Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper (12 page)

Suzanne started sobbing. She didn’t know if they were tears of anger or pain or pity or what.

She just sobbed her heart out.

The Creeper kept watching.

Smiling.

Waiting.

23

‘S
he still down there, then? Heard she was in, poor cow. Don’t know what I can do, though. Part from slap an ASBO on her, restraining order, or something.’ He snorted. ‘Probably not the first.’

Detective Sergeant John Farrell leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, hands behind his head. He was a small man, round and bald. His suit looked like he had been wrestled into it, collar open, tie askew. Tired shoes on his feet. His words contained the usual amount of copper’s front and bluster, but his eyes showed a genuine care. Or at least Phil hoped that was what he saw there.

‘She says you’re not updating her on the investigation.’ Farrell looked at Phil, eyes narrowed. ‘FLO not good enough for her?’

Phil held up his hands. ‘I’m only repeating what she said. She’s concerned. Wants to know what’s happening.’

Farrell sighed. ‘Nothing. That’s what. Her daughter ran off a couple of weeks ago, we’ve been trying to find her. Exhausted all the avenues, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, work colleagues, family, the lot.’ He reeled off his achievements - or lack of them - on his fingers. ‘Tried all the usual stuff, TV, the papers, internet, radio, National Missing Persons Helpline. Nada. Blank.’

‘No sign of abduction? Nothing like that?’

‘If it was it must have been Derren bloody Brown.’

‘Right.’

‘But between you an’ me . . .’ Farrell removed his hands from behind his head, leaned forward. ‘Typical mispers case, I reckon. Done a bunk. She’s got previous.’

‘For what?’

‘Runnin’ away. Works as a barmaid, pub in New Town. Part-time. Got history of bein’ a bit loose, if you catch my drift.’

Phil frowned. ‘You mean, what? She’s a prostitute?’

Farrell shrugged. ‘Part-time, like I said. Used to go off with blokes, not come back for days. Mother says she’s changed, havin’ a kid an’ that, but . . . dunno. Leopards an’ spots, you know.’

‘So what you’re saying is,’ said Phil, ‘she’s not a priority.’

Another shrug. ‘You know what it’s like. When they don’t want to be found they don’t want to be found. They’ll come home when they want to.’ He sat back once more, replacing his hands behind his head. ‘When the bloke’s money runs out.’

Phil was more than a little annoyed at his colleague’s attitude but he had to admit he did know what that was like. He’d been on enough cases that didn’t come to a conclusion but just petered out, faded away. But that still didn’t excuse his attitude.

‘And you don’t think there’s any connection between Adele Harrison going missing and the body we found this morning by the Hythe?’

Farrell sat forward again. ‘It’s not her, is it?’

‘We think it might be Julie Miller, the girl who disappeared last week.’

Farrell sat back again, satisfied. ‘There you go, then. Different case entirely.’

‘You don’t think there’s a connection? Two young women disappear within days of each other?’

‘What, that posh bird that’s all over the news and my case? Doubt it.’

Phil sighed. ‘Her mother’s downstairs. Go and see her.’ Farrell looked to Phil as if he was about to say something but changed his mind. Instead he said, ‘You’ve just had a kid, haven’t you?’

Phil nodded. ‘Daughter.’

Farrell nodded as if that explained everything. ‘Right.’ He unclasped his hands from behind his head. ‘All right, then. I’ll go down and see her. Tell her again her part-time prossie daughter’s off with some bloke an’ that she’ll come home when he gets bored of her.’ He looked at Phil, saw the look he was giving. ‘In the nicest possible terms, of course.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Welcome.’ Farrell didn’t move. ‘Then maybe she’ll go home, give us all a bit of peace.’

Phil walked away from him, glad Farrell wasn’t on his team.

And peace was the last thing he wished on him.

Phil tried to use the time spent walking down the corridor productively. He called Nick Lines to see if there was any news from the autopsy. Nothing new as yet, was the reply. Adrian would present the full findings in the morning. No DNA results yet, so no positive match could be made. But he was fairly sure it was Julie Miller. Unless there was another missing girl he didn’t know about. Phil said nothing and rang off. Thinking.

His mobile went before he could put it in his pocket.

‘Boss? Mickey.’

Phil could tell by the tone of his DS’s voice that it was important. ‘What you got?’

‘Sighting of a van.’ There was the sound of scrabbling on the line. Mickey getting his notepad ready. ‘Early this morning. Black, small. Not a Transit, he said, something with back doors. Came down to the quay at about five this morning. ’

‘Who told you this?’

‘Guy in the food van. Gets down there early.’

Excitement rose within Phil’s chest. ‘Number plate?’

‘Nah, sorry. He didn’t see. Didn’t think it would be important. Says he only remembered when he saw us all down there.’

‘What made him remember?’

‘The speed it was doing. Came off the quay like Jensen Button, he said.’

‘Driver’s description?’

‘Two of them, he thinks. That’s all he can remember. Came out, turned left. Sped off.’

‘Thanks, Mickey. The first solid lead. We’ve got something to go on.’

He broke the connection, after telling Mickey there wasn’t much more he could do for the day but to start looking into it first thing in the morning.

Thought of Marina. Of Josephina. Felt something tugging at him from deep inside.

He wanted to go home.
Needed to go home
.

But there was business to attend to first.

24

M
arina signed, sat down in the armchair, took a sip from the Californian Shiraz at her side, sighed, closed her eyes.

Josephina had gone down peacefully. Her regular feed, already snuggled up in her Babygro, eyes fluttering as she drank. Now she was asleep in her cot at the side of their bed, lying on her back, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, fingers curled in like tiny woodlice.

Marina had set up the baby intercom, crept downstairs, sank into an armchair with a book and a large glass of wine. Tried to tune everything out, relax while Midlake played on low volume in the background, singing about heading home.

Home.

The new house she had bought with Phil. It was part of a new waterfront development in the west side of Wivenhoe, not far from where she used to live. Wivenhoe was an old fishing village full of old, character-filled houses, independent shops, good pubs and interesting people. The university where Marina had worked was just down the road and consequently the town had a distinctly liberal, corduroy feel to the place. It was comfortable, homely, vaguely bohemian and a little self-consciously arty. Martina used to feel very at home there.

But not any more.

The new house was at the opposite side to the cottage she used to live in. Designed to fit in and complement the ambience of the old waterfront, the development consisted of tall, red-brick houses in a small development with an aged, nautical feel, arranged round a lock gate that flowed out to the River Colne. It was a compromise. Phil, she knew, might not have felt comfortable in such an old house, but there was no way Marina could stay where she had been living.

Her first instinct had been to move as far away as possible, not be anywhere that would remind her of what had happened in her old house; the nightmares were getting less frequent, but were still bad enough. Phil, knowing her state of mind and understanding entirely, had left the decision up to her and they had looked at property all over Colchester. But when it came to it, she couldn’t move. It was like something was still holding her there, drawing her back. So she’d relented. And they’d bought the new house.

And now she wasn’t so sure.

Another mouthful of wine. She looked round. The room, like the rest of the house, wasn’t fully hers yet, or Phil’s. They had put out what they needed - furniture, TV, hi-fi - but the bookshelves were still empty, the walls still bare and there were boxes everywhere. It wasn’t a home. Not yet. But hopefully it would be.

Hopefully.

She checked her watch, wondered what time Phil would be back. She had eaten and was planning on an early night since she knew she’d be up with Josephina at some point. She might not get to see him. She didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

Phil was her soulmate. She knew that. When she and him met, she had never felt a connection like it. They understood each other perfectly, seeing the damage and sense of loss in each of them reflected in the other, knowing that apart they would be incomplete individuals but together they would make a complete whole.

His childhood spent in brutal institutions and uncaring foster homes mirrored hers spent with a violent, abusive father, an emotionally absent mother and brothers she never wanted to see again. Phil’s adoptive parents had saved him. Marina’s mind had saved her. University, leading to a job as a practising psychologist, meant she never had to go home again.

Marina hated using pop psychology greetings card analogies but in this case it was true. Phil completed her. And she him.

If only it was that simple. If only it was just the pair of them.

It wasn’t even Josephina. They were both thrilled about their daughter. Thrilled and terrified. She should have been a proud, public acknowledgement of their love for one another, their sense of commitment to each other, their contentment.

She should have been. And if it was just the three of them, even that would be fine.

But . . .

She picked the book up from the arm of the chair, tried to tune everything out of her head, just get into it, slip away. James M. Cain’s
Double Indemnity
. She had found it in one of the boxes, not picked it up since she’d studied it as part of her MA at university and had now decided to reread it.

The story of a couple who recognise something damaged and kindred in each other and fall madly, passionately, in love. The only obstacle is the woman’s husband so they murder him in order to be together. But once they do that they find their guilt has bound them together in a fearful, destructive state and killed any future happiness between them. At least that was the way Marina was reading it.

She put the book down, tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes.

Another mouthful of wine. Then another.

Another look round the room in the house that wasn’t hers, the home that wouldn’t be.

‘Oh God . . .’

The words of the nurse that morning came back to her, about how things couldn’t continue as they were, how she had to make a decision.

Midlake playing, Tim Smith singing that there was no one else so kind, no one else to find and that it was hard for him, but he was trying.

Marina sighed, took another mouthful of wine.

Not knowing how much more of this she could bear, forcing herself to come to a decision.

Not noticing the tears rolling down her cheeks.

25

T
he main MIS office was busy, even though it was time for most people to leave for the day. Milhouse was working at his computer terminal, looking for clues in the virtual world. It wasn’t his real name but no one used that. His resemblance to the
Simpsons
character was uncanny, even down to his level of social skills, so it had stuck. When he was referred to officially as DC Pecknold, Phil often had to take a few seconds to realise who was being addressed.

Rose Martin had been given a desk and a computer and now sat before it, writing up reports and looking thoroughly, angrily, unhappy. She saw Phil enter, looked immediately back to her work.

And then Anni entered. There was no way the two of them could avoid each other as he was standing right beside the door and she literally bumped into him.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Boss,’ she said, and tried to dodge round him.

But Phil wasn’t about to let her go so quickly. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while, what you working on?’

Anni shrugged. ‘Stalking case. Maybe breaking and entering. ’

Phil frowned. ‘That’s not MIS. That’s just bog-standard CID, isn’t it?’

Anni’s turn to shrug now. ‘It came in, there was no one else to take it.’

Silence fell between them. Like a heavy wool blanket, uncomfortable and irritating.

Phil’s voice dropped. He led her to one side. ‘Look, I know you’re still pissed off that you put in for promotion and didn’t get it. Especially after the last big case we did.’

Anni said nothing.

‘I put your name forward. I wanted you.’

She looked at him as if about to argue.

‘I know you think I didn’t—’

‘I was
told
you didn’t.’ Her eyes were angry dots.

‘And I know who told you.’ Phil glanced over towards Fenwick’s office. The DCI was behind his desk, on the phone. Phil noticed that, by a strange coincidence, Rose was also on the phone, her hand over the receiver.

Anni looked at Fenwick’s office, looked back at him. Her eyes dropped. ‘Why would he lie, then? Why would he say that?’

Phil gave a small smile. ‘You’re asking that? Of Fenwick? Because he’s a twat, that’s why.’

Anni smiled too. She nodded.

‘Now, d’you think you can put your case to bed and come and join me?’ Another quick glance at Rose Martin, who, putting the phone down, got up from her desk and came towards them. ‘I need your help. Soon as.’

‘I just have one more person to see, an old boyfriend, then I’m done. For now.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve done the reports and got the two journalists ready for processing.’ Rose Martin came to halt before the pair of them, started talking. ‘They’re in an interview room waiting to be spoken to.’

Phil was annoyed at being interrupted but didn’t think confrontation would be the best way to go. ‘Good work, DS Martin. Now let them go.’