a woman. A translator. Afghan. A local, civilian, working with the army. He’d been, been pursuin’ her. Stalking her. They didn’t actually say that, not to me, but that’s what they meant. And this woman, Rani, they said her name was, she kept turning him down. Anyway, one night he followed her home, got her on her own. Tried to…’ Another sigh. ‘Like I said. His father’s son.’

Phil waited, impatient for Paula to continue but knowing he had to let her do it in her own time.

‘He raped her. I mean, not just, you know, had sex with her. It was bad, what he did to her. They told me.’

‘His father taught him to hate women. He was just acting out.’

She nodded. ‘But he made his own mind up to do it. He was a man. Anyway, then, I don’t know exactly what happened next. Neither did they. Did he get upset when he realised he’d gone too far with her? Had he killed her? Did he want to hide the evidence? I don’t know. But he started a fire. He was always startin’ fires when he was a kid. Loved them, he did.’

Still does, though Phil, but decided it was best not to say it.

‘Anyway, he got caught in it. Couldn’t get away. Couldn’t get out. It… it… they let me see him. There’s… not much of him left now.’

‘Was he invalided out of the army?’

She nodded. ‘Came back to Colchester. Didn’t want to come and live here, though. They covered it up, arranged for therapy, treatment. All sorts of stuff. Tried to put him back together again.’ Another sigh. Her voice became bitter. ‘Needn’t have bothered. There’s nothin’ left of him. His mind… Should have left him where he was.’

‘So what happened with Adele?’

She sighed. Steeled herself for the pain to come. ‘He… tracked her down. And, and took her.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s not right, is he? He’s…’ She sighed.

‘Did you know it was him at the time?’

She shook her head. ‘Only afterwards. It only made sense afterwards. I didn’t know what to think at first. I knew she hadn’t run away. She wouldn’t. I mean, she’d had her wild years, but she’d come through that. And then, then I thought about it. Guessed it might be him. Comin’ for her first. Then me next.’

‘Why didn’t you come to us? Say something?’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘Yeah, you’d really put yourselves out to find my Adele, hadn’t you? And how could I? My son’s after my daughter and me because we killed his father? Yeah. I can see that goin’ down well, can’t you?’

Phil said nothing. She had a point.

‘Did you recognise the names of the other women? When you’d heard they’d gone missing or been killed? Did you not connect them with your son?’

‘I might have… I don’t know. No.’ Shaking her head, closing her eyes, saying the words without conviction, as if to confirm it to herself.

So she didn’t have any more guilt to carry around, thought Phil.

‘You should have talked to me,’ said Phil. ‘To me.’

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

‘So what now?’ said Phil. ‘He’s not on the boat he’s been living on. D’you know where he would be?’

Paula shook her head.

‘Don’t protect him, Paula. Not now. If you know, tell me.’

She looked up. Fire in her eyes. And tears. ‘I’m not protectin’ him. D’you think I really would? After all he’s done? All he’s taken away from me? You think so? His mind’s gone, Mr Brennan. All he’s got left is hate. If I knew where he was I’d tell you. I’d lead you to the bastard myself…’

She trailed off, tears overtaking words.

From upstairs came the sound of a baby crying.

‘Our Adele’s,’ said Paula.

The baby kept crying. Paula didn’t move. There was nothing more Phil could say, no more questions to ask. He stood up.

‘I’ll have to bring you in.’

She nodded. The baby kept crying.

‘But not tonight. We’ll do it later.’

Paula didn’t nod this time. Phil walked to the door. Turned back and looked at her. Sitting alone in the wrecked room. The baby still crying upstairs. He wanted to say something, give her some encouraging words, tell her something that would make it better, help her find a way out of her pain, make the loss more bearable.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

He left her there.

Closed the door behind him. Stepped out into the darkness.

92

Mickey didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. There was a knock on the door. He got up to answer it, went into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. Hoped it was something or someone to help him.

Anni.

‘Here.’ She handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Preliminary DNA results from Adele Harrison’s body. Like Nick said, there’s something funny about one set.’

‘What?’

‘There.’ She pointed to the relevant section.

Mickey read it. Smiled. ‘Thanks, Anni. This might be it.’

She returned the smile. ‘Good luck.’

Marina appeared. ‘Good work, Mickey.’

His smile faded. ‘You think so? I’ve lost him.’

‘You’ll get him back. I think he’s the follower. Fiona Welch is the leader. If he’d never met her, come under her influence, he wouldn’t be here. I don’t think he’s all that bad. Not really. Play on that. Use it. Appeal to his good side. Be his mate.’

‘Be blokey?’

‘Worth a try.’

He waved the sheet of paper. ‘And if that fails, there’s always this to fall back on.’

‘Absolutely.’

He went back inside. Sat down again.

‘Sorry about that.’ He smiled at Turner. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me how superior you were.’

Turner smirked, said nothing. Accepting the words as if they were due praise.

Mickey scrutinised Turner. ‘You used to go out with Suzanne Perry, didn’t you?’

‘You know I did.’

‘Nice girl. Why’d you ditch her?’

‘Found someone better.’

‘Really?’ Mickey shook his head. ‘You mean Fiona Welch? Listen, mate, you backed a wrong ’un there.’

Turner just stared at him.

‘I mean, there’s Suzanne. Good-looking, intelligent, good company… And Julie Miller. You were with her before Suzanne, yeah? Same. Real looker. And then you go from them to Fiona Welch.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s like trading in a Rolls-Royce for a Mondeo. She must be a good shag, mate, because there’s nothing else going for her.’

Turner’s face reddened, his eyes narrowed. He struggled not to rise from his chair. ‘And what would you know? Eh? Mr Thick Policeman? Mate? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing. “All things are subject to interpretation. Whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth”.’ He managed a smile. ‘Know who said that? Course you don’t. Because you’re thick. Thick thick thick thick thick.’

Mickey said nothing.

‘I’ll go and look it up.’ Marina’s voice in Mickey’s ear. He shook his head. Hoped she caught it.

Turner was still talking. ‘That’s your interpretation. Because you think you’ve got power. But it’s not. It’s nothing like that.’

‘Then tell me what it is like.’

Another humourless laugh. ‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not intelligent enough to understand.’

‘Then make me. Because I’m all that stands between you and a life sentence for four murders. Make me.’

Turner sat back. ‘All right then.’ Closed his eyes. ‘What Fiona and I have is so, so much more than anything I have ever felt in my life. Suzanne, Julie, even Adele were nothing. Boring little nobodies. But Fiona has shown me things, made me realise what I am, what I’m capable of…’ He sighed, a happy, cruel smile on his face. ‘I’ve never felt so alive. All because of her.’ He opened his eyes. Fixed Mickey with a direct gaze. ‘I pity you. Really pity you.’

‘Why, Mark?’

‘Because you’ll never feel what I’ve felt. Experience what I’ve experienced. Your life will always be boring. And you will always be stupid. “Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world.” And that’s you. Bet you don’t know who said that, either.’

‘Would it matter if I did?’

Turner laughed, shook his head. ‘Course not.’

Mickey sighed, sat back, folded his arms. Fixed Turner with a direct look. ‘Mark, I’ll be honest with you. No bullshit now. You can sit here and come out with all these quotes and all these insults and it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. No any more. Not to you. Because, like I said, you’re looking at a life sentence for four murders. At least. That we know of. And it looks like your girlfriend’s dumped you. Left you to take all the blame.’

Turner flinched at that.

‘Good one,’ said Marina.

Mickey leaned forward once more. The last few minutes forgotten, mates again. ‘So why don’t you tell me, Mark? Eh? Tell me everything. You’re not going anywhere.’

Turner stared at him, mouth moving, chewing the inside of his lip.

Nerves, thought, Mickey. Good. Getting there.

‘Tell me the whole thing, Mark.’

Turner sighed.

‘All right.’

Mickey managed to hide his smile.

93

The boat was almost gone. It hadn’t been much to start with, but the fire and explosion had rendered it down to a black, rusted skeleton. A charred, blurred representation of what had once been moored there. A smudged after-image.

Phil stared at it, wanting it to give him answers. He looked round.

Fire teams had handled the blaze, stopped it from spreading. But King Edward Quay had been evacuated along with the apartments on the opposite side of the river, the house-boats and businesses sealed off, no access to anyone.

TV crews had been kept at a distance and the crews working the lightship murder site and Julie Miller’s neighbours had also been stood down until the area was declared safe. Uniforms were keeping watch, stopping any trespassers, so Phil had the place to himself.

He had phoned Marina, tried to tell her what was going on, but got only her voicemail. So he had left a message telling her about his conversation with Paula and for her to phone him back as soon as possible.

He closed his eyes, listened. Tried to get a feel for the area, for the space inside Ian Buchan’s head. For where he had been, where he would go next. He turned round. The old Dock Transit building stood behind him. Huge and hulking against the orange sodium darkness, holding shadows and secrets behind its boarded-up doors and windows. The corrugated, rusted metal along its roof making it look like the crenulated top of an old, haunted castle. Phil found a uniform, showed his warrant card.

‘Has inside there been checked?’

The uniform was middle-aged, greying hair, well-built. Time-serving but sharp-eyed. Doing his job but counting up the overtime. ‘A few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get far. Place is a death trap. Doubt he’d be in there. Didn’t look like it. Could barely get it opened.’

Phil turned towards the building, back to the uniform. ‘Got a torch I could borrow? Just have a nose round for myself.’

The uniform handed it over. Phil thanked him.

Worth a try, he thought. From the way the officer had spoken, he doubted the building had been seriously searched.

He crossed the rubble-strewn, broken concrete forecourt, walked under the huge, rusting metal arm of the crane, approached the building. He could imagine it as it once was, a working building, the crane moving constantly, grabber sliding back and forth along the overhead beam, containers being emptied, filled and transferred, loading and unloading cargo from Europe, the dock alive with bustling activity. A confident place, making a serious challenge to Harwich.

And now. A rusted, wrecked shell. As much of a ghost as the burnt-out husk of a boat in front of it.

He walked up to where the door used to be. Now just several huge sheets of thick plywood decorated with ‘Danger – Keep Out’ signs, gang tags and graffiti art. He felt round the edges for some purchase, something to pull at, saw the rusting imprint of well-hammered-in heavy-duty nails.

Maybe the uniform was right, he thought. Maybe there hadn’t been anyone here.

Maybe.

Phil knelt down, felt all along the bottom of the wood.

Something gave.

Just a little bit, a slight movement accompanied by the creak of old wood against rusted nail. Not much, but enough to give him hope. He pulled, wondering which part of the building the uniforms had entered from. Or even if they had.

The wood didn’t want to give. At least not without a fight.

And Phil was in the mood for a fight.

He edged his fingers beneath, prising the wood away, catching his fingernails, feeling splinters embed themselves in his palms as he did so. He ignored everything but the need to pull the wood off.

More creaking, more straining as the wood reluctantly pulled away from its surrounding. Phil screamed with the exertion, fell backwards as the corner of wood came away. He sat up, looked at it. There was a big enough hole for him to squeeze through.

Just.

He put his arms through, managed to pull his body along.

As he did so, he was reminded of a similar crawl through a restricted space he had made several months before. He hoped this one turned out better than that.

He made it through to the other side. Lying on the floor, he looked round. Pitch-black, he saw nothing. The air was damp and cold. Fetid. He listened. Heard the wind playing through the rust-eaten walls, ghosts drifting.

He felt for the torch, took it out of his jacket pocket, switched it on. Swung it round. Saw small black shapes scurry away from the beam. The walls were mottled, discoloured, crumbling. The metal struts holding up the roof rusted and flaking. The floor pitted and broken concrete, a pile of old rags in a far corner, with a stack of old, stained cardboard next to it. Empty cans, bottles. Someone had been living there at some point. Not recently, though.

He stood up. Walked towards the centre of the building, looking all round all the time. Checking the dust on the floor as he walked. This place hadn’t been searched. Uniforms had probably decided to leave it for the morning.

Lazy bastards, thought Phil.

He swung the torch. The building had another floor towards the back, a metal staircase leading the way. He looked up to the ceiling. A metal walkway ran along the length of the building leading to the crane outside. No one up there. He walked on, towards the back of the building, ready to mount the steps to the next floor.

Stopped dead.

Something wasn’t right.

Tucked away in a shadowed corner were two large black boxes. Phil moved in closer. Wooden packing crates, rectangular. A concrete block, the kind used in roadworks, in front of each one. And before that a trough of water.

There was something in the water.

Phil moved quickly, fearing the worst.

His fears were justified. In the water was a body. Charred and burnt. Electrocuted, he guessed.

He looked round. Saw cables snaking into the water. He traced them with the torch. Saw that they connected to a generator in the corner. He crossed over, made sure the generator was switched off. Turned back to the trough of water, reached in, turned the body over.

A young woman, tall, brunette. Julie Miller or Suzanne Perry, he was guessing.

Too late. Damn.

He stood still, listening. Heard a sound. Scratching. Moving. Not the rats, too big for the rats.

Looked round. One of the crates was open, the end pushed out against the concrete block. The other block was still in place. Phil moved round the side of the water, bent down beside the end of the box.

‘Hello?’ he said.

The scratching stopped.

‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Is there anyone in there?’

Nothing.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. Essex Police. Is there someone in there?’

He waited. Eventually he heard a voice.

‘How… how do I know you are who you say you are?’

A woman’s voice. Phil felt a rush of adrenalin course through him. ‘Are you Suzanne Perry or Julie Miller?’

‘Suzanne…’

Relief flooded through him along with the adrenalin. He smiled to himself. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get you out.’

She started to scream.

He tried to calm her down. ‘Hey, hey it’s OK. It’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re with me. You’re safe. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out, OK?’

He waited. Nothing.

‘OK?’

A sigh, then sobbing. ‘OK…’

‘Right…’

He pulled away the concrete block, slowly. It was heavy. Then, when there was space enough, he prised open the bottom of the packing crate.

‘Come on, Suzanne, out you come…’

‘The water…’

‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of. Just come on out.’

He heard movement, shone the torch in. Slowly, Suzanne made her way towards the light.

He smiled, encouraging her.

She emerged. Blinking, shaking. He reached out a hand for her, helping her to the side of the trough, so she wouldn’t get wet.

‘Come on…’

She froze. He frowned.

‘It’s OK, Suzanne. Come on. You’re fine, you’re safe…’

‘No,’ she said, backing into the crate, ‘no…’

‘Suzanne?’ Phil looked after her. ‘Come on, Suzanne, it’s fine, I’m here…’

‘And so am I.’

Phil froze. Turned quickly.

Saw something come towards him. Fast.

Saw the world explode.

Then, finally, blackness.

94

‘How did you meet Fiona Welch?’

Turner sat staring straight ahead, arrogance exuding from him in waves like cheap aftershave. ‘University. She was Psychology, post grad, I was doing an M.Sc. in Biological Science. We were friends. Hung around in the same groups.’

‘So what made you leave Suzanne Perry for her?’

He smiled. The arrogance waves increased. ‘Nothing. She just told me how much better I could be.’

‘In what way?’

Turner gave a laugh that he probably thought went with his arrogant smile but made Mickey think of camp villains in old James Bond movies. He said nothing.

‘You know what transgression is?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued. ‘It means stepping over your limit. Violating your laws and codes. Being what you would call wrong. That’s what Fiona offered me. She took one look at my life, my boring, ordinary little life, and she changed it. Get with her and it could be so much better. I did. It is.’

He sat back, arms folded, as if waiting for applause.

‘So what does this transgressing involve? How did you go about it?’

‘By doing what we wanted. Nothing is real. Everything is permitted.’ Another laugh. ‘That’s what we did.’ He leaned forward, eyes blazing. ‘Everything.’

‘Right. Specifics?’

He put his head back, laughed. Trying to look superior, but Mickey caught a glimpse of his eyes before he did it. They looked uncertain. Fearful. His arrogance, Mickey was learning, wasn’t very convincing.

‘Too many to name.’

‘Just one instance. Of your superiority. Your transgression. Go on, Mark. Just one.’

Turner sat forward. Again, that fear flashed in his eyes. ‘It’s enough that you know that that’s what we are.’

Mickey sighed. ‘Fair enough, Mark, if you say so.’

Turner felt Mickey’s disbelief, felt he needed some qualification. ‘We plotted, that’s what we did. Planned. To find a way to transgress, to make everyone see we were serious. Show people what we were all about.’

‘So… what? You kidnapped Adele Harrison? Why? How does that demonstrate your superiority? Or that you’re transgressing anything?’

Turner’s voice rose. He slapped his arms down on the table. ‘Don’t you understand? That was the point. Take a life, any life, someone worthless, some nobody, and do with her what we want.’

He sat back, pleased with himself.

‘What you want.’

Turner nodded.

‘What did that involve?’

‘Anything.’

‘What, killing? Torture? Maiming? What?’

‘Anything.’

‘And you did that, did you? What you wanted? Anything you wanted?’

He smiled. ‘Sort of.’

‘What d’you mean, sort of?’

‘That’s when the experiment moved into it’s next phase. Because we didn’t just do that ourselves. That would be too simple. No.’

‘What did you do, then?’

‘Obvious. Got someone to do it for us…’

95

Phil opened his eyes. Felt pain lance through his head. Closed them again, groaned.

‘Ah. He’s awake.’

Phil tried opening his eyes again. It hurt, but he managed it this time. He tried to move. Couldn’t. His hands were behind his back, his legs curled beneath him. He blinked, letting his eyes get accustomed to the darkness.

A light went on. He shut his eyes quickly, the sudden glare burning him.

He opened them slowly. Looked down. Gasped. He was high off the ground, still in the old Dock Transit building. On the metal walkway that ran along the roof of the building.

The light was coming from a hastily rigged arc light that had been positioned next to him. He saw chains hanging from the ceiling. With huge hooks on the ends.

He remembered Adele Harrison’s body. Took a deep breath. Shuddered.

Phil moved what parts of his body he could, checking himself for damage. His head hurt, his vision was blurred. Concussion, probably, from the blow that had knocked him out. He flexed his arms, his legs. Moved his torso. No damage that he could feel. Good. That was something.

A groan from behind him.

He tried to turn to the source of the sound, twisting his body as far as it would go. Suzanne Perry was curled up on the walkway next to him. She wasn’t tied to the railing. From the look of her she didn’t need to be.

‘Suzanne?’ he said.

She looked up. Her eyes signalled that she was exhausted, totally beaten. She didn’t speak, just stared.

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have been more careful. But don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this.’

‘Oh will you, indeed?’

The voice was familiar. He looked round. There, ahead of him, standing on the edge of the lamp’s beam, was Fiona Welch. She was smiling. It wasn’t pleasant.

‘Hello, Phil. Fancy meeting you here.’ She held out a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I’ve got my invoice. Do I give it to you or send it to accounts?’

Phil said nothing. Just stared at her.

She laughed, crumpled it up, threw it over the side. It took a long time to reach the bottom. Made only the slightest of sounds when it did.

‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Long way down.’ She crossed towards him, crouched down beside him. Stretched out her hand, touched his cheek. ‘Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you now, would we?’

Phil tried not to flinch, to pull away from her touch. He just about managed it. She kept her hand where it was, kept stroking.

‘Let it go, Fiona.’ He kept his voice calm, reasonable. It wasn’t easy. ‘Let it end now before you get into more trouble.’

She just smiled at him. It wasn’t a smile connected to sanity.

‘And let Suzanne go. She’s done nothing wrong.’ No response. ‘Please, Fiona. Let her go.’

She kept stroking, moved in closer to him. When she spoke, he felt her warm breath on his cheek.

‘How does it feel, Phil? Hmm? How does it feel to lose?’ Her eyes looking directly into his, fingers playing along his cheekbone. Her smiled widened, showing him her teeth. White and sharp and wet.

Phil tried not to look at her. He looked away, into the shadows she had come from. And saw something.

Or someone.

A hulking presence, a shadow against shadows. Breathing raggedly, deeply. Waiting.

Phil guessed who that was.

He turned his attention back to Fiona Welch. ‘Is that what you think, Fiona? That I’ve lost?’

‘Of course you have, darling.’ In close to him, whispering, her breath on his ear, tickling. ‘I’m not the one chained up and… helpless.’

He could feel an involuntary erection coming on. Hated his body, himself, for allowing it, fought to keep it down.

He pulled his head away, looked at her face. Steel in his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You might not be. But there’s a nationwide manhunt going on for you. Your description is in the papers, on TV, the internet, everywhere. You can’t get away. They’ll find you.’

She smiled.

‘Maybe they will.’

She laughed, moved her body in close to his.

‘But not just yet…’

96

Marina sat back, waiting to see what Mark Turner would say next, waiting to see where Mickey’s questions would guide him.

He was good, she thought. Getting the information out of him in his own way at his own pace. He was surprising her. She had thought on first meeting him that he was just a typical copper: boorish, macho, problems with women, especially those with authority over him, the usual. But he was proving himself to be different. There was a slight glitch when she saw his response to Turner’s goading of him, calling him thick, throwing quotes at him he didn’t know, but he handled himself well, recovered quickly.

Her eyes caught her mobile on the desk. She had put it on silent when the interrogation started. She checked the screen: two messages. One from Phil, one from Nick Lines. She looked back at Mickey, thought he could handle himself for a few minutes, took out her earpiece and hit voicemail.

Her eyes widening as she listened.

‘So who was this person?’ said Mickey. ‘The one you got to do things for you?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Nobody. A real nobody. Even less important than our targets.’

‘Really? I’d have thought it would be someone quite important if you wanted to get them to do all that for you.’

Turner shook his head. ‘Well you’d be wrong. As you have been about everything else, thick copper.’

Mickey said nothing. Waited.

‘He was just a squaddie. Some damaged, war-traumatised squaddie. Completely mind-fucked. Piss easy to manipulate.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d killed this translator. Woman in Afghanistan that he got obsessed over. Big cover-up about it. Threatened with a court martial, everything. But instead they invalided him out, on the quiet.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t want the embarrassment. ’

‘Can’t blame them,’ said Mickey. ‘Already in enough trouble over there.’

Turner nodded, back to being mates in a pub, then checked himself. Remembered where he was, who he was supposed to be. Worked the arrogance back into his features once more. ‘He burnt this woman to death. Raped her then killed her. Burnt himself pretty badly in the process too.’

‘So how did you come across him?’

‘Fiona did. At the hospital. He’d been sent for therapy.’

‘What kind?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Speech, psychology, occupational, all sorts, I suppose. Whatever he needed.’

‘And he met Fiona Welch.’

Turner nodded. ‘She said he so easy to manipulate it was laughable. She could tell him anything she wanted, anything at all. And he’d believe it. Didn’t matter what kind of stupid, twisted shit she said, he believed it. She used to come home telling me what she’d said and how he’d believed it.’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘We used to laugh about that…’

Mickey was about to speak when he heard Marina’s voice in his ear. Fast urgent. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Give me a minute, Mark.’

Without waiting, Mickey stood up, exited the interview room.

Marina was waiting for him in the corridor outside. ‘I wouldn’t have interrupted you unless it was something important,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a couple of phone calls. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

She told him.

When Mickey went back into the room he could barely keep the smile off his face.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes. You were telling me about your squaddie.’

‘The Creeper, we called him.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because he’s a creep.’

‘And Fiona chose him because he was easy to manipulate? ’

Turner nodded. ‘Like a retarded little kid.’

‘No other reason?’

‘No.’ He saw the half-smile on Mickey’s face. Doubt crept into his features. ‘Why? What d’you mean?’

‘She didn’t choose him for another reason?’

‘Like what?’ Very uneasy now.

‘Like, the fact he was Adele Harrison’s brother?’

Turner’s mouth fell open.

Stayed open.

Mickey kept his smile controlled.

Got you, he thought.

97

‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ said Fiona Welch to Phil, still up close to him, almost sitting on his lap, moving her hips rhythmically, grinding slowly against him.

Phil swallowed hard, tried to look – move – away. He couldn’t. ‘What about?’ he said. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘Me,’ she said, the words whispered breathily, Marilyn Monroe-like. ‘How naughty I am.’ She traced her finger down his chest. ‘And what drives me to do… what I’ve been doing.’

‘Oh,’ said Phil. ‘Nothing interesting, then.’

She drew back from him, teeth bared. Hissing. ‘Just another thick copper. Like all the others.’ Leaned into him again, her finger back on his chest, joined by the others, dug the nails of her left hand into him this time. Hard.

Her nails were sharp. Strong. They hurt. Drew blood.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me. Why you do what you do.’

She took her finger away. Smiled. ‘That’s better. Much more fun when you play along with me, isn’t it?’ A sigh of contentment. ‘Now. Where were we? Yes. Why I do what I do.’ She stuck her hands out, together at the wrists. ‘Because I’m a bad girl, Mr Policeman. You’d better take me in your big strong arms and handcuff me.’ She giggled. ‘Oh, I forgot. You can’t.’

Venom in the final words.

‘You’re so funny,’ said Phil. ‘See how I’m laughing?’

Her eyes blazed. ‘You think you’re clever? Do you? Really?’

Her hands were on him, slapping his face, tearing at him.

‘Do you? Do you?’

More slaps, more scratches. Digging her nails into the side of his face, deep, sharp, dragging them down to his chin.

Phil wanted to scream, to shout right into her face. But he managed to stop himself, despite the searing pain in his face. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

‘Do you?’ The words screamed in his face.

‘No,’ he said, gasping for air, ‘No. I… I don’t…’

She took her hands away. They were bloodied, parts of his face beneath her nails. She examined them like they had just gone through an expensive manicure. She nodded, pleased with the results. Turned her attention back to Phil.

She smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’

‘So,’ Phil said, his face burning with pain, ‘why are you… are you doing… what you’re doing…’

‘Good boy. Doing what you’re told.’ Whispering again. ‘I like that in a man. In fact, I demand it. So why have I done all this?’ She swung her arms round, as if taking responsibility for their surroundings. ‘Simple. To prove a point.’

‘Which is?’

‘How superior I am,’ her voice sing-song.

‘You mean to me?’

‘Oh, certainly to you. But to everyone else, too. Everyone. I am the Nietzschean concept of the Superman made flesh. Or, rather, Superwoman.’

‘And how do you… do you go about that, then?’

‘I… bend people to my will. Make them do my bidding. Make them do…’ A gesture, a theatrical flourish of the wrist. ‘Anything I want.’

‘Even murder?’

She knelt in close to him again. He felt her hot breath on his ruined face. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, licking his blood off her nails, ‘especially murder…’

98

‘What… what d’you mean?’ Turner looked confused, scared even. ‘He was… he was just a squaddie. Just a squaddie that Fiona found. That we could use.’

‘No he wasn’t, Mark. He was Adele Harrison’s brother.’ Turner shook his head. ‘No. You’re lying. Her brother died in Afghanistan. Roadside bomb. IED. She told me.’

‘She told everybody that, Mark. Because it’s easier to believe than what, or who, he really is.’

‘A murdering rapist,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear. He nodded.

‘A murdering rapist,’ he said aloud.

‘No… no… you’re lying. She said you would, Fiona said you’d, you’d try something like this. Play mind games, try to get inside my head…’ He put his elbows on the table, head down. Hands balled into fists, rubbing his temples.

Mickey leaned forward, his voice, calm, quiet. No need to shout or scream, just let the authority of his words carry over. ‘Mark. I’m telling you the truth, mate. She’s lied to you.’

‘No… no…’

‘Yeah.’

‘She wouldn’t…’

‘He’s going,’ said Marina, ‘don’t lose him, keep him talking. If he goes into himself now we’ll have lost him. Bring him back, Mickey.’

Mickey nodded. ‘Well, let’s come back to that. Tell me what you wanted him for.’

Turner looked up, confused once more. ‘What?’

‘The Creeper, as you called him. Tell me what you wanted with him. What you did with him.’

‘We… we programmed him.’

‘Why?’

‘To do what we wanted. To prove we could do it.’

‘And what did you do? What did you make him do?

‘We turned him into… anything we wanted, really.’

‘A weapon?’

The sneering smile made a small reappearance. ‘The British Army had already done that to him.’

‘You just refined the process, yeah?’

Turner shrugged.

‘So, this programming. How’d you do it?’

‘Told him… told him what he wanted to hear.’

‘And what was that?’

‘Rani. That was the translator he killed. The woman. We told him she was still alive. Still… still in love with him.’ Another laugh. ‘And he believed it. Stupid bastard.’

‘How did that work?’

‘She spoke to him.’

‘How?’

‘Through her BlackBerry. She texted him. We told him it was the spirit of Rani speaking to him. He had to imagine that the words that appeared on his phone he could hear in his head. And he could text back to talk to her.’

‘And he believed that?’

‘Yeah. Soft bastard.’

Mickey sat back, sighed. This wasn’t what he was expecting. This was too much. He didn’t know how to deal with it. He gave a quick glance to the screen, hoped Marina saw the signal.

‘Oh God,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear. ‘He must be some kind of… let me think… borderline personality? Psychopath? Certainly with psychopathic tendencies. Something like that. I don’t know enough about him. Ask him how they made it convincing.’

‘How did you convince him it was actually Rani talking to him? Could have been anyone pretending to be her.’

‘He did it because there’s not much left of him and he wanted to believe. She’s all he had left.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And she told him what he wanted to hear. That she was coming back to him. He just had to find her.’

‘Find her? How?’

‘She would be in different bodies. He’d be told where she was, what she looked like. And that Rani’s spirit would be inside some woman. He had to watch her until we told him otherwise.’

‘And then?’

Turner shrugged. ‘We didn’t want them any more. Got rid of them.’

Mickey sat back, letting the information sink in. He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t see how someone would fall for it, no matter how mentally damaged they must be.

‘I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘No one would fall for something as lame as that. No matter what condition they were in.’

Turner just laughed. ‘You haven’t seen the Creeper. You wouldn’t say that if you had.’

‘Messed up?’

‘Totally.’

And even more messed up by the time you two had finished with him, thought Mickey, but decided not to say it aloud.

‘So… help me here, Mark. I’m trying to understand. You’ve got this guy to… what? Kill for you?’

Turner shrugged.

‘What does he do? Talk me through it.’

‘We give him a target. He stalks them, we get him going, tell him things about them, what they feel for him. He gets obsessed, goes mental over them. Then we tell him the spirit’s gone, jumped to another body.’

‘And… what then? He kills them?’ A feeling of dread went through Mickey as he waited for the answer.

Turner shook his head. ‘We tell him they’re husks, the bodies. Just husks. No use any more. Then we get him to put them away somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere safe.’

‘And leave them there?’

He nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Because we might need them again. That’s the next stage. Programming someone who’s not a nutter like him. Someone normal. See what we can do with them.’

‘And because they might tell.’

Turner shrugged. Casual. ‘Yeah. That too.’

Mickey sat back, his head spinning from all the information. He shook his head, tried to clear it. ‘But why? Why, Mark? Why do all this?’

Turner leaned forward, eyes alive with a sick, dark light. ‘Because we can, that’s why…’

‘Keep focused, Mickey.’ Marina in his ear again. ‘Ask him about the victims. Who chose them, how they were chosen. He’s not telling us the whole story. And I don’t know why. Either he doesn’t know it all or he’s holding something back. Find out which it is.’

‘Who chose the girls, Mark?’

‘Fiona.’

‘All Mark’s ex-girlfriends,’ said Marina. ‘Interesting.’

‘So you didn’t mind that they were all your ex-girlfriends, Mark? That Fiona was targeting them?’

Turner flinched, a sharp, quick stab of pain showed in his face. Then nothing. In control again. He forced a shrug. ‘Why? I’m above all that now. Doesn’t matter, does it?’

‘No he’s not, Mickey, he flinched. They’re his old girlfriends and it still hurts, no matter what he says.’

Mickey looked at him, listened to Marina.

‘It’s his weak spot. We’ve got him,’ she said in his ear. ‘Go in for the kill. Finish him off.’

99

Phil stared at Fiona Welch, tried to ignore the pain in his cheek, just concentrate. Talk to her.

‘So…’

A wave of pain ran through him. He tamped it down, breathed deeply. Fiona Welch’s head was cocked to one side as if she was an animal, listening. Or an anthropologist, observing. Her face was serene, sweet.

Phil tried again. ‘Fiona,’ he said, ‘what’s this going to prove? You can’t get away with it.’

She shrugged, smiled sweetly. Didn’t answer.

‘The rest of the team are going to be looking for me. I told them where I was going. When they get here, they’ll get you too.’

Another shrug. ‘So?’

‘So you’ll be caught. Prison.’

‘So?’

Phil shook his head. She was beyond reasoning with. ‘What d’you hope to get out of this?’

‘My Ph.D.’

Phil wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. ‘What?’

‘My Ph.D. It’s in Victimology and Coercion. It examines how a subservient personality can be totally controlled by a dominant one. It also examines the mindset of the victim, the methodology needed to create that particular mindset in the first instance.’ She smiled. ‘With examples.’

Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘So, you mean… you did all this, the murders, the abductions, everything… just for your Ph.D.?’

She looked affronted. ‘Why not? I told you I had a point to prove. This was it.’

‘But…’ Phil didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. ‘You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison for this.’

‘So?’

‘So? What’s the good of your Ph.D. if you’re going to be in prison?’

She shook her head slowly, grinned patronisingly, as if explaining a very obvious point to a very thick child. ‘The Ph.D. is still a Ph.D. In prison or anywhere.’ Her eyes glittered in the dark, like stabbing razor flashes. ‘And just think… I’d be famous.’

Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Famous.’

‘Yes. Famous.’ She looked away, thinking, lost in her words, her mind. ‘No. I won’t just be famous, I’ll be notorious. No. That’s not right either. I’ll be… adored.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. That’s the right word. Adored. I’ll get letters. Visitors. They’ll write books about me. Serious, proper works, not just cheap lurid paperbacks. I’ll have my own acolytes. Disciples.’ She turned to Phil. ‘Do you know Charles Manson never killed anyone? He just made others do it for him. Yet he’s still locked up. And he’s just some stinking, addled old hippie. He’s nothing next to me…’

That’s when Phil realised she was completely insane. He had only suspected it before but now she had confirmed it. And in that moment another thought struck him.

I may not get out of here alive.

He had thought up to now there was a chance. He could reason with her, keep her talking until his team arrived, carted her away. And, yes, she had said she expected to be caught. But she was insane. There was no telling what she would do next. Did she have one last trick, a final twist of the knife…

He saw Marina in his mind’s eye. Josephina next to her. Had he just got them back for him to be taken away from them? Permanently?

100

Suzanne was awake. And listening to every word.

She lay curled up on the walkway, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe. It was something she had perfected in the box. Her eyes were half open, darting back and forward between this policeman, Phil Brennan, and the mad woman who had captured him. She recognised her from the hospital. Fiona something. A psychologist. She was behind this? Why? They had hardly exchanged two words.

But it was the presence behind the mad woman that eyes kept being drawn to. The hulking, mute presence, silent except for his rasping breathing. He was mostly in shadow but not totally, and as he moved from foot to foot she recognised him.

He had the face of a nightmare.

She tried not to look up, for fear of attracting attention to herself – because she had seen what the madwoman’s attention had done to Phil Brennan’s face – but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the man in the shadows. The Creeper, the madwoman had called him. That made sense. Considering what he had done to her. In her own home.

Her own bedroom.

But she had been following the conversation. Or as best as she could. The madwoman had made the Creeper think that she – Suzanne – was the spirit of a dead woman? And that’s why he was stalking her? If someone else had said that to her, told her that it had happened to them, she would have said they were lying. That she had never heard anything more insane in her life. But it wasn’t someone else. It had happened to her. And she had never been through anything more terrifying in her life.

And she still wasn’t free of it. She was still here.

She gave another surreptitious glance round. Directly ahead were Phil Brennan and the madwoman. Behind them was the Creeper. No escape there. She slowly moved her head, pretended it was a random gesture. Looked the other way down the walkway.

Darkness.

She squinted. She was sure she could see a set of stairs among the shadows, leading down from the gantry to the floor. But not sure enough to make a run for it. Along the gantry hung chains, clanking in the breeze, or when anyone moved. Some with huge hooks on them, some with heavy counterweights. Could she grab one, swing down to the ground? Would that be the best way to get down? Would that be faster than someone coming down the stairs after her?

She checked herself. What was she thinking? Was that how desperate she was to escape? That she was willing to risk her life that much just to get away?

Yes. It was.

So how could she do it?

She hadn’t worked that out yet. She still didn’t have enough strength in her body to make a move. The walk up the stairs to the walkway had given her a chance to exercise her legs, get her circulation moving again. Probably helped more than they realised. But not yet. The time wasn’t right yet.

So she lay there. Faking unconsciousness. Or something near to it.

Biding her time until it was time to go.

Time to break free.

101

Mickey looked at Mark Turner sitting slumped down in his seat. Aiming to look like a slouching student at a boring lecture, Mickey knew better. It was a posture of defeat. Turner was on the way to being broken.

I’m going to have you, Mickey thought. Time to take you down.

‘So,’ Mickey said, leaning in once more, ‘Fiona chose all the girls. The victims.’

He nodded.

‘Why those in particular?’

‘Because they all looked like that dead woman, the one the Creeper was obsessed with. Rani.’

‘All dark-haired and brown-eyed?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And it was just coincidence that they were all your ex-girlfriends? ’

Turner, without moving in the chair or changing position, shrugged.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you were happy with that?’

‘Yeah.’ Eyes down, gaze averted. Something there he didn’t want Mickey to see.

‘Fiona Welch knew you’d had other girlfriends. I’ll bet she asked you about them. She probably saw you with them. That’s why she wanted you.’

Turner said nothing.

‘You went out with the popular girls at uni and at work. Must have made her jealous. Must have made her want you.’

Again, Turner didn’t speak.

‘And what if you still had a thing for one of them? Or all of them? She wouldn’t have liked that. Better get them out of the way. Remove the competition. So she did. One by one. And got you to help her.’

Turner remained silent.

‘Why did that not bother you, Mark?’ He waited. ‘Mark?’

‘Told you why.’ His posture more withdrawn, his voice more sullen.

Getting to an uncomfortable truth, thought Mickey. Making him face up to demons he’s been trying to ignore.

‘That you were superior to all that. That you were superior to human emotions.’

‘Yeah.’

‘All human emotions.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like love.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Liar.’

Turner shot up like he’d just been slapped, shocked and wide-eyed at the sudden change in Mickey’s tone.

‘You fucking liar.’

Turner’s eyes widened. ‘You can’t…’

‘What? Talk to you like that? Why not? You’re a lair.’

‘No I’m not…’

‘Yes you are. You still had a key for Suzanne’s flat. Why? To pop back there one day? Just in case you started up again? Or could you just not let it go… because deep down inside, whatever Fiona Welch was feeding you, you knew it was bullshit, knew it was wrong. Knew that, no matter what she said or did for you, you’d never be as happy with her as you were with Suzanne. Is that it?’

Turner clamped his eyes tight closed. ‘Stop it…’

‘Stop it… why? Why should I? Let’s look at them. Julie Miller. She was the first.’

‘I wasn’t…’ His protestation was weak, his expression said that even he didn’t believe his own words.

‘Don’t try to deny it, Mark, we’ve seen the photos of you both together on Facebook. If you weren’t seeing each other then you were very close friends. Unnaturally close. Close enough to make someone else jealous.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Then there was Suzanne. But where does Adele fit into this? When were you seeing her?’

‘On and off…’

‘When you were seeing Suzanne?’

He nodded.

‘Two-timing and a murderer. And you didn’t know she was the Creeper’s sister? Didn’t Fiona tell you? Not like her to forget something as important as that, is it? In the New World Order of your relationship.’

Tears welled in Turner’s eyes.

‘Did you kill her, Mark? Adele?’

He paused, his head forward. Like a condemned man reluctantly reaching for the noose.

‘What happened?’

He sighed. Stared straight ahead, seeing something Mickey couldn’t. Didn’t want to. ‘I’d been talking to Adele…’

‘Talking?’

‘Well… a bit more than that…’

‘You had sex.’

Turner looked away, nodded.

‘So you’d kidnapped Adele Harrison-’

‘The Creeper did that.’

‘Right. The Creeper did that. But you helped. You went along with it.’

Turner said nothing. Mickey continued. ‘You had her captive and then… what? You had sex.’

Another shrug.

‘Why?’

‘Because I still… had feelings for her.’ He leaned forward, arms on the table, hands out expressively. ‘I saw her there, scared and, and… and I wanted her.’

‘So you had her.’

‘Yes.’

‘You raped her?’

‘No…’ He looked shocked at the thought.

‘But… what? This rekindled feelings for her? You felt something for her again, is that it?’

‘Yes…’ Sounding like it was painful to have the word dragged out of him.

‘And you…what? Promised to let her go?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, Mark. Tell me what happened. Your own words.’

Turner sighed. Mickey saw the conflicting emotions fighting for dominance on his face. In the end, resignation won out and Turner, sighing and shoulders heaving, started to talk.

102

The Creeper was confused. Confused and getting angry.

This wasn’t how he’d imagined it. Not at all.

When he heard Rani’s voice in his head once more, talking to him, telling him to come and meet her, he was almost too excited for words. Couldn’t wait to get there and see her, leave the husk on the boat, rig the charges just like she said. He’d watched it go boom, seen the flames streak up to the sky. Huge they were, the policemen running away tiny by comparison.

He had smiled watching that. Giggled.

He had done that. Made that happen. All that power, all his…

And then the anticipation, meeting Rani, face to face, at last…

And then the disappointment.

When he had agreed to meet her after the fire he had been excited, thrilled, shaking with anticipation. And what a let-down. She wasn’t Rani, wasn’t anything like Rani. She was that psychologist from the hospital, the one they had made him go and see.

So where was Rani? He had started to ask her that but she had just waved him and his questions aside. Literally, her arm waving at him dismissively, then walking away, getting him to follow her. Saying Rani had left her with a list of things for him to do. And despite the fact that she made him feel unsure, uneasy, he had followed her, had done the things she asked him to.

But still the questions were rolling around inside him. Not going away, stuck there in his head. Was this Rani? After all that, was this actually Rani? And if it wasn’t, then where was Rani?

These thoughts were going through his head while he was standing on the walkway watching the psychologist talk to the man on the floor. She had sat on him, tried to turn him on, then, when that didn’t work, hurt him.

The Creeper had enjoyed watching her do that.

Maybe this was Rani after all.

He looked at the body lying next to the man on the walkway. He remembered that one. She had been Rani for a while until the spirit left her, until she became a husk. So what was she doing here now?

So many questions…

It hurt him to think. And that made him angry. He could feel it, building up inside him. That snake uncoiling, spitting out its venom. And when he got angry, when that snake got going, he wanted to get it out of him…

But not yet. He would wait. Be patient. See what happened.

And then do something…

103

Phil looked at the prone figure of the woman lying next to him, then back to Fiona Welch. He had no idea how things were going to work out, just had to hope his team would be on the way soon.

Because if not…

He put the thought out of his mind. Concentrated on Fiona Welch. Keep her talking. Stop her getting any other ideas.

‘So how did you get to be profiler on the investigation, Fiona? How did you manage that one?’

She smiled again, that smug, unbalanced smile. ‘Simple. Because Ben Fenwick is easily impressed.’

‘With what?’

‘Credentials. He didn’t have a clue what to ask for. So I just… guided his hand when he phoned up. All he knew was that he should have a profiler. And I knew the police would investigate. So I made sure I was in the right place at the right time. That he would choose no one else but me.’

‘And you lied to him, of course.’

‘Naturally.’ She laughed. ‘And I’m a much better profiler than you thought I was. Because I read him straight away. Manipulated him from the off. Easy.’ She moved closer to Phil once more. ‘And a much better psychologist, too. Because I read you all. Played you all. Brilliantly. Which wasn’t hard. Because you were all so stupid. You allowed me into the centre of your investigation, let me control things, keep… I don’t know, I was going to say one step ahead of you but, let’s be honest, I was streets ahead. I could have kept going for months.’

‘If I hadn’t wised up to you and shipped you out. Not that stupid.’

A flash of anger in her eyes, her hands became claws once more, moved towards Phil’s face. She stopped herself. Forced a smile. She nodded, as if to a joke only she could hear, or at a decision she had made. One whose outcome she was going to enjoy.

Phil looked down at Suzanne Perry, then back to Fiona Welch. ‘So why her, Fiona? Why Suzanne?’

Fiona Welch shrugged. ‘Why any of them?’

‘I don’t know. Julie Miller. Adele Harrison. What makes them so special? You tell me.’

Her eyes slipped away from him. Down to the right. ‘Because I could. Because they were there.’

Liar, he thought. ‘Nothing to do with Mark Turner?’

She flinched, like a chink in her armour had been exposed and he had pierced it.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘No?’ He had to keep pressing, work that sword into her.

‘You sure about that? The fact that they’re all ex-girlfriends of his is just a coincidence, is it?’

‘Shut up.’ She slapped him. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Phil didn’t shut up. He ignored the pain in his face, kept going. ‘What’s the matter, Fiona? Didn’t you like the competition? Was that it?’

‘Shut up…’ screamed at him.

‘What, his exes made you jealous? Not very master race that, is it? Jealous of a barmaid?’

‘Shut up!’ Another slap.

Phil recovered quickly, looked at her face. Saw something there, something she hadn’t shown before. Fear. Insecurity. He smiled inwardly. He had hit a nerve. Found her weakness.

He pushed that sword further in.

‘That why you killed her, is it? Because you were jealous? What was it, did he still think of her? Talk about her? Call out her name at the wrong time?’

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up…’ More slaps, out of control. Her voice strident, pleading.

‘Or was it more than that? Did he have second thoughts, not like what you were doing to her, try to let her go?’

‘No…’

‘Maybe he still liked her?’

‘Stop it…’

Phil picked up the undertone of her words. He knew what had happened. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? He had sex with her. And you didn’t like it, did you?’

She put her hands over her ears.

‘Maybe he liked the power he had over her and forced her, maybe she wanted it too. Doesn’t matter. They did it. And it hurt you. How am I doing?’

Phil laughed. His bitterness almost matched hers. ‘Fiona Welch, homo superior. Jealous of a student and a barmaid…’

Her hands flailed, face contorted. She didn’t know what to do, how to respond. She screamed.

‘And you killed her.’

She looked round, eyes wide, staring, like a trapped animal.

‘No,’ said Phil, putting it together, ‘you didn’t kill her. Or you didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Something done in anger. Nothing to do with proving a point, showing how superior you are. That’s all just justification after the fact, isn’t it? You accidentally killed her then panicked. Messed up her body so we would think there was a sexual sadist on the loose.’

Her hands were back over her ears, eyes screwed tight shut. Tears were running down her face.

‘Isn’t that right?’

She took her hands away. ‘Shut up! Shut up…’

Phil knew he had broken her so, not waiting to see how she would respond, he turned his attention to the figure standing behind Fiona Welch.

‘That you over there, Ian? Or should I call you Wayne?’

A ragged intake of breath that Phil took for surprise.

‘Did she make you do it? Fiona here. Did she make you kill all the women?’

He stepped forward. Phil saw his face in the light for the first time.

And gasped.

It was ruined. Burnt beyond any kind of reconstructive surgery, red and angry, white and dead. His teeth bared like an angry, vengeful skeleton.

Phil focused, kept going. ‘What did she tell you, Ian? How did she get you to do it? Did you know you’d killed your own sister? Did you not recognise her?’

The hulking figure looked between Fiona Welch and Phil. Phil didn’t know what he was thinking because there was so little of face left and what there was couldn’t express emotions. He opened his mouth. And a sound came out that Phil never wanted to hear again. Like the dying of a wounded animal.

He came forward, screaming.

And that was when Suzanne Perry made her move.

104

‘It was my job to…’ Mark Turner sighed. ‘To… look after her. I used to come in every day to see that she was all right. That she had something to eat and drink and, and went to the toilet.’

‘Where was this?’

‘In…’ He hesitated, corrected himself. ‘Where she, where we kept them.’

‘So there was just Adele there at this time?’

He shook his head. ‘Julie came to join her soon after.’ ‘Keep going.’

‘And Adele and I… I just saw her there and I… I wanted to…’

‘Help her?’

His voice was tiny, fragile. ‘Love her…’

Mickey struggled to keep his face as straight as possible.

‘And I… I… it built up over a few days. I wanted to say something, let her know it was me, but I…’ He sighed. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Frightened of what Fiona would say,’ said Marina in Mickey’s ear.

‘One day I built up courage. I knew I was taking a risk but I… I couldn’t help it. When I was getting them out of their, of their… and I was helping her to the toilet I stopped her, spoke to her. Showed her it was me.’

‘And what did she do?’

‘Well, she was… it was… she cried.’

He fell silent for a while. Then continued.

‘And then I… I told her how I felt.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘That she felt the same as me.’

I’ll just bet she did, thought Mickey. Anything to get out. ‘So what did you do?’

‘We… started having sex. And… and plotted.’

‘Her escape?’

He sighed. Nodded.

‘Or both of your escapes?’

Another sigh, heavier this time.

‘And Fiona found you.’

‘Yeah.’ Tears welled again in Turner’s eyes. ‘And she… stopped it.’ He looked away. Looked at anything but Mickey.

But Mickey wasn’t letting it go. ‘Stopped it? How did she stop it, Mark?’

‘She, she…’ The tears fell. ‘Told me that if I didn’t… if I didn’t…’

He couldn’t say the word. Mickey wanted to hear it. Mickey wouldn’t say it for him.

‘If you didn’t what, Mark?’

‘If I didn’t kill her…’ The words blurted out, sprayed like projectile vomit all over the table. ‘Kill her… then Fiona would, would kill me…’

‘So you killed her.’

He nodded, shoulders heaving with his tears.

‘And all the… mutilation?’

Turner grimaced. ‘She did that. Fiona did that. I wouldn’t, couldn’t…’

Mickey waited.

‘She got the Creeper and me to drop off the body, told us where to leave it, how to position it. Said you’d think there was a sex killer on the loose. Then she said…’ Another heavy sigh. ‘Said that I was hers now. Forever.’

Turner said nothing more. Just sat slumped.

Mickey sighed. Mopping up time. ‘She used you, Mark.’

‘No…’ He shook his head.

‘Yes, she did. Just like she used Ian Buchan.’

Turner frowned. ‘Who?’

‘The Creeper. Used you. Kept you under her control. She made the Creeper kidnap his own sister. She used him like she used you.’

‘But we were a partnership…’

‘No you weren’t. You were just like the Creeper to her. Someone to be controlled. Another experiment.’

Turner sighed. And the tears came again.

‘So where are they, Mark? The girls?’

He kept his head down, stared at the table.

‘You may as well tell me, Mark, I know everything else.’

Nothing.

‘Everything. Even the fact that the two quotes you threw at me when I came in here were from Schopenhauer and Nietzsche.’

Turner looked up, shock and surprise in his eyes.

‘Anyone can read a book, Mark. So tell me, where are they?’

Turner sighed, saw that he had nothing else left to hang on to.

‘At the Quay. The old Dock Transit Company building…’

Mickey was straight out of the door.

105

Suzanne screamed.

It was enough to startle the Creeper, divert his attention away from Phil.

Phil could only watch as Suzanne kept the momentum going. While the others were still staring, she got to her feet, grabbed one of the huge, chained hooks hanging from the runner along the ceiling and swung it towards the other three.

Phil, being on the ground already, didn’t have to duck. The other two did. Fiona Welch ducked to the side but she wasn’t quick enough and the hook swung at her, catching her on the side of the head. She fell, crumpling in a heap.

The Creeper was faster to react. The hook, which, having hit Fiona Welch, slowed its momentum, was much less of a threat by the time it reached him. He put up a great, solid hand, all muscle and gristle, and stopped it, the impact forcing him backwards, air huffing from him.

Phil knew what was coming next, shouted a warning.

‘Get out of the way, Suzanne…’

The Creeper pulled back the hook and, giving a roar of effort as he did so, let it fly towards her.

Phil pushed himself even further into the rusted metal of the walkway as it rattled along the track, gaining speed from the traction as it passed him. Suzanne however, couldn’t move. She just stood there, watching it come towards her.

‘Run!’ shouted Phil.

It broke the spell. Suzanne turned and ran.

Along the walkway and into the shadows. Phil lost her then. He turned back to the scene before him. Welch was still on the floor, eyes screwed up in pain, hand to the side of her head, blood seeping between fingers. The Creeper’s face had, if anything, turned even redder. Phil didn’t know much about burns and scarring but he was sure this wasn’t a positive development.

He was right. With an angry roar, he set off after Suzanne, his limping, shambling frame surprisingly fast, and was soon lost to sight in the shadows, the only sounds the heavy clang and clatter as his boots came down heavily on the metal floor.

Phil pulled himself to his feet, looked down at Fiona Welch. There was nothing he could do for her at the moment. He pulled at his wrists behind his back. But it was no good. The cuffs were tight. He needed something sharp, an edge to cut them with. He looked round. Couldn’t see one.

The Creeper had reached the ground and was bellowing once more.

Wrists tied or not, thought Phil, I’ve got to stop him.

Treading as carefully as he could and trying desperately to keep his balance and remain upright, Phil ran along the gantry into the same shadows that had claimed the other two.

Suzanne was getting out of breath. The sudden exertion after so much enforced stillness was beginning to take its toll. Her lungs were starting to burn, her legs shake. Her breathing was coming hard and fast and she was sure he would be able to track her just from that alone.

She had no idea where she was going. She was trying to find a way out but there didn’t seem to be one. The light from above cast faint rays on the ground, more than she had expected. Perhaps too much if he was following her.

And he was. She could hear him.

She ran.

The Creeper was angry. Very angry.

He didn’t know what was going on but he knew he didn’t like it. The husk had tried to hurt him. It was time for the husk to stop.

He reached the bottom of the steps, looked round. Listened. Heard movement to his left, breathing and fast footsteps. Bare feet slapping on the concrete floor.

He smiled.

Easy.

But just in case, he had something that would give him an advantage.

The night-vision goggles were still in his pocket. He had used them earlier when he came to meet Rani – or thought he was coming to meet Rani – to get into the building and dodge the police. He always used them at night. Something else he loved that gave him power.

He put them on, activated them. The world turned ghost-green and he could see.

And there she was. Almost to the far wall, by the boxes and beyond them, the water.

The electric water.

She disappeared from view. Hiding. Or so she thought.

He smiled.

Too easy.

106

By the time Mickey had emerged from the interview room, the whole station was in action. He found Anni.

‘Did you hear?’ he said. ‘The old Dock-’

She cut him off. ‘The circus is ready to go. We had an idea it might be there. The last call from the boss came from there. We haven’t been able to reach him since so there was a squad already being put together.’

‘Right,’ he said, disappointed that his thunder had been stolen.

Anni sensed that. She managed a smile. ‘You were good in there. Well done.’

‘Thanks.’ Was he blushing?

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go.’

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The team left the building. Marina was still in the observation room, watching Mark Turner.

She had seen the same patterns of behaviour before. When a suspect had given a full confession, got all their crimes out of their own souls and into a police report, they often slept. Turner, with his drooping eyes and lolling head, looked to be no exception.

Marina was curious. She left the observation room, crossed to the interview room. Stood outside, poised. Should she go in? Would that violate his confession in any way? Speak of harassment, coercion? She didn’t know. But it was a good opportunity to talk to him before he was taken away.

‘D’you mind?’ she said to the uniform on the door.

He stood aside, let her enter.

The room smelled of sweat. Hardly surprising, considering the way the two men had being going at it. Turner sat, barely registering her as she sat down opposite him.

‘Hello,’ she said.

He didn’t reply.

‘I’m… the new profiler on this investigation. Can we talk?’

He shrugged.

‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘that this is such an unusual case, I feel someone should be writing it up. Would you let me do that, interview you with that in mind?’

He looked up, seeing her for the first time, she thought.

He smiled.

‘They’re too late, you know.’

She frowned. Not what she had been expecting. ‘What d’you mean? Who’s too late?’

‘They are. The police.’ He said the word like he was describing a virulent, hateful illness.

‘Too late for what?’

‘To save them, of course.’

Her heart flipped. ‘What d’you mean? Has he killed them? Is that it? Are they dead already?’

He shook his head. ‘Not yet…’

‘Then… what?’

‘The building. The Dock Transit building.’

‘What about it?’

If things got too bad, too out of hand. There was a plan in place.’

‘What kind of plan?’

‘Remember what he did to the boat?’ Then, just in case Marina didn’t get the picture, he gestured, his fingers exploding slowly in the air, like a gently opening flower.

‘Boom…’

Marina ran out of the room as fast as she could go.

107

Phil reached the bottom of the steps. It hadn’t been easy. There were times he had had to steady himself with both hands to stop himself from either going over the side or tumbling down the metal staircase. But he had managed it.

At the bottom he looked round. Pulled at the cuffs tying his hands together. Searching for something sharp enough to cut through.

Wind was blowing through the gaps in the rusted corrugated sheet metal walls. That gave Phil an idea. He crossed over to one wall, going slowly in the dark, watching his footing, until he came to the outer wall and, putting his back to it, felt along for a gap.

There were plenty. He eventually found one at waist height with a rusted, jagged edge.

Perfect.

He found the sharpest point, put his wrists over it, worked the plastic up and down as hard and as fast as he could.

His arms ached, shoulders burnt with the exertion, chest heaved. But eventually it started to give. Encouraged by that, he rubbed all the harder, ignoring the growing pain until he could feel it coming and started to pull. It stretched and sharpened, digging in as it got thinner and eventually came apart. He was free.

He fell to his knees, gasping, rubbing his wrists.

Looked around, searching for any sign of the Creeper or Suzanne.

None.

He set off into the shadows, listening, watching, hoping his eyes would soon be acclimatised.

Hoping he wasn’t too late.

The Creeper felt the thrill of the hunt coursing through him. This was what it was about. Never mind all that is she/isn’t she Rani, this was the real thing. What he lived for.

Stalking, hunting down, trapping his prey. He loved it. Came truly alive then.

This was when he remembered his father, could honour the man’s memory. Even if he had run away and left him.

Not that he blamed him. Not with those bitches in the house.

He thought of all those holidays camping in the woods, tracking an animal, hunting it down and killing it. That, his father had told him, is what a real man does. How a real man lives.

The Creeper couldn’t have agreed more.

Then there was the other stuff, the things that happened afterwards… he didn’t like them so much. In fact he hated them. The pain, the hurt, being made to do things with his body he didn’t want to do.

At first, anyway. Eventually he got to tolerate it. Expect it, even.

Because it came along with his father’s words, words he had taken to heart, always lived by: ‘Women are whores, son. All of them. And you’ve got to treat them like that. Every one.’

And he had.

And he did. The snake within him uncoiling, ready to strike.

He scanned the area. Saw nothing, no movement at all.

Then his eyes fell on the boxes in the corner. The trough of water beside them, the blocks before them. There. Quick, fleeting. Just a movement.

He smiled. He had her.

Kept looking. There she was again, thinking she was hiding but showing herself at the far end of one of the boxes, beside the water.

This was so easy. In fact he wished it could be more of a challenge, more of a struggle. But it didn’t matter. A hunt was a hunt.

He moved in slowly, stealthily.

He was going to enjoy this.

At first, Suzanne was terrified. Full-on terror: heart hammering, legs wobbling, teeth chattering. Repeating the same thing to herself as she ran: ‘Oh God, I’m going to die… oh God, I’m going to die… oh God, I’m going to die…’ Over and over in her head, her own personal mantra.

And then she reached the boxes. Saw Julie’s body lying in the water.

‘Oh God…’ Whispered, under her breath, but no less heartfelt. No less urgent.

He was after her. Somewhere, in the dark, he was there. Coming for her. To kill her. Or…

Worse.

She stood still at the water, looked down at the other woman’s body. Still breathing heavily, still gripped by fear. And then something happened. A kind of serenity descended on her. All the things she had been through these past few days, the things she had witnessed, the things she’d been through and, most horrific of all, the things that had been done to her… It all tumbled out of her mind.

So she stood there, looking down at the once-electrified water and the body of someone who could have been her friend, at the box that had imprisoned her, robbed her of hope, left her welcoming death, and she found such a clarity of thought within her, a stillness. And that stillness gave her the ability to think. And, more importantly, to plan.

To make sure she didn’t die after all. But lived.

Because that was what she wanted more than anything else in the world now. To live. To hope.

And she knew what she had to do.

She looked down at the water once more, no longer panicked, and thought that the old Suzanne, the one of a month, even a week ago, wouldn’t believe what she was about to do next. But the new Suzanne, the one who not only wanted to live but also to punish the person who had hurt her so much, robbed her of hope, could understand it perfectly.

She knew he was coming.

She got to work.

108

This is easy, thought the Creeper. Too easy. No skill required.

He could see her from where he was, her head poking out from in between the two boxes. Beside the water trough. Thinking he couldn’t see her. Thinking the dark would hide her.

Wrong.

Even allowing for his damaged body he could still hunt. He crept up slowly, scanning the area through his goggles, using all his surveillance and tracking skills. Making himself silent. Invisible.

A deadly, moving shadow.

He reached the water trough. Smiled to himself. She was still there, crouched and unmoving between the boxes. Probably frozen with terror, he thought, made immobile by the thought of him, of what he would do with her.

And so she should be.

Because, freed of thinking of her as Rani, as the woman he loved, he could do what he liked.

And there was so much he would like to do with her. She wouldn’t go easily, or quickly, and he would enjoy every moment. All the anger and uncertainty he’d been through the last few days, here was his chance to just have fun.

He unsheathed his knife, kept the blade covered. Didn’t want her to see the razor-sharp metal glinting in what light there was. Didn’t want her to feel it on her until it was too late.

He moved forward, deciding which side to approach from. The far side, next to the generator by the wall. Yes. That would maximise the biggest shock for her. Scare her the most.

He advanced.

Faces danced before his eyes. Women. His mother. His sister. Whores, all of them. Any woman he had ever met in his life. Whores.

Rani.

The serpent twisted, writhed.

Especially Rani. The way she avoided him, laughed at him, even. Then spurned him. That had made him angry. Brought it all back to the surface again. Whores. All of them.

So he had taken her. She had struggled, tried to fight him off, but it was no good. He was stronger than her. His hunger to have her greater than her hunger to get away.

And he had her. Any way he wanted.

Afterwards, he had cried, feeling guilty, hating himself. Then came the anger. At her for leading him on, at himself for the self-loathing.

And then came the fire.

And the rebirth.

He smiled. Nearer to this one now. Nearly on her…

He edged round the corner of the box, crouching, moving stealthily, in his mind’s eye a panther. A sleek, remorseless killer.

She was just in front of him, lying full length on the ground, head round the corner, expecting him to come at her from the front.

He nearly laughed. She was in for a surprise…

He crept up right behind her, knife in hand, arm outstretched…

Then stopped. Something wasn’t right.

The woman on the ground, she was…

‘Bastard!’

Pain, sharp, on the back of his head. His knees buckled, his hands went to the source of the pain. He fell to the floor, dropping the knife.

‘Bastard!’

Again, another dose of pain, bigger this time. He felt his skull crack, heard it in his head, tearing open.

He tried to turn. Saw the woman from upstairs, the one who had been Rani, standing behind him with one of the breeze blocks used to jam the doors of the boxes closed.

She had tricked him.

The whore had tricked him. Him.

Anger welled. He screamed, tried to get up.

She brought the block down again, hitting him in the face this time. He felt something break, hot liquid squirt in his eyes.

His hands went to his eyes, wiped them. Opened them.

Just in time to see what she was doing next.

She held the two cables from the water trough, hooked up to the generator. They were fizzing and sparking where drops of water hit the exposed ends. Holding them by their insulated sides, she thrust them towards him.

‘Die, fucking die, you bastard…’

She held them to his chest as the current coursed through him.

He tried but couldn’t pull away, couldn’t get his hands up to stop her, to rip the cables away. The current was too powerful.

She held them there, his chest sparking and arcing, his body vibrating and shaking.

He looked at her face. Saw Rani, grinning. Not as she had appeared to him in the other bodies but as she was first. Grinning, watching him die. Vengeful and happy.

He reached out for her but it was too late. She was gone.

And then so was he.

109

‘Right,’ shouted Wade, ‘you know your places…’ Mickey watched as the armed response unit surrounded the Dock Transit building. He and Anni had come straight out when the circus was mobilised. Wade’s team had barely had time to get changed from their last assignment. They were all in place, just awaiting Sergeant Wade’s order to move in. His arm was raised.

‘We’ll wait until they’ve gone in,’ said Anni, fastening the straps of her vest, ‘then we follow, yeah?’

‘Yep,’ said Mickey, doing the same. ‘We just-’ His phone rang. He shook his head in irritation. ‘Probably my mother.’

‘Answer it,’ said Anni. ‘Might be important. Might be the boss.’

He checked the display. The station. He answered it.

‘Mickey? Marina. Is that you?’

‘Yeah, Marina.’ He looked at Anni, rolled his eyes. ‘Look, we’re a bit busy at the moment. We’re on the quay, just about to-’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’ She cut him off. ‘Listen. This is important. Has anyone gone in yet?’

‘They’re just about to.’

‘Then tell them to stand down. Now. Do it…’

‘I can’t just-’

‘Turner says the whole building is wired. Just like the boat. If they go in they’ll be killed…’

Mickey took the phone away from his ear. Anni saw the look of urgency on his face.

‘Sergeant Wade,’ he shouted. ‘Get your team to-’

Too late. The front of the building exploded into a wall of flame.

110

Phil heard the screams, saw the lights. Went running over to the boxes.

He never made it.

At that moment the far wall of the building burst into flames.

He was blown on to his back, overwhelmed by the blast, the heat. Once he got his breath back he pulled himself up to his elbows, squinted ahead.

It was as if daylight, violent and flaming, had been brought into the night-time. The front of the building was ablaze, the flames spreading.

No way out.

Phil looked round, saw Suzanne Perry staggering over by the right side of the building, pulling herself slowly along the wall.

‘Suzanne…’

She heard him, saw him, crossed over to him. Slowly, as if in a daze.

Has she been hit? he wondered. He ran towards her.

‘You OK?’

She nodded, her face devoid of expression, mouth open.

‘You sure?’

Another nod.

‘Where’s…’ He pointed towards the boxes.

‘He’s… gone…’

Shock, thought Phil. That’s what it was. He needed to get her out of there. Both of them needed to get out of there.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t go out that way, let’s look for somewhere at the back.’

He put his arm round her, turning her away from the flames, the boxes. Numbly, she let him guide her.

They made it back to the metal stairway leading up to the gantry. Phil looked up. Fiona Welch had come round, was staring down at him, her face a mask of pure hatred.

‘Get out of here,’ Phil shouted. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘Fuck you, copper…’

She turned and ran along the gantry, away from him.

There was another explosion behind them. Phil turned.

‘Christ, the whole building must be wired…’ He looked round. If the front was wired, would the back be? He couldn’t take the chance. Seeing no other alternative, he started up the stairs.

‘Come on, Suzanne, up here…’

With his arm around her, they made their way back up the gantry. By the time they had reached the top, Suzanne seemed to be more aware of what was going on. Phil didn’t feel like he had to hold on to her all the time.

‘You OK?’ he said. ‘Can you make it along here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes…’

‘Come on, then…’

Fiona Welch had run away in the opposite direction to them. They had no alternative but to follow. Phil and Suzanne ran along the gantry, dodging the swinging metal chains. At the far end of the walkway he could see the night sky. He tried to get his bearings.

They were facing the side of the building with the crane on it. It was a huge metal frame with a crane mechanism that moved along the heavy metal horizontal bar at the top, controlled by an operative in a cabin on the ground. There was a maintenance opening from the gantry on to the top of the horizontal bar. He doubted that had been rigged to explode. If they could get out there, edge their way along, they could climb down the other side, away from the flames.

He was sure Fiona Welch had had the same idea.

‘This way…’

He pulled Suzanne along towards the opening.

They reached it. He looked round. No sign of Fiona Welch.

She must have already gone ahead, he thought. Got away. She wouldn’t get far.

‘Come on…’

He opened the door, stepped out. The metal was rusted, not too wide. And a long way down. Might be better to sit on it, edge their way along that rather than run. That was a sure way to fall.

Phil swallowed hard. Felt his legs begin to shake, vibrate. He had a huge fear of heights. Always had a panic attack whenever he was up high. Someone had once told him that it wasn’t the heights he feared but what he would do when he was up there. What he wanted to do. He had laughed at that, said his friend was talking rubbish, but it had played on his mind ever since. And now that he was up high and unsafe once more, it came back to him.

But this time he had an answer.

He wanted to get down safely. Because he had a wife and daughter waiting for him.

He corrected himself. Partner and daughter. Had he really just said wife to himself?

Really?

He didn’t have time to think about that now. And he certainly didn’t have time for a panic attack. He looked back at the doorway, ready to tell Suzanne to sit down, pull herself along, but the words never left his mouth.

Fiona Welch was standing there. He could see the body of Suzanne lying behind her, on the gantry inside.

‘Have you killed her?’ he shouted.

She shrugged. ‘What do you care?’

She stepped outside, on to the beam. Phil tried to move backwards, away from her. He felt himself slip, his foot go over the edge. His body lose its balance.

Oh my God, he thought. I’m going to fall.

I’m going to die.

111

‘Look up there,’ shouted Anni. ‘It’s the boss…’

Mickey followed her arm. Saw Phil Brennan standing on the top beam of the crane mechanism. ‘What’s he…’

‘No… he’s going to fall…’

Phil brought his foot round. Placed it securely on the beam. Steadied himself. He didn’t fall. His breathing was heavy, chest heaving.

And then he felt it. The tightening bands round his ribcage, squeezing, tightening…

No. Not now. Ignore it. Not now…

Fiona Welch smiled at him. ‘One push. That’s all it takes…’

‘Give it up, Fiona,’ he shouted. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Look down there. That’s my team. They’ve got this place surrounded. You can’t get away.’

She laughed. ‘One push. And you’ll be seeing your team sooner than you think…’

‘Don’t be a fool, Fiona. You’ve got nowhere to go.’

‘Apart from the history books. I’m going to be famous, Phil Brennan. You’re not. You’re just going to be the latest in my list of victims.’ She laughed. ‘So I suppose you’ll be famous, too, in a way. Isn’t that exciting?’

The wind was getting up. If it got too strong the argument would be meaningless. They would both go. And there was the pain in his chest…

‘Fiona… don’t. Give up. Please.’

Another laugh.

Phil didn’t think he could hang on much longer.

Suzanne opened her eyes. Sat up. She saw two sets of everything, had a sharp, shooting pain in the back of her skull. She could guess what had caused that.

She looked round. Saw that woman, Fiona something, outside on the gantry. The way Phil had gone. She looked beyond the Fiona woman. Saw Phil standing there.

And from the looks of him, he wouldn’t be there long.

She had to do something. Stop her.

She looked round, trying to find something – anything – that could be used as a weapon. Nothing.

Did another sweep with her eyes. Looked back into the building. Looked up, looked outside.

She had an idea…

‘You a religious man, Phil? You look the type.’

He didn’t answer.

Fiona Welch edged forward. ‘Only, if you know any prayers, I’d start saying them now…’

He tried hard to keep his balance, keep his breathing in check.

‘You’d better start believing in the afterlife. Not that there is one – I know because I’m a psychologist – but it might make your last few seconds more comfortable.’

She edged closer.

Phil felt himself begin to totter…

Then Fiona Welch flung her arms out wide, a preacher beseeching her flock. Her eyes widened, her arms began windmilling.

‘No, no…’

She flung out her arm, fingers extended, grasping only air.

‘No, not me…’

Her eyes were wide with terror, with the realisation of what was about to happen.

Fiona Welch screamed. And fell.

To her death.

Phil looked at the entranceway. There was a hook on a chain swinging backwards and forwards through it. Suzanne Perry standing beside it. He smiled.

Suzanne returned it.

He edged slowly back towards her.

Ready to get down.

Ready to go on living.